Chapter 88: Replication Experiment 12
The bioscience institute, completely soaked in night, was still operating with the same busy, orderly rhythm as during the day. From time to time, experimenters would wheel out test subjects that had fully completed their scientific purpose, push them down the long corridor, take the elevator, and finally send them to the cold room on B3, where they would wait to be incinerated in batches.
“Can I take a look?” Zhuang Ningyu asked.
Experimenters could not defy an administrator’s orders, so even though he was in a hurry, the man stopped. With a thin, pointed finger, he hooked the zipper of the body bag and pulled.
With a rasping sound, a strange corpse was revealed.
The chest cavity had sprouted black spikes, bristling like a hedgehog.
“What experiment is this?” Zhuang Ningyu asked.
“Ultra‑evolution editing. Using synthetic biology to turn human skin into an exoskeleton, so they’ll have high impact resistance and self‑repair capabilities.”
This type of experiment had already been done six times. This was the seventh—and, to the naked eye, another failure.
The experimenter roughly raked his hair, zipped the bag shut again, and muttered through clenched teeth, as if hyping himself up, “The eighth time, the eighth time will definitely work! I have to succeed! I have to succeed!”
He pushed the cart toward the elevator. His running posture was textbook “elite athlete”; it was as if there were an invisible spring stretched between his legs. Each stride was astonishingly long: first leaping high, then landing far, chest held proudly forward and toes pointed straight.
Pyramid schemes often used exaggerated, synchronized “exercise drills” to brainwash their members. In some ways, this bioscience institute was very similar to those organizations—perhaps even more efficient at “washing” people.
From the moment he had entered the rules zone until now, nearly every experimenter Zhuang Ningyu had seen was bursting with energy and forward drive, like a tireless experimental machine.
Zhang Yunxia was the only exception.
Not just in appearance; even emotionally, she resembled a human far more than a machine.
Outside the rules zone, the interrogations continued.
The police and the investigation team were working the case together; nearly every interrogation room glowed with light.
“At NewCause Biotech, not every experimenter participated in illegal experiments,” one investigator reported to Zhuang Ningyu. “Shi Cheng was very cautious about this. He’d observe any experimenter he considered ‘promising,’ then personally speak with them at least three times. Only after making sure they had no issues would he allow them into B3 and B2.”
“This rules zone has been modified,” Zhuang Ningyu said. “Right now, it’s not just two basement levels; the whole building is full of illegal labs and illegal experimenters. What about the crying, then?”
“We suspect the crying is tied to the experimenters’ psychological tolerance,” the investigator said. “Evolution‑modification experiments are extremely cruel. The test subjects aren’t just live animals—they’re also live humans. Shi Cheng has already built a very complete system for human trafficking, experimentation, and incineration.”
Even though participating in such experiments came with huge pay, the experimenters were not actual machines. In the beginning, most of them experienced intense discomfort at the sight of convulsing human bodies.
Even with all their vocal cords destroyed, the subjects’ raspy or trembling breaths still etched themselves into the experimenters’ brains.
When she had first joined the evolver lab, there had been one test subject whose tongue was the only thing left of its mouth to move. The sticky, wet sound of that tongue slamming against palate as it tried to breathe had made Zhang Yunxia retch uncontrollably in the restroom for a long time.
“And after she finished throwing up?”
“After that, she was fine. Her adaptability is very strong.”
In her colleagues’ words, Zhang Yunxia was “very capable and very cold‑blooded.”
She could accept a massive amount of new information that flew in the face of scientific ethics in a very short time. For the sake of a successful experiment, she was “willing to pay any price.”
She was a born experimenter.
Zhuang Ningyu agreed that the crying was equivalent to the experimenters’ mental resilience.
After all, the Purification Room logs really were dominated by low‑level newbie experimenters. The “old hands” basically never heard any crying.
He asked, “Does anyone know what exactly happened in the last half‑month before Zhang Yunxia’s suicide?”
“Nothing yet,” the investigator said, sending over the compiled materials. “This is all we have in the statements so far.”
Zhuang Ningyu skimmed through.
The first abnormal incident had been on a certain day, when Zhang Yunxia suddenly stopped her work mid‑experiment and spent several hours sitting in a stall in the B3 restroom.
