Perhaps Xing Bi does hate humanity.
From a human perspective, there may be reasons for this. These bioroids, who are stronger than humans, possess greater abilities, stronger vitality, and better adaptability. They are infinitely close to being human, yet they will never truly be human.
Once control is lost, humanity may only face destruction.
Just like the outside world, where the struggling nomads and refugees, clinging desperately to a sliver of false hope, are fragile lives that are powerless against the bioroids.
These bioroids were originally created by humans to cope with the harsh world as “friends.” Yet after their initial loyalty, humans always return to the most terrifying point—any possibility, no matter how slight, that could lead to the destruction of humanity must be eliminated.
This includes those “friends” who once fought and bled for humanity.
Bioroids, however, perceive things differently. They were created for humanity, accepted as “friends” by humans. They are so close to being humans, guided to learn how to be more like humans, learning to express emotions like joy, anger, sorrow, and happiness, to think and communicate. But the closer they become to humans, the more they possess the complexity that humans fear—the loss of control that humans dread.
As samples of humanity, they live and die over and over, never achieving perfection.
As bioroids slowly learn the nature of humanity, how could they possibly maintain the absolute loyalty that humans expect, all under the guise of being “friends” with strict limitations?
In the end, it no longer matters who betrayed whom or who gave up on “friendship” first. What matters is that this betrayal seems to have been inevitable.
“Do you hate me?”
When Qiu Shi asked Xing Bi this question, he found it hard to describe his own feelings. He just wanted to confirm what emotions Xing Bi had when facing him, a fellow human being.
They had fought together and experienced life and death together.
Qiu Shi had said before: a bond forged in life-and-death situations.
But in the face of Xing Bi’s painful past, how much weight did that bond still carry? He wasn’t sure.
Xing Bi didn’t answer immediately. He looked at Qiu Shi for a while before the corners of his tightly pressed lips lifted slightly. “No.”
At that moment, a flood of confusing, unresoLüed emotions surged up in Qiu Shi.
Tears welled up in his eyes.
He quickly turned his head.
The last time he had cried was more than ten years ago, when Zhao Lü fought from the top of a mountain down to its base against a gang of refugees in the outer city, all just to steal a can of food for his sick self.
Since then, he had stood on the outpost above the outer city, witnessing countless scenes of suffering and despair. He thought nothing would ever make him cry again.
But now the tears came suddenly and fiercely. As he turned his head, a single tear had already fallen onto the back of his hand.
“Damn…” He rubbed his eyes in disbelief. “Ancestors.”
Li Feng lit a cigarette, looking at Xing Bi.
Qiu Shi walked over to the table, took a cigarette from the pack, and lit it.
“No smoking in the lab,” Curator Wu reminded him.
“Then shoot me,” Qiu Shi replied.
Curator Wu sighed.
Li Feng chuckled.
Qiu Shi didn’t sit down on a chair but squatted beside it instead. He couldn’t sit still when he needed to think, or more accurately, when he lacked a sense of security. It was as if he needed to curl up to gather the little courage he had left.
“Can you lock away today’s memory?” Qiu Shi asked, cigarette in his mouth.
Li Feng glanced at Curator Wu.
“It’s impossible to be that precise,” Curator Wu said. “It’s not like editing a piece of code. There’s a significant margin of error, which is why we usually lock away memories of a specific period—months or even a year.”
“What’s the margin of error?” Qiu Shi asked.
“One or two months,” Curator Wu answered.
“What kind of crappy technology is this?” Qiu Shi gave him a look. “You’re telling me if I rub his brain with my fingers, I might end up with a similar margin of error?”
Curator Wu opened his mouth but didn’t know what to say.
Li Feng laughed so hard that he couldn’t stop, and the ash from his cigarette fell onto the floor.
Curator Wu glanced at the ash, and Li Feng, still laughing, rubbed it into the ground with his shoe.
After that, the lab fell into silence.
“Is there no solution to this?” Qiu Shi asked.
“For now…” Curator Wu frowned.
