At this moment, the huge space felt so crowded—the continuous blaring alarms, flashing lights, and that repeated message: “One unread pre-recorded message”…
“How can there be an unread message?” Ji Sui glanced through the gaps between the racks at the control console. “Shouldn’t this thing have been silent for over a hundred years by now?”
“It’s pre-recorded,” Xing Bi said, “there must be a trigger condition.”
“What condition?” Qiu Shi asked.
“We’re almost done dismantling these things,” Xing Bi walked slowly around the racks toward the control console. “Someone left a message for the people who would dismantle the storage equipment in the future.”
“Who?” Qiu Shi already had a guess but thought it unlikely.
“249,” Xu Jie said, “or maybe the person who killed 249 back then.”
“Should we open it?” Qiu Shi asked.
“Not sure if there’s a trap,” Xing Bi stood in front of the console, trying to observe more. “We’re not familiar with this place…”
“Reading mode.” The female voice flatly changed the wording again.
“Damn,” Qiu Shi cursed, “it even forces you to listen? No way to skip it!”
After a few flickers, the large screen’s surveillance footage disappeared. After several seconds of black screen, an image appeared.
A chair was placed in the center, and judging by the background, it looked like a laboratory.
“This isn’t the base’s lab,” Xu Jie said.
“Research institute,” Xing Bi corrected.
A person walked in from the left side of the frame, sat down in the chair, relaxed against the backrest, and lightly waved at the camera.
He wore a white uniform, looked young and somewhat thin.
“Is this a human?” Qiu Shi asked.
“No,” Xing Bi said, “this is…”
“A01, 249,” the person in the video spoke, “this is my number, I have no name, this number is the only thing I truly own in this world.”
“Damn,” Qiu Shi muttered.
He had imagined 249’s appearance countless times, but always modeled after the bioroids he had seen before. The 249 in the video was different.
Compared to second-generation bioroids like Xing Bi and the others, who had a random yet perfect form, 249 looked more like an ordinary human—not tall or strong, and not particularly outstanding in appearance.
“I don’t know who will watch this message,” 249 said, looking into the camera, “you’ll find out later, but I can’t tell the current me. Soon, I will disappear from this world, and this video will be hidden in the basic data. When the trigger conditions are met, you will see it.”
“What are the trigger conditions?” Qiu Shi asked.
“You are killing me for the second time,” 249 said.
“I should go back to school,” Qiu Shi muttered, confused.
“The storage space is being dismantled,” Ji Sui glanced back at the nearly emptied rack, “once it drops below fifty percent, this video triggers.”
“I get it,” Qiu Shi looked at 249 in the video, “his backup hideout is almost gone.”
“A week ago, Dr. Sun was taken away,” 249 glanced toward the right rear, probably the door, “I never saw him again. Then two of my colleagues disappeared; I have to assume they died. So, the next one should be me. Those involved in the modification project and opposing its continuation are disappearing.”
The footage switched to a much larger, darker laboratory. Someone adjusted the camera, then walked in front of it—still 249 but now wearing a lab coat.
“Alright, follow me,” 249 turned and walked deeper into the lab; the camera followed.
On either side, transparent cylinders appeared on instrument tables, filled with liquid, neatly arranged with white labels—some empty, some containing something.
When Qiu Shi saw what was inside, he felt disgusted.
He had handled corpses with smashed heads, half brains left, and brain matter splattered everywhere… but he had never seen such complete brains.
So many whole brains soaked in liquid—he couldn’t even imagine it.
“The general’s brain is preserved like this too, right?” he frowned.
“Ask Li Feng when we get back, he’s probably seen it,” Xing Bi said.
“I don’t want to ask. That’s just… sick,” Qiu Shi said.
249 walked past the brains, turned a corner, and a device appeared on screen that looked very much like the “electric chair” Qiu Shi had used to enter the general’s memories. A bioroid was strapped into the chair, connected with various wires.
“This is a second-generation bioroid,” Xing Bi said.
This bioroid had no clothes, no hair—like a doll just off the production line. Its completely naked state made the fresh wound on Qiu Shi’s head stand out even more.
“Number 104, implanted yesterday, values normal,” 249 introduced, standing in front of the “doll.” “So far, the condition is fine.”
He pressed a button next to the chair, and the body twitched as if electrified, shaking for over ten seconds before gradually stopping. Then the bioroid opened its eyes.
249 waved his hand in front of the eyes, and the eyes followed his finger left and right, looking somewhat dazed.
“Name,” 249 asked.
The bioroid looked confused, said nothing.
249 took out a card with a few simple words, held it before the being’s eyes: “Can you read this?”
Still confused, the being began to panic.
“104, do you remember the name Cheng Hui?” 249 asked, showing another card.
The being’s panic and fear became obvious, it began turning its head around frantically.
“Cheng Hui,” 249 called again.
The bioroid finally opened its mouth after rapid breathing but did not speak, instead letting out a scream—a sharp, heart-wrenching scream that didn’t sound human, more like a wild animal’s dying roar.
