Before the hospital bed could even be pushed into the temporary ward, Qiu Shi had already passed out again.
Although Qiu Shi himself felt like he was just extremely drowsy and fell asleep, he was still able to confirm in that brief moment before losing consciousness that he had actually fainted—after all, who could fall asleep while discussing something like that with Xing Bi?
When he woke up again, everything felt completely different. Compared to the time he’d awakened beside the electric chair, this time he truly felt as if he had come to.
Yet the ever-sharp Xing Bi—who could hear a bug farting from 800 meters away—didn’t even notice he was awake. He was sitting by the bed, studying a structural diagram of a laboratory projected by the little pet drone nearby, occasionally rotating it with his finger.
Even a randomly generated first-tier bioroid, within the optimal range, would have beautiful hands—long, slender, and strong. Qiu Shi stared, a bit entranced.
Then he suddenly remembered how Xing Bi had used those hands to do God-knows-what to him earlier… Shit!
His breathing immediately grew a little unsteady—he wasn’t sure if he was just embarrassed or if it really was like Xing Bi had said, that he subconsciously craved this kind of stimulation.
“Awake?” Xing Bi paused his hand movement, turned his head to look at him, and gave the floor a slight push with his foot, causing the wheeled chair to glide smoothly to Qiu Shi’s bedside.
“Mm.” Qiu Shi smiled.
Xing Bi leaned onto the bed, resting his chin on one hand while the other slipped under the blanket to grasp Qiu Shi’s left hand. “Your tests are done. There’s some neural damage, but thanks to your enhancements, it can be repaired.”
“Neural damage? Are you saying I’ve gone nuts?” Qiu Shi asked.
“There’ll be effects you might not notice right away, but you’ll recover quickly.” Xing Bi’s fingertip lightly traced Qiu Shi’s palm. “Does it still hurt here?”
“No,” Qiu Shi said. “From start to finish, that injury never actually hurt.”
“So I pinched you for nothing.” Xing Bi replied.
“You were the one who broke the skin?” Qiu Shi asked.
“Yeah.” Xing Bi’s fingertip slowly moved from his palm to his wrist, paused, then continued up his forearm, bicep, and finally his shoulder. “I kept calling you, but you wouldn’t respond—so I wanted to try something else.”
Qiu Shi didn’t respond. His attention was entirely focused on Xing Bi’s fingers.
Xing Bi’s hand circled around his shoulder, then started moving down—his collarbone, his left chest, sliding from his ribs to his side, and then lower.
“What are you doing?” Qiu Shi asked.
“Reviewing.” Xing Bi said.
“Re—You did this stuff earlier too?” Qiu Shi was shocked and turned his head abruptly to stare at him.
“Yesterday.” Xing Bi’s fingers paused briefly at his waist before sliding toward the center, tracing slow circles on Qiu Shi’s lower abdomen. “Not just now.”
“Yester…day?” Qiu Shi’s breathing hitched—not from the word itself, but because of Xing Bi’s hand.
“You’ve been unconscious for a day.” Xing Bi’s fingertips gently pushed forward, and his palm pressed against Qiu Shi’s lower belly.
“A whole day?” Qiu Shi froze.
After two seconds of stunned silence, he immediately snapped back to reality. He grabbed Xing Bi’s hand and glanced around, confirming again that they were in a makeshift ward somewhere below the showroom, not in some secret, unknown corner.
He lowered his voice. “You’ve gone far enough already!”
Xing Bi didn’t reply, just smiled.
“You’re smiling—” Qiu Shi hadn’t finished speaking when Xing Bi slipped free and moved his hand downward.
In that instant, it felt like the white light from the ceiling lamp above him suddenly burst out in all directions. It was so dazzling he couldn’t see a thing. The light seemed to pierce right into his brain, which instantly went blank.
Qiu Shi tried to sit up, but just as he lifted himself, Xing Bi leaned down and kissed him, pushing him back onto the pillow.
__
“The plan is finalized.” A knock came at the door—two raps from outside. It was clearly Lin Sheng’s voice.
“Come in.” Xing Bi emerged from the adjacent bathroom, water droplets still on his face.
Lin Sheng walked in and, upon seeing Qiu Shi, asked, “You’re awake?”
