After returning from the police station, Bai Chunian had locked himself in the secret armory within his apartment’s bedroom for three full days.
Inside the armory, aside from the firearms and ammunition hanging on three walls, there was a flat folding table. When unfolded, it could be assembled into a long table with three square workstations: the far right held precision measuring tools, the center was a copying station, and the far left was for the computer and miscellaneous items.
Bai Chunian was lying face-down on the table, which was covered by a single, densely detailed architectural blueprint. On the computer to his left, a CAD drawing was open.
Lan Bo was lying on his back on the bed, his head hanging over the edge, his hair spilling onto the floor. In his hand, he held a book he’d bought at a bookstore on his way back from the police station.
It was a seven-volume set. The first volume was titled *The Water-Colored Tomb*, and the second *The Flame-Enclosed Coffin*. The author’s byline read “Domino.”
“How can books like this be bestsellers? I could write them too,” Lan Bo said, closing the hardcover book and popping it into his mouth.
“Don’t eat it—don’t crease the pages. We’ll need it later.” Bai Chunian looked up from a pile of blueprints to stop him.
La Bo pulled the book from his mouth and wiped it clean. “It’s just about life in the research institute. Do humans really enjoy watching us suffer so much?”
“You can’t even read. How would you understand it?”
“I’ve picked up a few characters.”
“He’s writing about the seven ways test subjects die in the research facility,” Bai Chunian explained while calculating distances on the blueprints. “‘Aqua Tomb’ describes a culture chamber filled with nutrient solution, *The Flaming Coffin* describes the crematorium. Domino’s ability allows him to read the memories of matter through his tentacles. He selected seven different test subjects and wrote seven volumes chronicling their experiences from birth to death. The descriptions of their struggles before death are vivid—especially the one about the crematorium; it’s so intense it could trigger claustrophobia in anyone.”
La Bo looked at the hardcover’s cover, which depicted a spiderweb with a partially devoured skeleton at its center.
“You spent three years at the research institute too. What do you think?” Bai Chunian kept his eyes lowered, appearing to focus on the blueprints, but his hand hadn’t moved at all; he was simply gripping the pen tightly, the veins on the back of his hand taut and bulging.
“It doesn’t matter.” Lan Bo tossed the book onto the bed, rolled over, and propped his head up with both hands as he asked, “You haven’t slept much these past three days. Come finish your OBE and then get some rest.”
“I’ve got serious business to attend to,” Bai Chunian said. “I have to head to the Medical Association later. Brother Han said Domino’s condition has stabilized, and we can visit him now.”
“Fine. Anyway, anything is more serious than OBEing with me. I’m going to kill them all.” La Bo rolled back and forth on the bed. “There are so many Omegas. Meeting one after another—I couldn’t kill them all even if I killed one a day.”
“……” Bai Chunian finally stood up from behind the blueprints, swung his long leg onto the bed, pinned La Bo beneath him, and sucked hard on the crook of his neck.
Lan Bo was tickled by his touch and ran his hands along the Alpha’s arched back. “What are you doing?”
“Recharging.” Bai Chunian took a deep breath, filling his lungs with the scent of white rose pheromones, and said lazily, “What exactly is your pheromone?”
“The mermaid language is ‘tumi.’ In Chinese, it might translate to something like ‘white rose’ or ‘tuberoza.’”
“Actually, it’s catnip, right?”
Lan Bo placed both hands on Bai Chunian’s hair and ruffled it. “If that’s the case, would you ‘boqi’ into my bathwater?”
When it came to turning the tables, La Bo had never lost. Bai Chunian rubbed against him in his arms and said helplessly, “La Bo, usually when we Alphas tell a dirty joke to an Omega we like, it’s to see that cute expression of you blushing, your heart racing, and feeling shy—not to get you to tell me an even dirtier one.”
“Let’s go.” Bai Chunian pulled him up. “Let’s check on the Medical Association.”
The Alliance Medical Association occupied the largest area in the Alliance Building. The patient wards were far from the association’s research facilities, and Domino had only been transferred to a general ward today.
When Bai Chunian pushed the door open, the person inside was smashing things around. A notebook flew across the room, nearly hitting La Bo, but Bai Chunian reached out and caught it just in time.
As soon as he entered, he saw Domino hunched over, curled up on the hospital bed. The flame-colored wings of the Sun Swallowtail butterfly on his back were now in tatters. It was clear that the skeletal framework supporting the wings had undergone meticulous repairs, but the fiery red insect wings, covered in scales, were shattered beyond recognition.
Notebooks and pens were scattered on the floor, the computer was carelessly propped up on the desk, and the floor was littered with crumpled scraps of paper that had once been covered in writing.
Domino’s face was streaked with tears. He raised a pair of eyes filled with hatred and glared fiercely at Bai Chunian, who had burst through the door.
