M Port was bordered by sea on three sides, with humidity far higher than inland. In this environment, Lan Bo’s exertion was reduced. He moved near Luyan and Bilansheng, constantly monitoring blind spots.
Not because the two youths were particularly influential, but because before splitting up, Bai Chunian had firmly instructed him to protect them.
Luyan, still grieving, walked silently with red-rimmed eyes. Bilansheng focused on checking side paths and coordinating with PBB captains, unable to console Luyan. Luyan quietly walked forward, slicing vines with his dagger.
Lan Bo crawled along the cliff walls like a gecko, moving above Luyan.
“Bani,” Lan Bo called softly, stretching his neck toward him. “Feeling sad?”
Luyan’s eyelids reddened further. In a hoarse voice, he replied, “I just… feel that if I were still at school, I wouldn’t see this. Dad never told me the outside world would be like this.”
“It would happen whether you saw it or not.”
Lan Bo asked, “What do you think of Xiao Bai?”
Luyan rubbed his eyes hard. “He commanded well. It’s just that our level isn’t up to yours, so the battle fell apart.”
The little lion they had rescued earlier still died from hypoxia. Luyan wrapped its body in leaves and put it in his backpack, planning to give it a small boat with flowers when they returned to the training base.
“Good,” Lan Bo said, rubbing Luyan’s soft face as comfort. “Only coordination is missing. Trust and tacit understanding are equally important.”
Luyan seemed to grasp the idea vaguely.
“Follow me,” Lan Bo instructed.
In a few short sentences, the Wild Shark unit fell into line. The Whale Shark Alpha deliberately stayed close to Lan Bo, letting the IOA Omegas remain at the center of the formation.
The valley had four rugged paths leading to different coasts. For safety, everyone had to split into four groups and block each route to ensure complete coverage.
The He brothers’ twin glands couldn’t operate separately, so they led three Stormtroopers along Route A, while another team took Route B, with Bilansheng following this six-person group. The Wild Shark unit’s vice-captain, the Sea Anemone Alpha, led four along Route C, and the captain, the Whale Shark Alpha, took a three-person squad along Route D, simultaneously protecting Lan Bo and Luyan.
Although Lan Bo had reached maturity and his language faculties were fully developed, he still couldn’t perfectly grasp many human linguistic nuances, so his speech remained blunt and straightforward.
“I can handle it myself,” Lan Bo said to the Whale Shark Alpha. “You all go to Route C. You’re too weak—going together is safer. If too many of you get hurt, Xiao Bai will think I wasn’t protecting you properly.”
“IOA and PBB always cooperate. No need to feel embarrassed,” the Whale Shark Alpha replied, thinking Lan Bo was joking. He laughed lightly, secretly finding the bold little Omega rather endearing.
But the Red Throats were a well-equipped terrorist organization. IOA’s weapons were mostly compact, optimized for infiltration missions—small, light, and easily concealed, made of the newest anti-detection metals. Their lethality and blast radius, however, were far inferior to the special forces’ gear. By design, agents were not meant for head-on battles.
Lan Bo didn’t bother to explain further.
Soon, Route D encountered the enemy: around twenty-five men, all armed with automatic rifles and wearing red bulletproof vests. The number far exceeded expectations. The Whale Shark Alpha fell silent, grabbed his radio, informed the other three groups, and then focused on planning the ambush.
If they failed to hold this choke point, the Red Throats could break through and scatter, jeopardizing the encirclement. Before reinforcements arrived, they had to pin them here. The Whale Shark Alpha signaled his squad, forming a firing line amid the dense grasses of the valley. At his command, they tossed concussion grenades and opened fire.
The twenty-five attackers anticipated resistance and were ready for a fight to the death. As the Whale Shark and his three team members fired, the enemy countered with their splitting ability.
The Wild Shark elite were highly skilled, but being outnumbered and facing desperate, cornered foes put them at a disadvantage. Neither side gained an upper hand immediately.