“Yeah.” Qiu Shi cleared his throat.
Actually, he’d been lying there in a daze for at least five minutes already, finally recovering a bit. He had intended to get up, but now that Lin Sheng had walked in, he suddenly lost the nerve.
After all, this was the man who had personally witnessed Xing Bi “wake” him up yesterday.
“There’s no way to let the people in the lab know how to activate it yet…” Lin Sheng leaned against the doorframe.
“I can go back in again.” Qiu Shi said.
Lin Sheng didn’t answer and looked at Xing Bi.
“You’re dreaming,” Xing Bi said. “You’ve basically lost all your internal power now.”
“The hell?” Qiu Shi said.
“Internal power,” Lin Sheng explained.
“Post-apocalypse guy’s never seen a wuxia novel,” Xing Bi muttered as he took the little pet device from Lin Sheng, tossed it into the air, and projected the activation plan onto the wall.
“This a layout of the lab?” Qiu Shi sat up, pulled the blanket off, and got out of bed.
“Yeah,” Xing Bi said, eyeing the diagram. “When they moved the lab into the exhibition hall, they left it with a slanting margin…”
“We have to tilt the whole lab to activate it?” Qiu Shi was stunned. “Wouldn’t everything inside crash into each other?”
“That’s why we’re giving them time to secure the important instruments,” Lin Sheng said.
“When are we doing it?” Qiu Shi asked.
“Tonight, we’ll tip it once and then return it to normal,” Xing Bi replied. “One night plus one morning—with Cheng Gu helping, they should be able to secure the vital equipment in time.”
“Li Feng’s probably still asleep.” Qiu Shi chuckled at the thought.
“You nearly died to save him,” Xing Bi said. “What’s he doing still sleeping?”
“What if…” Qiu Shi looked at the slowly rotating 3D structure of the lab, “What if that set of numbers isn’t the password?”
“Then we’ll get ready to hold a memorial for Li Feng,” Xing Bi replied.
“Shit.” Qiu Shi laughed.
“Those numbers came with the diagram, right?” Lin Sheng asked.
“Yeah.” Qiu Shi nodded.
“Then it’s probably correct,” Lin Sheng said. “Still, that was impressive—you managed to find it.”
“I didn’t find it,” Qiu Shi looked at Xing Bi. “It was… a little piece of the teacher’s consciousness.”
He used Whitebeard’s final phrasing—not “the teacher” himself, but merely a fragment of his remaining awareness.
Xing Bi didn’t say anything and just stared at the projection.
“He said more. Want to hear it?” Qiu Shi asked.
“Mm.” Xing Bi answered softly.
“He said the teacher’s long dead. You already have complete memories of him, from childhood to now—you don’t need him anymore. Just remembering is enough.” Qiu Shi said.
Xing Bi stayed silent.
“He also said…” Qiu Shi continued, “The painful flaw of a bioroid is that their memories never fade, and never blur.”
“I want to remember—always.” Xing Bi said.
“Bioroids aren’t human. We were never meant to exist,” Lin Sheng said. “Maybe that’s why we cling harder to our memories—we don’t want to lose a single second of our experience in this world.”
Qiu Shi looked at Lin Sheng—it was the first time he’d heard him say something so earnestly.
“They’re waiting for you in the conference room.” Lin Sheng said, then turned and left the ward.
Qiu Shi stepped up behind Xing Bi and wrapped his arms around him, lightly brushing his fingertip against the corner of Xing Bi’s eye.
“Do I seem like the kind of guy who cries easily to you?” Xing Bi asked.
“Aren’t you?” Qiu Shi replied.
Xing Bi smiled.
“I’ve never seen any other bioroid cry—just you,” Qiu Shi said.
“Is that so?” Xing Bi paused. “Actually, all of us cry.”
“But only you cry all the time,” Qiu Shi said. “That’s why you’ll be the strongest hidden guard—not because you cry, but because you feel the most deeply.”
“Getting philosophical all of a sudden, partner,” Xing Bi said.
“I thought I’d gone nuts, maybe I’ve suddenly become enlightened,” Qiu Shi said.
“You didn’t go nuts. You had nerve damage,” Xing Bi replied.
