Chapter 35
[Warning: The following chapter contains a flashback sequence that shifts the narrative to an earlier/future time in Lan Tuan’s life. This scene is crucial for understanding the character’s background and motivations.]
From the earliest days Lan Tuan could remember, the sky was a cold, silvery-white.
At first, it would curiously raise its head and treat the shiny sky as a mirror, tilting and turning its little head. It would see its wobbly reflection, mouth open, baring its teeth and patting its belly, finding amusement in its own clumsy movements.
But over time, as it spent more hours staring up at this mirror sky, the fun wore off and an odd feeling began to weigh on it, suffocation.
When Lan Tuan shared this with a friend, the friend gave it a strange look and asked, “Why do you find joy in the cage that holds you?”
This question pierced Lan Tuan like a thorn. Though it didn’t fully understand, the way its friend looked at it left an uncomfortable feeling.
Back then, Lan Tuan was just a young pup, new to the world, and like all young creatures learning to speak, it had a fierce thirst for knowledge that astonished even adult mutants.
Still puzzled, the young seal sought out a mutant octopus. Known for its vast knowledge, the octopus would surely have an answer.
But the octopus only looked at Lan Tuan with a trace of unspoken emotion in its eyes: pity.
This was the kind of pity felt by someone who had seen much and suffered greatly, who then watches as a pure soul sways on the edge of that same dark path.
To a young seal who understood none of this, pity wasn’t an answer. Still, it persisted, chattering away and relentlessly questioning the octopus.
Finally, after enough pestering, the octopus, out of patience, nudged Lan Tuan’s head with a tentacle and sighed, “You’ll understand one day.”
Understand one day? When would that “one day” come?
The young seal wagged its head in eager anticipation and let out a soft “boop.”
As a cub, there was so much it wanted to know.
It wanted to understand why the walls and sky were always cold and silver, why they all had metal blocks that glowed red around their necks and hearts. It wanted to know why they couldn’t run free, and why the humans who fed them always seemed so indifferent.
Its friends, too, were full of questions, but theirs were more serious.
One asked, “How much longer until we can escape?”
This was a question other mutants often asked.
At that time, a rumor circulated in the base.
The rumor said that all life originated in the sea, where secrets lay hidden. It was said that when a sea-born mutant grew strong enough, it would gain the power to foresee the future.
Such was the reputation of the mutant octopus Lan Tuan knew.
And so, this time, the octopus faced not only a relentless young seal but also a very persistent young fawn.
Unable to keep up, the octopus finally gave them an answer: in just one more year, they’d have the chance to escape.
One year—365 days.
The young ones began counting, Lan Tuan on its flippers, the fawn on its hooves.
“One, two, three…”
Three hundred sixty-five days of blood draws, and they’d be free to see the outside world.
It sounded tough, but they could get through it together.
And so, the days passed, one by one.
As they grew, they realized they had to endure more than endless blood draws. Failing training now brought electric shocks.
The shocks hurt, and when they weren’t fed afterward, hunger gnawed at them.
To be hungry, in pain, and locked in a pitch-dark room—it was despair.
Just as they began to adapt, new experiments arrived: tests of pain endurance, self-healing, and strength bursts under fear…
The year stretched longer and longer.
It was so long that one day, Lan Tuan began counting the notches on its flipper again, hoping the year would end quickly. But when it turned around, its friend was lying motionless on the ground, and its heart stopped.
The fawn was covered in scars, its once-shiny coat now dull, breathing shallowly.
Lan Tuan froze.
It crawled over and nudged the fawn’s head. The fawn’s breathing quickened.
It circled around, trying to help it stand by pushing from behind, but the fawn’s legs crumpled beneath it.
Lan Tuan tried to speak, but its voice had become weak and breathy, impossible to form sentences.
Lan Tuan remembered then: a long time ago, an experiment had damaged its vocal cords.
The fawn, hearing no answer, let its head fall. Its fading eyes gazed upward, unseeing, toward the silver ceiling.
