Chapter 90: Replication Experiment 14
In the more than thirty short years of Zhang Yunxia’s life, she had never had any particularly close friends, nor any particular lover. Her only emotional bonds that still counted as “human” seemed to be limited to family: her late grandmother, her younger brother, her father who died in an accident, and the mother whom others claimed had “run off with some man.”
Yi Ke asked, “You suspect that the test subject who left those scratch marks is her mother?”
At the word “mother,” goosebumps instantly prickled over Qinggang’s skin. If that guess turned out to be true, he couldn’t even imagine what must have happened in this institute—experimenter and test subject, daughter and mother. He frowned and asked, “When Zhang Yunxia was doing the experiments, did she know?”
“Based on personal inclination, I’m more inclined to think she didn’t know at first,” Zhuang Ningyu said. “Only after the experiment was completed did she discover the truth. The shock was too great, causing her mental world to completely collapse and leading to suicide.
“To put it more rigorously: regardless of whether she knew early on or not, she must have discovered some later truth that was enough to overturn her original worldview. That’s why she ultimately chose to end her life with poison.”
Although the rules zone before them was a modified product, it hadn’t produced anything as absurd as the “Tang Xiaoyuan marrying Dou Dekai” kind of bug. For the moment, the basic logic still held together.
“When he sensed danger approaching, Shi Cheng rushed out and shouted for Experimenter 055,” Zhuang Ningyu continued. “That means that, in his mind, Zhang Yunxia represented safety.”
In that case, there were three possibilities.
First: Zhang Yunxia could fix the bug in the broadcast calisthenics, giving the experimenters the benefits they wanted and calming them back down.
Second: she could forcibly beat back the rioting experimenters, acting as a bodyguard.
Third: she could end the rules zone.
“On a basic level, as an experimenter, Zhang Yunxia shouldn’t have much to do with either ‘broadcast calisthenics manager’ or ‘bodyguard’ as job roles,” Zhuang Ningyu went on. “I think she’s very likely the ‘answer’ to this rules zone.
“If her mother is her deepest knot, then allowing mother and daughter to reunite might well be the game’s final conclusion.”
“If Zhang Yunxia is the answer, then her collapsing and committing suicide would represent mission failure, and finding her mother would represent mission success. But whether the mission succeeds or fails, the rules zone would disappear,” Yi Ke followed his train of thought.
“So if Shi Cheng wanted this rules zone to exist long‑term and stay stable as a safe harbor while he waits for rescue, then he would need Zhang Yunxia to exist just as long and just as stably—never breaking down, always holding onto the hope of finding her mother, but never actually finding her.”
“That’s why this rules zone has a Purification Room,” Qinggang realized. “Other experimenters need the Purification Room to wipe out any lingering conscience and fear. But as a senior experimenter, by then Zhang Yunxia likely didn’t have that kind of fear or conscience left.
“The only thing she needed to ‘purify’ was her breakdown after learning that her mother had been dissected.”
“We need to find Miao Feng first,” Zhuang Ningyu said.
Test subjects in NewCause Biotech existed in only three places: temporary storage, laboratories, and the cold‑storage room. In those three places, the test subjects were in three states: before use, in use, and after use.
When the cold‑storage capsules were nearly full, Shi Cheng would open the incinerator and carry out centralized disposal of all the used test subjects.
At present, Miao Feng definitely hadn’t been incinerated.
Because if Shi Cheng wanted to leave the rules zone, he would need to let Zhang Yunxia find her mother. That meant “Mother” could only be in the storage room, a lab, or a cold compartment.
The government system held an ID photo of Miao Feng from her youth. Matching that to a normal corpse would have been easy. The problem was that most of the test subjects inside the rules zone had already lost all recognizable facial features.
Dissections and genetic modifications had made them look more like monsters—pale and bloated, with exposed tissue all over. It was impossible to tell who was who with the naked eye.
“Is there some sort of information database for test subjects here?” Qinggang asked. “A proper facility should have one, right—names, numbers, that sort of thing.”
Zhuang Ningyu called the secretary in.
Because of the change in the broadcast calisthenics, she too was showing signs of anxiety. Only out of respect for the two security guards in the office did she grudgingly answer, “Of course we have a test‑subject database. But only Administrator 003 can log into the system.
“Besides that, there’s also a paper archives room on B2. Only Administrator 003 has access to that as well.”
No pay, no benefits. At this point, the “respected” Administrator 003 had already turned into…well, just Administrator 003; there was no respect left.
