The horn touched Wangliang’s forehead, and dry, faded memories streamed into Han Xingqian’s mind.
He saw fragments of what Wangliang had witnessed, the impressions burned into his mind.
The first was a bedroom: walls lined with Turkish marble, leather flooring. A couple lay on the bed. The alpha was frail, aged, his loose skin marked with obvious age spots and a large irregular brown birthmark on his back. At eighty years old, even propping himself up with his arms was laborious.
As time passed, the age spots faded, the loose skin tightened, muscles filled out. Within minutes, the alpha transformed from a frail old man into a robust middle-aged figure.
Afterward, he lit a cigarette and suddenly turned his gaze to Wangliang, staring for a long time.
Han, seeing through Wangliang’s perspective, confirmed the alpha’s attention was fixed on him. Wangliang had been present, silently watching the intimate scene.
The alpha’s transformation appeared to be influenced by Wangliang’s ability.
The alpha scowled with disdain, calling a doctor and several bodyguards. The guards restrained Wangliang while the doctor prepared a vial, dripping it into his eyes.
Vision blurred until all light vanished.
Subsequent memories showed nothing—the event had caused Wangliang’s blindness.
Yet the memories did not stop. A voice spoke:
“Thanks for reviving him; you’re somewhat useful. Join our revenge plan, hah! Wouldn’t it be fun to kill everyone you hate? …Why do you seem like a block of wood? Anyway, if you understand me, come to the fireworks gala at Bernar Pharmaceutical on St. Faye Island, April 13, midnight. Boom! Hahaha… our first gift to humanity. But don’t come empty-handed—the ticket costs forty-four human corpses. Weaklings can’t pay.”
The voice was playful yet sinister, tinged with madness.
Wangliang stood blankly, forehead against Han Xingqian’s smooth horn tip. Though held by the neck, he hardly struggled, quietly tilting his head back.
The fused Pegasus gland belonged to the Sacred Beast category, inherently radiating a warm, soothing energy.
After five minutes, Wangliang vanished from Han Xingqian’s grip, appearing near another clock in the corridor, its minute hand now pointing at eight.
Wangliang could move near any clock within range, but had to follow the hour or minute hand sequentially from 1 to 12. He could not reuse a clock within a 1–12 cycle.
Thus, if Wangliang appeared under a clock pointing at six, the next must be under a clock pointing at seven. Teleportation required a minimum interval of five minutes, and he couldn’t repeat clocks within a twelve-step sequence.
Han Xingqian, aided by Xiao Xun’s external reports and his own patrols between floors one, two, and three when comms failed, deduced this pattern.
This was the Hourglass’s innate ability: Time Travel.
Wangliang stood at a distance, asking, “Have… you bought your ticket? I’ve collected… forty-four corpses… want to help me find a few more… for the fireworks gala.”
Han Xingqian asked, “Who invited you? Are there others?”
Wangliang shook his head.
“Not companions. Goodbye.”
He turned and left along the circular corridor, disappearing at the staircase.
Afterward, Han Xingqian pulled a magnetic card from his pocket, weighing it in his hand. He had retrieved it from the white cloth wrapped around Wangliang earlier. Lan Bo had mentioned finding a cardholder at Entrance F, possibly once holding this very card.
Meanwhile, Bai Chunian and Lan Bo had found a decorative seascape wall at the mid-level floor staircase. Behind the dim wall, they moved quietly along the corridor, chatting softly.
The comm device had been in place too long and felt uncomfortable, so Lan Bo removed it, his fin-like ears twitching.
Bai Chunian said, “Put it back on.”
Lan Bo frowned. “Why let that kid give orders? I just want to hear you speak when I wear this.”
Bai Chunian replied, “If we ever go on a honeymoon, IOA missions can be handed off to them. That way we can enjoy our trip without interruptions.”
Lan Bo tilted his head. “What’s a honeymoon?”
“A happy trip for two people,” Bai Chunian explained.
“Oh, got it.”
“See?” he said, closing his eyes.
They passed a locked room, peering through the glass to glimpse inside. The corridor was dark—lights out on the mid-level floor—and every room was shrouded in shadow.
Soft rustling came from inside. Bai Chunian’s alertness spiked; he pressed his ear to the door.
Bang. Bang.
Human heartbeats. Someone was in there.
“Flashlight.” Bai Chunian reached behind him.
Lan Bo fumbled, eventually handing over his tail again.
Bai Chunian pressed the glowing tail against the glass, illuminating the interior.