After a long silence, Lan Tuan heard it whisper, “A year is so long…”
And then, the fawn died.
The gentle young seal went berserk.
It overturned its food bowl, biting through one researcher’s hand.
The shock device on its collar flashed red, brutally electrocuting it into unconsciousness.
It woke up in pain, thrashing and yelling, but was knocked out again in less than a second.
This cycle repeated until Lan Tuan, too, lay barely breathing.
“What on earth is wrong with this mutant?” one researcher spat.
They tossed it into a dark isolation chamber. As footsteps faded away, Lan Tuan’s chest rose and fell, trembling with rage.
It thought of its friend’s death, who hadn’t even made it to the one-year mark, and its anger turned into unbearable pain.
In the dark, Lan Tuan clumsily raised a flipper to count how much longer it had to endure in this awful place.
“One…”
Its voice fell silent. Lan Tuan couldn’t go on.
Not long after, base staff opened the isolation chamber, ready for trouble. They found Lan Tuan lying still, half-awake, with shallow breaths.
This frightened them. A mutant born with A-level potential was rare. If it died, they’d surely be blamed.
Rushing it to the medical room, they tried every nutrient and recovery injection, but nothing could stabilize Lan Tuan’s failing vitals.
The young seal, who hadn’t even grown up yet, seemed to be fading like a tree drained of life.
*
Lan Tuan’s mind drifted in and out.
Somewhere, a faint voice called out.
Drawn by the sound, its scattered consciousness sank into a deep, serene blue.
Lan Tuan blinked dazedly and saw a whale.
The creature was vast and beautiful, merging effortlessly with the water as it moved without disturbing a single ripple.
Realization dawned instantly.
Before Lan Tuan was the legendary S-class, a super-dangerous mutant, Blue Whale, known for its isolation.
Months of survival had taught Lan Tuan the harsh rules of strength. If it were its usual self, it would have eagerly bowed before such a powerful figure.
But now, it had no strength left.
The Blue Whale quickly circled around Lan Tuan.
By nature, mutants could evolve by consuming each other; thus, emotional bonds were rare among them.
However, the Blue Whale had glimpsed something about the future.
In that future, this little seal would be its successor, one day growing into the king of sea creatures.
Knowing this, the Blue Whale couldn’t sit idly by. Hurrying to find the young seal, it was already almost too late.
This oversight left its future heir at a life-and-death turning point.
The Blue Whale tried desperately to encourage it.
“Child, you’re gifted.”
“If you survive this, you’ll evolve into an S-class.”
“You’ve already endured over three hundred days. With today over, there are only fifty days left. Fifty days, and you can escape, free to see the world.”
Lan Tuan stirred, lifting its head slightly.
The Blue Whale thought its words would spark life in its eyes, but they remained dull and listless. The Blue Whale was momentarily stunned.
Didn’t this young seal yearn for freedom and strength?
Yet no matter what the Blue Whale said, Lan Tuan’s spirit refused to lift. Mentioning “fifty days” only made it curl up more tightly.
Realizing that Lan Tuan’s life force was ebbing away, the Blue Whale panicked, doubting that it believed a word it said.
In desperation, the Blue Whale pressed its mental imprint upon the seal.
“Look and see—I’m not lying.”
Lan Tuan’s vision filled with a soft, hazy glow.
Scenes from the future unfolded like a painting.
It found itself sitting, expressionless, upon a throne of coral and pearls, gazing coldly downward.
On either side, marine mutants stood, their postures respectful, looking up to it as their leader.
As Lan Tuan glanced down, its followers turned too, filled with hatred, disdain, and hostility—none were friendly.
In their collective gaze stood a young man in a diving suit.
Ignoring the surrounding hostility, he bent slightly, bowing politely.
“Wen Xin, Deputy Executive Officer of Survivor Base 5, extends his sincere greetings.”
For the first time, Lan Tuan learned of Wen Xin’s existence.