“Then just use your crappy technology,” Qiu Shi said. “If the error margin is two months, so be it. I could use a break from serving the corrupt officials and head back outside the city.”
“That’s not happening,” Li Feng said.
“Who do you think you are?” Qiu Shi glared at him but noticed Li Feng was looking over at Xing Bi.
Qiu Shi had been avoiding looking at Xing Bi this whole time, but now he couldn’t help but glance at the glass enclosure.
Xing Bi was looking at him, and when their eyes met, Xing Bi shook his head.
“Locking away two months of memories would be very detrimental to Yun City’s current situation,” Li Feng said. “Xing Bi’s recent experiences and memories are weapons.”
“Can your brain handle anything else?” Qiu Shi asked.
“Even if we could lock his memories,” Li Feng said, “what about yours? What about mine? Or Lao Wu’s?”
Qiu Shi froze.
“We’re human, not bioroids,” Li Feng continued. “We can’t lock our memories. When we face Xing Bi, we’ll always remember these experiences for him. With his mind, it wouldn’t take long for him to figure out something’s wrong.”
Qiu Shi was silent. The cigarette in his mouth had almost burned down, and the ash fell to the ground with a soft “puff,” snapping him back to reality. “So what are you suggesting?”
“Xing Bi,” Li Feng stood up and walked over to the glass enclosure, looking at him. “The only way forward is for you to remember everything and face it.”
“Damn it,” Qiu Shi cursed.
Xing Bi looked at Li Feng but didn’t say a word.
“Humans do not have the ability to lock their memories,” Li Feng said. “Even though life lasts only a few decades—shorter in these times—everything we’ve experienced stays with us. Whether it’s joy or pain, you can’t forget even if you want to.”
Xing Bi was still staring at him, his gaze very focused.
“I don’t think being infinitely close to humans is something to be proud of,” Li Feng continued. “Human nature is complex; it always has a dark side. Even a small temptation can destroy a person. But humans also have valuable qualities: remembering, facing, thinking, and processing. All experiences become the nutrients for your growth.”
Qiu Shi looked at Li Feng. This was the first time he had heard Li Feng say such things. It seemed like Curator Wu was also hearing this for the first time, judging by his surprised expression.
“You’ve experienced far more than we have and endured far more,” Li Feng said as he turned and walked back to the table, leaning against it while staring at the floor. “You’ve made countless choices—between choosing humanity or your kind. So, you should know that once a choice is made, the only choice left is whether to stick with it.”
This was the second time Qiu Shi had heard Li Feng say this. He hadn’t fully understood it the first time, but now, he was starting to get what Li Feng meant.
“Qiu Shi chose to trust you. I chose to trust you,” Li Feng said. “Soon, Curator Wu will be forced to choose to trust you. What we need to do is keep choosing to trust you. And what you need to do is also to continue believing. Humanity will never eliminate its vile nature, but there will always be someone worth your trust.”
Li Feng finished speaking and sat back in his chair without saying anything further.
The lab became quiet again.
Xing Bi propped his arms on the glass enclosure, slowly leaning forward, resting his forehead on his arms, staring outside as if he was trying to see something clearly. After a moment of silence, he spoke, his voice hoarse: “Okay.”
Qiu Shi felt his breath pause momentarily. He couldn’t find words to say, and he couldn’t tell whether he felt relieved or more tense.
In this kind of world, no matter what stance or posture you took, nothing seemed perfect.
“Let Xing Bi out, run checks, make repairs, and don’t restrict his freedom,” Li Feng glanced at the time. “There’s a meeting in half an hour; I’ll report directly.”
“They don’t need to attend?” Curator Wu asked.
“No,” Li Feng replied. “All they care about is Donglin Town and the Symbiont army. As for Xing Bi, it’s already been proven—he’s not just controllable, he’s very controllable. The other bioroids and symbionts can move into the next phase.”
Curator Wu said nothing, seemingly deep in thought.
“Curator Wu,” Li Feng said, “Don’t hesitate. You don’t have any other options.”
Curator Wu sighed.
