After the two-day holiday, Bai Chunian returned to work, walking down the Alliance Building corridors toward the Medical Association, occasionally passing doctors or agents for check-ups and exchanging greetings.
An alpha colleague with a cast on his arm walked alongside him, slapping his shoulder in a friendly, intimate gesture. “Chuyu, the day before yesterday you brought your wife to the clinic. Now everyone knows. Last night, your fans held a breakup party at the bar, crying their hearts out. We had a blast.”
“Looks like you went too,” Bai Chunian teased, unconcerned.
“Of course! Duan Yang treated us. All expenses covered.”
Bai Chunian twitched his lips. “What’s an alpha like him making a fuss for? Young master with nowhere to spend money. He just got back from Kingston two days ago—he’s still too fresh. I’ll find him some work. There’s an empty slot at the training base; he can pick a good recruit for me.”
The colleague covered his mouth. “I’m not telling him. You handle it. Don’t let him know it was me, or Yang will kill me.”
“Not getting killed by him is enough. Always stirring trouble for no reason.”
They reached Dr. Han’s clinic. The colleague went upstairs, and Bai Chunian pushed the door open.
Han Xingqian leaned back in his chair, reviewing a lab report.
“You came at just the right time,” he said, adjusting his glasses. “Do you often compromise with Lan Bo, give in, and tolerate his excessive violent behavior?”
Bai Chunian pursed his lips. “I like it. What’s it to you?”
“Ah, there’s the problem.” Han pointed to abnormal enzyme values on the report. “His alpha hormone levels have increased rapidly, manifesting as stronger control, irritability, and aggressiveness.”
“From years of research, I’ve found that fish and their humanoid counterparts share only some basic traits. In reality, they’re distinct species. Take Lan Bo: a devil ray humanoid behaves entirely differently from a true devil ray.”
“?”
“When a fish-humanoid group reaches a certain stage, the strongest omega becomes an alpha, taking on reproductive duties.”
“Of course. Judging by Lan Bo’s state, his original group wasn’t lacking alphas. It’s just that he’s been separated too long, and you’ve spoiled him too much.”
“If you keep playing the harmless little cat in front of him, he’ll fully turn into an alpha—and then he’ll tear you apart,” Han Xingqian said with a laugh. “A sight to behold. I can even put you down for proctology if you need.”
Bai Chunian’s face visibly went green.
“Oh, my mistake. This is the lab report for the Golden-Crested Fish,” Han Xingqian suddenly said, eyes crinkling in a smile. “Ha—doesn’t that amuse you?”
“I didn’t come here to listen to jokes,” Bai Chunian snapped, sliding off the exam table and grabbing Han Xingqian by the collar. “Why don’t you get a CT scan of your own brain and see if you’ve grown stones in there?”
Han let him hold the collar, raising a hand slowly. A syringe appeared between his fingers, the pink liquid inside vaguely familiar.
“AC accelerator,” Bai Chunian’s attention fixed on it. He let go and took the syringe, inspecting it. “The AC accelerator? The one that can instantly mature a training-phase experimental subject?”
“That’s right,” Han said, adjusting the crumpled collar and leaning back in his chair, hands resting on the armrests. “But this one is a replica. We haven’t mastered the core AC technology of Institute 109 yet.”
“Does the replica work?”
“It does, but only for 24 hours.”
Bai Chunian shoved the syringe into his pocket without hesitation. “Don’t tell me you just wanted to show off. I don’t care—I want it.”
Han snatched it back before he could leave. “Complete one task for me first, and this vial will be yours. Legal to use, no side effects.”
“Condition?” Bai Chunian asked with a smirk.
Han opened a drawer with his fingerprint and took out a small silver lockbox, placing it on the desk.
“Oh,” Bai Chunian said, turning it over in his hands. “The one you brought from Enxi Hospital?”
“Yes. Inside is a vial of the original AC accelerator from Institute 109. Taken from the hospital’s cold storage. At the time, the freezer lost power, and the infected destroyed all the medicines. Nobody knew I took this.”
Bai Chunian raised an eyebrow. “You took an entire box without anyone suspecting?”
“Dark under the lamp. The most dangerous place is often the safest,” Han said, fingers laced over his stomach. “I added active tracking cells to the medicine. As soon as a subject uses this vial, our equipment can detect and monitor it.”
Scientific terms like tracking markers and telomeres were outside Bai Chunian’s expertise. Medicine was never his forte.
“Looks like I have a new mission,” he said lazily, spinning a pen between his fingers. “Apply for a solo task list from the chairman and hand me the stamped original.”
“I applied for a dual mission. Safer that way.” Han handed over a stamped document. “This weekend, Researcher Chen Yuan of Institute 109 will use the excuse of taking his daughter to the aquarium to trade a vial of AC accelerator with a Red-Throated Bird member. You switch the vial containing the tracking cells with his.”