Qiu Shi laughed. “Your teacher asked me where I went to school. Said the teaching quality didn’t seem that great. Even though he said he wasn’t your teacher, I think he is. No matter what tiny fragment of consciousness he is, he still is.”
“Yeah.” Xing Bi nodded.
The lab was very quiet. To be precise, as long as Li Feng wasn’t speaking, everyone was quiet.
Li Feng was dozing off in his chair. Whether on the human or biochem side of the glass wall, everyone seemed to have fallen asleep with him—completely silent.
Li Feng knew no one was in the mood to talk.
At least the humans weren’t. It had been five days. The deadline for them all suffocating to death was drawing closer and closer.
Li Feng looked at the work log hanging on the wall. On it, he had drawn a big number 5 in pen. Flip the page and it was 4, then 3, 2, 1.
This work log was posted right across from the lab door, so everyone inside and outside the glass wall could see it.
Curator Wu came out of the inner lab pod, holding a can of food. When he saw the numbers on the wall, he paused, then turned to Li Feng. “What’s this?”
“Official countdown to pure-human extinction,” Li Feng said, resting on his arm. “What do you think? Pretty meaningful, huh?”
Without thinking, Curator Wu hurled the can at him. “You’re a complete lunatic!”
The can didn’t hit Li Feng—Curator Wu had lousy aim. If it had been Qiu Shi, and Xing Bi didn’t stop him, he probably would’ve smashed a dent into Li Feng’s skull.
“Lao Wu,” Li Feng got up, picked the can up off the ground, emptied the meat and vegetables into a small plate, grabbed a little spoon, and took a few slow bites. “No contact from the outside in three days. If they’re not preparing because they found the password, then it means they haven’t found it at all.”
“There are only those two possibilities! You don’t need to tell me that,” Curator Wu snapped.
“So which do you think is more likely?” Li Feng glanced at him. “Personally, I lean toward: they found the password and are preparing.”
“Why?” Gao Shan asked from behind the glass wall.
“Qiu Shi’s not the type to give up easily. With his personality, if he can’t find the password through the general, he’ll definitely reach out inside to discuss other possibilities,” Li Feng said as he ate. “So with no contact for this long, I think it means they found it and are preparing.”
“If they found it, shouldn’t they at least let us know?” Gao Shan asked.
“That just means the channel through the general is probably no longer usable,” Li Feng said. “Seems like finding that password wasn’t easy.”
“So you’re saying…” Curator Wu said, “we just wait for rescue now?”
“There’s still a forty percent chance we’re just waiting to die.” Li Feng replied.
Curator Wu froze for a second, then his anger flared. He walked over and slapped the plate from Li Feng’s hands. “And you’re still eating!”
The moment the plate hit the ground, a low, muffled sound came from deep beneath them—like something had slammed into the ground. A dull “thunk” that made the floor tremble slightly.
Li Feng froze mid-movement, about to pick up the plate.
No one said anything. Everyone was focused, trying to feel the vibrations.
Another rumble followed. Two chairs nearby shifted slightly, slowly sliding toward the corridor leading to the lab pod.
Li Feng raised his head and looked at Cheng Gu. “Is the building tilted?”
“Yes,” Cheng Gu replied. “Five degrees northwest.”
“What’s happening?” Curator Wu immediately tensed.
“Time to get busy,” Li Feng stood up. “Secure all the machines that aren’t fastened down.”
“What do you mean?” Curator Wu asked.
“We might not have to die after all,” Li Feng said. “They’re restarting the lab.”
“How? By ripping off these two floors?” Curator Wu asked, dumbfounded.
Just as he said that, the ground trembled again. Accompanied by another dull thud from below, the room slowly leveled out.
“Back to level?” Curator Wu looked at Cheng Gu.
“Yeah.” Cheng Gu nodded.
“All small movable items—chairs, any unfixed screens on the tables, small instruments,” Li Feng lit a cigarette, “put them all in the smallest lab pod. If they fit in a cabinet, put them in a cabinet. If not, stack them in the northwest corner. Minimize damage when we move…”
Curator Wu was still stunned, but Cheng Gu had already picked up two monitors and was heading for the corridor.