“Be optimistic,” Li Feng said. “At least we’re all still alive. The worst thing ahead is just another meeting.”
Xing Bi’s injuries weren’t severe. When he used the rocks as cover to detonate the bomb, the infected that pounced on him took most of the damage.
In comparison, Qiu Shi’s injuries were more troublesome. After all, he’s human. Even a simple cut takes several days to heal.
“Donglin has a machine,” Qiu Shi said, waiting for someone to re-dress his reopened wound. “It can perform automated surgeries and whatnot. Does Yun City have one?”
“Yes,” Curator Wu replied.
“Who gets to use it?” Qiu Shi asked.
Curator Wu didn’t answer.
“What’s life really like inside the Inner City?” Qiu Shi glanced at Xing Bi, who was being checked and repaired in another room behind a pane of glass.
“Everyone has their own way of living,” Curator Wu, unlike Li Feng, was not as talkative or direct.
“I’ll be heading back to the shelter soon,” Qiu Shi said. “Director Li said Xing Bi can go with me.”
“If he said so, then you should listen to him,” Curator Wu said. “Don’t ask me anymore. I don’t deal with this. I’ve prepared all the medication you’ll need. If it’s not enough or you need something else, just ask Director Li.”
“Okay, thank you,” Qiu Shi said.
Curator Wu didn’t respond. He silently watched someone tend to Qiu Shi’s wound before turning and heading to the next room.
The two vehicles they brought back were both handed over to the corpse collectors. Li Feng had already sent the terrain vehicle to the Outer City. The large black car from Donglin was parked in the underground garage of the exhibit hall, now cleaned. Two passes were affixed to the windshield—one from the Security Bureau and the other from the City Defense Department.
Even Li Feng’s personal car only had a pass from the Security Bureau.
The car still had plenty of supplies—clothes, food, and medicine.
Qiu Shi glanced at Xing Bi. As they left the lab together, Curator Wu’s gaze was full of concern. After all, no one had ever lived with a bioform long-term. No one knew if Xing Bi’s emotions would still fluctuate or if something unexpected would happen.
But Li Feng’s idea was simple: for Xing Bi, who now had those memories, the lab was more stimulating than anywhere else.
Once you choose to trust, you have to keep trusting.
“Are you driving?” Qiu Shi asked Xing Bi.
“Mm,” Xing Bi responded, getting into the driver’s seat.
Qiu Shi also got into the car. “Soon, Zhao Lü and the others might…”
“Be watching me,” Xing Bi said.
“After all, before this, you were just a guard for the Security Bureau,” Qiu Shi said, “and a lightweight like Zhao Lü.”
Xing Bi chuckled and started the car.
“Xing Bi,” Qiu Shi looked at him. “Just now… I didn’t really get the chance to say anything.”
“Do you want to say something now?” Xing Bi asked.
“I kind of do,” Qiu Shi frowned. “But now that I’ve started, I don’t know what to say.”
“The refugee school outside the city really didn’t do a good job educating you,” Xing Bi commented.
Qiu Shi laughed, then after a moment said, “No matter how many enemies you have, you’ll always have friends.”
“Like you?” Xing Bi asked.
“Mm,” Qiu Shi nodded. “Even if you only have one friend left, it’ll be me.”
Xing Bi smiled. “Right now, you are my only friend.”
Qiu Shi didn’t know what to say. He reached out and patted Xing Bi on the shoulder, squeezing hard. It tugged at the wound on his chest, and he quickly pulled his hand back. “Damn.”
“That MP3,” Xing Bi said. “Give it to me.”
“MP what?” Qiu Shi didn’t understand.
“The thing that plays ‘Happy Birthday,'” Xing Bi clarified.
“It’s right here.” Qiu Shi pulled it out of his pocket and was about to hand it over when he noticed a small bloodstain on it. He quickly wiped it on his pants.
“It’s fine.” Xing Bi took it and put it in his pocket.
“When we get back to the shelter, I’ll charge it for you,” Qiu Shi said, then sighed. “But it only plays that one song.”
“You’ve already made it play two,” Xing Bi replied.
