“He’s shedding his skin. That wasn’t a plaster statue—his plaster skin peeled away like flowing sand. He’s moving. The hourglass in his arms has just emptied. He’s an omega boy.
His eyes are injured—a preexisting wound caused by medication. I judge him to be blind. He’s listening to your location.”
Han Xingqian relayed what he saw from the surveillance feed.
Those hiding in the warehouse held their breath. Lan Bo was unafraid, itching to fight, but Bai Chunian grabbed him, muffling his mouth.
“He’s Experimental Subject 613, Wangliang Hourglass,” Bai Chunian murmured, typing the name into his wrist touchscreen and sending a request for all available data to their hacker.
The hacker had gradually come to trust IOA’s intentions and their potential for mutual benefit. He had helped them in an international prison, making his position clear. Bai Chunian now requested intelligence with full justification.
Yet the usually responsive hacker hadn’t replied.
“That’s odd. Such a prime opportunity to collaborate, and they’re ignoring it?” Bai Chunian scratched his head and switched the comm to He Suowei, asking him to send all known information on Wangliang Hourglass.
He Suowei and his team were stationed ten kilometers off the island, awaiting signals. Seeing Bai Chunian’s message, he tried to recall what he knew.
During the ATWL exam, they had seen a lab report on Experimental Subject 613, obtained from the corpse of a defeated enemy.
The report read:
“Special Operations Weapon 613, Wangliang Hourglass. Developed from a non-living subject implanted with glands and a high-level chip, granting it emotional and cognitive abilities.”
Other fields like illnesses were marked “None.” Only the remarks column contained scribbled observations:
“Wangliang Hourglass prefers to stand or sit motionless, observing people. Sometimes can remain still for up to 96 hours without blinking. Researchers sent him because he appeared overly lethargic; tests showed no abnormalities.”
This was all He Suowei remembered, which he relayed as faithfully as possible.
“Got it,” Bai Chunian summarized. “Sounds easy to handle.”
However, the report didn’t mention the blindness. Judging from the notes, Wangliang Hourglass could still see at that time.
“Lanxing, we’re capturing him,” Bai Chunian said. “Flank him. I’ll count to three, then we move.”
They burst through the doors. Bai Chunian lunged at Wangliang Hourglass, who shook sand from his body. Bi Lanxing blocked the escape route with vines.
The boy stood expressionless, draped only in a long white silk that covered his private parts. His skin was pale as sand, eyes clouded with pathological whiteness. Only a few blue-green dots outlined in gold on his forehead added a touch of color to his fragile, almost breakable frame.
Approaching him, Bai Chunian could see how he was connected to the hourglass. Both of the boy’s palms were fused to the top and bottom of the hourglass—he couldn’t separate from it. The hourglass was a form of outwardly visible mimicry, part of his body.
Hearing two loud noises, Wangliang Hourglass slowly rotated his head toward the source. He had originally faced Bi Lanxing, but now his head turned a smooth, silent 180 degrees, his misty white eyes fixed on Bai Chunian.
Though blind, his hearing was extremely acute. Using sound alone, he gauged the direction from which Bai Chunian and Lan Bo were lunging, and suddenly flipped the hourglass in his hands.
The sand inside inverted, flowing slowly through the narrow center of the glass.
Bai Chunian accidentally collided with Bi Lanxing’s vines, while the water spilled from the reservoir Lan Bo had moved ignited spontaneously.
Lighted sections of the hallway ceiling went pitch black, while two previously dark storage rooms inexplicably shone like daylight.
Bai Chunian felt his breathing tighten. His first thought was that the vines were poisoned, but he quickly realized his body was unharmed—the oxygen around him was being depleted, and the oxygen in his blood was rapidly draining outward.
He reached for Wangliang Hourglass, but the sudden suffocation caused him to misreach. In the chaos, Wangliang Hourglass vanished.
The others were also affected by the lack of oxygen. Omega Tan Yang, possessing oxygen glands, was the most affected, while Alpha Tan Qing, with hydrogen glands, was completely unharmed.
It was Tan Qing’s first combat experience. Despite his nervousness, he maintained basic composure. He lunged, tossing Bi Lanxing out of the doorway, restoring his breathing.
“Get out!” Bi Lanxing quickly wrapped the others in vines and dragged them from the corridor. Their breathing returned, and they leaned against the walls, gasping.
Bai Chunian rubbed his face to clear his head.
“I underestimated this… a subject still in its developmental phase can be this strong?”
Bi Lanxing stared at the factory entrance, weighing their next move.
Bai Chunian checked the time. With an unpredictable subject inside, the safety of the trainees was a priority—he had to consider ordering a retreat. But waiting too long risked the institute noticing. Any adjustment in guarding or transfer of the HD drug could complicate future raids.
Wangliang Hourglass, however, had infiltrated the factory as well. He killed the guards but hadn’t lingered with Bai Chunian’s team. This encounter might have been coincidental.
The saying goes: “The enemy of my enemy is my friend.” Bai Chunian weighed the risk of following further.
“I think we should tail him,” Bi Lanxing suggested uncertainly. “Use him to scout and see his objective. We follow from behind.”
“Good courage. Lan Bo and I will go ahead,” Bai Chunian said.