After that, she began to vomit, slam her head against the wall, and cry like someone on the verge of a breakdown.
Shi Cheng had her sent to the institute’s onsite infirmary—which served the same function as the rules zone’s Purification Room and was staffed with some of the top psychologists in the country.
But no treatment results came out of it.
Zhang Yunxia replaced all answers with long stretches of blank silence.
The next day, she returned to the lab and went back to work.
In an environment like NewCause Biotech’s, experimenters “going crazy” was common enough that no one thought too much about it, and no one attempted to talk to her.
The investigator continued, “The NewCause office building underwent major renovations four years ago. During that period, it overlapped with the Spring Festival. Construction workers usually go home for the entire New Year and only return after. So from the 28th of the 12th lunar month to the 16th of the 1st lunar month, the site was completely empty. If a rules zone ever appeared at NewCause Biotech, it could only have been during that time frame.”
“Where was Shi Cheng then?” Zhuang Ningyu asked.
“In Jincheng. He’s single, no wife or kids, parents back in the countryside, and a scientific researcher to boot. For someone like that, going three to five days without contact with the outside world is perfectly normal.”
“If the institute really did have a rules zone appear during that period and Shi Cheng was trapped inside it, then he would’ve had to ‘solve the puzzle’ in a very short time in order to avoid being discovered by the Order Maintenance Department,” Zhuang Ningyu said.
“Not just ‘solve’ it,” the investigator reminded him. “He also had to copy it. To get both those things done in that window, Shi Cheng would have to meet two conditions: first, he’d have to be very familiar with that puzzle so that even on his first encounter, he could solve it quickly; second, he’d have to know how to replicate a rules zone.”
The staff at NewCause Biotech claimed complete ignorance about this rules zone and how to replicate one.
“The institute had never done any research on copying rules zones. Their main focus really is still on biological experiments and genetic modification,” the investigator said.
“So Hidden Titan is the one who gave Shi Cheng support in replicating the rules zone,” Zhuang Ningyu said, glancing at his phone as a new call came in—from the investigation team.
“Captain Zhuang, Zhang Yunxia’s younger brother is ready. He can connect at any time.”
Zhuang Ningyu accepted the call.
A young man appeared on screen, looking a bit nervous. He had dyed blond hair and wore a knock‑off brand T‑shirt. Rubbing his hands together, he asked cautiously, “Sir, is my sister… is she inside the rules zone?”
“Zhang Yunzhuang, right? I have a few questions. You don’t need to be nervous; just take your time,” Zhuang Ningyu said. “What’s your relationship with your sister like?”
“P‑Pretty good,” Zhang Yunzhuang answered. “My sis is more capable than me, and she got good grades. Every time she got a scholarship, she’d treat me to something nice. After she started working, she would often send me red envelopes. I also sent red envelopes to her, just… she sent more, a few thousand, and I sent less, like one or two hundred. I don’t make much. It’s just for the blessing. My sis told me not to send them, said she didn’t need the money.”
“Besides red envelopes, did you talk about anything else, like her studies, work, or love life?”
“No. I wouldn’t understand those things.”
“You can’t understand her work or studies. What about relationships?”
“She doesn’t seem to have a boyfriend.”
“Seems?”
“…Anyway, she never told me about one.”
“Then what do you think about your sister’s sudden death?”
“I didn’t believe it at first. But after I saw the video… maybe her work pressure was just too much.”
The conversation with him was brief.
Zhuang Ningyu quickly realized that the siblings weren’t actually that close.
Although they’d never fought, exchanged greetings every holiday, and discussed family matters together, the younger brother knew nothing about his sister’s life after she’d gone to university.
Most of his memories of her were stuck in their childhood, when the two of them had still been clinging to each other to survive.
Because of the absence of both parents, young Zhang Yunxia had placed a lot of weight on family.
But she lacked the ability to communicate normally with her brother.
On top of that, Zhang Yunzhuang himself was the kind of person you had to prod three times to get one word out of, so once they became adults, the only things left to sustain their bond were red envelopes and a few sparse greetings.
“Is there anything your sister especially cared about?” Zhuang Ningyu asked.