Fully understanding her attitude toward work, Zhuang Ningyu didn’t blame her. Putting himself in her shoes, if Huo Ting suddenly docked all his bonuses and took away his rice, flour, cooking oil, laundry detergent, and all other perks, he wouldn’t feel very respectful either.
Shi Cheng’s computer had already been ripped to pieces by the furious experimenters. Given how half‑dead he looked, he couldn’t exactly provide a login or password either. Fortunately, all the doors in this institute used palm prints.
Zhuang Ningyu directed the action team to carry Shi Cheng on a stretcher to the archives room door.
With a beep, the door slid slowly open.
The vents overhead were humming away. Aging light tubes flickered, giving the old archives room a slightly eerie air, like a real‑life escape room.
Dust motes drifted in the air. Dampness, rot, and dust all mixed together and rushed their faces, making Zhuang Ningyu sneeze several times in a row.
Yi Ke pulled out a pack of tissues and handed it to him, then got a coworker to bring over some masks.
Ordinary medical masks in men’s size L were a bit loose on Zhuang Ningyu’s face.
Yi Ke tied two small knots in the straps, then, while the others were busy at the file cabinets, gently tilted his wife’s chin up, removed the old mask, and carefully put a new one on.
“Captain Zhuang,” Zhong Mu said helplessly as she turned around, “There are no names.”
Only unified codes like “Test Subject 001,” “Test Subject 002,” plus sex and age. Nothing else.
Although age and sex could be used as filters, relying only on those two criteria was obviously not enough to accurately pinpoint their target.
“Can we track down her mother through Zhang Yunxia inside the rules zone?” Yi Ke suggested. “If her emotions are already that bad, then she must have found out the truth.”
“The Purification Room’s timer is still showing six nines,” Zhuang Ningyu said. “There’s no telling when she’ll emerge again.
“The overworked experimenters could riot again at any time. We need to find Miao Feng quickly; we probably can’t afford to wait until she finishes purification.
“And Shi Cheng can’t wait either—he needs to be taken to a hospital for further treatment.”
“Then how do we find her?”
Qinggang felt the problem was tricky.
—Genes are humanity’s eternal code.
That slogan was printed on the wall of the archives room.
Zhuang Ningyu’s gaze lingered on the words for a long time.
Yi Ke and Qinggang followed his line of sight. After a moment, Qinggang asked, “What does that mean? Is it one of the rules?”
“No. That’s NewCause Biotech’s core concept. You could call it their corporate culture,” Zhuang Ningyu said. “By the way, everyone can probably stop waiting for rules to appear.
“If this rules zone was built with the purpose of being a ‘safe harbor,’ then the replicator would almost certainly hide every rule he could hide.
“If someone wanted to hide in a house, he’d shut every door and keep all the codes under his own control.”
As long as he could lock down the Zhang Yunxia “bug,” this “safe harbor” could exist forever.
At first, Qinggang had thought that was pretty smart, but it didn’t take him long to realize a problem.
If the guy wanted to shut all the doors, then why could Captain Zhuang get in?
“…” said Zhuang Ningyu.
“…” said Yi Ke.
Once again, the issue circled back to them.
Not only had Zhuang gotten a key, he’d gotten a manager’s key.
That really was hard to explain. That was why they’d both thought of Fu Han right away—the only person in the world who both had the ability and the motive.
“Why’d you both suddenly go quiet?” Qinggang asked, baffled.
“Because we don’t understand that part either,” Zhuang Ningyu said, clapping his shoulder. “Let’s get back to talking about genes.”
Easily distracted, Qinggang straightened immediately. “So what about genes?”
“What Shi Cheng’s doing with evolvers is, at its core, genetic modification,” Zhuang Ningyu said. “And to measure the modified data, you need the original data to compare it to.
“So every test subject here should have a pre‑modification genetic report on file.
“At the same time, Miao Feng once showed extremely faint signs of evolution. According to regulations, the Evolver Management Center would also have kept her blood sample and genetic test report.”
Zhong Mu randomly pulled a few yellowing folders off the shelf. Flipping forward a couple of pages, she indeed found a thick stack of genetic reports.
If they could get Miao Feng’s genetic report, they could identify her test subject ID. After that, tracking her down would be much easier.
“Have the Management Center send over Miao Feng’s historical reports,” Zhuang Ningyu ordered. “Everyone else, sort these files by sex and age group for an initial classification. Two people stay at the door and make sure no experimenters get in to mess things up.”
Finding the records at the Evolver Management Center was easy. The hard part was manually combing through the archives inside the rules zone.