He had to ensure the trainees’ safety. None of them had significant combat experience yet.
They re-entered the F entrance. Before heading upstairs, Bai Chunian checked the corridor they had just passed.
As soon as they stepped into the previously attacked section, the suffocating sensation returned. Moving past it made the effect disappear. Bai Chunian quickly crossed the corridor and returned to the two warehouses they had already scouted.
The spilled water still burned on the floor. In the other warehouse Bi Lanxing had searched, a fresh, ripe mango sat on the desk.
“Lanxing, what was in this warehouse before?”
“Clippings on the walls and a shriveled mango on the desk.”
Bai Chunian picked up the mango, weighing it. Golden and heavy, it smelled faintly sweet.
The log confirmed that the cafeteria had delivered a fresh fruit shipment that morning, including mangoes. This one must have come from that shipment—it should still be fresh, even in the tropical heat.
Bai Chunian examined the wall clippings, which mainly celebrated the institute’s achievements. The most prominent was the page about Wanzong Group founder Qiu Wanzong having a late-in-life child, partially covering other clippings.
Qiu Wanzong expressed heartfelt thanks to the institute and donated expensive equipment. The interview was dated October 4, K033, while the log recorded Wangliang Hourglass leaving storage on November 20, K032—about ten months apart, roughly matching the human gestation period.
Checking post-K033 incoming records, Bai Chunian confirmed a batch of new equipment had indeed arrived from Wanzong.
Three years prior, Wanzong Group had been embroiled in scandal. Qiu Wanzong’s grandson, Qiu Hui, mingled with influential sons of elites and frequented high-end clubs. One drunken night, he accidentally killed a young noble. The victim’s family retaliated; after a long legal struggle, Qiu Hui received a ten-year sentence. He committed suicide in his second year in prison—or at least that was the story most believed.
Bai Chunian, new to the special agent team then, had heard these rumors from senior agents returning from investigations of wealthy families’ hidden affairs. Qiu Wanzong was truly unlucky—his son died early, his grandson lost, leaving the Wanzong Group without an heir, tempting many opportunists.
“A late-in-life child… really a timely blessing,” Bai Chunian said, peeling the mango and taking a bite. Sweet and satisfying.
If Qiu Wanzong purchased 613, this could explain Wangliang Hourglass’s abilities.
“The last digit 3 indicates alteration-type… reversal… subversion… inversion, perhaps,” Bai Chunian deduced, glancing at his wrist screen—no reply yet from the hacker.
Lan Bo crawled across the ceiling. “I checked the area; no one else, very quiet.”
Bai Chunian left the warehouse and met Bi Lanxing on the second floor, inquiring about Han Xingqian’s surveillance updates.
Han Xingqian reported, “Confirmed. There’s no one on the outer floors. Wangliang Hourglass is still moving forward, now out of camera range. He should be nearing the second ring of the factory’s mid-level floors. I’m relocating to the mid-levels to see if I can secure the surveillance room.”
White Chunyian asked, “How long will that take?”
…
White Chunyian frowned.
No response came.
Bi Lanxing called out over the comms to Team B, but likewise, no one answered.
“Lu Yan? Lu Yan!” His voice grew tense.
“Calm down. You’re the commander. Think about the next steps,” White Chunyian scolded him. “It’s just a developmental-phase subject. Han will neutralize him in minutes. What’s there to fear?”
Bi Lanxing squeezed his eyes shut. White Chunyian could see his legs trembling, his hands shaking around the gun.
“I… I can’t… I don’t know what to do…” he whispered.
White Chunyian steadied his head with both hands, holding his pale face and looking him in the eyes. “You’ll have to do this sooner or later. If I’m not here, they’ll only listen to you. Every second you hesitate could mean another teammate ends up dead in front of you.”
Sweat ran from Bi Lanxing’s forehead to his chin. He rasped, “I’m not ready yet.”
“When will you ever be ready? Wait until the idiot rabbits all get wiped out?”
His shoulders shuddered.
A cold gun pressed against his temple. Lan Bo wrapped behind him, whispering, “If you mess up, I’ll shoot. It’s nothing—if you die, no one blames you. That’s the worst case, that’s all.”
Cornered by these two special agents, Bi Lanxing felt like standing at a cliff’s edge, forced to leap over a hundred-meter chasm. Head pounding, he nearly lost it. With a low, broken roar, he barked orders:
“White Chunyian, Lan Bo, go to the mid-level surveillance room. Tan Qing, Tan Yang, follow me to the outer surveillance room to search for Team B members. Try contacting them every minute. After checking, meet at the points I’ve marked on the map. First, confirm Wangliang Hourglass’s location.”
White Chunyian paused, then released him and snapped his fingers with satisfaction. “Good. Obedient. Let’s go, Lan Bo.”
Lan Bo flipped his gun in the air, caught it, and wrapped his fishtail around White Chunyian as they leapt from a window dozens of meters up, sprinting toward the mid-levels.
“I told you, stop drawing your gun all the time—you might scare him,” White Chunyian said casually.
“Teaching me?” Lan Bo lazily twined around him, brushing dust off the gun. “I’ve trained more kids than you’ve eaten meals. You’re mine too—I raised you well. Haven’t scared you off yet, have I?”