Chapter 99
These weren’t nursery chambers but incubators.
Before Wen Xin could examine the eggs more closely, a sharp voice cut through the silence from behind him.
“Why are you just standing around during work hours? Planning to slack off?”
At the door stood a young man in a similar lab coat. His features were sharp and stern, with short black hair and a long, narrow face. Annoyance was etched across his expression.
“…No.”
In a split second, Wen Xin processed the situation, running through possible explanations in his mind.
He lowered his eyes slightly, feigning awkwardness. “I was passing by and heard something unusual from this room. I thought I’d come to check.”
“Is that so?”
The man scrutinized him for a moment, his doubt evident.
Wen Xin subtly shifted his gaze to the man’s name tag.
[Zhou Zhao, Assistant Researcher in Biological Sciences]
Apparently satisfied that Wen Xin wasn’t acting suspiciously, Zhou Zhao relaxed his gaze. He raised his chin arrogantly and said, “Perfect timing. These eggs haven’t had their observation data updated today. You can handle that. Be in Observation Room B3 by one in the afternoon.”
Zhou Zhao turned on his heel and left, not bothering to hear any objections.
Wen Xin glanced down at his own name tag.
[Intern, Biological Sciences Research]
He couldn’t help but chuckle softly.
A middle-level employee versus a lowly intern—it was no wonder Zhou Zhao assumed his demand wouldn’t be refused.
Wen Xin’s gaze lingered on his name, “Wen Xin,” printed clearly on the tag.
He didn’t need to question his memory to know that he had never been a research intern. Based purely on logic, this setup was clearly fabricated.
There were two possibilities: either everything he saw was an illusion, or someone had created this new identity and placed him in this unfamiliar environment.
Having raised a Mirage Fox before, Wen Xin leaned toward the first explanation.
Was this Xiao Hei’s doing?
Possibly, but unlikely. Xiao Hei had never shown the ability to create illusions, and even if it could, why would it drag him into one now? Wen Xin couldn’t piece together the reasoning.
More pressing was the question of where Lan Tuan and Ah Lü had gone. Xiao Hei seemed to be rational enough not to harm them, but he couldn’t shake his concern.
After a moment’s thought, Wen Xin decided to play along with his assumed identity for now, buying time to find the little mutants and figure out his situation.
He began searching the room. On the desk, he found a clipboard with preformatted observation sheets listing data like temperature, humidity, light exposure, and the status of the eggs in the incubators.
The information wasn’t overly technical, and the displayed data was easy to copy. Familiarizing himself with the process would be straightforward.
But time was tight. The clock on the wall read 12:03 PM, and Zhou Zhao had demanded he report to B3 by 1:00 PM. Not knowing where the observation room was located, Wen Xin calculated that he barely had enough time to complete the data updates and find his destination.
Grabbing the clipboard and a pen, Wen Xin began his work, mindful of every second ticking by.
The incubators resembled oversized microwaves, each with a transparent observation window, overhead lights, and adjustable heating elements at the base.
Inside, the eggs rested quietly, their surfaces marked with diverse patterns. Their sizes varied widely, suggesting they came from different species.
Under the warm yellow light, faint outlines of embryos were visible within some eggs—small, plump forms curled tightly, barely moving.
Wen Xin had no experience with artificial incubation, so he wasn’t sure if the stillness was a good sign. Comparing the data on the displays to the previous entries on the clipboard, he noted no significant discrepancies. The eggs seemed fine.
After about twenty minutes, Wen Xin finished recording the day’s data.
The room remained eerily silent throughout. No one else entered, leaving the incubator chamber unusually still.
Wen Xin set down the clipboard and exhaled deeply.
Based on his previous work experience, the handwritten data would typically need to be digitized as well. However, that task could wait until he returned.
It had been a long time since he’d written this much in such a rush. Rubbing the sore base of his thumb, Wen Xin made his way to the door.
Just as he was about to step out, he noticed the door of the room ahead creak open. He instinctively pulled back and shifted to the side, concealing himself.
A large group of researchers in white coats emerged, including Zhou Zhao, who had been issuing orders earlier.
Wen Xin had assumed everyone was on a lunch break when he saw the empty hallway earlier, but it seemed they had all been gathered in one room.
The researchers were visibly pleased, their chatter filled with phrases like “development progressing well,” “this time, we’ll have results,” and “at least A-grade.” Their voices faded as they walked away.