A twisted face suddenly pressed against the window, mere panes away from Bai Chunian.
The figure grinned stupidly; its features grotesquely distorted, dressed in a white researcher uniform.
Bai Chunian recoiled, and the figure slammed itself against the glass, laughing foolishly.
Hehe… hehe… hehe…
A set of gold, green, and blue dots in an inverted triangle pattern adorned its forehead—the same mark as Wangliang.
Lan Bo pressed his own head against the glass, engaging in a silent mimicry of the monster inside.
Footsteps echoed from the third floor.
Bai Chunian’s hearing was sharp; beyond the strange laughter from the door, there was a pacing sound deeper in the corridor.
“Something’s off.” He pressed a finger to Lan Bo’s lips, listening intently.
The person had been pacing back and forth for numerous rounds. Bai Chunian noted the pattern: six dozen steps left, pause for about five minutes, six dozen steps right—endlessly repeating, aimless in purpose.
“I don’t like this…” Bai Chunian tugged Lan Bo along. “Let’s check upstairs.”
In the dark, they saw a researcher in a factory uniform, moving slowly along the corridor, back turned. In his hands, a rag. He approached a trash can, meticulously wiping the edges, then returned the rag and repeated the process.
“In the middle of the night, cleaning a trash can in the dark?” Bai Chunian muttered, observing. A familiar, ominous feeling crept over him as the researcher returned to wipe the can again.
“Lan Bo, light up.” He patted Lan Bo’s rear.
The tail glowed blue, illuminating half the corridor.
The researcher, seeing the tail, twisted his face into a grotesque smile, the mouth splitting almost to his ears.
“Circular virus.”
Bai Chunian’s heart skipped. The infected researcher lunged, jaws open. Lan Bo reacted instinctively, gaping wide, a mouth full of sharp teeth, biting off the researcher’s head, chewing helplessly, then swallowing.
“Nali??” (What happened?)
“…Just retreat first.”
Bi Lanxing’s voice crackled over the comm: “I tested the duration of Wangliang’s Hourglass effect—it’s very long, still active.”
Han Xingqian’s comm finally came through as well: “There’s more than one test subject in this facility. I suspect an organization planned this today, preparations starting a month ago.”
Xiao Xun asked, “Are you okay?”
“Fine,” Han Xingqian replied. “Wangliang has moved toward the mid-level floor. Xiao Bai, watch the wall clocks. When the hands point to nine, you’re likely to encounter him.”
Bai Chunian reported, “I found a circular virus infection on the mid-level floor.”
Han Xingqian: “The 408 Samuel virus? Wasn’t he dead? …Right… Wangliang’s Hourglass can reverse aging; maybe it can resurrect as well.”
Bai Chunian: “Situation’s changed. Full withdrawal.”
The comm device vibrated—a request from Captain He. Bai Chunian didn’t expect good news from the storm team now.
Captain He: “We were attacked near the island by an unknown test subject. Winged, can fly, produces music.”
Bai Chunian checked his watch; the reptilian test subject hadn’t replied. His first thought: Domino, the butterfly test subject.
Captain He: “Not a butterfly. Transparent wings, emits piercing noise—like… a cicada!”
The comm emitted an ear-piercing shriek, almost drowning out his words.
Lan Bo cocked his head. “242 Sonic Cicada. I saw it at the lab. Too noisy, I bit off a wing, and the researchers moved it out of my area. When I left the lab, it had gone.”
Bai Chunian stroked his chin. “Are we under siege? Where did it go wrong?”
Bi Lanxing asked, “After Samuel died, who handled the body?”
Bai Chunian recalled: after he killed Samuel, the storm team handled the corpse. The international police took over, then transferred it to the international prison, where their forensic experts preserved it for study.
Any medical research would have been in the prison’s lab. On the day the Pastry Master deteriorated, the prison’s containment building was bombed into chaos.
The most likely opportunity for someone to seize Samuel’s corpse amid the chaos…
Bai Chunian remembered Eris, who had appeared over the prison in a helicopter a week after being released on bail, threatening a breakout, and the blonde alpha piloting the chopper.
Eris didn’t seem cunning on his own; it felt like someone had been manipulating events behind the scenes, orchestrating a grand spectacle from the moment he was imprisoned.
Bai Chunian thought for a moment and chuckled. “Looks like someone’s trying to hijack this. Tonight, the HD serum must be secured. Even as a drink, it can’t fall into their hands—otherwise, I’ll lose face as the big brother.”