After the range trainees dispersed in twos and threes, Bai Chunian ascended the spiral staircase to the rooftop, found a spot with good signal, and leaned against the railing to return Lan Bo’s call.
Lan Bo’s side was quiet. At this hour, he should already be home for his midday rest.
The call connected, and a deep, pleasant voice flowed through the receiver: “jiji mua jeo?”
Bai Chunian’s hand slipped into his pocket, and he nudged the still-damp yellow line paint on the ground with his boot, smirking. “Haven’t eaten yet. You?”
Lan Bo’s tone was lazy—he had apparently settled into his tank. “jiji mua ei.”
Jeo conveys a questioning tone, like “?” and ei is declarative past tense, like “already.”
“Chairman, get me the stamped purchase receipt and certificate from Lab 109.” Lan Bo lazily tapped the tank glass with his tail.
Lab 109 had once been a globally recognized biomedical research facility, but in recent years it had taken to marketing drugs that supposedly “extend human lifespan, reduce disease and disability, and improve newborn quality” while secretly cultivating living weapons. The experimental subjects were officially pharmaceutical raw materials.
While this angered some powers, like the Omega Alliance, many others benefited from the experimental trade and thus protected the lab. Lab 109 remained active, particularly in special weapons research.
Because omegas’ glands are highly potent and easily cultivated, they were prime experimental targets. Lab 109 had become a thorn in Yan Yi’s side. Eliminating it was easy technically, but politically difficult—touching others’ interests risked retaliation. So the Omega Alliance maintained a delicate balance.
Through negotiation by the chairman and direct discussion by Uncle Jin, Lab 109 agreed to sell Lan Bo to the Omega Alliance at a discounted rate. Lan Bo was no longer Lab 109’s property, but as an experimental subject, he couldn’t become a free individual. International law treated such subjects as tradable goods—they belonged to an organization, like objects or firearms, with fewer rights than a pet dog.
“Honestly, if you want, you could go home,” Bai Chunian said, leaning on the railing over the endless sea. “You’re under Alliance protection. The ocean is safe. If trouble comes, ask the Alliance. The chairman will send me to help.”
Lan Bo considered briefly. “If I leave Lab 109, some things are left behind. I’ll get them back first, then leave.”
An inexplicable tension dulled Bai Chunian’s perception. He lowered his head, hair brushing his eyes, answering with a faint smile: “Fine.”
A small noise came through the receiver—Lan Bo sounded like he had pressed himself against it, whispering: “mebolu jeo?”
“I thought of you,” Bai Chunian replied, voice hoarse, eyelashes lowered in warmth. “I want to hold you.”
Lan Bo’s side sent laughter and the sound of water swirling.
“claya mitub obe.” Lan Bo’s voice carried a raw, unselfconscious heat and seduction—low and commanding.
Claya means “listen.”
At first, Bai Chunian still steadied himself against the railing, but soon the sounds over the phone were beyond his control. He gripped the iron railing, leaving deep fingerprints, glands swollen and aching, his white brandy-like pheromones spilling over.
He leaned against the rail, covering his mouth and nose to hide himself, throat moving, unconsciously biting his lip, leaving a small bleeding mark from his canine on his lower lip.
The rooftop was silent, save for the sound of Bai Chunian pacing in short, heated steps.
About fifteen minutes later, the phone went quiet. When Lan Bo spoke again, his voice was heavy with nasal tones: “claya ei?”
Bai Chunian closed his eyes, raspily answering: “You tell me how many pearls fell from the bed.”
“You weren’t there. None fell.” Lan Bo’s laughter was sensual.
“Talking to you makes my facial muscles ache. My mouth won’t stop stretching to my ears. My authority in front of the trainees is gone,” Bai Chunian unconsciously ran a hand through his hair. “Are you taking a nap? I’ll lull you to sleep.”
Lan Bo refused.
Bai Chunian: “Then what do you want, little princess?”
Lan Bo: “To listen… to your training.”
Bai Chunian: “Alright, I’ll wear headphones. Won’t hang up.”
After lunch, there would be a half-hour break. Bai Chunian spent it in the bathroom, washing up and soaking his face in cold water for a while.
After the lunch break, Bai Chunian took Bi Lanxing to observe the martial arts class.
The instructor was a kangaroo omega. Though not as tall as an alpha and without exaggerated muscles, his body was firm and handsome, exuding explosive power.
Seeing Bai Chunian, Instructor Dai lowered his stance, grabbed a towel to wipe the sweat from his face, and walked over. “Hey, finally have time to come back and check on the little troublemakers?”
“Yeah, I was worried if I didn’t come back, they’d run wild,” Bai Chunian said, placing a hand on Bi Lanxing’s shoulder and nudging the young alpha toward Dai. “A new kid, pretty good—take a look.”
Bi Lanxing felt a surge of pride at Bai Chunian’s subtle praise.
Dai the kangaroo omega sized up Bi Lanxing, firmly shook his arm and patted his legs. “Trained before?”
