Shan Feibai perked up his ears, listening attentively.
Ning Zhuo: “I took you to meet Xiao Tang. I told you about his situation. What felt off to you?”
Shan Feibai quickly refocused, thought for a moment, and gestured with his spoon. “There was something. Lao Yu is a synthetic human. I know the focus of synthetic tech is mimicking thought processes—developing personality, complex logic, even simulating bodily fluids… but they can only replicate, not create complete biological information from scratch. That’s too complex. If Titan Corporation could achieve that, it’d be revolutionary…”
He trailed off.
“Yes.” Ning Zhuo ate, his tone laced with clear disgust and sarcasm. “…It’d be a ‘revolutionary’ breakthrough.”
Shan Feibai set down his chopsticks.
His half-blue, half-black eyes stared at the food in front of him.
A possibility crossed his mind.
A possibility so repulsive it turned his stomach.
Ning Zhuo, expressionless, said, “Honbu Takeshi, like his father, is highly gifted. But his research has always been about pushing the limits of human-machine integration.”
Sucking on a lollipop that came with the meal, hands in his pockets, Ning Zhuo tilted his chair back, one leg propped up, gazing at the ceiling. “I looked into it. Xiao Tang’s mother was a poor student, down on her luck, diagnosed with a tumor at a young age.”
“She was desperate, with no way out. Just then, a new Titan Corporation lab announced a cutting-edge project urgently needing clinical trial volunteers, offering generous compensation—a tumor recovery program.”
For a young girl at the end of her rope, it was her only hope.
No matter what, if the project succeeded, she’d live.
The worst outcome was just death.
Clinging to that faint hope, she received a number tag.
She must have been confused.
Numbering clinical trial volunteers for management purposes made sense.
But the shiny brass tag was engraved with a peculiar codename: “Jiaojiao.”
…Why such a strange alias?
At the time, Miss Tang underestimated what “the worst outcome” could mean.
People fear death because it’s unknown.
But what if every day of living was a conscious, unknown, endless hell?
Ning Zhuo’s tone was flat, as if that could lessen the nausea his words evoked. “Honbu Takeshi replaced her body bit by bit, starting with her limbs, then her skull, eyes, chest, skin. Before her reproductive system was replaced, she gave birth to Xiao Tang.”
Shan Feibai glanced at his arm, covered in goosebumps.
He asked, “So Xiao Tang’s father is…”
“Yeah.” Ning Zhuo’s demeanor was calm. “His father is Honbu Takeshi.”
“Xiao Tang takes after his mom in looks.”
After a moment’s thought, Ning Zhuo added, “…I’m guessing. I never met her.”
When he said this, his voice softened, gentle enough to make one’s heart race.
…
Miss Tang would never know that this experiment was merely a whim of Honbu Takeshi, a member of a research dynasty.
He was only seventeen or eighteen then, driven by intense curiosity, excessive destructiveness, and immature technical skill.
His immaturity showed in how carelessly he chose his subjects.
He started by reviewing the photos submitted by the volunteers.
All the girls were youthful, delicate, well-proportioned.
A single shot of muscle relaxant, and those beautiful bodies would lie still, obedient to his every whim.
His father, Honbu Ryo, was highly supportive of his talented and imaginative youngest son, allocating an entire lab building to him and providing unconditional protection.
As a major corporation, Titan’s contracts were riddled with traps these young girls couldn’t possibly detect or avoid.
In short, if they died, went missing, or vanished, the company could produce airtight paperwork and the girls’ signatures to prove they bore no responsibility.
In Honbu Ryo’s words, this was the price of scientific progress.
Many girls died in the experiments due to cascading organ failure.
Whether fortunate or not, Miss Tang survived the longest, even achieving a miracle—she gave birth to a child.
Incidentally, her tumor was indeed “cured”—her original stomach was hollowed out and replaced with an artificial one.
But at some point during her bodily reconstruction, she’d completely lost her mind.
She only remembered she was “Jiaojiao,” genuinely believing she was a synthetic puppet, following every command, doing whatever she was told.
Honbu Takeshi “cherished” her because she’d created a new life for him and survived so long, proving he might actually develop a perfect reproductive robot!
…Though it couldn’t be mass-produced, which was a pity.
For the first year of his life, Tang Kaichang grew up in a sterile pod without a mother’s comfort.
Feeding, diaper changes, and turning were all handled by machines.
The “synthetic” children born before him, conceived in unnatural, heavily contaminated maternal environments, were mostly stillborn or deformed, none surviving past 180 days.
Tang Kaichang was an absolute exception.
However, Honbu Takeshi, who adored all things beautiful, had no interest in children.
Once he confirmed Tang was a successful test subject, his limited fatherly affection ended there.
Forming attachments to test subjects was a cardinal sin in their line of work.
On this, Honbu Takeshi was ruthlessly disciplined.
When Tang Kaichang, with the help of nanny robots, could toddle around, Honbu Takeshi, in a twisted whim, brought the child to his laboratory.
