Bone-chilling cold pierced his thin coat. Bai Chunian tightened his clothing, but his legs trembled uncontrollably. A wave of nausea swept through him, stiffening every muscle in his body.
The ringing in his ears from the violent explosions grew sharper, and all other sounds receded. Initially, Lan Bo held him tightly, while Bai Cimei’s calming pheromones enveloped him like a gentle embrace. But when Bai Chunian tried to grasp Lan Bo’s hand, he found he couldn’t move.
He could not control his vocal cords; a repressive force surged through his swollen glands, eager to break free. Yet Han Xingqian’s warm hand pressed against him, suppressing his destructive impulses and pumping in a flood of calming pheromones. The fresh scent of Chidori Grass gave him just enough strength to remain conscious.
He could no longer hear the outside world. Han Xingqian’s horn grew anew from his forehead, radiating a strong drowsiness. Slowly, Bai Chunian succumbed to sleep.
Before losing consciousness, a golden-orange butterfly, streaked with fiery red, landed on his knuckles.
When he awoke again, the first thing Bai Chunian sensed was the sharp smell of disinfectant. The familiar scent instinctively triggered fear.
He could not open his eyes, fumbling with his hands. His paw pads and claws no longer retracted; the original shape of his hands was gone, replaced by two pink paws lightly covered with white fetal fur.
He tried to speak, but only a faint, high-pitched squeak emerged.
Bai Chunian had been placed in an individual reinforced glass incubator. Looking up, he saw that three walls of the lab were lined with hundreds of similar glass containers, each housing a tiny feline cub. The colors and species varied—cats, lions, tigers, and leopards, all born between three hours and three days ago.
These embryos were the main subjects of the experiment. All the cubs in the lab were selectively cultured in vitro from strictly screened feline eggs, healthy and fully developed with excellent indicators—a collection of top-tier little animals.
A fine needle connected to an infusion tube pierced his fragile vein. Electrodes from precise instruments attached to his body, but Bai Chunian felt no pain; he could barely move at the bottom of the container, a small mass of red and white fur.
The process was slow and grueling. Periodically, a researcher in sterile protective gear would come to feed him. Bai Chunian instinctively resisted, but the researcher casually smiled to colleagues: “It’s still alive. Not many left.”
Time crawled. Bai Chunian endured the dark in a daze.
Under the effects of medication, his body grew rapidly. Researchers’ attention increased, frequently upgrading him to larger incubators.
Eventually, Bai Chunian could open his eyes. He lacked the energy to notice how many peers remained, as his nervous system matured and pain sensitivity intensified. Each infusion caused unbearable agony, and every minute he suffered through it.
His fur grew dense and soft. Eventually, daily injections were no longer necessary, and someone began bringing him out of the lab for external contact.
A gnarled, branch-like hand stroked his spine. An elderly voice soothed him patiently, skillfully lifting him into its arms.
Bai Chunian struggled to rise and saw that the gloved hands belonged to a man in a white lab coat, a well-worn copy of Rimbaud’s Poems tucked into his pocket. A name badge hung from his chest: “Bai Tingsen”—the old researcher who had long cared for him.
The old man often read poetry to him. Once, when the lab was nearly empty, he had taken the liberty of placing Bai Chunian in the cage of a lactating lioness, watching her groom him.
Bai Chunian, having endured immense pain, stretched his limbs in the lioness’s warm embrace, whimpering as her spiny tongue licked his back. His numbed body slowly regained sensation.
The lioness had four cubs to nurse. Bai Chunian, all white, stood out among the golden cubs. Sensing his different coat, she picked him up by the scruff and tossed him aside.
But being held by the scruff felt safe. Bai Chunian hurried back, nuzzling the lioness’s mouth affectionately.
“Good boy, play a little longer,” Bai Tingsen said gently, watching him purr comfortably in the cage. Checking the time, he realized supervisors were returning. He quickly carried the cub back, disinfected him, and returned him to the incubator.
This experience triggered an evolution in Bai Chunian’s brain gyri. He began to develop consciousness, desires, and the instinct to use violent outbursts to gain the researchers’ attention. He wanted to return to the lioness’s cage, but they misread his intentions, increasing drug dosages to exhaust his energy and quell his struggles.
His body continued to transform. In a short period, his face and torso began to take humanoid traits; his tail disappeared, and his limbs elongated.
As he evolved, his destructive power became evident. Ordinary reinforced incubators could no longer withstand his punches, necessitating double-layered bulletproof glass containers. His limbs and neck were restrained with alloy cuffs. Most of the time, he could only lie in the confined space, connected to IVs and electrodes.
The inner rings of the alloy cuffs were fitted with electric nodes: any struggle would trigger a shock, growing stronger with more resistance. Yet every day, Bai Chunian raged within the incubator, biting and thrashing, the pain only fueling his frenzy until exhaustion finally claimed him.
The researchers tried countless methods in vain. Only Bai Tingsen noticed that when he read poetry, the little creature would, for a rare moment, quiet down, sitting on the incubator floor with its legs tucked under, staring blankly at him.
So Bai Tingsen read from the old poetry collection daily. Bai Chunian was picky—he would only listen to this particular book, ignoring all others. Through the thick, reinforced glass, he would point to the words on the cover, straining to make sounds.
“Lan…”
Bai Tingsen crouched and patiently coached him. “Lan Bo.”
“Lan… b.”
“Place your tongue like this, against the upper palate… Lan.”
“Lan… Lan.”
“Very good. Close your lips, then kiss. Bo.”
“Lan Bo… Lan Bo.”
This was the first word he ever learned, the sole source of quiet comfort he could cling to.
When an infant displayed self-awareness and a desire to learn, it marked the beginning of its developmental stage—time to start formal experimental conditioning and combat training.
Bai Tingsen also gave him a name: Bai Chunian, carrying cumulative injuries and enduring pain across months and years.