It was unpleasant to hear.
The bioroid struggled violently, screaming and thrashing, then suddenly stopped moving, its gaze empty, staring past 249 into nothingness.
The screen switched back to the previous lab. 249 sat in the chair: “The experiment never succeeded. Humans want to hold onto this world forever, even as it becomes increasingly unsuitable for them—they won’t give up…”
Qiu Shi’s mind replayed the bioroid’s terrified face—the one with the brain of someone named “Cheng Hui” inside. The eerie feeling reminded him of Qiu Yu.
But what these humans wanted was clearly a more advanced, stronger, more natural state than Qiu Yu’s. A state that could achieve true “immortality.”
“Humans are terrifying. Their desires become obsessions that drag them to the abyss. The more they think, the deeper they go. Humans cannot remain absolutely rational. Thinking is a terrifying ability,” 249 said. “When they discovered bioroids adapt better to fungi, and that non-new bioroids better fit a new brain…”
249 frowned: “Bioroids will ultimately be pushed into hell, and humans will follow.”
“You too,” Qiu Shi frowned. 249’s words were not wrong for some humans, but perhaps he hadn’t realized that one day, he himself—with all his thoughts and feelings derived from humans—would walk the same hell.
Xing Bi said nothing, turning back to the racks to continue dismantling the storage devices.
Ji Sui and Xu Jie silently followed.
“Stop,” 249 looked into the camera, “don’t kill me again.”
Qiu Shi glanced back; Xing Bi and the others didn’t react, quietly and quickly continuing to pull out the black cubes one by one.
“They’ve come for me,” 249 said, “I’ve already released the fungi…”
“Damn!” Qiu Shi’s hands trembled.
“Humans will atone for their mistakes. I don’t know how long it will take—fifty years, a hundred, two hundred. I will watch them from the darkness…” 249 slowly stood up, dragging a large black box with wheels, almost a person’s height. He opened a side flap and pulled out several wires.
The wires looked very familiar—when sitting in the electric chair, the chief poked wires into the back of his neck just like these.
“Humans and bioroids are still friends for now,” 249 connected the wires one by one to the back of his neck, “Friends, what a beautiful word. Though I’ve never left here, I have human friends. They were all good people. But they’re all dead…”
Qiu Shi felt the air around him grow colder, his limbs turning chilly.
“Humans choose their friends. We cannot choose ours,” 249 said. “Humans don’t need friends. Humans don’t even love themselves…”
After connecting the wires, 249 pressed a button on the box.
“I want to see the ending,” he looked into the camera, “the ending for humans, the ending for those who destroyed this world. I will watch them… Maybe some of you watching have already met me, friend or foe. See clearly humans, see clearly this world…”
249 slowly closed his eyes, the screen cut off, replaced by chaotic footage.
Brains connected by wires, struggling bioroids, humans infected and eroded by fungi, numb infected humans pacing inside glass domes…
Then scenes of sandstorms rolling outside, dense lightning, withered crops and wildly growing weeds… along with still bright and beautiful cities and people walking down streets with heads down…
After a suffocating chaotic sequence, the footage returned to the laboratory.
“Stop, don’t kill me again,” 249 said, head lowered, unresponsive. With a “beep” from the black box, a man wearing glasses and an ordinary face—probably human, since 249 was the only bioroid with access to core human tech in this lab—walked in.
He unplugged the wires from 249’s neck, closed the black box, then turned off the camera.
The screen went black, then cut back to the lab’s surveillance feed. The ignored alarms suddenly grew louder, pounding against Qiu Shi’s eardrums. The flashing lights disrupted his vision again.
Qiu Shi slowly pulled his emotions away from the video and finally felt he could breathe smoothly.
“Where is this video stored?” he asked Xing Bi.
“Not sure,” Xing Bi said, “but it’s definitely self-destructed.”
“Was he trying to persuade us to leave his hideout alone?” Qiu Shi asked.
“Yeah,” Xing Bi nodded, “Xing Chuan’s team has already secured the office area,” Bai Zhan’s hoarse voice came through, probably right next to Sang Fan. “Move to the storage area.”
“Nagging,” Sang Fan said.
Outside the building was an all-terrain vehicle they had left behind. Several people jumped onto it.
“Reinforcements to the storage area,” Xing Bi ordered the Level 2 hidden guards. “Clear the infected. If injuries exceed self-healing ability, withdraw immediately to a safe zone.”
Xu Jie started the vehicle and sped off toward the northeast. The Level 2 hidden guards tactfully disappeared between buildings, taking more covert routes.
Although Sang Fan was reluctant to accept it, Bai Zhan’s position reports were far more accurate. They all knew the base extremely well, and the storage area was a clearer boundary than the larger northeast cluster of buildings.
Qiu Shi took out his gun and also drew his knife, gripping it tightly.