Wen Xin turned his gaze to the sign above the room they had exited: A1 Incubation Room.
The hallway housed another room labeled A2 Incubation Room, positioned between A1 and the room Wen Xin had just left.
Moments later, the door to A2 opened, and another group of researchers emerged. These individuals appeared less jubilant than those from A1, but they still carried an air of satisfaction. Their discussions revolved around “development status,” “hatching timelines,” and “grade evaluations.”
One researcher paused outside A1, gazing at its door with envy.
“Come on,” a colleague said, nudging him. “Not everyone gets to work on near-A-grade mutation candidates. Just focus on raising this batch properly. One day, they’ll evolve too.”
“As long as we hatch a B-grade, I can get a permanent position instead of this internship,” the researcher sighed wistfully. “An A-grade would promote me straight to assistant researcher!”
“Keep at it,” another chimed in. “You’ll get there.”
Encouraged, the man straightened up. But then he slapped his forehead. “Crap! I left something inside. Wait for me.”
Turning back, the researcher spotted Wen Xin standing at the door of the last incubation room, his expression briefly freezing before softening into pity.
Wen Xin followed the man’s gaze to the sign above his own room: A3 Incubation Room.
Of the three incubation rooms in the corridor, A1 was the most crowded, followed by A2. A3, however, only had Wen Xin.
Wait. He’d told Zhou Zhao earlier that he was just passing through. Zhou Zhao hadn’t questioned that claim, implying that A3 wasn’t officially under Wen Xin’s responsibility.
Given Zhou Zhao’s attitude, the room’s actual caretaker was likely Zhou Zhao himself.
Yet he’d abandoned these eggs entirely, even neglecting to record their data.
Wen Xin turned to look at the dozen or so eggs in the room, their mottled shells all but screaming “neglected” in bold letters.
Pressing his fingers to his temple, he decided not to dwell on it.
From the sounds in the hall, Zhou Zhao and the others were waiting for the elevator. If he hurried, he could follow them to find the observation room.
Just as Wen Xin was about to leave, a faint clunk echoed behind him.
A dull, gray egg had rolled forward, bumping lightly against the observation glass before wobbling to a stop near the edge of the heating panel, where only half of it remained bathed in the warm light.
Wen Xin, mid-step, froze.
From the hall came the muffled hum of voices—likely the elevator’s arrival.
He glanced back at the egg, dismissing its movement as a fluke. But then, there it went again.
Clunk.
The gray egg rolled insistently, this time wedging itself into the crevice at the edge of the heating panel, half-shrouded in shadow. It even seemed to tremble as if shivering from the cold.
Wen Xin told himself the shivering was just his imagination. An egg with no fully developed sensory organs couldn’t possibly have self-awareness.
But his feet moved on their own, carrying him back into the room. His hands followed suit, opening the observation window.
He steadied the gray egg and returned it to the middle of the heating panel, ensuring it wouldn’t roll off again. For good measure, he gave it a small, reassuring pat.
The shell was warm from the heating element beneath, radiating a comforting heat that felt alive.
Squatting by the incubator, Wen Xin spoke softly, almost out of habit. “I’ve got something to take care of. I’ll have to leave for a bit. If you roll off again, there might not be anyone to put you back.
“Be good and stay put. I’ll come back to keep you company, okay?”
The gray egg didn’t move again, as though it had understood.
Just as Wen Xin stood to leave, his gaze flicked to the light switch. With a flick, the room plunged into darkness, save for the soft amber glow from the observation window.
The gray egg rested quietly on the heating panel.
An inexplicable feeling tugged at Wen Xin, as if he were leaving a child alone at home.
Perhaps it was the effect of this surreal environment. Sighing, Wen Xin turned the lights back on before leaving the room.
Lunch hours typically spanned from noon to one o’clock.
At 12:35 PM, Zhou Zhao emerged from the incubation room with his colleagues and left for the cafeteria.
Wen Xin had assumed they were skipping lunch entirely.
Instead, as he tailed them, he watched Zhou Zhao casually descend to the employee cafeteria, load his tray with an abundant selection of dishes, and laugh as he ate.
The cafeteria clock struck 1:02 PM.
Wen Xin stood in thought.
Patting the pockets of his lab coat, he found an employee ID card and a multipurpose access badge, much like a university meal card. With little hesitation, he used it to buy bread and water from a vending machine.
