After a full day of work, Yan Yi finally had a moment to rest. Sitting in the lounge, he checked the time—six in the evening—skimmed through his emails, found nothing urgent, and grabbed his coat and car keys to head home.
As he opened the lounge door, Lu Shangjin was already outside, hand half-raised as if about to knock.
Before Yan Yi could speak, Lu Shangjin reached over and fastened his collar button. After all these years, every movement of the alpha carried a quiet, accumulated gentleness.
“You smell like smoke,” Lu Shangjin said lightly, without any reproach, naturally resting a hand on his shoulder. “Nothing much going on today, so I came to pick you up. My car’s downstairs.”
Yan Yi suddenly lowered his head, resting his forehead against his chest.
“What’s wrong?”
“Tired. I’ll be fine in a moment.”
“Want me to carry you?”
“No. That’d be inappropriate.”
“Come on. Let’s go home and eat.”
He got into the passenger seat while Lu Shangjin adjusted the rearview mirror and casually brought up something from earlier. “Our kid came back today and gave me this.”
He pulled out a small opaque glass vial. Yan Yi took it. “Sunflower explosion catalyst?”
“Yep.” Lu Shangjin’s tone carried a hint of pride. “Lu Yan was going on and on about how he stole it from Danli Palace. I told him he’s still nowhere near my level—he got so mad he rolled around on the bed. He was in a hurry, grabbed a toy pillow, and had the driver take him back to Aphid Island.”
“I thought you didn’t support him doing dangerous things.” Yan Yi closed his fingers around the vial. “Why let him go back?”
“It’s different now.” Lu Shangjin kept his hands on the wheel. “That thing with Shao Wenjing… it’s unsettling when you think about it. If someone kidnapped Lu Yan and demanded my gland in exchange, would I refuse? Even if I knew it was a trap, I’d still jump in.”
“I regret protecting him too much when he was young. I should’ve trained him earlier.” He sighed. “But it’s not too late. He’s sixteen now. We can’t protect him forever—let him learn.”
“I watched the year-end assessment footage too,” Lu Shangjin continued. “Bi Ge and Xia Pingtian were watching with me. Honestly, Lu Yan’s sniping skills were embarrassing—those two old guys laughed themselves silly. I’ll train him personally when I get back.”
Lu Shangjin possessed an A3 high-grade peregrine falcon gland. Back in the day, he and Yan Yi were both battlefield partners and lovers—Yan Yi as the assault specialist, Lu Shangjin as the sniper, hitting targets from hundreds of meters away without fail. Unfortunately, Lu Yan hadn’t inherited any of that talent.
Yan Yi paid the closest attention to the Aphid Island training base’s year-end evaluations—after all, it concerned the future of the IOA alliance. He reviewed detailed footage of all 102 trainees, writing individual assessments.
“There’s a kid on his team named Xiao Xun. Did you notice him?”
“I skimmed through. Great sniper—doesn’t even look twenty yet. Worth developing.”
“Grandson of Xiao Changxiu from the Greyhound family.”
“Oh? Don’t you usually avoid recruits with backgrounds?”
“He’s an omega. He’s been heavily ostracized. I don’t expect loyalty—I just want the Greyhound family to see, years from now, that the pearl they cast aside out of prejudice is exactly what an omega can become.”
Lu Shangjin laughed. “Nice.”
“Oh, right—it’s been a while since I’ve seen my second son. There’s about to be a vacant CEO position at Huanshi Fengfei. It’d be a good opportunity for him to practice. He can’t keep working under you forever. Being an agent is a young person’s job—one day he’ll have to step down.” Lu Shangjin realized he hadn’t seen Bai Chunian all day. Usually, the kid would drop by whenever he showed up.
“He probably won’t have time anytime soon. We’ll see when he’s back.”
That evening, Bai Chunian sat atop a streetlamp, one leg bent, wrist resting casually on his knee.
Under the dim yellow light, Eris’s shadow stretched long across the ground. He held a steel-wire bat, smashing it down hard onto the stomach of a thug lying beneath him.