“If you don’t mind,” Qiu Shi said, “I can probably sing another three to five songs.”
“You could record them,” Xing Bi suggested.
“I’ll use my little pet to record a bunch for you,” Qiu Shi said. “And you can watch, too.”
“I’m not used to that thing,” Xing Bi said.
“An antique for an antique,” Qiu Shi quipped.
“Mm,” Xing Bi smiled.
As they drove out of the Inner City, Qiu Shi specifically asked Xing Bi to take a detour, making a half-circle around the city.
They could see that much of the Inner City was a mess.
Since most of the buildings were either built into the mountains or had part of their structure inside the mountain, or tunnels led inside the mountain where hollowed-out spaces had been made, once the place was bombed, it also destroyed parts of the mountain and the surface vegetation. The exposed bare rock faces looked jagged and sharp, even worse than the aftermath of a small battle in Donglin.
When they reached the checkpoint to leave the Inner City, they were stopped.
The checkpoint was still manned by City Defense guards. First, they checked the passes on the windshield, then they poked their heads in to look at the people inside the car.
“A corpse collector?” The guard on the passenger side looked at Qiu Shi. “Where’d you get this car?”
Qiu Shi had a habit of remembering faces. Over time, the faces of the living and the dead would blur in his mind, but there were always some that stayed.
Like the irritating face in front of him now.
The security guard, who had stopped him here once before, still seemed to have a strong impression of Qiu Shi.
Of course, he wasn’t new anymore, which made him even more arrogant than before.
“Get out!” He pointed at Qiu Shi.
“Why?” Qiu Shi leaned back in his seat, feeling irritated.
The inner city irritated him, no matter when.
“I have reason to believe this car is stolen! Get out!” The arrogant guard drew his gun and pointed it at him.
Qiu Shi almost simultaneously took the gun from his leg, extending it out of the window and aiming it at the guard’s nose. “Scram.”
A few nearby guards immediately approached, guns drawn. “What’s going on?”
“There’s something wrong with this car!” The arrogant guard glanced at the gun in Qiu Shi’s hand. “A corpse collector…”
“They have a pass,” someone said. “The pass is valid.”
“Is Lao Lu here?” Qiu Shi asked.
“He’s here,” someone turned and shouted toward the checkpoint booth, “Lao Lu!”
Lao Lu came running out, froze for a moment when he saw the scene, and then froze again when he realized it was Qiu Shi. “What’s going on?”
“Why don’t you make a call and ask if I can pass?” Qiu Shi said.
“Is there a problem with the pass?” Lao Lu asked the others.
“No problem.” Someone answered.
“Let them through.” LaoLu frowned and glanced at the arrogant guard. “Didn’t I tell you that Qiu Shi is Director Li’s guy? Can’t you use even a little bit of common sense?”
To these people, corpse collectors were seen as even lower than the outer city refugees—apparently not worth the effort of even half a brain cell.
“He has no record of entering the inner city!” The arrogant guard still refused to cooperate.
Qiu Shi didn’t want to stir up trouble and waste time here. He was a mature, no-longer-easily-angered corpse collector now.
He opened the car door, jumped out, and before the arrogant guard could react, grabbed him by the back of the neck and slammed him against the side of the car.
Unfortunately, the man didn’t give him a chance.
With a loud “bang,” the arrogant guard clutched his forehead and collapsed to the ground.
“Can we go now?” Qiu Shi asked.
“Go, go, go, go…” Lao Lu waved him off.
The car drove out of the checkpoint.
Qiu Shi frowned, irritated, as he stowed his gun away. “With things as they are, some people still look for opportunities to throw their weight around.”
“Did you get into fights a lot before?” Xing Bi asked.
“Not really,” Qiu Shi thought for a moment. “Maybe more when I was younger.”
Xing Bi didn’t reply.
“What’s wrong?” Qiu Shi glanced at him.
“…Interesting,” Xing Bi said, “Very efficient.”
“High-level humans like the ones you used to know don’t fight like this, huh?” Qiu Shi said.