A deafening blast suddenly made the Whale Shark Alpha freeze: a transparent heavy projectile landed among the Red Throats, exploding and sending five or six flying with enormous force.
“Whose heavy weapon is that?!” he shouted, shocked.
Lan Bo perched on the rugged cliff, a transparent hydrating steel RPG resting on his shoulder. His blue eyes narrowed into a line as he surveyed the enemy below.
“Mine,” he said.
Nearshore M Port had abundant tidal groundwater. Using Luyan’s J1 ability, “Cunning Rabbit’s Burrow,” he easily channeled water through the stone wall, shaping it into a hydrating steel shell in Lan Bo’s palm. Lan Bo loaded it into the transparent rocket launcher with practiced ease.
While the rocket disrupted the enemy formation, Luyan charged forward with an Uzi, activating his M2 four-dimensional splitting. Dozens of clones, each as strong as him, advanced simultaneously.
The Uzi’s high rate of fire and low recoil were offset by its small magazine, which could easily empty in prolonged combat. But Luyan’s second-tier splitting ability perfectly compensated, enabling terrifying damage at close range, as if the weapon were made for him.
Several Wild Shark squad members were mesmerized by the IOA duo. Over the radio, Sea Anemone Alpha asked, “Where’s the support point?”
“…Not needed. Done already,” the Whale Shark replied.
“? Didn’t you say there were twenty-five?”
The Whale Shark Alpha set down the radio, muttering, “Damn… is this an Omega? Really? I don’t believe it.”
Bai Chunian, hearing Lan Bo report all clear over the communicator, nodded. “Leave two to count the enemy. Things are tricky here—you need to come over.”
Lan Bo replied, “Coming.” He always enjoyed being asked for help by Randi.
The wild forest carried a faint scent of mandrake pheromones. Bai Chunian had basically pinpointed the Golden Thread Worm’s location but didn’t rush.
The IOA President had personally warned him and Lan Bo to stay away from the Lesa Iron Tower area in M Port.
Both PBB forces and the International Prison used alien lifeform radar, originally intended to locate dangerous experimental subjects scattered in M Port. These radars would alert and provide details about any subject detected. Bai Chunian wasn’t ready to reveal the subjects’ identities to most people, so it was best to keep distance.
The Golden Thread Worm was only about 1.5 kilometers from Lesa Tower—too close, risking exposure to alien radar during the pursuit.
However, Bai Chunian had another plan.
According to Lan Bo, the Golden Thread Worm had intentionally warned them “not to open” the wagon containing the white lion cub before it exploded. This proved two things: first, his appetite was already high and nearing maturity, with some reasoning and logic; second, unlike the reptilian’s claims, he didn’t kill indiscriminately. His actions had clear intent, though his motives remained unknown.
From the first encounter outside Danli Palace to now, the Golden Thread Worm hadn’t caused any harm to IOA. Capturing him alive could yield valuable data on experimental subjects and increase the chance of dismantling Research Institute 109.
Bai Chunian considered several feasible strategies and decided to subtly maneuver He Suowei and the Stormtroopers from the Lesa Tower side to drive the Golden Thread Worm toward their position. Then he and Han Xingqian would attempt to capture him alive.
Having worked closely with Han Xingqian for three years, Bai Chunian had developed a certain tacit understanding. He gave a single glance, and Han Xingqian nodded in agreement.
Bai Chunian woke the distracted Xiao Xun, speaking quickly: “The Golden Thread Worm’s gun is a weak point. Once you find high ground, aim at his weapon. Even if you can’t disable it, restraining him and cutting off his escape route will give us an opening.”
It was well known that ordinary weapons did almost no damage to experimental subjects; even when struck by bullets, they could heal almost instantly.
Xiao Xun lowered his head, feeling uneasy, and gave only a slight nod.
“Are you even listening? Be serious, I’m talking about something important,” Bai Chunian crouched down and looked up at him. “That gun of his is very dangerous. Later, I’ll test its power. Remember this: don’t aim at the Golden Thread Worm. Not a single bullet. Even if you’re confident—you understand?”