“M‑My… parents, I guess. Especially my mom,” the young man said. “When we were kids, people would say bad things about us, saying my mom ran off with some guy. Even my grandma said that. That was what my sis couldn’t stand the most.”
Their mother was named Miao Feng.
According to the investigation files, she had originally run a small convenience store in the village.
After having two kids, she quit and went out to work to support the family.
Like her daughter, she had pride and good looks.
In the villagers’ eyes, the honest and plain Zhang father didn’t “deserve” such a wife, and it seemed only natural that she’d run off.
To this day, Miao Feng was still the prime example in Zhangjia Village of “an ugly wife is a treasure at home, a pretty wife brings nothing but trouble.”
Outside the rules zone, Qinggang was also going through the same documents.
He frowned. “The brother’s name is Zhang Yunzhuang and the sister’s is Zhang Yunxia. Those styles are miles apart.”
“Her original name was Zhang Yunxia,” Yi Ke said. “She changed it herself later.”
“Oh.”
Hearing the fatigue in Yi Ke’s voice, Qinggang slung an arm around him. “Here, lean on your big brother’s shoulder for a bit. You can’t keep burning yourself out like this. Kids need more milk and more sleep if they want to grow.”
Yi Ke gave him a sidelong glance. “Change your clothes first, then I’ll lean.”
People who smoke a lot rarely notice the smell on themselves—or they notice and ignore it.
After a moment’s thought, Qinggang asked solemnly, “You mean I should change into a Karamay cashmere coat, and only then will you be willing to press your face against me?”
“…Kashmir,” Yi Ke said. “My face doesn’t need it. My wife’s does.”
“Why?”
“Because my wife is the emperor.”
A sudden flash of insight struck Qinggang. “Why do I feel like parts of your wife’s persona are a lot like Captain Zhuang?”
“Are they?” Yi Ke said blandly.
“Of course,” Qinggang said, counting on his fingers. “Good‑looking, imperial vibe—that’s our Captain, right there. How have you not noticed? That’s no good. In our line of work, you have to know how to see through surfaces to the essence.
“Even if your wife definitely can’t be Captain Zhuang… hey, what’s this?”
Yi Ke shoved his phone under the man’s nose. “What do you think?”
“What do I think of what? Why are you suddenly showing me a picture of Captain Zhuang?” Qinggang grumbled, then commented, “This one’s no good. Where is this anyway? He looks half‑asleep and he’s wearing pajamas that look like a banana.”
He whipped out his own phone, unlocked it with face recognition, opened a hidden album, and carefully pulled up a photo from the “Idol” folder—a shot of Zhuang Ningyu on the training field.
He generously held it out to share, praising it as he did. “I still think Captain looks best in the black Model 39 training uniform. When he rolled through the mud that one time, he was so damn cool. I used to look at this photo for five minutes every night before bed and worship it.”
“…Just go to sleep,” Yi Ke said after a long silence.
There was no point talking further.
Inside the rules zone, Zhuang Ningyu was studying the scratch marks he’d found on the alloy wall earlier.
Since the zone’s rules had yet to reveal themselves, he could only work backward from the clues at hand to infer the “question” and see if he could find an answer.
Comparing the photo on his phone to the wall, he carefully copied each mark onto paper.
Halfway through, he realized the final two strokes together seemed to form the character “又” (again).
Realizing the scratches might not have been made by test animals, he straightened in his chair, energized, and began tracing backwards.
A reversed “C,” then “一,” “一,” another reversed “C,” then “丨,” “丨,” and another “一”—
“假” (false).
Thoughtful, he stared at the remaining messy lines on the sheet, trying to combine and recombine them into another character.
What would come before “假” in such a twisted scrawl?
Who would leave such a character in a place like this?
The fluorescent lights in the office hummed faintly.
From the corridor came another clatter of noise—the experimenters were taking a new batch of test subjects to be destroyed.
Through the glass in the door, Zhuang Ningyu watched one of them hurry past, pushing a medical gurney. The plastic frame scraped lightly along the alloy wall, leaving a faint black rubber streak.
At that height…
He stepped out into the corridor and gauged the distance.
Most likely, the “假” on the wall had been scratched out by a test subject lying on the gurney.
Whoever it was must have still been conscious, dragging their fingernails along the wall as they were wheeled away, leaving those joined strokes behind.