As the door slid open, seven or eight women, their bodies so altered they were barely recognizable, floated in translucent nutrient-filled tanks. In unison, they turned their metallic heads, silently staring at the adult and child entering the room.
Faced with such a chilling scene, Honbu Takeshi grinned and patted Tang Kaichang on the back. “Go find your mommy.”
Tang Kaichang froze for a moment, neither crying nor fussing. He stumbled forward, one step deep, one shallow, and tripped, collapsing in front of a cylindrical tank.
The woman inside could still move her eyes. She looked down at the child, whose features faintly resembled her original ones, a strange glint crossing her face.
Tang Kaichang lifted his head, staring blankly at her, as if he recognized her—or perhaps he was just dazed from the fall.
The nameplate on the tank’s exterior read “Jiaojiao.”
From then on, Tang Kaichang stayed long-term in this room filled with tanks. Robots regularly delivered food, water, and all necessities for his survival.
He rarely saw Honbu Takeshi.
Because Honbu Takeshi had lost interest in the experiment.
…The failure rate was too high, the conversion rate too low. It was fun for him to toy with, but it had no practical value for broader application.
Keeping these living subjects here was merely a trophy, a memento of his youthful, impractical whims.
Young Tang Kaichang didn’t know he’d been classified as “experimental waste.”
His childhood companions were a barely functional computer Honbu Takeshi left behind, heaps of experimental materials and data sheets, and the women imprisoned alongside him.
They could speak, so Tang Kaichang learned to speak from them.
His learning ability was remarkable. As soon as he could talk, he stumbled upon the computer’s voice input function and taught himself to read and write.
Tang Kaichang naturally felt a deep fondness for the test subject called “Jiaojiao.”
The first character he learned to write was “Jiao.”
He shakily copied her name, held it high above his head, and showed it to her.
She would smile at him mechanically and say, “Kaichang, Kaichang.”
That was the name the mechanical women gave him.
Young Tang Kaichang was fascinated by machinery and showed extraordinary talent.
It was likely a genetic gift unique to the Honbu family.
Living with them daily, he almost believed he was part machine himself.
Reading books, chatting with the “aunties,” he felt happy.
But they had endured such brutal modifications, with no long-term surgical support. Even if they survived, they wouldn’t last long.
Year after year, they died one by one in their nutrient tanks.
When a girl’s vital signs ceased, robots would cart the tanks away like coffins.
Tang Kaichang had no concept of “death” until the aunties explained it to him.
Each time one left, he felt like he’d died a little himself.
Ten years passed.
In the entire lab, only “Jiaojiao” remained.
Every night, Tang Kaichang curled up beside her tank to sleep, terrified that if he looked away, his last anchor would vanish.
But “Jiaojiao’s” body grew weaker, her periods of unconsciousness longer, her responses to him fainter.
As Tang Kaichang grew older, he began to think for himself.
He had a premonition he wouldn’t stay here forever.
That day came abruptly.
Tang Kaichang was jolted awake by a woman’s screams and sobs.
He opened his eyes in panic, looking up to see the woman in the nutrient tank convulsing violently, as if reliving a nightmare from a past life.
In her final wail, she cried out:
“I’m human. My name is Tang Bi. Save me, kill me.”
But her replaced vocal cords produced a flat, electronic tone, making it sound eerily detached.
Then she fell silent, never making another sound.
In that moment, Tang Kaichang knew he had no family left in the world.
He pressed his hands desperately against the unbreakable glass, unable to touch the woman inside, who hung motionless, like a fetus floating peacefully in amniotic fluid.
He could only press his face to the tank, wrapping his arms around it, straining to feel even a trace of warmth from the nutrient fluid.
A scalding tear rolled down his cheek.
A minute later, he wiped his eyes, packed Honbu Takeshi’s computer and some materials he hadn’t fully studied, and pried open the hatch beneath the tank. He deftly dismantled the now-useless outer oxygen supply, curled his small frame inside, and sealed the hatch from within.
If he grew any bigger, he wouldn’t fit.
The robots transported him out of Titan Corporation.
Before the tank was fed into the disposal unit, he slipped out, squeezing his frail body into a narrow ventilation shaft, crawling toward a dark, unknown new world.
He escaped with a heart full of uncertainty but pressed forward without hesitation.
Deep down, he knew this was something he had to do.
…
“Hiring Xiao Tang was actually dirt cheap,” Ning Zhuo said.
“Back then, Titan’s old site was close to Chang’an District. He’d just escaped, was eating on the street, didn’t have money, didn’t know he had to pay, and got beaten up.”
“I bought him a bowl of noodles, and he was willing to follow me.”
After hearing this long story, Shan Feibai pondered for a moment, then asked, “Xiao Tang doesn’t actually care about revenge, does he?”
“No. He didn’t ask me to help him. He doesn’t even remember who Honbu Takeshi is.”
Ning Zhuo continued, “His education was incomplete. Even now, he’s not used to interacting with people. He doesn’t know how to hate or love.”
Shan Feibai: “Then…”
Ning Zhuo: “He never got a proper education, but I did. I know everything has a price. Honbu Takeshi’s debts are too heavy. It’s time he paid.”
