After the medical team ashore safely removed the suppressor from Bai Chunian’s neck, they checked him for residual Blue Virus infection. Cang Xiao’er ordered via communications that Alliance officers escort both of them back to rest and recover, and not to leave for now until his full investigation report was complete.
Satan was also escorted back to headquarters under Alliance supervision.
They temporarily returned to Bai Chunian’s small city apartment. As soon as Lan Bo got home, he crawled into the fish tank and curled up into a ball without saying a word to sleep.
Bai Chunian was also exhausted. He loosened his joints, twisted his stiff neck from being restrained, and slumped onto the sofa, staring blankly at the turned-off television.
It was obvious Lan Bo was in a terrible mood. When he was unhappy, he tended to ignore everyone and curl up alone. Today was no different. The room felt heavy and silent. It had been a long time since the windows were opened, and dust floated in the sunlight leaking through the curtains.
Bai Chunian closed his eyes for a while. He was exhausted, but couldn’t sleep. Every time he closed his eyes, nauseating, dizzying images filled his mind. He saw Lan Bo curled into a protective ball, his most vulnerable tail tip severed, forcing his companion ability—Ruppert’s Drop—to deactivate. Then he was pinned down, hands and tail restrained on an operating table, a blade slicing open his abdomen, blood pooling across the floor.
“Ugh…”
An unbearable heat and suffocation rose through Bai Chunian’s chest.
The collar around his neck tightened sharply again, the skin turning red under the pressure.
The restraint collar formed from Dead Sea Heartstone could tighten to suppress his runaway energy and serve as a warning—but in return, Bai Chunian had to endure the pain of being restrained.
Since returning from Bernad Pharmaceuticals, his energy leakage had become more and more frequent.
The more Bai Chunian tried to sleep, the more impossible it became. Forcing himself to rest only made the headache worse, so he got up, picked up the plastic bag of vegetables left by the door, and shuffled into the kitchen in his slippers.
These were brought over by Bian Lansheng. After following the Alliance police convoy to ensure they returned safely, Bian Lansheng had gone to the nearest supermarket to buy fresh vegetables, meat, eggs, and basic medication. He didn’t say much when he delivered them—just helped carry things upstairs and left.
He was a careful child, very perceptive. He knew exactly what to say and what not to say, the kind of personality that made it easy for people to like him. This time, during the liquid-nitrogen net kidnapping incident, it was also thanks to him identifying the submarine’s location that useful data could be transmitted to the operational terminal in time.
“He’s already able to handle things on his own,” Bai Chunian said softly, looking at the note in the plastic bag. On it was written: “Rest well. I can handle the remaining trivial matters.” The handwriting was smooth and mature.
Bai Chunian took leftover rice from the refrigerator, reheated it in the microwave, beat in three eggs and mixed them well. Then he silently sliced carrots, carefully carving each slice into neat five-petal flowers, added a large amount of diced ham, stir-fried everything in the pan, and finally seasoned it with salt and sesame oil.
Because he had taken cooking lessons during his suspension, even something as simple as fried rice was prepared with care. He found an unopened bottle of enoki mushroom sauce in the fridge, scooped two spoonfuls over the rice, and carried it to the fish tank, tapping lightly on the glass.
“Lan Bo, eat,” Bai Chunian said, leaning against the tank, pressing his face gently to the glass with a faint smile. “Come on.”
Lan Bo loosened from his curled fish-ball state, revealing half his face as he glanced at the food. “I don’t want to eat.”
Bai Chunian leaned on the tank rim and reached in to pull him closer. “Don’t be like that. There’s no more king oyster mushroom sauce left. I’ll have Bian Lansheng buy more tomorrow.”
“I said I’m not hungry.”
“You’re always hungry. Don’t lie. Let me feed you—I bought a whole box of spoons this time, so you won’t be able to bite them off.”
“I said I’m not eating, don’t you understand?” Lan Bo snapped irritably, lashing his tail hard against the water.
Water splashed out of the tank and hit Bai Chunian’s face.
Bai Chunian opened his mouth slightly but said nothing. The room fell into a silence so deep it felt like one could hear the bubbles from the blue jellyfish drifting in the water.
After a long while, Lan Bo turned back to look at him.
Bai Chunian was still crouched by the tank, head lowered, hair falling over his eyes. He didn’t move or speak—only his fingers traced lightly on the floor.
“….”
Lan Bo immediately realized he had taken out his frustration on him. He climbed out of the tank and crouched down to examine Bai Chunian’s face.
A drop of water fell onto his hand.
Warm.
Lan Bo lifted his face. Bai Chunian’s eyes and nose were red, his eyes filled with moisture. His pupils had shifted into the characteristic blue of a white lion, like amber reflecting the ocean. His lips were pressed downward, a deeply aggrieved expression.
“Randi… I didn’t mean you…” Lan Bo hurriedly wiped his eyes, flustered.
“I’m sorry… I’m sorry. I didn’t protect you properly. All this time, it’s been like that—that’s why you won’t tell me anything.” Bai Chunian’s voice broke, thick with tears as he crouched there. “I’ll clean that water up for you… don’t be angry…”
“Ah… ah… Randi, don’t be like this, it’s not your fault.” Lan Bo wrapped his arms around him, rubbing his cheek against Bai Chunian’s tear-streaked face. “I’m just tired. I’m not blaming you.”
“But I blame myself. I’m an Alpha—I should be able to take more on. I thought I could handle everything… but that was just arrogance.”
