Chapter 100
The gray egg showed no reaction.
Wen Xin was unsure of its condition, so he repeated his question, also inquiring about the whereabouts of the scaled tree viper and the others.
Before he could finish, the gray egg silently rolled away, as if unable to bear the questioning.
No matter how many times Wen Xin poked it, it remained motionless, like a cold and aloof stone lost in its own world.
It didn’t answer.
Wen Xin felt a bit regretful. Seeing that the egg almost slipped into a gap, he quickly retrieved it and lightly tapped the sharp tip of its shell. “Okay, okay, don’t get angry. I won’t ask anymore.”
He wanted to find something to block the gap, but there were only tissue and plastic clips in the room, both unsuitable for placing on the heating pipes, so he had to give up.
Wen Xin closed the observation window and went to check on the other eggs.
After going around the room, he realized only the gray egg exhibited self-awareness, even before forming completely.
The other eggs were normal—they didn’t respond to poking or didn’t roll around.
Wen Xin’s gaze shifted to the incubator in front of him.
The gray egg was unique. It might hold the key to leaving this place.
With that in mind, he started rummaging through the nursery room for useful information.
On the desk stood a file rack containing some professional books related to bioengineering, along with some unimportant documents.
Wen Xin flipped through them and pulled out a guidebook on egg care.
Its white cover bore only the compiler’s name, without any publisher or ISBN, indicating it was likely an internal document.
Wen Xin’s eyes fell on the compiler’s name.
[Dr. An]
Without the title, it was a single character. Was it a first name or a surname?
Wen Xin stored the question in his mind and picked up the book, Efficient Cultivation of Mutant Eggs, for a closer look.
There was still some time before lunch. During this period, Zhou Zhao dropped by once.
Zhou Zhao was surprised to find Wen Xin still in the A3 nursery.
Suspicious that Wen Xin was up to something, Zhou Zhao frowned and inspected the area thoroughly.
What he discovered, however, was that not only had Wen Xin complied with his requests—recording data and updating the electronic files—but he had also adjusted the temperature and humidity of each incubator based on the eggs’ growth stages.
Even the sterilization and disinfection were performed meticulously, with the correct dosage of cleaning agents.
Zhou Zhao’s expression shifted as his attitude did a complete 180. Smiling warmly, he told Wen Xin, “You’ve done well. From now on, this batch of eggs will be your responsibility.”
Wen Xin locked eyes with Zhou Zhao.
At that moment, it felt less like a job assignment and more like Zhou Zhao was relieved to find someone to take over a burdensome task.
Wen Xin raised a brow slightly.
If his analysis was correct, taking care of these eggs was their current responsibility, and the level of mutants hatched would directly affect the caretakers’ career prospects and futures.
The others were focused on the eggs in the other two nursery rooms. Some interns who noticed Wen Xin working in the A3 nursery gave him pitying looks.
Zhou Zhao, without hesitation, dumped the task of egg care onto him.
Did this mean that, in the eyes of others, the eggs in this nursery were destined to fail at hatching into high-grade mutants?
Wen Xin’s first thought was of the unusual gray egg.
Judging by Zhou Zhao’s disdainful attitude towards these eggs, it was clear he hadn’t realized the gray egg’s special nature.
Suppressing the thoughts flashing in his mind, Wen Xin agreed to take on the task.
Seeing his agreement, Zhou Zhao beamed with joy. Without waiting for Wen Xin to speak, he pulled a tablet-like device from his briefcase and retrieved Wen Xin’s intern profile.
Zhou Zhao skimmed through it. “Perfect. You haven’t been assigned a nursery yet. I’ll mark you down for A3… Wait, even your project selection field is blank? What were you doing when others were choosing their research subjects?”
Wen Xin lowered his head, looking somewhat at a loss. “I didn’t know… No one told me…”
Not wanting to give a lecture, Zhou Zhao softened his tone, mostly out of appreciation for Wen Xin taking on the eggs. “Fine, fine, I’ll handle it. Each intern can choose three eggs as their project focus. Pick which three you want.”
Wen Xin’s gaze fell on the gray egg but first pointed to a white egg nearby. He then chose the gray egg and another egg in succession.
Zhou Zhao showed no reaction to the first two choices but raised a rare hint of concern when Wen Xin indicated the gray egg. “You’re picking that one? Its quality isn’t good—it’s likely to turn into a dead egg. I suggest you choose another.”
Wen Xin feigned hesitation and glanced at the gray egg. “I’ll stick with this one.”
Zhou Zhao shrugged, indifferent to whether Wen Xin was heading for failure. He assigned the gray egg its experimental ID.
“Alright, place your fingerprint here.”
Wen Xin pressed his finger on the sensor, which beeped as a notification popped up on the screen: “Project Selection Successful.”
Zhou Zhao, the lead researcher for A3 Nursery, had no attachment to the place. He walked out immediately, tossing a casual farewell over his shoulder. “Alright. If anything happens, come find me.”
The implication was clear—don’t bother him unless absolutely necessary.