The heavy blow forced the man to spit out a mix of blood and shattered organs. Eris lifted the blood-stained bat, tapping it against his palm as he rolled his neck. Around him lay five or six corpses, piled haphazardly in grotesque states.
A child with a backpack cowered in the corner, staring at the scene.
Under the cover of night, Eris’s eyes glinted darkly. He stepped on the chest of a man still barely breathing, smiling down at him. His lips were bright red, his grin both vivid and terrifying.
“Do… not… bully… children.” Eris pressed his foot harder into the man’s chest as he spoke slowly. “Understand?”
However, both the special forces and the prison officers instinctively kept their guns trained on Lan Bo at the top of the tower.
The warden stopped beneath Lesha Tower, planting the tip of his black umbrella on the ground and resting both hands lightly on its handle. He signaled for everyone to lower their weapons, then lifted his head to look up at the mermaid above, releasing a trace of pheromones that conveyed respect.
The scent drifted upward. Lan Bo caught it, and the dull blue of his eyes sharpened into a thin line. His tail loosened, and he dropped from the sky at high speed. Just before hitting the ground, a dizzying electromagnetic burst rang out, suspending his body about a meter above the ground.
The warden removed his crooked military cap and gave a gentlemanly bow.
The barely adequate display of etiquette softened the severity between Lan Bo’s brows. Propping his head up, he reclined sideways on the lowest beam of the tower and gave a quiet hum in acknowledgment.
“You don’t need to be so hostile toward me. I’m simply acting on behalf of all humanity, here to confirm that certain experimental subjects pose no threat.”
Lan Bo glanced at his fingernails. “The fact that you’re all still alive proves we’re not a threat.”
The warden chuckled. “I’ll only be taking something insignificant to you. I’m not looking for your beloved alpha, but for another subject of similar caliber—a black panther experimental body. Have you seen him?”
Lan Bo thought for a moment. Xiao Bai had mentioned someone like that near the reptile, but hadn’t gone into detail.
—
Escorted by the PBB special forces, the dying Jinlüchong was brought back to Port M. His hands were locked in specially designed restraints, and an inhibitor was inserted into the gland at the back of his neck to prevent him from going berserk.
Officers from the international prison stepped forward to take custody. The purchase invoice for Jinlüchong was in the hands of the Red-Throat Bird organization. Since it was not recognized as a legitimate international entity, Jinlüchong was considered an unregulated experimental subject and had to be detained under the prison’s authority.
Freed from his burden, Jinlüchong felt lighter. Whether he was about to enter prison or return to Red-Throat Bird, neither possibility frightened him anymore.
He lowered his head as the officers shoved him into an armored transport vehicle.
Yan Yi regretted not being able to bring him back to headquarters. The more experimental subjects the international prison controlled, the greater their influence in council decisions. He stared at the young man’s back as he was forced into the vehicle, a strange sense of familiarity stirring within him.
The radar indicated that other experimental subjects had been nearby—but they vanished in an instant, leaving no trace.
The warden waited in front of the radar console for quite some time. The PBB special forces and prison officers conducted a thorough search of Port M. After roughly four hours, they confirmed there were no hidden experimental subjects remaining.
Meanwhile, the IOA task force—except for Lan Bo—had already departed by ferry into open waters.
—
The five of them rested in the ship’s cabin. Xiao Xun received treatment from the PBB Thunder Support Unit; his broken leg had been fully repaired and would only require a few days of rest.
Bi Lanxing helped Lu Yan move the heavy mummy to the side of a cabinet and secured it with vines. No one knew whether it might still move without Jinlüchong, so it was safer to keep it bound.
After settling the mummy, Lu Yan sat on the floor, tore some manuscript paper, and began folding paper cranes, placing them beside the corpse of the little lion cub from his backpack.
Han Xingqian sat across from him, tending to Bai Chunian’s left eye.
Although experimental subjects wouldn’t die from Jinlüchong’s bullets, their healing speed would be extremely slow—especially for delicate areas like the eye. Even Bai Chunian would need at least a month to fully recover.
Still limping, Xiao Xun shuffled over and lowered his head. “Thank you, Instructor.”
