Before pushing open the bathroom door, Bai Chunian turned his head and noticed the square wall-mounted mirror above the sink.
He stepped back, braced his hands on the edge of the sink, and scrutinized the mirror closely. When he first woke up in the restroom, this mirror had turned into a surveillance screen. Not knowing how to trigger the display, Bai Chunian ran his fingers along the edge of the mirror, looking for a button he could press manually, but he found no mechanism after feeling around.
He straightened up, stood in front of the mirror with his hands in his pockets, and stared blankly for a moment, gazing at his reflection.
He gently raised his right hand, and his reflection raised its left hand.
He raised his left hand as well, but his reflection kept its left hand raised.
Bai Chunian froze. The white lion alpha in the mirror suddenly curled the corners of his lips into a smug grin. “You’re all going to be finished,” he said. He raised his left hand and flipped Bai Chunian the middle finger.
“Ah!” The horrifying image caused Bai Chunian to suddenly lose control and punch out at the mirror. It shattered into spiderweb-like cracks, and the shards of glass left jagged wounds on the knuckles of his left fist. Fresh blood trickled through the gaps between his fingers toward his fingertips.
“……” Bai Chunian tapped his forehead in exasperation. He couldn’t even tell if what he’d just seen was a hallucination or real surveillance footage; a faint sense of fear and an intense urge to kill were spreading through his mind.
Was that just a vision of his inner demons? If so, then it was a false version of himself. He should now be in a room on a different floor. Bai Chunian picked up a large shard of mirror glass, clenched it in his palm, and gripped it tightly.
The uncertainty of Lan Bo’s fate unsettled Bai Chunian to his core. Though he appeared to maintain his composure, being trapped in this narrow, endless room meant that despair was slowly, bit by bit, eroding the sanity of even the most level-headed person.
Bai Chunian harbored a deep hatred for the face in the mirror; he wanted to kill him right then and there.
He suddenly snapped back to his senses, raising the shard of mirror in his hand, which reflected his own image.
“Do the Mirror Beings know they are Mirror Beings? I’ve always wanted to kill them.” ” Bai Chunian stared at the bloodstained lines on his palm. “Am I the projection?”
He touched the suppressor on the back of his neck, which was filled with a blue serum. The suppressor had a protrusion that could be unlocked with a chip; if forcibly pulled, it would activate a self-destruct sequence, injecting the toxin into the test subject’s glands.
A beautiful, inaudible melody hummed softly through the earpiece, like a sea anemone slowly blooming, birds whispering among the clouds, and the song of whales mingling with the chime of seashell wind chimes.
Lan Bo lay in the pool at the dining bar, water flowing from the faucet over his head. He hummed leisurely, holding up the note Bai Chunian had left him and studying it closely.
“Lan Bo, I heard him singing earlier, so I’ve been berating myself the whole way for letting my heart wander. The more I think about it, the worse I feel. He’s a terrifying sea monster—Satan sent him to tempt me. I know his true form must be that of an ugly goblin. But he doesn’t sing as beautifully as you do, really.”
The melody ringing in his ears gradually cleared the haze from Bai Chunian’s dazed eyes, and his foggy mind began to snap back into focus.
A faint, muffled clang of metal interrupted Lan Bo. His humming stopped abruptly. He glanced at the ceiling, then looked around, and asked Bai Chunian, “Did you hear that sound?”
“You mean your song?” Bai Chunian was fully awake now, rubbing his temples.
“No, the sound of a 7.62mm sniper round striking steel.”
“I didn’t hear it. Was it close to you?”
“Far away—at least outside the house.”
“Forget it, let’s not worry about it for now. My head’s spinning, and I’m not quite sure what’s going on. What if we can’t get out?”
“I don’t care. Buildings will eventually crumble with age. Tens of thousands of years from now, I’ll still be here.”
“That long? Won’t you get lonely? Oh, wait—it doesn’t matter if you’re here or not, because I won’t be around anymore.”
“Not that long. But I’ll be lonely.” Lan Bo asked, “How long can you live?”
“A few decades? I don’t know, but probably no more than a hundred years at most. Oh, I’ve never really thought about it.”
“Such a short time—it’ll be over before you know it if you sleep a little deeper.” For the first time, Lan Bo pondered the topic of lifespan. He stacked the notes Xiao Bai had left him, pressed them to his lips, and kissed them. “That was close.”
“Let’s continue. Once I see my wife, I’ll ask her to forgive you.”
“I don’t need it,” Lan Bo said. “But I’ll forgive you too.”
Bai Chunian had already figured out the pattern of the code. As long as he pressed the reverse numbers corresponding to the forward room’s code, the door opened much faster. He easily pushed open the bathroom door; the next room was the infirmary.