Wen Xin wondered if he would have any opportunities like today’s to visit the observation room again. For now, he simply nodded.
Once Zhou Zhao had completely left—
Clack.
Following the sound, Wen Xin turned to see the gray egg knocking against the observation window repeatedly and with great urgency.
Wen Xin had just read in the care guide that mutant eggs rolling about recklessly could cause embryonic misalignment, leading to hatching difficulties.
He quickly opened the observation window to stop the egg’s self-destructive behavior.
But the gray egg was energetic, seemingly unaffected by all the rolling.
It pressed its shell against Wen Xin’s palm, rubbing itself energetically, trying to ensure Wen Xin’s hand touched every inch of its surface.
Only after the gray egg finished its puzzling series of movements did Wen Xin suddenly realize—
“Are you… trying to rub off Zhou Zhao’s scent?”
When Zhou Zhao suspected Wen Xin earlier, he had handled and inspected all the eggs.
The gray egg wobbled slightly, neither confirming nor denying.
Wen Xin: “…”
It seemed the gray egg’s cleanliness obsession extended not just to others but also to itself.
Amused yet exasperated, Wen Xin tapped the gray egg with his finger. “You’re just a tiny egg without fully developed sensory organs, and yet you’re so fussy.”
The gray egg rolled back to the center of the heating pipe, unbothered by Wen Xin’s teasing.
As dinnertime approached, Wen Xin headed to the cafeteria.
Several assistant researchers, like Zhou Zhao, worked on this floor. They all shared the same haughty attitude toward interns, summoning them over to help with tasks without hesitation.
A few interns walking ahead of Wen Xin were called over.
The work was not something that could be finished quickly. These interns, exhausted and hungry from a full day of labor, hesitated at the demand.
The assistant researcher’s face darkened immediately. “What? Are you saying you don’t want to stay here?”
Having seen the mass of corpses disposed of in the incinerator, Wen Xin thought such a statement wasn’t a threat but a lifeline.
The interns, however, didn’t seem to think so. Panicking, they hurriedly replied, “We’ll do it! We’ll get started right away!”
Seeing their terrified expressions, Wen Xin couldn’t help but suspect that leaving the base might lead to something worse, like being silenced.
If he came across any interns trying to leave later, he decided to keep an eye on the situation.
Despite being responsible for over a dozen eggs, Wen Xin found the work manageable. The eggs didn’t make noise or cause trouble. The main task was gently turning them every one or two days to prevent the embryos from sticking to the membrane.
All things considered, it wasn’t too hectic.
And just like that, the day ended.
Wen Xin had a dormitory key, but since the nursery had a simple folding bed, and after confirming with the floor’s security staff that he wasn’t required to return to the dorm, he decided to sleep in the nursery tonight. Unless something came up, he would return to the dorm the following evening.
Wen Xin set up the folding bed in front of the incubator.
It wasn’t that he insisted on keeping the eggs under constant watch—it was just the only space in the nursery that could fit the bed.
Walking by earlier, he had noticed that the other two nurseries were much larger and equipped with more advanced and complex instruments, highlighting the neglect shown to A3.
Eggs treated with such indifference before hatching—would they receive proper care afterward?
Even though Wen Xin considered this scenario to be an illusion, he couldn’t help but sigh for the poor little creatures.
Turning off the lights, a warm yellow glow illuminated the surrounding darkness.
The light was too bright for sleeping. Wen Xin turned over, his back facing the incubator.
He didn’t notice that the gray egg, resting quietly on the heating pipe, suddenly moved. It silently inched closer to the observation window, pressing its shell against the transparent glass.
It seemed to be watching him.
Wen Xin had a dream.
In it, he saw people who, like him, had been swallowed into the black fissure. They were fighting against ferocious mutants.
A mutated tiger lunged forward with its jaws wide open. Wen Xin instinctively dodged, but the person behind him wasn’t quick enough and had their throat bitten through.
Hot blood sprayed everywhere, drenching Wen Xin.
Still disoriented, he rubbed the blood off his hands, only to realize that its scalding warmth felt unnervingly real.
Startled, Wen Xin looked up to see a chaotic battlefield filled with screams and roars, and a cold sweat broke out on his back.
This wasn’t a dream?!
Mutants emerged endlessly—crawling from cliffs and mounds of earth, oozing out like irregular blobs of black tar before solidifying in an instant into sharp-clawed monstrosities that attacked the humans in their path.
Wen Xin reflexively stepped back.
When he turned his head, he was met with the massive skeleton of a dinosaur, towering above him like a shadow that blotted out the sky.
Under its giant clawed foot, he noticed a group of people resting.
The mutants seemed to avoid the dinosaur skeleton, making the small area beneath it a rare safe zone.
Wen Xin didn’t hesitate and ran over.
The resting people glanced at him briefly before lowering their heads, their indifference palpable.
Yet one person greeted Wen Xin with enthusiasm.
“It’s you?” exclaimed a man dressed like a mercenary, his voice filled with surprise. “You’re still alive! Come over here—there’s room!”
Wen Xin didn’t recognize him. “Do we know each other?”