In this digital era, hardly anyone bothered with paper files anymore, so each binder was caked in a thick layer of dirt. Now and then, some unknown bug would crawl across the page.
The older files were so fragile that a single flip of the cover could silently split the folder, and the yellowing pages inside would crumble down like dirty snow—like they were tomb robbers digging through an ancient burial site.
In this dust‑choked environment, Zhuang Ningyu couldn’t stop sneezing. He polished off a whole pack of tissues in no time, and from constantly pulling his mask on and off, the ear loops were already turning black.
Unable to watch any longer, Yi Ke grabbed him by the arm and dragged him out of the archives room, hauling him all the way to the washroom at the end of the corridor.
First he tossed the dirty mask, then turned on the tap and filled Zhuang’s hands with soap, rubbing them clean. After that, he pulled out a handkerchief from his pocket, wet it, and carefully wiped his face.
Head tilted back, Zhuang Ningyu let him clean his face, but still reminded him, “Someone might walk in.”
“It’s just washing your face. What’s there to be afraid of?”
Yi Ke tapped his forehead with the back of a finger. “If anyone makes a fuss about it, I don’t mind giving them a wash too.”
So generous.
Zhuang Ningyu laughed out loud.
Yi Ke chuckled as well. Once he was sure his person was neat and tidy, he finally left the washroom.
Instead of going back to the archives, he found a quiet corner in the corridor, dragged over a chair, and made Zhuang sit down and rest. Then he sprinted upstairs and, a moment later, came running back with a backpack.
Respected Administrator 002 didn’t lack for fancy food. But Yi Ke insisted on feeding his wife himself.
He took a bottle of juice from the bag, twisted off the cap, and handed it over. “Rest a bit before we go back to searching.”
Zhuang crooked a finger at him.
Yi Ke leaned down. “What—mmph.”
Like lightning, Zhuang Ningyu stole a kiss. The lips he’d just moistened with juice still carried a faint orange sweetness, and the taste on his tongue was quite nice.
Yi Ke grabbed the back of his head and pressed their mouths back together, turning what had been a quick peck into a long kiss. He didn’t let go until he had sucked all the sweetness from between their lips.
Then he pulled out a small round butter roll.
Kissing was kissing, feeding was feeding.
Zhuang Ningyu opened the packet and handed it over, letting Yi Ke take the first bite.
Just being able to stay with his lover here for a couple of minutes and eat something was enough to clear his head. The mental “battery” was fully recharged.
Taking advantage of the clarity, he polished off the rest of the roll in a few bites and stood up, still chewing. “Come on, back to work.”
“Slow down, slow down, careful you don’t choke. Swallow first,” Yi Ke said, holding the bottle for him to drink.
Cheeks puffed out, Zhuang gulped. “Glug, glug, glug.”
He hadn’t changed clothes. The sleeve of his dress shirt was still torn to shreds.
After putting the bottle away, Yi Ke rolled his open sleeve neatly and tucked it into the sweater.
Zhuang patted him on the shoulder with his free hand in praise. “Good thing we had your blood. Otherwise, I’d still be fighting alone.”
Fighting off rioting experimenters alone, resuscitating Shi Cheng alone… most likely, he wouldn’t have managed it.
Digging through dust‑buried files alone—just thinking about it made his teeth ache.
Holding his hand, Yi Ke leaned over and gave him another quick kiss on the cheek, then suddenly said, “It’d be great if you really were a little fish.”
His brief stage name from the Silver Bar mission resurfaced, but for a second, Zhuang completely missed the reference.
He just thought, Why would it be great if I were a fish?
From there, his mind wandered off again to questions of control and freedom, subject and object, and whether “you’d die if you left my fish tank” counted as some kind of coercive love and cognitive distortion.
Yi Ke’s focus wasn’t on that at all—though it wasn’t exactly more normal.
He said earnestly, “That way I could use my DNA to make you a scale and have it be fused to your body forever.”
A single drop of blood was far from enough. He wanted his lover to carry much more of what was uniquely his.
Outside the rules zone, this might have been a fairly romantic line.
Inside the rules zone—especially in this one—it sounded a lot more like the words of a twisted experimenter.
Luckily, the artistic type had a very high tolerance for “twisted.” After listening, Zhuang even reached up and touched his own neck, thinking that maybe it didn’t have to be a fish.
With current tech, it might be possible for a human to have a “scale” too.
In the end, though, he dropped the idea.
Not because he loved any less, but because civil servants weren’t allowed to have tattoos—so they probably weren’t allowed to grow scales either.