What were they trying to say?
What was false?
Leaning against the wall, he didn’t have long to think before a blast of bright music went off like a bomb above his head.
Time for broadcast calisthenics again.
He prudently stepped back two paces, giving the streaming experimenters room to stretch.
He’d been about to head back to the office when he suddenly realized something was off.
This round of calisthenics had no lyrics.
The tune was the same, but without the rousing words, it sounded less inspiring and more like irritating noise.
The experimenters seemed visibly confused.
They gave their arms a couple of weak waves, then stopped in place and started chattering noisily.
“Why aren’t we getting paid?!”
“We work so hard, and yet we don’t get any salary!”
“Down with workplace exploitation!”
“Down with unfair treatment at work!”
“Give us back the pay we deserve!”
They shouted in rage at the speakers in the ceiling, but the speakers weren’t going to answer them.
The ones in charge of the company’s benefits policies were the managers.
The managers.
As soon as that thought occurred, all the experimenters turned in unison and fixed their eyes on Zhuang Ningyu.
“I’ll discuss it with HR,” he said coolly. “For now, everyone go back to work.”
They stayed right where they were.
After a long moment, someone screamed, “We won’t work without our salaries!”
“Yeah! Give us this round’s pay first!”
“Stop docking our wages!”
“We want our money!”
A new wave of protests swelled.
The experimenters’ pale faces flushed red with anger as they raised their arms high and waved them toward him, pressing forward step by step in a furious demand for their pay.
By now, Zhuang Ningyu understood.
The stirring lyrics in the exercise song clearly had a brainwashing effect, helping the experimenters maintain steady emotions and continue working.
Once the lyrics disappeared, their awareness returned, and they began to rebel against management.
“We want our money!”
With a bang, a chair appeared out of nowhere and came flying toward his head at high speed.
“Give me a little time,” he said, dodging the chair and retreating into the doorway of Human Resources. “I’ll give you a satisfactory answer.”
“Five minutes! We’ll only give you five minutes!” the experimenters shouted.
He closed the HR door and dialed Yi Ke’s number.
“Wife!”
The call was answered in one second.
“I might need you to come in,” Zhuang Ningyu said helplessly. “But I’ll have to feed your blood into NewCause’s DNA system. Even though—”
“Hurry, hurry, hurry!” Yi Ke couldn’t bear even a single “even though.”
He jumped out of the vehicle in one motion and strode toward the cocoon of white mist not far away.
After a moment’s hesitation, Zhuang Ningyu ripped off the bloodstained patch of fabric from his sleeve and dropped it into the “Add New Employee” reagent slot.
After a series of beeps, a line of text appeared on the screen:
“Based on analysis, the position best suited to the new employee is [Security Guard]. Confirm?”
In his earpiece, Qinggang’s voice rang out in shock. “Xiao Yi, where are you going?!”
Without hesitating further, Zhuang Ningyu hit “Confirm.”
Moments later, a new ID badge clattered down—Security Guard 019.
The cocoon shell cracked open a seam to welcome its new hire.
Non‑management staff always arrived at a fixed location: Human Resources.
Stepping through the white fog, Yi Ke saw his wife in front of him.
He let out a deep breath of relief, then immediately threw his arms around him, burying his head in the crook of his neck with a hint of wounded complaint.
“Why didn’t you let me in sooner?” he sniffled.
“We’ve only been apart for less than a day,” Zhuang Ningyu said, patting his back.
That was a long time.
Yi Ke kissed his forehead. “What do you need me to do?”
Pulling the card with the field operatives’ blood samples from his coat pocket, Zhuang Ningyu was just about to feed it into the machine when a shout rang out from the far end of the corridor.
“Administrator 003 is out!”
“We want our money! We want our money!”
In a frenzy of footsteps, the experimenters surged toward the opposite direction.
“It’s Shi Cheng,” Zhuang Ningyu said, hanging the badge around Yi Ke’s neck. “You’re a security guard here now. The experimenters shouldn’t attack you for the time being. Go to Lab 9 on the second floor and bring Shi Cheng back!”
“Got it.”
Yi Ke spun on his heel and ran.
Zhuang Ningyu grabbed his hand again and added, “Try to save him. But if you can’t, just come back. Be careful.”