The mercenary grinned. “No, but if it weren’t for you leading the way earlier, I wouldn’t have dared to step into the fissure. I’d already be dead by now.”
As the mercenary spoke, Wen Xin remembered.
Before entering the fissure, the First Base had gone on a murderous spree to cover up the incident. A group of people had retreated to the fissure’s edge but didn’t dare to enter.
Perhaps seeing Wen Xin take the risk gave them the courage to follow.
Wen Xin didn’t think his decision to choose a path of survival was particularly heroic and shook his head. “What exactly is going on here?”
The mercenary, who had been here longer, had figured out some things. “The black fissure seems to split into two spaces—day and night. During the day, we’re dragged into a base and forced to act as interns.”
“At night, we’re sent back here, but it’s a different location. Like here—move too slowly, and the mutants will kill you. When I first arrived, I almost didn’t make it. It’s a goddamned trap.”
Wen Xin scanned the people fighting, spotting streams of water shooting skyward and vine whips slashing through the air.
“How did they gain these abilities?” he asked.
The mercenary grinned. “That’s the one bit of good news—just by staying here, you can develop powers!”
“I didn’t figure that out on my own; a friend of mine told me.
“He said that whether it’s day or night, if you die, you’re really dead. And as an intern, you have to tread carefully. Don’t expose your true identity, and definitely don’t get kicked out of the base—because that’s instant death.”
Wen Xin quickly processed the flood of information. “Is the base an illusion, or is it real?”
“Some think it’s a different dimension, but no one knows for sure.”
“Is everyone in the same base?”
“Not always. Sometimes people are together, sometimes they aren’t. But everyone starts as an intern.”
Wen Xin asked a few more questions and learned that most people had chosen A1 or A2 nurseries.
The mercenary explained, “Most of us start in A2 Nursery. If you want to move to A1, you have to fight for it. Even then, there’s no guarantee you’ll get to pick an egg from there. It’s better to stay put and avoid breaking the rules and getting kicked out.”
Wen Xin frowned. “So, no one’s in A3?”
“A3?” The mercenary thought for a moment, then shook his head. “Probably not. I’ve heard the assistant researchers mention that the eggs in A3 are defective rejects—unlikely to produce anything good.”
“Still, they poured a ton of money into this project, so they couldn’t bear to throw them away. They’re basically trying to salvage the unsalvageable by incubating them.”
Wen Xin mentally noted this information and sincerely thanked the mercenary for sharing it.
The mercenary scratched his head, looking a bit embarrassed. “It’s nothing, really.”
Wen Xin looked up at the colossal skeleton towering overhead.
It stretched for miles, and even craning his neck, he could only see a fraction of its pale, chilling frame.
He wondered how long the skeleton extended up to, if other survivors might be sheltering nearby, and how many others had been swallowed by the black fissure.
Most importantly—where was Xiao Hei? Where were Ah Lü and the others?
A wave of exhaustion swept over Wen Xin.
Surrounded by people, some of whom crossed their arms and dozed off, Wen Xin slowly closed his eyes.
In his haze, he seemed to hear the voice of the scaled tree viper, Ah Lü.
Ah Lü was urgently telling him that all of this was Xiao Hei’s doing, including dragging people into this dimension shaped by Xiao Hei’s memories.
It sensed that Xiao Hei’s aura was in turmoil, likely because it was nearing the critical moment of evolving into its final form.
The S-class energy was spilling out uncontrollably, and the humans gaining abilities were an unintended side effect of being tainted by that energy, breaking through their physical limits.
But there was a limit to how much energy the human body could absorb.
Previously, Xiao Hei’s consciousness had remained clear, controlling the rate of energy leakage. But now, something had changed—Xiao Hei’s conscious form was in turmoil.
Absorbing the right amount of energy leads to evolution. Absorbing too much might lead to an explosion or worse.
If this dragged on, not only would those people be in danger, but even Wen Xin himself could be at risk.
This was why the scaled tree viper, Ah Lü, was so anxious.
The repelling force between S-class entities and the overwhelming pressure of Xiao Hei, as the strongest mutant, made it impossible for Ah Lü or Ah Zi to intervene in the operation of this alternate dimension.
It had to be Wen Xin who would guide Xiao Hei to achieve its final evolution and dissolve this space.
Wen Xin’s chest tightened. “What should I do?”
“Calm it down. Don’t let it get agitated. You can do it, Wen Xin.”
Ah Lü’s voice began to fade, as though it had reached the limits of what it could communicate.
Wen Xin quickly seized the moment. “What was Xiao Hei’s experiment ID before it hatched?”
Ah Lü, abandoning any attempt to conceal the past, replied with great effort.
“I can’t remember clearly. It should be… D55…”
Morning sunlight trickled in, pale and gentle.
Wen Xin’s eyes flew open.
His abrupt movement startled the gray egg, which froze for a moment before awkwardly and slowly rolling back into place, trying to cover up its actions.
But Wen Xin didn’t notice this little gesture.
His gaze was fixed on the number on the gray egg’s incubator. In bold black letters, it read: D55.