Bai Chunian’s eyes were dark and clear, the double eyelid folds stacking neatly beneath the slightly upturned corners. As he tilted his head, the moonlight fell across his cheeks, shadows split by his slender, high-bridged nose.
In truth, he wasn’t frightening.
Xiao Xun silently analyzed Bai Chunian’s emotions: fifty percent concern, thirty percent anxiety, twenty percent confidence. There was no hint of malice or scheming. In his mind, he thought, in the end, Bai Chunian was just a young senior of the same age.
Bai Chunian clicked his tongue and ran a hand over his face in exasperation. “You zoned out again. Damn it, repeat what I just said.”
Xiao Xun stammered, “Don’t aim at him.”
“Yes. Why?”
Xiao Xun admitted, “Sorry, instructor, I didn’t remember.”
“I said! Because if you aim at the experimental subject and shoot his head—he won’t die. But if he shoots at you, you’re done. Damn it.”
He Suowei, leaning against a tree with his submachine gun, laughed at Bai Chunian and tossed him a cigarette.
Bai Chunian took the lighter, inhaled deeply to calm himself, and rubbed his face. “Before teaching, I honestly thought I had a pretty good temper.”
He Suowei, vaguely recognizing Xiao Xun, asked casually, “Isn’t he the genius who gave Snake Girl the AC stimulant at the final exam?”
“Yeah,” Bai Chunian said, pounding his palm. “I liked his tenacity, so I did whatever it took to get him here. And now, he zones out at the worst possible moments—any situation, doesn’t matter. Thinks about other things… basically, hitting us hardest while contemplating life.”
Though he spoke casually, Bai Chunian was mentally drafting plans. He Suowei looked rough around the edges, but was actually quite shrewd; the rank on his shoulder wasn’t earned by just fighting a few battles. Bai Chunian had to find a way to manipulate him into following the plan.
Before he could speak, He Suowei said, “I’ll drive the Golden Thread Worm over to you. You don’t need to go.”
This suited Bai Chunian perfectly, but he couldn’t help doubting whether He Suowei had other motives. Capturing an experimental subject to take credit was possible, but he couldn’t be completely ignorant of them. Even special forces would struggle to remain unharmed against an experimental subject, and He Suowei’s team wasn’t all veterans—some were new recruits. With this manpower, eliminating the Golden Thread Worm seemed unlikely.
He Suowei stubbed out his cigarette, spat on the embers, and gestured for the Stormtroopers to follow him as he flanked the Golden Thread Worm from behind the Lesa Tower.
Bai Chunian could only whisper a reminder: “Don’t get tangled.”
While waiting for He Suowei’s signal, Xiao Xun scouted the terrain, looking for suitable positions for a gun. He climbed agilely. Han Xingqian checked the previous Red Throat positions; a few strands of spider silk still fluttered on the branches.
He inspected the traces, put on rubber gloves, used tweezers to collect a sample, and sealed it in a plastic bag.
Bai Chunian leaned back on a branch, waiting for news, and asked Han Xingqian, “Anything stand out?”
“There’s blood in the air here.” Han Xingqian removed his glasses, fixed a micro-lens over his right eye, and examined the silk left on the tree: “The blood was atomized, then solidified, forming this spider silk.”
“Look at this.” Han Xingqian bent the delicate silk over a dagger blade and pulled—it didn’t break.
“The reptilian data didn’t mention this ability,” Bai Chunian recalled the documents, then sat up straight. “Could it be an ability attached to his gun?”
Han Xingqian couldn’t be sure. “I suspect there’s a spider gland linked to the gun as well.”
Bai Chunian immediately called He Suowei: “Keep a safe distance. Don’t let his gun hit you.”
He Suowei and his team swept forward. Approaching Lesa Tower, they could already see military helicopters gathered at the port.