“Yes. My school had martial arts classes, and my father taught me too,” Bi Lanxing replied.
“Try me,” Dai said, stepping back a few paces and beckoning him. “Give it your all.”
Bi Lanxing hesitated, glancing at Bai Chunian. His school record placed him second in martial arts—already very strong, especially considering the opponent was an omega.
Bai Chunian was sipping water. Seeing Bi Lanxing’s worried expression, he coughed, sending water out of his nose. “Go ahead, I’ll pay if you break anything.”
Bi Lanxing reluctantly engaged, but within three moves, Dai had kicked him down, locked his throat, and pinned him to the ground—leaving almost no chance for counterattack.
Bai Chunian sat on a high stool at the side, holding his cup, smiling. “How’s he doing?”
Dai gave a thumbs-up. “Not bad, just a bit slow to react. For a plant-type gland to reach this level, that’s impressive.”
“After all, he’s M2 differentiated,” Bai Chunian said, legs crossed. “Seventeen and already M2 differentiated—rare. You take him for martial arts from now on.”
“M2?” Dai raised an eyebrow. “To what level?”
“He’s practicing control, not an assault role. Close combat standards aren’t high; just competent,” Bai Chunian explained.
“So is he your student or mine?” Dai asked, patting Bi Lanxing’s shoulder. “Once trained, how do we classify him?”
“Still mine,” Bai Chunian said, taking a sip. “You’re just a tool here—don’t overthink. M2 differentiation I can let you handle, unless I suddenly grow a kangaroo head.”
“Get lost. Don’t drink my water,” Dai spat lightly, then patted Bi Lanxing’s back. “Eat more, you’re so skinny even a little wind might blow you away.”
Bi Lanxing hadn’t yet recovered from being KO’d in three moves. Even his school’s martial arts teacher had never subdued him so completely; at that moment, he sensed he could truly learn something here.
He straightened up and bowed to Dai. “Thank you for your guidance.”
The whole afternoon was spent in the martial arts room. Dai worked hands-on to correct Bi Lanxing’s mistakes while Bai Chunian strolled the floor, randomly selecting trainees to test their progress.
He called a Nile crocodile alpha over for sparring. Nervous and breathing heavily, the alpha watched Bai Chunian calmly wrapping his wrist guards.
“Why are you staring at me? Warm up, don’t cramp,” Bai Chunian said, glancing up.
A minute later, the Nile crocodile alpha was writhing on the floor in simulated rib pain. Bai Chunian hadn’t injured him—he merely used his companion ability to mimic the sensation of three broken ribs. Squatting beside him, he checked the roster. “Cheng Chi, right? Pretty good. But remember, we’re not training for competitions—we’re training for life-or-death combat. Attacking isn’t the goal; eliminating the enemy safely is. Stay calm, don’t show openings.”
The alpha was too pained to speak, drool running from the corners of his mouth. “Y-yes… yes…”
As Bai Chunian prepared to stand, a voice came through his headset: “When are you sparring with me?”
Lan Bo had been listening all along.
Bai Chunian squatted and pressed the headset, smiling. “I can’t beat you, baby.”
Lan Bo blew a bubble: “Trash.”
“Okay, okay, I’m trash, I’m trash,” Bai Chunian laughed, rising with his cup and strolling to another area to check other students.
The Nile crocodile alpha stared, stunned, as Bai Chunian walked off, muttering “I’m trash, I’m trash.”
When it was about Lan Bo’s working time, the call ended. Normally, if someone eavesdropped, Bai Chunian would feel instinctively irritated, but with Lan Bo, he enjoyed this sense of company.
Staring at his phone, he suddenly remembered an unread message. Opening the chat, he found the fully loaded image.
Lan Bo was in his tank, facing the camera, fingers hooked around a moisturizing band on his abdomen, revealing a toned pale waist. A jellyfish glowed blue, resting on his abs. He exhaled against the glass, writing “randi” in the condensation.
Bai Chunian studied it for a long time, enlarging each line, captivated by those gem-like eyes and wet golden hair. He stared for ten full minutes.
Finally, he closed the photo and called a colleague in the Alliance.
Once connected, he said: “Go check on the chairman’s son at school. I sent him back; not sure if he’s upset.”
The colleague was puzzled. “That’s not like you. Is there something else? Don’t bother with tactics—just speak.”
Bai Chunian: “You have my house key, right?”
Colleague: “Ah…”
Bai Chunian: “Tomorrow morning, while the station is open, go to my house, find a purchase receipt and certificate from Lab 109, and have the ferry deliver it by month’s end.”
Colleague: “Are you crazy? The chairman intended to free Lan Bo. How can you take that? And that’s file content—illegal to put in personal hands. Enjoying the brig, huh? Planning a second trip?”
Bai Chunian said, “I can’t sleep without it.”
He hung up the phone, his eyes creeping with red veins, completely ignoring the calls of the students nearby.