A corpse lay sprawled on the floor.
As if suddenly struck by a thought, Bai Chunian, without flinching at the sight, crouched down to search the body, which was dressed in a researcher’s uniform.
The body was lying face-down by a cabinet, its hand stiffly clinging to the edge of a drawer below it. Just as Lan Bo had described earlier, the body was wearing plastic slippers without socks, and there was a small cut on the big toe of the right foot.
Bai Chunian crouched down to examine the body and noticed several tiny shards of glass embedded in the sole of the plastic slippers; the glass was nearly black.
After searching the entire body, this was the only wound—on the toe—and it was not fatal.
Bai Chunian turned the body over. The researcher was slightly overweight, about 1.7 meters tall, with a fairly large black mole on his right cheek. He wore black-rimmed glasses and had a broad, kind-faced appearance. However, his earlobes had a cherry-red tinge, and his skin was covered with red spots.
He leaned in close to the corpse’s mouth and nose and sniffed; there was a faint, bitter almond scent. It could be concluded with near certainty that he had died of cyanide poisoning.
Bai Chunian rummaged through his pockets and pulled out an ID card in a plastic sleeve. He was Irish and worked for Research Institute 109. Judging by his ID number, he didn’t seem to work alone in a department; there were at least a dozen colleagues in his unit.
“Buddy, give me a hand.” He took the Irishman’s ID card, then lifted the body, propping it up with his shoulder to help it stand. Step by step, he moved toward the fingerprint lock, grabbed the Irishman’s left index finger, and pressed it against the scanner.
The fingerprint lock flashed a red light. Error.
“I’ve already failed twice,” Bai Chunian thought to himself. “I have two more chances.” So he selected the index finger of the man’s right hand and pressed it against the scanner.
Still a failure.
With only one last attempt remaining, Bai Chunian’s Adam’s apple bobbed slightly. After a moment’s hesitation, he pressed the researcher’s left thumb against the scanner.
Failure.
“…Damn. Am I really this unlucky?” Most people would only register these four fingers, right? He hadn’t even tried the right thumb yet, but Bai Chunian had no room for error. One more failure, and the suppressor would activate its self-destruct sequence.
Bai Chunian held the researcher’s right thumb above the scanner, hesitating for over ten seconds before finally lowering it.
No need. Gambling is bad for your health.
Bai Chunian returned the body to its original position, picked up his ID card, and headed toward the next room.
He returned to the cabinet in the infirmary, opened a drawer, and pulled out several boxes of common medications.
The instructions on the medicine boxes were all in English, but he could tell the letters were reversed—every single one of them. Bai Chunian turned to look at the calendar by the flower stand; the date on it was 81.
He remembered that when he passed by the infirmary, the date on the calendar had been the 18th. No wonder Lan Bo had answered “81”—he really hadn’t been lying.
Bai Chunian asked as he entered the password, “You’ve made it to the restroom, right?”
Lan Bo: “Yeah.”
“What’s the mirror in the restroom like?”
“Nothing special, just a normal mirror.”
“Hmph…” Bai Chunian confirmed that he had entered a different restroom than his own, quickened his pace, and entered the next room.
The door slid open easily. Bai Chunian scanned the room. He had indeed moved two dumbbells to prop against the door earlier, but now those two dumbbells were back in their original spots on the rack.
Even the tiny bloodstain on the floor had vanished.
“It’s a distortion. The gym is a distortion point.” Bai Chunian realized suddenly; all the clues confirmed his hypothesis about the rooms.
“It seems we’re trapped within five rooms: the bathroom is the first, the infirmary the second, the gym the third, the dormitory the fourth, and the dining hall the fifth. Each of these five rooms has a mirror-image counterpart. It looks like two floors, but it’s actually more like two rows of houses with their bottoms fused together—and right now, we’re standing back-to-back.”
“If I was on the upper level at the start and you were on the lower level, then after passing the gym, I would enter the lower level and you would enter the upper level. Every time we pass the gym, a shift occurs: the upper-level rooms are normal, while the lower-level rooms are mirror images.”
Lan Bo: “Oh.”
“So the two rooms I just passed were mirror images of each other. The fitness room we’re in now is the mirror-image fitness room, and the next room should be the normal-facing dormitory.”
Lan Bo: “Oh…”
“I completely understand what’s going on now.” ” Bai Chunian traced the number 81 on the calendar with his fingertip. “This isn’t some apartment building; it’s the recreational area of a laboratory. Researchers who aren’t on duty eat and rest here. The wallpaper isn’t ordinary either—it works on a principle similar to methyl orange-mercury chloride test strips. It’s extremely sensitive and is used to prevent whatever they’re producing or their raw materials from leaking into the living quarters.”