Eating as he walked, he began searching for the B3 Observation Room, taking his time.
This facility—it might very well be the origin of the mutations, the birthplace of Xiao Hei and the others.
If he could locate the leader, perhaps he could uncover the true culprit behind the apocalypse.
Many areas, however, were heavily guarded by armed personnel. Access required ID cards capable of passing system scans.
Wen Xin withdrew his gaze from the gymnasium-like structure ahead, where the air was thick with the stench of blood.
Frowning, he popped the last bite of bread into his mouth and tossed the plastic wrapper into a nearby trash can. He refrained from investigating further.
Nearby, an ironworks facility caught his attention. Through the open gates, Wen Xin glimpsed a crematorium in operation. The observation window glowed with fiery red light as workers dumped cartloads of corpses into the furnace. Among the bodies were both humans and animals. Wen Xin looked away after just two glances and moved on.
Ten minutes later, he found his destination.
Five more minutes passed before Zhou Zhao finally appeared at the B3 Observation Room entrance, accompanied by several colleagues.
Zhou Zhao spotted Wen Xin and nodded in satisfaction. “Not bad, right on time.”
The clock read 1:29 PM.
Wen Xin maintained his guise as a timid intern and offered a shy smile.
Zhou Zhao didn’t seem suspicious, casually pressing his hand against the fingerprint scanner. With a beep and a flash of green light, the heavy silver-white metal doors slid open, revealing a series of separate eco-chambers divided by metal walls, each roughly the size of a small basketball court.
The chambers varied in design. Some mimicked dense forests, with lush greenery and soft grass, while others resembled aquariums filled with crystal-clear pools of water.
Given the grim sights Wen Xin had witnessed in the facility so far, he had expected the observation room to be akin to a blood-soaked gladiatorial arena. The orderly chambers were surprisingly unremarkable—at least in terms of their setup.
The creatures inside, however, were far from ordinary.
Wen Xin wasn’t the only intern summoned. A group of men and women stood together, staring with dread at a chamber modeled after a tropical rainforest. Zhou Zhao laid out their tasks with an air of authority, and the interns’ faces turned pale.
“Can’t this kind of work be left to the janitorial staff?” one of them ventured hesitantly.
Zhou Zhao scoffed and threw a metal shovel toward them. “What? Too dirty for you? If you can’t handle a little filth, you might as well quit now! Don’t bother dreaming about full-time positions!”
Under his scorn, one trembling intern reluctantly picked up a shovel.
Faced with piles of excrement stacked like small hills, the intern gagged at the imagined stench and instinctively covered his mouth.
Wen Xin sighed. Having raised his “furballs,” he had somehow managed to avoid this particular duty as their caretaker. Today, fate had come full circle to make up for it—with interest.
He picked up a shovel without complaint and focused his attention on the eco-chamber’s sole occupant: a mutated baboon.
The creature had thick fur and a ferocious appearance. Even while seated, it loomed taller than an average adult. At the approach of any human, it issued threatening roars.
Zhou Zhao manipulated the control panel, releasing a white gas into the chamber.
The baboon grew visibly more agitated, pounding its hammer-like fists against the chamber walls with thunderous thuds. The observation window, which appeared to be made of glass, was sturdier than the metal walls themselves and remained unscathed.
Gradually, the baboon’s aggressive movements slowed. It tilted its head drowsily, then collapsed onto the ground with its eyes closed.
“Put on your masks and get in there to clean. The anesthetic gas only lasts two hours, so move quickly!” Zhou Zhao barked.
The interns hesitated, eyeing the supposedly unconscious baboon warily. Once convinced it was genuinely out cold, they shuffled in with their shovels.
Suddenly, the baboon’s eyes snapped open, a crimson gleam flashing within. With a feral roar, it lunged at the nearest intern!
The massive beast’s shadow loomed over the trembling group. Its first swipe crushed the skull of the closest victim, splattering blood everywhere. Screams erupted as the others bolted for the exit.
Noticing the open metal doors, the baboon’s predatory gaze shifted.
“Shut the door! Don’t let it escape!” Zhou Zhao shouted, his heart pounding.
But in the ensuing chaos, no one moved to act.
One petrified intern stood frozen as the beast bore down on him, tears and mucus streaming down his face.
At the last second, a slender, steady hand reached out and yanked him aside.
