IOA agents with public identities cannot leave the country freely, and Bai Chunian cannot easily operate outside the alliance’s territory. Unlike Lan Bo, Bai Chunian works directly for the IOA, enjoying high-level protection. After the international prison incident, the alliance’s tech department erased all tracking data and entry logs, and high-level officials negotiated directly with the international prison to block the targeted arrest, leaving Bai Chunian safe on the fully isolated Aphid Island. Only the IOA could provide such comprehensive protection.
The international prison targeted Lan Bo not because he was more valuable than Bai Chunian, but because capturing Bai Chunian would cost too much—essentially a losing venture.
Lan Bo, however, is different. As a tribal leader joining the IOA, it’s a collaboration between two forces. The alliance won’t interfere with his return home. Traveling by sea is safe; he can dive deep and swim at near-light speed. Submarines and torpedoes are negligible against him, making him theoretically very secure.
After analysis, Bai Chunian allowed himself a slight relaxation.
For the past two weeks, he’d been closely monitoring the Caribbean. The tech department had secretly deployed teams worldwide. Duan Yang’s mission site was in Jamaica, where, under agent protection, new micro-signal devices were installed in Kingston. They could detect Han Xingqian’s tracking cells, and if the octopus reached the Caribbean, the instruments would register precise signals.
Today, no combat class was scheduled. The spacious combat classroom held only a few students voluntarily training. Instructor Dai Ning sat bored at the bar, sipping a cocktail while watching videos of Red Crab showing off his talented pupil Bi Lansheng. He muttered curses: “Stealing my student and showing off? Pisses me off, pisses me off! Hope you trip on your way out.”
Occasionally, other instructors would stop by Dai Ning for some entertainment.
Bai Chunian leaned against the railing, loosening his hand wraps and wiping sweat from under the hem of his tank top. Trainees on the edge of the mat couldn’t help but sneak glances at his abdomen.
He wore only a sleeveless black tank, the cold-blue fish pattern on his arm still faintly visible. It had faded since Lan Bo first bit him, but the pheromones of maturity were stronger and longer-lasting, leaving a mark that persisted.
Han Xingqian stood diagonally across from him, glasses resting by his side. His camouflage jacket was buttoned to the top, and he hadn’t sweated much—but his chest heaved with exertion, and a white horn protruded from his forehead, evidence that even a high-level alpha had triggered self-protection mechanisms during their sparring.
Bai Chunian pulled a bottle of icy mineral water from the storage bin, walking over to Han while sipping, and rested his hands on the railing as he handed the bottle to him.
Han Xingqian took it with a thermal mug, unscrewed the lid, and drank.
They exchanged a glance, each silently assessing the other with subtle disdain.
“Boring. Anything new out there lately?” Bai Chunian asked, finishing the water and crushing the bottle playfully between his fingers.
“Yeah,” Han Xingqian replied, leaning on the railing with his thermal mug. “That HD serum you brought back from the prism hut—we did a precise analysis.”
Experimental Subject 324, a “no-form” stealther, had prepared a grand prize for anyone exiting the prism hut within 24 hours: a silver thermostatic box, brought back by Bai Chunian, containing an HD (horizontal development) serum. Once injected, it granted a permanent random companion ability.
“The HD serum is far rarer than the AC accelerator,” Han continued. “The raw materials are difficult and time-consuming to extract. From a technical standpoint, we estimate that Lab 109 could only produce two at most.”
Bai Chunian, familiar with the lab’s capabilities, wasn’t fully convinced by the Medical Society’s estimate.
“It’s been a while. The lab could still make more with enough funding from various factions,” he said.
“No,” Han said calmly, “because your DNA was detected in its base components.”
Bai Chunian frowned, instinctively reaching for his cigarette pack.
“Be careful. You’re essentially one of the raw materials,” Han said. “The lab won’t give up easily. The covert strike at the international prison could have been a test.”
“Also, our IOA informant at the prison reported that HD serum traces weren’t detected in 324.”
“But one vial is missing from the box. If 324 didn’t inject it, where is the other one?” Bai Chunian recalled the details of the prism hut. He had thought 324’s self-replication was a companion ability from the HD serum, but now it seemed even that might have been mimicked.
“Who is he copying…” Bai Chunian trailed off, uncertain.
Above them, the multi-angle TVs began broadcasting the lunchtime news. Today’s headline was more attention-grabbing than the usual trivial reports.
[Marine Conservation Association discovers blue mermaid in the Bay of Honduras, Caribbean]
Bai Chunian’s interest spiked. He grabbed the remote, cranked up the volume, and sat cross-legged, eyes glued to the screen. Han Xingqian sipped from his mug, leaning on the railing, watching attentively.
The reporter interviewed association members aboard a ship. The weather was harsh, waves rough, and crew members clung to masts and railings to stay upright.
In the distance, the sea was covered in red tide algae, mixed with floating, decaying fish and animal carcasses. Amid the filth, a reef jutted out, and on it sat a deep-blue, golden-haired mermaid, staring at the endless ocean in solitude.
His tail tip dipped into the water, and scientists noticed an astonishing phenomenon: a three-meter radius around the tail remained clear, pristine, and blue-green.
Bai Chunian stared, unblinking.
It was Lan Bo.
The footage only showed his profile. He sat alone on the reef, the sole patch of clean water in a sea of rot, like a god descended into a corrupted world. Dark clouds partially obscured the sun, casting a holy, lonely light across his face.
Guilt surged through Bai Chunian. Every time Lan Bo had called him “Jideio,” he had responded with anger and coldness. As Lan Bo had said, “Jideio” was an affectionate term, encompassing family.
Lan Bo probably believed Bai Chunian did not wish to be his family. He was a king, yet there he sat like a homeless wanderer.
On camera, a Russian scientist said excitedly, “Seventy years ago, our predecessors observed him along the Pacific ridge. Equipment and conditions were poor, so they couldn’t continue tracking. At that time, he led his people in migration; the other mermaids’ deference showed he was their king.”
“But after that observation, he disappeared. None of the mermaids we later tracked resembled him—until now. Many of us had only seen his beauty in images. We never expected to see him in real life.”
“In our years of study, we’ve found this mysterious creature can purify ocean areas, but he has sat on that reef for 96 hours without moving into the water.”
“Had he entered the water, environmental degradation could have been reversed. But our king seems to have his own thoughts. We must now try to approach him by ship, encourage him into the water, and save his people.”
“What is Lan Bo doing…” Bai Chunian didn’t notice his palms sweating, his gaze fixed.
Members of the Marine Conservation Association cautiously navigated their boats near the reef, attempting to prod Lan Bo off it with padded wooden sticks.
Lan Bo turned his head lightly, sapphire eyes reflecting the tiny, struggling humans before him. He raised his hand gently, and a gust of wind swept across the waves, pushing their boats back.
Another scientist shouted over the noise, “Amazing!”
Seeing the scientists trying to prod him with cotton-wrapped sticks, Bai Chunian couldn’t help standing up, though he relaxed again when he realized they couldn’t even touch a single strand of Lan Bo’s hair. He sat back down, pulling out his phone, tempted to hear Lan Bo’s voice now—but remembered that Lan Bo had left everything with him.
Han Xingqian, holding his thermal mug, rested his hands on the railing and chuckled. “Good thing. Otherwise, Lan Bo suddenly pulling out a phone to answer would really be ‘amazing.’”
Still, Bai Chunian dialed anyway.
He called the TV station.
“Hey, tell your reporters on that ship to stop poking my Lan Bo with sticks. If he doesn’t want to get in the water, he won’t. Who are you to force him?”