“Move it, Lao Wu,” Li Feng said. “These things might just save your life.”
“What do you mean?” Curator Wu asked. Although he still had questions, he dragged two chairs over, preparing to go in.
“Hey,” Li Feng reached out his foot and hooked one of the chairs, “Leave one for me, I want to sit.”
Curator Wu looked at him but didn’t let go.
“This thing might require tilting the entire lab to activate,” Li Feng said. “They can’t contact us right now, so they might be trying to give us a hint.”
“You sure?” Curator Wu looked at him. “How would they know we’d understand?”
“That’s why it’s a hint for me,” Li Feng replied, meeting his eyes. “All the remaining large equipment—anything that might move—needs to be secured.”
Curator Wu was silent for a moment, then nodded. “I’ll trust you.”
While Curator Wu and Cheng Gu began securing various machines, Li Feng turned and walked back to stand by the glass wall.
“There’s probably nothing important outside,” Chen Dang looked at him. “If there is, it’s probably not our concern.”
“Be cooperative,” Li Feng said. “You’re not saved yet—and whether you get saved still depends on my mood.”
Chen Dang gave a small laugh.
“In Lao Wu’s office, there’s a vase and a green-haired figurine on a shelf,” Li Feng said. “Make sure those two things are secured. Don’t let them get smashed.”
“What are they?” Chen Dang asked.
“An antique vase I collected and an antique figurine,” Li Feng said. “I gave them to Lao Wu before. They’re hard to find, don’t break them.”
“Got it,” Chen Dang nodded.
“Mr. Long can be injured but must not die,” Li Feng said. “Tie him up or whatever—he’s still important to Yun City.”
Chen Dang looked at him and said nothing.
“Time to move, bio-creature,” Li Feng said. “Other than the path I left you, there is no other way.”
“Which path?” Chen Dang asked.
“Cooperate with Yun City,” Li Feng tapped lightly on the glass. “Get to work. Demolition might start any time out there.”
—
Colonel Xu entered the control room and glanced at the monitor screen. “This batch of twenty-eight has all been activated.”
“Mhm,” Xing Bi responded, rotating the projected 3D model of the lab at the center of the room. “That last move—Li Feng should’ve figured it out by now.”
“Should we send someone down to check?” Colonel Xu asked.
“We’ll go together,” Xing Bi looked over at Zhang Tan. “Are all the lab readings normal right now?”
“Normal,” Zhang Tan said. “But we don’t know if something unexpected will happen once we switch to manual mode. We might need to open the passage first and send a monitor in to inspect the internal condition.”
“Can the passage tilt automatically like earlier?” Xing Bi asked.
“No,” Wang Hong replied. “That earlier tilt was the maximum angle for the automatic setting. The original design was likely meant to allow access for external cable repairs. To tilt enough to get the monitoring device inside, it’ll have to be done manually.”
“You come with us,” Xing Bi pointed at Wang Hong. “Zhang Tan and Ji Sui stay here and keep watch.”
—
Below the lab was a low sublevel. When Qiu Shi and Xing Bi entered, they had to duck—walking quickly would lead to bumping their heads.
This level had been built during the construction of the exhibition hall. Mr. Long’s “junior colleagues” likely didn’t even know it existed. Wang Hong and the others had only realized it might be there after analyzing the embedded lab blueprints for a long time.
“You call this a maintenance level?” Qiu Shi muttered, head down. “You can’t even fit a big machine in here—what the hell can you maintain?”
“Technically, a lab of this level shouldn’t need any large machinery repairs for hundreds of years,” Wang Hong said. “If it ever does, that means the lab has already sustained serious damage.”
At the center, the ceiling had been opened up. The earlier minor tilt had been activated with a button, but to achieve a larger angle to fit the monitor inside, manual operation was required.
“Who’s going in?” Wang Hong asked.
“I will,” Lin Sheng said.
“Maybe…” Wang Hong glanced at Sang Fan standing nearby. “She should do it? She’s slimmer—easier to maneuver.”
“Okay,” Sang Fan nodded. Before anyone else could respond, she had already leapt up, climbed through the opening above, and entered the narrow gap beneath the lab—crowded with greasy metal supports and massive screws.