“You remember what I said for a long time.” Xing Bi smirked.
“I remember because it was you who said it,” Qiu Shi said. “Usually, I forget what people say after a few days.”
Xing Bi didn’t respond, staring out the window.
The outer city looked the same as always. It hadn’t been destroyed, but there wasn’t much to destroy anyway. The rickety layers of shacks clinging to the mountain, with wooden scaffolding propping them up, didn’t need anyone to bomb them—just a heavy rain would cause half of them to collapse.
If there was any difference, it was in the people, or rather the overall atmosphere. The wild, desperate joy that used to fill the outer city had disappeared.
It had become quiet and oppressive.
Maybe it was because everyone could feel that even this barely-holding-together shelter was starting to become precarious.
The military’s defensive line outside the city had extended much farther out. Although it wasn’t visible, Qiu Shi could feel it the moment they exited the tunnel.
That kind of instinct, from living here for more than 20 years—any tiny change was keenly felt.
“I’ll arrange a separate shelter for you later,” Qiu Shi said. “If you don’t want to stir things up with them, you can stay inside.”
“No need,” Xing Bi replied.
“I mean,” Qiu Shi looked at him, “those guys will definitely…”
“I don’t want to be alone,” Xing Bi said.
“Okay, got it,” Qiu Shi nodded. “Then, for sleeping at night…”
“No need,” Xing Bi said.
“What do you mean, ‘no need’?” Qiu Shi was confused. “Are you not going to rest, or…”
“I don’t need a separate room,” Xing Bi said.
Qiu Shi didn’t quite understand. “So you…”
“I’ll stay in your room,” Xing Bi said.
“Can I finish a full sentence?” Qiu Shi said.
“You just did,” Xing Bi replied.
Qiu Shi couldn’t help but laugh. “Damn.”
The car drove all the way to the base of the hill, where the shelter was located. The shelter above was quiet—no people, no sounds.
“Since we left the tunnel, these guys have been aiming their guns at us,” Qiu Shi said, even hearing a hint of pride in his own voice.
“Flash the headlights twice,” he said to Xing Bi.
Xing Bi tried twice, then looked at him, “The lights seem to be broken.”
“…Damn.” Qiu Shi was speechless, so he rolled down the window, stuck his head out, and shouted, “It’s me!”
Someone burst out of the lookout shelter, shouting at the top of their lungs, “F*ck you and your ancestors—”
It was Zhao Lü.
Then, more than a dozen people came rushing out from various shelters.
“Xing Bi,” Qiu Shi turned to Xing Bi, “You’re really good at hiding your emotions.”
Xing Bi also turned to look at him, saying nothing.
“So I can’t tell what you’re feeling right now,” Qiu Shi said. “I just want to tell you, if you feel uncomfortable, upset, or unhappy about anything, you have to tell me.”
“Mm.” Xing Bi responded.
“If possible,” Qiu Shi said, “I don’t want to be your partner. I just want to be your friend.”
“I know,” Xing Bi replied.
“Brother Shi——”
“It’s Brother Shi!”
A group of people on the hillside yelled and rushed down, all of them nimble and swift, except for one person who tripped after a few steps and started rolling down.
“That idiot,” Qiu Shi opened the car door and got out, “What grudge does he have with Li Feng, and why is he still here?”
“You bastard!” Zhao Lü was the first to charge down. He leaped off a rock in the last few steps, directly tackling Qiu Shi, throwing his arms around him, and planting a kiss right on his face. “Alive!”
“Alive!” The rest of the group followed suit, practically in a competition to jump on him.
In just a few seconds, Qiu Shi was completely surrounded by them, so tightly that he couldn’t even be seen anymore.
Every face, every pair of eyes, was filled with pure joy and excitement—raw and unfiltered.
Xing Bi didn’t get out of the car. He leaned back in the driver’s seat, quietly watching this group of corpse collectors, who were shouting, laughing, and cursing without restraint.
“Humans are like that. A broken-down assembly line of production, with quality all over the place. They can surprise you, and they can also make you despair.”