“It’s okay. Don’t be sad. I’ll feel heartache. You look so fragile right now, like a young coral.” Lan Bo kissed his cheek gently.
“Do you kiss young corals in the sea too?” Bai Chunian asked through red-rimmed eyes.
“Yes. It helps them grow faster.”
“How do corals grow?”
“As long as the coral polyps don’t die, they keep growing.”
“How do mermaids grow?”
“At first, an omega produces an egg. The egg develops inside the omega or in their partner’s brood pouch, and after a year it is born in mermaid form.”
“Did you leave an egg at the research facility?”
“….” Lan Bo’s fingers stiffened. His gaze shifted slightly. “What do you know? Who told you that?”
“Did you or didn’t you?” Bai Chunian grabbed his evasive hand, eyes burning red as he refused to back down.
“It’s already dead, so it doesn’t count anymore. Now it’s just a pearl—a fragment of my soul.”
“So the white little fish… was that it?” Bai Chunian stared at him, bloodshot eyes straining as he held back a collapsing surge of emotion. “I thought you were joking.”
“There was no other choice,” Lan Bo said calmly, glancing at his nails. “Most mermaid organs are in the tail, while human organs are in the abdomen. After taking the mimic drug, internal organs shift, and something is inevitably expelled. Once it leaves the body, it dies. Those foolish researchers still wanted me to continue reproducing, so they kept surgically reinserting it, even stitching me up to prevent rejection. It was useless.”
The research facility’s advanced life-detection equipment could not detect life encapsulated in pearl form outside the body. It was a tragedy born from ignorance and overconfidence.
Bai Chunian’s fingers resting on Lan Bo’s tail began to tremble violently.
“So that’s why you were injured down there… and I misunderstood you with other experimental subjects… why didn’t you explain?” The regret now felt suffocating.
“I don’t like explaining things to those who misunderstand me. The sea has tides. Truth rises with the ebb. I can wait.”
“You don’t need to blame yourself,” Lan Bo said, resting a hand in his hair. “Life is a cycle—neither sorrow nor joy. It is simply nature.”
“I’m in pain,” Bai Chunian said, wrapping his arms tightly around Lan Bo’s waist and burying his face in his chest. “It hurts. I’m going to kill them. I’m going to break every bone they have, rip out their organs, wrap them around their corpses and hang them from trees. I’ll make sure they all die with the most terrified expressions on their faces.”
Lan Bo lowered his gaze and gently stroked the increasingly hysterical Bai Chunian. He quietly released a calming pheromone of white wild roses, softly suppressing the alpha who was already on the verge of losing control.
For a moment he drifted off, only to realize the hair beneath his palm had become soft and fluffy again—Bai Chunian’s short hair had turned white once more, and was growing longer.
“It feels tight,” Bai Chunian forced himself to endure it, biting his lip as his fingers dug into the inside of the collar just to give himself a little space to breathe. “Lan Bo…”
“Relax. Nothing will happen,” Lan Bo said, slowly loosening the restraint collar made of Dead Sea Heartstone. “I’m here. You won’t lose control.”
“Lan Bo… don’t loosen it. Go to another room. I’m afraid I’ll hurt you.”
“You won’t. You can’t hurt me.”
“There’s a spare suppressor in the drawer… help me put it on… hurry…”
“You don’t need it. Suppressors are just human-made shackles. They’re tools of humiliation. Don’t rely on them—rely on me.”
“Ugh…”
Bai Chunian’s white lion traits became increasingly pronounced. From his ears to his claws, the transformation spread. Under Lan Bo’s guidance and calming pheromones, his clothes fell away as white fur covered his body. His eyes enlarged and turned a deep, luminous sapphire blue.
His expanding frame and surging muscles continued to grow until his neck nearly brushed the ceiling lamp.
He had completely beastified.
A flawless white lion now filled the room, wearing a collar around his neck and a fishbone ornament on his ear. His glowing blue eyes watched silently.
The room was too small. The white lion had to sit with his body lowered, tail curled beside his front paws.
Compared to the massive beast, Lan Bo looked small—but he was not afraid. He sat calmly on the edge of the fish tank, lifted a hand, and stroked the lion’s face, guiding him closer until their foreheads touched.
“Feel better now? Proper release is better than constant suppression. Sleep like this tonight, and you’ll recover by morning.”
The white lion obediently lowered his head, purring softly. He withdrew his claws and rested his paws gently on Lan Bo’s tail, the soft pads uninjured and warm.
He buried his head into Lan Bo’s embrace, nuzzling and sniffing at his abdomen, even licking his scales lightly.
“If you had come back with me back then, you wouldn’t need to suppress yourself like this. This is true full mimicry. Humans love to imitate their creators, but ignorance only leads to disaster.” Lan Bo kissed the lion’s pink nose. “My child, you are one of a kind—because only gods can create gods.”
The room was dim, curtains drawn shut. Lan Bo’s tail glowed faintly, illuminating the enormous white beast before him.
That night, the white lion curled around the fish tank, half-asleep, holding it gently in his embrace. Lan Bo lay against his soft fur, playing a transparent water-forged lyre, singing a quiet merfolk hymn.
“jeswei? nowa? jeswei. (The savior does not save.)”
“youyi? grbo? bigi? ye. (Punishment descends upon the world.)”
Lan Bo’s pale golden lashes lowered as he smiled faintly.