“There’s a small controller,” Wang Hong quickly explained. “Its exact location isn’t marked, but it should be…”
“Found it,” Sang Fan said. “There are lots of buttons and numbers on it.”
“Are there up and down arrows?” Wang Hong asked.
“Yes,” Sang Fan replied. “It’s that simple?”
“This area’s mainly for maintenance workers. If it’s too complicated, they’re more likely to make mistakes,” Wang Hong said. “When this was designed, they probably already anticipated our overall technical capabilities would decline in the future.”
Following Wang Hong’s instructions, Sang Fan pressed a few buttons. Deep metallic grinding noises echoed from within as the gears began to move. The floor shook, dust and debris rained down, and visibility dropped to near zero—Sang Fan was barely visible.
“Has it started?” Colonel Yu’s voice came from behind.
“Not yet. We’re just lifting it to a sufficient angle to inspect inside,” Qiu Shi turned and saw Colonel Yu arriving with a few people—and a military-grade detector.
“This thing is really…” Colonel Yu frowned, stepping onto a ladder and peeking into the upper level. “Unexpected.”
“Yeah,” Qiu Shi said.
“You could coordinate from the control room,” Colonel Yu said. “Didn’t you just faint for a whole day? Maybe get some rest?”
“I’m fine now,” Qiu Shi said.
“Don’t push it. You’re young, but if you’re hurt, you still need rest,” Colonel Yu advised.
Qiu Shi glanced at him—Colonel Yu had dark circles under his eyes, clearly lacking rest himself. The frontlines were already chaotic, and now that Li Feng had locked up Yun City’s most critical personnel, no one was getting any sleep.
“All right,” Xing Bi interrupted. “Sang Fan, pull back. Send in the detector.”
When Sang Fan dropped down, she was covered in dust and strange stringy things, even in her hair.
“Can you see inside?” Colonel Yu asked.
“There were spiders, rats, snakes,” Sang Fan listed, “All dead.”
“And the structure?” Colonel Yu asked. “Any damage at the bottom? Any stress from the tilt?”
“Solid as a rock,” Sang Fan said. “Could sit tilted for three hundred years, no problem.”
“Send the detector in,” Colonel Yu nodded to the soldiers.
From the opened crate nearby, a flat, oval-shaped drone floated out. Under the operator’s control, it slowly ascended through the upper opening and into the tilted space beneath the lab.
The turntable’s position had already been marked; the operator just had to navigate using the coordinates.
The screen displayed the returned footage. The space, untouched for nearly two hundred years, was thick with swirling dust. It was divided into compartments by waist-high steel frames, all appearing very sturdy. At close range, even the frame serial numbers were visible.
This support system wasn’t just holding up the two-story lab—it could probably hold the entire exhibition hall.
“Once it passes the next steel grid, we’ll reach the turntable area,” the operator said. “Proceeding from above now.”
“The conditions down here look okay. Personnel with equipment should be able to pass through without issue,” Colonel Yu said. “Unless something unexpected…”
The next screen update froze everyone.
Below the steel frame—two human skeletons.
“Shit,” Qiu Shi leaned closer to the screen.
“What is that?” someone asked in shock. “Are those human remains?”
“One human, one bio-creature,” Xing Bi answered calmly. “Can the detector retrieve the little cube from the bio-creature?”
“Yes,” the operator replied. “There’s a grabber, but it may damage the skeleton. If you want to preserve the skeleton to determine cause of death…”
“No need. The footage is already enough,” Xing Bi said. “The human died from a broken neck. The bio-creature died naturally.”
“Died naturally?” Qiu Shi turned to him.
“Starved to death,” Xing Bi said.
When the detector approached, gas expelled below stirred up more dust and sand into a Yun. The human skeleton on the left suddenly collapsed into a pile of broken bones and powder, while the seated bio-creature on the right also fell, shattering into fragments.
“Why were there two people down here?” Wang Hong stared at the screen, where the two skeletons had already lost all identifiable features. “Who were they?”
“There are test procedures during installation. For confidentiality,” Colonel Yu cleared his throat. “Sometimes they leave testers inside.”
“Hell, they might as well just shoot them in the head,” Qiu Shi muttered.