The baboon’s target now evaded, its frustration mounted, and it turned its ferocious attention toward Wen Xin instead.
“ROAR!!”
Wen Xin nimbly dodged, his movements quick and precise. The effects of the anesthetic gas were still at play, causing the baboon’s attacks to falter.
He darted through the confined space, leading the beast on a tense game of cat and mouse. From the safety of the observation room, the escaped interns watched in awe, their screams mingling with words of astonishment.
As the baboon launched a final, desperate strike, Wen Xin narrowly avoided the deadly blow. But the creature, on the verge of unconsciousness, unleashed a last burst of fury, its sharp fangs aimed directly at him.
Instinctively, Wen Xin raised his arm, clutching the shovel as a makeshift shield. He braced himself for impact, fully prepared for the blow to fracture his bones.
The baboon’s hot, rancid breath grazed his skin as its massive frame bore down.
Then, inexplicably, it faltered.
A flash of fear flickered across the beast’s savage face, its expression twisting into one of terror.
The anesthetic gas took full effect, and with a heavy thud, the baboon collapsed.
From Wen Xin’s vantage point, the fleeting glimpse of fear in its eyes was unmistakable.
Outside the eco-chamber, the onlookers erupted in relieved cheers. The commotion drew more assistant researchers and armed patrol guards to the scene.
The interns greeted Wen Xin like a hero as he emerged, while Zhou Zhao, uncharacteristically amiable, showered him with praise for his quick reflexes and skill.
As a reward, Wen Xin was relieved of his cleaning duties.
Instead, Zhou Zhao assigned him to assist with data collection on the eco-chamber’s mutant occupants—though the chambers, save for the baboon’s, were mostly empty.
At least 90% of the eco-chambers in the observation room were vacant, leaving the terrifying baboon as its sole noteworthy resident.
After finishing his afternoon duties, Wen Xin wanted to ask a few questions, but Zhou Zhao, clearly lacking patience, waved him off dismissively.
Wen Xin stared at his hand as he briskly returned to the A3 Nursery Room.
He had thought it over carefully. Before the mutated baboon stopped its attack, it had sniffed the air twice, clearly detecting a scent that sparked its fear.
However, since regaining consciousness in this strange environment, Wen Xin could count on one hand the things he’d touched.
The baboon couldn’t possibly have been afraid of the bread and water he ate, nor the shovel or the clipboard he used.
That left only one other thing—the gray egg.
Creak.
The door to the A3 Nursery Room swung open. Inside, the gray, dusty egg lay exactly where he’d left it on the warming rack, bathed in the soft glow of warm yellow light. It looked exceptionally still.
Wen Xin walked up to it, opened the observation window, and eagerly reached out to touch the egg. “Xiao Hei, is that you?”
To his surprise, the gray egg twitched and rolled away abruptly.
Wen Xin: “?”
He reached out again, but this time, the egg rolled even faster, as if avoiding him like the plague.
If an egg could express disdain, it would look like this: utterly repulsed.
Wen Xin: “…”
He stared at his hand, lost in thought, then headed to the washroom. Carefully, he scrubbed his hands with soap and even thoroughly cleaned his forearm, where the baboon’s breath had lingered.
After washing three or four times, Wen Xin returned to the incubator.
The gray egg was now pressed up against the observation window, as if it had been watching him silently since the moment he left.
This time, when Wen Xin reached out, the egg didn’t roll away. Instead, it allowed his hand to touch it and even leaned slightly into his palm.
The scene reminded Wen Xin of the time he first adopted Ah Jiu and Xiao Qi. Back then, Ah Lü hadn’t been too fond of the two new additions. Whenever Wen Xin petted Xiao Qi or ruffled Ah Jiu’s feathers, Ah Lü would immediately sidle up and rub against his palm as if to “erase” their scents.
Mutated creatures were often highly sensitive to smells and exhibited an obsessive possessiveness. Wen Xin had grown used to such quirks.
But Xiao Hei had always been different. No matter how many scents clung to Wen Xin’s body—be it from Ah Zi, Ah Lü, or anyone else—the black furball remained calm and indifferent, as though completely unfazed.
This gray egg, however, had reacted so strongly that it rolled away the moment it detected something it disliked.
Wen Xin gently tapped the egg’s shell with his fingertip. “Tell me, are you Xiao Hei or not, hmm?”