He glanced at Xing Bi’s neck. The “discoloration” on his face was almost gone, but faint marks could still be seen on the side of his neck. Every time the symbiote appeared, it was accompanied by a large number of infected. He knew Xing Bi would likely use control again to reduce casualties.
“No large-scale control,” Qiu Shi said.
“Mm.” Xing Bi gently pinched the hand holding the knife.
“Bai Zhan’s people are all hidden guards, right?” Qiu Shi asked. “Their combat strength should be strong.”
“Mm.” Xing Bi smiled.
The vehicle quickly entered the storage area. Their convoy’s two armed transport trucks were parked behind two collapsed buildings at the front, using the ruins as cover while firing toward where the wall used to be.
Qiu Shi jumped off, opening the map.
A dense cluster of bright spots appeared.
“Damn.” After roughly identifying their location, he turned off the map. Even though the map was in night vision mode, the bright spots nearly blocked his vision in the darkness.
The storage area was a large patch of low buildings, not as sturdy as the base’s main structures. Most had already collapsed. He followed Xing Bi closely, running quickly through the ruins.
They ignored the occasional infected; these human soldiers could handle them. Xing Bi’s group had a clear objective: the place with the highest concentration of infected, to find the control core.
After climbing over two broken walls, Qiu Shi saw Sang Fan swinging her axe with afterimages.
“Competition?” Xing Bi leaped past her, chopping down an infected charging at them.
“How do you know?” Sang Fan asked.
“Almost like an electric fan,” Qiu Shi said. “Competing with whom?”
“Bai Zhan!” Ji Sui shouted.
“Here!” Bai Zhan replied from the darkness ahead, then retreated.
Ji Sui slapped a headset into Bai Zhan’s hand. “Take two people and follow us.”
Bai Zhan whistled. Two dark figures emerged from the shadows.
The core was usually some distance from the infected. They had to get through these groups that were already starting to cluster.
Bai Zhan and his two hidden guards fought very well, clearing infected with great coordination, giving Qiu Shi a feeling similar to watching Xing Bi’s own team in combat.
But the number of infected exceeded Qiu Shi’s expectations. The artillery shells that had just exploded would soon be filled again by infected.
“Did these things grow out of the ground?!” Qiu Shi cursed, his gun unable to keep up, so he had to swing his knife. He now realized Sang Fan’s axe must be very handy.
“Damn.” Bai Zhan cursed as several infected grabbed him.
It was the first time Qiu Shi heard a bioroid swear.
He was about to go help when Bai Zhan leapt out of the infected cluster, pushing off their legs and shoulders to break free.
As Bai Zhan swung his weapon to clear them, the infected suddenly froze in place.
He slashed off the heads of three infected.
Then he was stunned.
“Our objective is the core,” Xing Bi said. “Don’t get distracted.”
“Xing Bi?” Bai Zhan stared at him for several seconds before asking, “Why?”
“Objective. Core.” Xing Bi didn’t answer, just repeated it.
“Bai Zhan,” Ji Sui charged forward. “Move.”
Under the moonlight, Qiu Shi saw the questioning and confused look Bai Zhan gave Xing Bi, which made him feel uneasy.
“Prioritize,” Qiu Shi pushed Bai Zhan.
Bai Zhan said nothing and followed Ji Sui.
Outside the storage area was a downward slope, with infected swarming upward. On the path they took, infected were being controlled in batches.
Xing Bi kept his promise to Qiu Shi — no large-scale control, only clearing small obstacles along their route.
Near the slope’s bottom, several dark figures jumped out.
“They’re here,” Bai Zhan said.
Xing Bi’s group quickly scattered and charged the figures.
Qiu Shi stopped and opened the map, resting his gun on his arm, shooting two shots at the visible shadows, and called out coordinates: “Fire one shell.”
“Copy.”
A trail of fire flew overhead, screaming, and landed where the shadows had jumped out.
More shadows jumped out amid the explosion’s light.
Including Bai Zhan’s team, there were six hidden guards, but the enemy outnumbered them.
Still, the strongest hidden guard squads could coordinate even with just three members. Xing Bi led at the front, with Xu Jie and Ji Sui slightly behind, forming a triangle to split the shadows into two groups.
The separated shadows were blocked by Bai Zhan’s men from behind.
Three bright spots on the map quickly disappeared.
Infected behind Qiu Shi began to counterattack.
“Bomb!” Qiu Shi called out his own position coordinates.
“Copy.”
After the reply, Qiu Shi gritted his teeth and stayed put, waiting until a streak of fire flew across the sky toward him, then he leapt down the slope.
The shell landed where the infected had just been, and the explosion’s shockwave threw him.
When he landed, he saw Bai Zhan.
Bai Zhan was about to grab him when Xing Bi caught Bai Zhan’s arm and pulled him back to avoid flying shrapnel.
“Are you damn suicidal?!” Bai Zhan shouted hoarsely.
“Xing Bi’s here.” Qiu Shi said.