Usually busy, the port was now completely shut down. Several PBB-marked helicopters were grounded. The Stormtroopers and the two Wild Shark majors were discussing with IOA Chairman Yan Yi, who was flanked by his security detail.
The Golden Thread Worm hung from a thick poplar on the hilltop, his body wrapped in spider silk, silently watching the gathering of VIPs at the port, eyes fixed on the chairman for a long moment, lost in thought.
Beneath Lesa Tower stood a precision device called an alien lifeform detection radar, covering a spherical area with a 3.5 km radius. Any experimental subject entering the range would have its position displayed on a map, followed by drones tracking it.
This was already within the radar’s detection range. Several drones launched toward the Golden Thread Worm. Each drone carried a potent tranquilizer designed specifically for experimental subjects; a hit would incapacitate him.
Forced to jump from the tree, the Golden Thread Worm tried repeatedly to approach the port, but the drones’ dispersed darts blocked him. He raised his AK74, lightly fired a burst, and the struck drones instantly disintegrated into silk in midair.
Carrying the mummy on his back, he dodged and rolled to avoid drone attacks but stubbornly refused to leave the port.
He Suowei watched the power of that single shot and gestured for his team to maintain a perimeter, ensuring they didn’t get too close. They used suppressive fire to gradually push the Golden Thread Worm toward Bai Chunian’s ambush.
As the Golden Thread Worm ran through the hail of bullets, a few stray rounds hit him, but ordinary bullets caused almost no harm. When bullets lodged in his body, he merely staggered a step, blood splattered, and immediately healed.
The Golden Thread Worm shifted the mummy from his back to cradling it in his arms, protecting it from stray bullets, and raised his rifle with one hand, blindly firing backward at his pursuers.
He Suowei’s J1 ability, Lunar Eclipse Guard, manifested before him. One powerful bullet after another struck the golden moon shield, which quickly diminished in size—from full moon to half, then down to a crescent—until the shield shattered completely, losing all protective function.
Counting the bullets in his mind, He Suowei was stunned: it had taken only six shots to utterly destroy the Lunar Eclipse. Under normal circumstances, even if all bullets hit the exact same spot, it would take more than seventy rounds to penetrate.
The moment the moon shield broke, a shot from the Golden Thread Worm struck one of He Suowei’s nearby team members. Though the bullet didn’t hit a vital spot, the soldier instantly exploded into a spray of blood, which solidified into white spider silk drifting across the forest.
“Cease the attack! Evade his counterstrike, now!” He Suowei immediately issued the order. But one soldier reacted too slowly; a bullet grazed the back of his hand, and almost immediately his entire arm burst open, blood turning into white silk that scattered to the ground.
He Suowei grabbed the screaming soldier who had lost his left arm, releasing a calming pheromone to ease the pain, and fed the information back to Bai Chunian: “His gun is insane. Wherever the bullet embeds, the body explodes. He’s very close to you now.”
“Copy that.”
Bai Chunian pressed the communicator. “Xiao Xun, set up your position. Han, reset that gun to scrap.”
Before his words finished, the Golden Thread Worm leapt through the undergrowth and into their intersecting firing line.
Being a developmental-stage experimental subject, his logic wasn’t fully formed; having just escaped one encirclement only to run into another ambush, he froze, his first reaction to flee diagonally forward.
Xiao Xun seized the opportunity. A single sniper round cut off the Golden Thread Worm’s escape route.
Ever since Xiao Xun entered the special training base, Bai Chunian had restricted him to sniper rifles, forbidding assault or submachine guns. One line had stuck with him: “Close combat is necessary, but in my team, you can carry dual snipers. We won’t let anyone get close to you.”
Though sniper reloads take time, Xiao Xun still carried a secondary pistol. Long practice had fully unlocked his sniping potential. Without aiming, he fired a round that struck the AK74 in the Golden Thread Worm’s hands, knocking it away with tremendous force.
“Perfect.” Bai Chunian leapt down from the branch, moving in close.
Han Xingqian frowned. “Resetting won’t work on that gun. As long as the gland remains connected, the gun can never truly be disabled.”