“Dr. Han said this stuff contains hydrogen cyanide.” Bai Chunian touched the suppressor at the back of his neck; the blue liquid inside swayed slightly. “I suspect the researchers are secretly mass-producing this agent designed to quickly kill test subjects.”
“Remember that restaurant with the pink wallpaper you passed by? The shattered wine bottles were likely filled with this agent. I don’t know what method they used to make it evaporate so quickly without leaving a trace, but the fact that the wallpaper turned pink is proof that the agent was released into the air.” Bai Chunian knew that neither Lan Bo nor Lan Bo II could understand him, so he could only speak to himself.
Bang!
A muffled thud seemed to come from the corner of the room. Bai Chunian pricked up his ears to listen, but the sound didn’t repeat. However, there was one thing: for them, who used all kinds of firearms as a matter of routine, they could definitely tell that this was the sound of a bullet striking steel. Though the steel was too thick, making the sound faint, there was no mistaking it.
“I heard that sound too.” Bai Chunian grew alert and hurried toward the next room.
As expected, this room was indeed a dormitory.
There were a few scattered bloodstained footprints on the floor, leading from the combination lock toward the fingerprint lock.
It appeared these were left by the researcher who had died in the infirmary.
Bai Chunian carefully scanned every corner of the room, checking for any overlooked details or clues, when he happened to notice the power light glowing beneath the desk in the corner.
“Hmm, this one seems to work.” Bai Chunian walked over quickly, turned on the display, picked up the mouse from the right side, and double-clicked on the lock screen.
It prompted for a password.
Bai Chunian took out the ID card he’d found in the researcher’s pocket and swiped it through the card reader below the screen.
The lock screen unlocked smoothly.
Bai Chunian pulled up a computer chair and sat down. This computer was clearly a public terminal, intended only for temporary message reception; it didn’t even have a keyboard, much like the ones in the library.
Bai Chunian was an expert at planning research equipment operations, but unfortunately, he wasn’t particularly skilled with computers. If only Big Shot Duan Yang were here—or even Little Crawler, for that matter.
Just as he was about to give up, an email notification popped up on the desktop. The sender’s name read: Love Beam biubiubiu.
“Hmm.” Without a second thought, Bai Chunian clicked to open it—after all, it wasn’t his own computer, so he wouldn’t mind if it got a virus.
As soon as he opened it, the printer under the desk emitted a series of beeps as it started spitting out A4 paper, one sheet at a time.
Bai Chunian bent down to stack the papers, then sat back in his computer chair to flip through them.
There were actually two sets of documents. The cover of the first one read “Detailed Analysis of the IN Infection Agent”—and surprisingly, it was in Chinese.
Bai Chunian skimmed through it and summarized the key characteristics of the IN infection agent.
“So this blue agent contains hydrogen cyanide and the Blue Virus. The key point is the Blue Virus, Test subjects can only be infected through injection; once infected, they die within ten minutes. However, for humans, inhaling even a small amount is fatal. This is a highly volatile toxin that evaporates the moment it leaves its container and dissipates on its own after three minutes, making it extremely difficult to collect as evidence.”
Lan Bo suddenly interjected, “Is it just an infection?”
“Right, there’s nothing radioactive in it.”
The cover of the second document read, “Decision to Destroy Test Subject Data, April K034.” This time, the document was entirely in English.
Bai Chunian went through them one by one. There were over a hundred test subject profiles in total, and the tiny print made his eyes hurt. He skimmed through them quickly. The wide variety of test subjects left Bai Chunian astonished at the sheer diversity of his own kind.
Test Subject 516, Pink Peppa, can produce 10,000 watercress-filled buns at once; the trigger condition is consuming 20,000 watercress-filled buns; Test Subject 707, Little Chubby Choo, causes a specific target to develop a sense of compassion for all living things, instantly attaining enlightenment to save all beings; Test Subject 248, Lazy Caterpillar, reduces the target’s work efficiency by 90%, but it’s too lazy to use its ability.
And so on.
“Ah… I suppose I can understand that…” Bai Chunian continued flipping through the rest of the document.
The last page contained information on the test subject, Satan.
“Hm? That looks familiar.”
Special Operations Weapon No. 545: Satan
Status: Mature Omega
Appearance: Two horns on the head
Development Focus: “Demon of the Mind Projection”—creates a projection identical in appearance to the target, fully inheriting the original’s memories. The projection will kill the original, as well as the original’s lover and family, replace the original, and sever all emotional bonds.