“The damage to the glands is severe.” Bai Chunian examined Domino’s wings from a distance. The external features were all formed by the excessive proliferation of glandular cells; when these features were damaged, it meant the glands themselves were injured. Clearly, Domino’s wings had sustained irreparable trauma.
“My memories have become fragmented,” Domino said hoarsely. He struggled to form the next sentence, and after a long pause, spoke incoherently: “I can’t write anymore. I’m injured. My brain… it’s hard to use language… Soon I won’t even be able to speak.”
“Kill me,” Domino screamed with heart-wrenching agony, then doubled over in pain, clutching the snow-white sheets of the hospital bed tightly. “I don’t want to… forget how to write, how to speak… I’ve had enough of hiding and running, only to end up like this… the Research Institute…”
When the Shaojin Mansion was ambushed by a large number of test subjects, Domino was severely wounded. According to the Reptilian’s account, he was critically injured by a test subject designated “No. 200,” the “Eternal Wraith”—the most powerful test subject the Institute had produced to date.
Since the emergence of three fully-mimetic agent-type test subjects, the Institute had ceased pursuing full mimicry, instead favoring test subjects with the lowest possible mimicry levels.
This is because a higher degree of mimicry does not necessarily indicate a higher rank; rather, it signifies a higher level of evolution. As the level of evolution increases, the test subject’s autonomous consciousness is significantly strengthened. A heightened tendency to escape, defiance of discipline, and a yearning for freedom are all common flaws shared by test subjects with excessively high mimicry levels.
The watch on his wrist suddenly beeped, alerting Bai Chunian to a new message. He glanced at it—it was from Duan Yang, instructing him to go upstairs to the Technical Department immediately.
“La Bo, keep him company for a moment. I’m going upstairs.” Without waiting for La Bo’s reply, Bai Chunian flung open the door and ran out.
Only La Bo and Domino, who was quietly sobbing, remained in the ward.
“Noisy.” La Bo was a bit annoyed. He sat on the hospital bed and casually flicked the tip of his tail to examine Domino’s disheveled wings. There were some blue, shimmering patterns on them. La Bo suddenly remembered that Domino had helped stabilize Xiao Bai’s mind when he went berserk in M Port. As a reward, La Bo had once bestowed a gift upon him.
“Oh, it’s you.” ” La Bo grabbed the base of Domino’s wing, yanking him in front of him. He pressed down on the gland at the back of his neck, administering a calming and restorative treatment.
Bai Chunian took the elevator to the Technical Department, where Duan Yang was waiting by the wall outside his office, looking a bit nervous. As soon as Bai Chunian emerged from the hallway, Duan Yang immediately stepped forward, grabbed Bai Chunian’s arm, and pulled him into his office.
“I looked at the address for that breeding base you gave me. It’s definitely not easy to get into. We might actually have to go beg that little reptile…” Duan Yang lowered his voice. “I haven’t fully sorted it out yet. For now, I’ve only managed to get my hands on a video.”
He fished a USB drive out of his pocket and handed it to Bai Chunian. “You should watch this, but think carefully—are you really sure you want to see it?”
It was rare for Duan Yang’s tone to be so cautious and tense. Bai Chunian took the USB drive without a word. “Give it to me.”
After taking it, he headed straight to the video room alone.
This was a video recording left behind by the breeding base, documenting the surgical procedure performed on Lan Bo after he had been injected with the mimicry serum.
In the dark, enclosed screening room, Bai Chunian sat alone behind a desk, staring silently at the massive screen.
The footage had been restored by Duan Yang and was exceptionally clear. Bai Chunian’s gaze was fixed entirely on the blood-soaked operating table; the massive hemorrhage and multiple sutures were clearly visible in the video. Lan Bo’s agonized screams seemed to pierce through the operating room, echoing piercingly in Bai Chunian’s mind.
The video was a compilation of surgical recordings from various time periods. In the footage, Lan Bo gradually lost the strength to resist after initially struggling, roaring, and biting; he lay calmly restrained on the operating table, staring coldly at the scalpels moving across his body.
The video was arranged chronologically. La Bo’s fishtail gradually deformed and split into two slender human legs, but this caused severe bleeding. Researchers in protective suits retrieved a fist-sized, lustrous white pearl from the pool of blood and hurriedly placed it in a tray to send for analysis.
La Bo strained to reach out toward the researcher taking the pearl—a rare, almost unseen expression of pleading and entreaty on his face.
But nothing changed as a result.
At that time, La Bo was still in the post-modification incubation phase. He could barely speak, was unable to express his pain through words, and lacked the strength he possesses now to resist the researchers. He could only endure it all helplessly.
The edited video ran for about an hour. When the screening ended, Bai Chunian stared blankly at the blank screen, motionless.
Time seemed to stand still in that dark little screening room. Bai Chunian stared at the blank screen until the sun set outside and the lights in the hallway came on.
After a long while, Bai Chunian let out a laugh.
“Very good.”