“Dual mission? My partner’s still the carrier pigeon?” Bai Chunian scanned the mission file, then shredded it.
“No need for the lab this time. Your partner is Lan Bo,” Han said considerately. “You can even have a date—Aquarium is romantic enough.”
“Good idea,” Bai Chunian clapped the paper fragments. “You want me to bring a fish to the aquarium—did he never go before?”
Han pushed up his glasses, the chain swinging. “At least you’ll have privacy. There isn’t much time for romance in the agents’ team.”
Bai Chunian pointed to the fish-shaped mark on his neck. “At least I have an omega; you don’t.”
“…You didn’t need to say that,” Han muttered.
Bai Chunian lounged cross-legged on the desk, fingers pointing at Han’s head. “Your line of work makes you bald. Before twenty-five, find an honest omega who won’t mind you living in a lab with zero domestic sense, who can’t cook or clean but loves to nitpick. Let them take over.”
“…Pay the last consultation fee: one hundred thirty-two yuan fifty-six.”
At the door, Bai Chunian paused, poking his head back inside. “Hey, Lan Bo really won’t turn into an alpha, right?”
“…Relax. Fish-humanoid groups are matriarchal, like hyenas,” Han reassured him. Before he could add more, Bai Chunian had already left.
“…Though your competitors may be many,” Han murmured to the empty doorway, lips curling.
Back home, Bai Chunian pulled up every detail about the aquarium, storing it all in his mind while quickly drafting an action plan.
One complication remained: the aquarium has open viewing areas, strictly forbidding large bags to prevent theft. Without a suitcase, getting Lan Bo inside posed a major problem—his tail was too conspicuous.
Lan Bo lay by the tank, clutching a small bowl of jellyfish. Bai Chunian stuck photos and route plans on the secret whiteboard in his room, marking key locations.
The alpha wore only a black tank top and shorts, walking on slippers. Lan Bo’s gaze didn’t hide itself, moving up Bai Chunian’s long, shapely legs, pausing at the slim waist and toned hips. The tank top hinted at his abs and chest muscles beneath.
Bai Chunian, chewing on a marker, sensed the intense stare and turned his head.
Lan Bo still held the jellyfish bowl, tail stirring the water, rubbing his neck and giving a thumbs-up with his long fin. “Nai ba kou shi,” he praised.
Bai Chunian walked over, cupped Lan Bo’s face, and kissed the pink mouth still chewing on a jellyfish. “Delicious to look at.”
Lan Bo tossed the remaining jellyfish back into the tank, then slipped his cold fingers under Bai Chunian’s tank top, tracing the firm muscles of his abdomen. “I want to… lay eggs inside you.”
“But your role is only to be on the receiving end,” Bai Chunian said, gripping Lan Bo’s chin with a little force. “Little fishy.”
At just two hundred years old, he was still a baby if you compared it to human development.
“Mm…” Bai Chunian thought of a clever idea. He dropped Lan Bo off at the Carrier Pigeon’s place and returned with a small, cute baby stroller.
He picked out a baby hat, placed it on Lan Bo’s head, popped a pacifier in his mouth, added a bib, and then carefully set the whole fish into the stroller, tucking him under a small blanket.
Perhaps this way he could get Lan Bo into the aquarium, with Bai Chunian posing as a father taking his little “baby” on a tour.
Lan Bo obediently rested under the blanket, his blond hair and blue eyes giving him the appearance of a cherub from a European painting.
The upper body alone was easy to conceal, but his three-meter-long tail dragged on the ground. He blinked up at Bai Chunian, silently asking what to do about it.
Bai Chunian squatted, tying the slender tail into a decorative Chinese knot attached to the stroller.
The stroller collapsed, losing two wheels. Lan Bo promptly ate the pacifier and three dangling toys, along with the two fallen wheels.
Later, Bai Chunian found a wheelchair. Lan Bo’s lower half was tucked under a thin blanket, playing the role of a disabled omega in a care facility, while Bai Chunian wore an inconspicuous volunteer caregiver jacket.
At the aquarium’s green access corridor, security asked for disability proof. Bai Chunian pulled a forged certificate from the tech department out of his pocket and handed it over, adjusting his black-rimmed round glasses. He looked like a bright, earnest high school student: simple, eager, and a little naive.
After inspection, the security guard handed the certificate back to Lan Bo.
Lan Bo raised his chin, sneering at the officer, and said in a low voice: “noliya bigi, tuo hanes. (Rude human—use both hands.)”
The guard blinked. “Sorry? Can you speak English?”
Bai Chunian quickly retrieved the certificate and pocketed it, pushing Lan Bo’s wheelchair further into the aquarium.