Development Result: Failure
Upon reading this, Bai Chunian’s expression froze. A note followed below.
Note: Research indicates that the test subject, Satan, was unable to manifest the “Heart Demon Projection,” but developed a new ability: the J1 differentiation ability “Mobius Torque.” This allows the subject to select any enclosed space and twist it, turning it into a torsion point. Targets passing through this torsion point will transition from the relative positive space to the relative negative space.
M2 Differentiation Ability “Future Projection”: Precisely calculates and physically demonstrates the development of events within a specific space. External interference may affect the projection process.
His differentiation abilities are so powerful that our current technological means cannot control them. If left to continue developing, they may cause irreparable damage; therefore, destruction is ordered.
Signed: Aileen.
Bai Chunian recalled that not long ago, the warden of the International Prison had been removed from office. Consequently, the assurances previously given by Institute 109 had begun to lose credibility. In response to public sentiment, higher-ups ordered a strict search of the institute’s facilities, which is why they were in such a hurry to destroy all experimental subjects that severely violated regulations.
It seemed that Institute 109 had intended to destroy this batch of test subjects according to plan, just as they had done before, but things had gone awry. Not only had Satan outmaneuvered them, but they had also lost a significant number of researchers.
They went to all this trouble to bring him and Lan Bo here for one reason: to deal with Satan.
If they succeeded in killing Satan, Institute 109’s destruction mission would be complete, the inspection results would pass, and everyone would be happy. If they were forever trapped in this circular room by Satan, Institute 109 would still have eliminated two of the IOA’s most powerful allies.
But why didn’t Aileen just use the infection serum to kill them outright?
“……” Bai Chunian took a while to process this.
Until Lan Bo asked him, “Kid, are you still alive?”
“Uh, yeah, I’m alive.” ” Bai Chunian didn’t have a shredder on hand, and such a thick stack of documents wasn’t easy to carry around, so he tucked a carbon pen between the first few pages, then casually stuffed the documents under his pillow in the dorm room, making them look like documents a researcher had left behind.
“I’m in the gym,” said Lan Bo.
Bai Chunian stood up and looked toward the gym he had come from.
A dumbbell was wedged tightly between the door and the frame—Bai Chunian had wedged it there when he arrived.
He realized that Lan Bo’s door didn’t open because his own door was locked, but because the infrared sensor in the center of the room had detected him.
Bai Chunian forced open the door he’d wedged with the dumbbell and squeezed his body through the gap.
The gym was completely empty.
“Lan Bo, there’s something I need to explain to you, but listen to me first. I already know how to get out. Do exactly as I say…” Bai Chunian pressed the communicator in his ear and spoke to Lan Bo in the other gym.
“No need.”
Lan Bo stood in the gym, his hand lightly resting on the suppressor at the back of his neck.
“If it’s just an infection,” Lan Bo’s slender right hand, veins bulging, dug into the junction where the suppressor met his neckbone and yanked it violently.
The suppressor emitted a shrill alarm and instantly injected the stored blue In infection agent into Lan Bo’s glands. The blood vessels connected to the glands rapidly turned blue and then black, spreading swiftly throughout his body.
The onset of the infection serum was excruciating. Lan Bo gritted his teeth and let out a low growl as he tore the suppressor from his neck, the hook still clinging to the torn flesh.
As the fishtail recharged with electricity, the venom spreading rapidly through his veins gradually stagnated, as if congealing, and then the dark blue color slowly receded.
Electric light surged through Lan Bo’s blood, purifying the contamination and impurity within his body, and the wound at the back of his neck began to heal. In the brief span of a dozen seconds, his golden hair shone with a radiant luster, his scales regained their pristine whiteness, and a faint, gentle glow emanated from his entire body.
He leaped into the air, then dropped down with great force, driving a punch packed with power into the ground. Lightning crackled and exploded where his knuckles struck, tearing a massive, charred hole in the ground. He reached his arm into the hole and fished around.
Then, grabbing the collar, he pulled Bai Chunian out of the hole.
The two sides of the massive hole were connected by two identical gyms.
Bai Chunian saw with his own eyes the golden-haired merman, his eyes blazing with lightning and his scales shimmering, towering over him. With his eyelashes slightly lowered and an air of authority, who else could it be but Lan Bo?
A stack of notes Lan Bo had left behind fell out of his bandages, landing right next to Bai Chunian’s cheek. The page with the simple sketch of a cat’s paw happened to cover his face.
Lying on the ground, Bai Chunian raised his hands harmlessly, like a cat rolling onto its back, and said earnestly, “Honey, let me explain how I manipulated you all along to trick me into nearly killing myself.”