“Oh, don’t mention it,” Bai Chunian replied casually.
Xiao Xun frowned in self-reproach. “I lost focus during the operation… and I didn’t trust my teammates.”
“Do you trust them now?”
“…Yes.”
“It’s fine. I was at fault too.” Bai Chunian felt a bit guilty about causing his trainee’s broken leg. “Honestly, blame Han-ge. I thought he’d catch you when I kicked you off, but who knew he was too busy staring at me? That’s true love right there.”
“Shut up.” Han Xingqian peeled back the bandage.
The eyeball was a mangled ruin, leaving behind a hollow, blackened socket. Rotting flesh and new tissue clung to the bandage, and tearing it away tugged at the nerves.
Bai Chunian hissed in pain.
“Endure it.” Han Xingqian injected anesthetic and began carefully disinfecting and cutting away excess tissue. The bullet was lodged deep in the socket and had to be extracted with forceps.
“Hey, you’re practically poking into the back of my skull,” Bai Chunian complained.
“It’s lodged deep. What do you expect me to do?”
“Just leave it in there. It’s only a bullet. It’ll heal around it.”
“If I don’t take it out, you’ll have trouble getting through security checks later. Stop whining.”
“It really hurts…” Bai Chunian muttered, grabbing Jinlüchong’s gun to distract himself.
He traced the silk cocoon wrapped around the grip. The gland inside was still warm, still beating, and emitted the scent of poppy pheromones.
“Is this from someone close to Jinlüchong?” he wondered aloud. “Doesn’t seem like the type to kill his own family… so was he forced? If so, why would he still have the weapon?”
Thinking it over, he suddenly fired.
The gunshot rang out as he pressed the barrel to his own forearm and pulled the trigger. The bullet pierced straight through, leaving a bloody hole before embedding itself in the wall.
Then something strange happened—the wound rapidly healed, leaving no trace.
“Ah, just as I thought. It doesn’t work in someone else’s hands,” Bai Chunian said, stroking his chin. “So it’s reasonable to assume the gland belongs to the mummy. The body’s dead, but the gland isn’t.”
Everyone jumped at the sudden gunshot, staring at him in shock. Han Xingqian called him insane.
“I need to investigate this,” Bai Chunian said thoughtfully. “This is deeply connected to Research Institute 109. Directly modifying humans like this is a severe violation of ethics. If exposed, it’ll cause a massive uproar.”
The two of them boarded the subway under the passengers’ shocked and terrified stares. This station wasn’t too crowded, and there were quite a few empty seats.
Eris laid the shotgun across his lap, tucking a briefcase he had snatched from a corpse under his arm, then leaned back in his seat and looked up at Bai Chunian. “Well? How is it?”
“Not bad.” Bai Chunian stood beside him, one hand gripping the overhead rail.
A child sitting across from them burst into tears at the sight of Eris, who was covered in blood. His mother quickly picked him up and hurried toward the next carriage.
The smile vanished from Eris’s face. He casually raised his gun and shot the woman dead. Blood splattered across the carriage, and the passengers erupted into terrified screams, surging backward like a retreating tide. Some, their voices shaking, tried to call the police.
The child fell to the ground, dazed, his face smeared with his mother’s blood. Too young to understand death, he pushed at her, trying to wake her.
Eris stuck out his tongue at him. “Heh. If I don’t have it, neither do you.”
Bai Chunian kept one hand in his pocket, holding the rail with the other. Without reacting, he put on his headphones and started playing a song.
As long as Eris caused enough chaos in the city center, the international prison would inevitably be drawn in. Bai Chunian’s job was simply to lead him into creating the largest disturbance possible.
As for the necessary sacrifices…
Bai Chunian looked at his own reflection in the subway door glass.
The president hadn’t been wrong. From Havana agent Beijin stabbing him, to the countless little lion cubs killed in the M Port valley railway explosion, to Jinlüchong’s fate—he had indeed grown disappointed in humanity. So he no longer felt the need to give everything he had.
There were only three kinds of humans: friends, strangers, and enemies.
He only protected the first kind.