Bai Chunian noticed fine spider silk strands linking the Golden Thread Worm to the displaced rifle. Drawing a dagger from his waist, he slashed to sever the connection.
But as Han Xingqian had predicted, the seemingly delicate strands were too resilient; the blade was snagged and nicked by the soft, fluttering silk.
In an instant, the dagger restored itself. With Han Xingqian present, all of Bai Chunian’s weapons and equipment automatically remained in optimal condition.
Bai Chunian shifted his attack, striking at the Golden Thread Worm’s body with his dagger imbued with steel-hardening. Normally, such a strike would severely injure an experimental subject.
The armored vest on the Golden Thread Worm’s chest was cut, but his body was tightly wrapped in a layer of spider silk, similar in function to Bi Lanxing’s Poison Vine Armor. The dagger struck the silk armor with a sharp, ringing clash.
Han Xingqian immediately restored the dagger.
Bai Chunian abandoned the dagger, drew his pistol, and fired a shot at the Golden Thread Worm’s chest before he could react.
The steel-hardened bullet pierced the left chest, the silk unable to withstand the impact. Blood spurted from the entry, instantly turning into white silk swirling through the air.
Yet even with steel-hardening, the bullet did not cause lethal damage; the wound rapidly healed.
Bai Chunian kept probing for weaknesses. A developmental-stage experimental subject proving this difficult to handle was a first for him.
He Suowei and his team were blocking escape routes, but with PBB operatives nearby, Bai Chunian had to remain careful.
Amid the entanglement, Bai Chunian asked Lan Bo: “Are you almost here?”
“Three minutes.”
“That weapon of his—what do you think?”
Lan Bo glanced at his own arm. Earlier, during the interception near the train, he had been grazed by a bullet from the Golden Thread Worm. The wound hadn’t healed immediately, but over time it left no trace.
“Experimental subjects heal slowly when hit, but they still heal. Not a major threat to us.”
Bai Chunian nodded, making a mental note.
Every experimental subject had battle data implanted in their brains. The Golden Thread Worm excelled at mid- to long-range combat; in close quarters, he often lost to Bai Chunian. With his rifle inaccessible, he had no choice but to engage Bai Chunian at close range.
There was only one Golden Thread Worm, but Bai Chunian had multiple allies. Prolonged fighting would only drain his energy.
A thick scent of mandrake pheromone filled the air. White spider silk sprayed outward, anchoring to every dead tree.
The Golden Thread Worm released the mummy from his back. Controlled by countless fine threads, the mummy stood upright without support. Taller than the Golden Thread Worm by half a head, its alpha-proportioned shoulders and narrow waist made it a formidable guardian behind him.
The Golden Thread Worm’s M2 ability, “Dual Thought Silk,” allowed him to control humanoid silk cocoons. One opponent suddenly became two—much to Bai Chunian’s frustration.
All spider silk connected to the Golden Thread Worm’s hands. As he threw a punch at Bai Chunian, the mummy, manipulated by the silk, flanked from another direction, forming a pincer attack with its master.
Bai Chunian finally got a firsthand taste of the Golden Silkworm’s companion ability—split-focus control.
He broke away from the two-sided pincer attack, and in an instant the Golden Silkworm and the mummy separated. The mummy charged upward, while the Golden Silkworm sprinted in the opposite direction to retrieve his rifle.
Bai Chunian’s first instinct was to stop him from getting the gun—but out of the corner of his eye, he caught that the mummy was heading straight toward Xiao Xun’s hiding spot.
After his successful snipe, Xiao Xun had already changed positions, but at some point the Golden Silkworm had quietly filled the entire forest with spider silk. Everyone was under the surveillance of those fine threads—any movement would give away their location.
He Suowei reacted quickly and moved to intercept first. “I’ll hold off the Golden Silkworm.”
Bai Chunian shouted, “No—don’t get close to him!”
Xiao Xun remained perfectly still. As long as he didn’t move, the Golden Silkworm would have a hard time pinpointing him. He kept his scope trained steadily on the mummy’s head.
In the end, Bai Chunian turned back. With a light push off the rock wall, he climbed silently and swiftly to Xiao Xun’s high ground. The Golden Silkworm seemed to have anticipated this—his fingers twitched, manipulating the threads, and the mummy instantly turned and lunged at Bai Chunian.
A sniper shot rang out.
Xiao Xun pulled the trigger, blasting the mummy away just as its bared white teeth were about to sink into Bai Chunian’s artery and gland.
The shot saved Bai Chunian—but it exposed Xiao Xun’s position.
Through the tactile feedback of the web, the Golden Silkworm instantly locked onto Xiao Xun’s vital point. He grabbed his rifle and fired a sweeping burst.
“Down you go.”
Bai Chunian kicked Xiao Xun off the high ground.
Xiao Xun crashed heavily into the bushes below—while Bai Chunian took a bullet straight to his left eye.
Blood sprayed.
The intense pain knocked Bai Chunian senseless for a moment. Clutching his bleeding eye, he landed one-handed against the cliffside, blood pouring down half his face.
Xiao Xun lay on the ground, his lower leg wracked with a bone-shattering pain. But his mind was blank. Dazed, he thought: At least… no one got close to me.
The others froze.
Han Xingqian dragged the pale, trembling Xiao Xun aside, gritting his teeth through the pain, eyes fixed anxiously on Bai Chunian’s condition. He Suowei looked up at Bai Chunian without much surprise. A teammate beside him noticed something and started to shout, but He Suowei stopped him with a low warning.
The Golden Silkworm lifted his rifle and pressed the attack.
His weapon couldn’t instantly destroy experimental subjects—but it could slow their regeneration. Under its fire, even they would be as fragile as ordinary humans. No matter what, blood would eventually run dry.
He raised the gun toward Bai Chunian, finger tightening on the trigger—
—but suddenly he was tackled to the ground. The shot went wide, streaking into the sky.
Lu Yan slammed into him, pressing the muzzle to the Golden Silkworm’s throat and firing a burst. The Golden Silkworm returned fire, but Bi Lanxing’s vines wrapped around Lu Yan’s waist and yanked him out of the line of fire.
The Golden Silkworm fell back, manipulating the threads with his fingers. The mummy flipped down the wall and caught him, cushioning his fall.
In just a few seconds, the situation flipped.
Lan Bo climbed down the cliff with the corpse of a Red-throated Bird member clenched in his teeth, landing beside Bai Chunian.
Bai Chunian crouched, clutching his left eye. Lan Bo crawled over. “How is it?”
“Nothing serious.” Bai Chunian hissed through his teeth, tearing a strip from Lan Bo’s bandages and wrapping it over his eye to stop the bleeding. “I don’t want to fight him here—too many people. And normal guns don’t work on him, but his works on us. How’s that fair?”
“Come here.”
Lan Bo’s tail coiled around him. Without warning, he bit into Bai Chunian’s neck, injecting pheromones beneath his skin.
Brilliant blue fish-pattern markings flared in the darkness, spreading instantly across Bai Chunian’s arms and shoulders.
“Claya siren milen.”
Lan Bo raised his hand. Sharp nails extended, and the corpse lying on the ground had its arteries sliced open by threads of faint blue light. Blood gushed outward.
The flowing blood gathered into Lan Bo’s palm, stretching, shaping—
The corpse was drained completely, shriveling into a dried husk.
Before Bai Chunian, a long-handled scythe took form—its surface solid, its interior flowing with blood plasma, streaked with winding blue electricity.
“Use mine,” Lan Bo said quietly.
In principle, Lan Bo’s companion ability—Hydrosteel—could only be used by himself. Any weapon it formed would turn to water in another person’s hands.
Bai Chunian stared, stunned, as he gripped the handle. It felt solid. Cold. Real.
“…Holy shit.”