Chapter 59

Chapter 59

The corpse was a gruesome sight, torn to pieces so thoroughly the recovery team had struggled to figure how to move it.

Not many had died in this incident, leaving the morgue feeling vast and unnaturally cold.

The staff transferred the body from the freezer to the examination table. A white sheet covered the face.

Tang Xun’an stood in the doorway. It wasn’t fear of the dead that held him back, but a deep-seated dread of what he might see. He stood there, perfectly still, for a full minute.

Then he moved. In one fluid motion, he stepped forward and pulled back the sheet. He closed his eyes, drew a sharp breath, and opened them again. The vertical slits of his pupils slowly dilated back into human rounds.

He looked down. Only then did he notice his own hand was trembling.

No. It wasn’t Lu Yan.

Tang Xun’an returned to the deck. A sea breeze carrying the faintest metallic tang washed over him. The scent of blood was so diluted only a pollutant would normally catch it. He wasn’t one, but the Predator gene was in his blood—he’d tasted it before.

He inhaled lightly, then turned his gaze toward a specific point on the dark horizon.

…

…

To fight off total unconsciousness, Lu Yan had stabbed himself three times.

The last strike, delivered through a haze of agony, had gone too deep, nicking a major vessel. His regeneration couldn’t keep up immediately, and blood flowed a little too freely. Passing out here was as good as a death sentence.

He was terrified of waking up in some inescapable research Center, or worse, not waking up at all. Under normal circumstances, he wouldn’t worry. But nothing about his current state was normal.

From below his navel, a layer of pale fish skin had spread, scales creeping upward from his abdomen in a slow, stubborn invasion. He didn’t know what being cut in half felt like, but from the waist down, his body felt like it belonged to someone else—a separate entity screaming in protest.

The pain was a white-hot rending. Cold sweat plastered his entire body.

He was holed up in a sea cave, a water-carved hollow in the cliff face. The lower half of his body was still submerged in the chill seawater, his back against the dark, damp rock. Around him, aberrant fish-men circled anxiously, emitting soft, worried glub-glub sounds.

[Hold on, host!] the system cheered with manic enthusiasm. [The baby is crowning!!]

The "baby" it referred to was the pelvic fin emerging from his lower abdomen. For a fish, it provided braking and steering—the equivalent of hind limbs. Near the small of his back, just above where his tail began to form, a dorsal fin was also pushing through. The key for a fish-man to swim upright! A fish without a dorsal fin could only flop on its side.

"…" Lu Yan thought, with perfect clarity, that if the system had a physical form, he would strangle it.

"I'm going under," he muttered, voice thready. "Talk to me. What is this 'god' you mentioned?" He was a staunch atheist.

[You want the lecture even if it turns your brain to mush?]

"Yes."

The system paused.

[If you must have an analogy… think of it as the end result of a Perfect Evolution specimen's path. The transition into a higher form of life.]

"From carbon-based to silicon-based?"

The system chose not to answer.

"How many evolutionary sequences are there?"

[I've only observed two.]

"Only two? Which ones."

[You. Shen Qingyang. Lu Jiahe.]

Two sequences, but three names. Lu Yan’s foggy mind churned. If he had to guess… despite their different manifestations, he and Shen Qingyang were probably contenders on the same evolutionary path. They’d both been contaminated by the "Parasitic Fish Egg," after all.

"What about Tang Xun’an?"

[He killed a Perfect Evolution specimen still in its aberration phase and stole some of its abilities through fusion surgery. But he isn't one himself. Stop asking. Can't you feel your brain frying?]

Lu Yan’s vision began to tunnel. He slumped weakly against the black reef, and in his delirium, thought he saw a dark seabird swooping toward the cave entrance…

Wait. Since when did the mermaid island have seabirds?

"Lu Yan?"

The voice came from above. Lu Yan tilted his head back, squinting. For a moment, he couldn’t tell if this was another hallucination. The sound of the tide and distant siren song filled his ears.

But those distinctive golden eyes were hard to mistake.

He wasn’t looking his best. His clothes were stained with blood, and the fight with Lone Wolf had left him covered in scrapes and bruises.

Tang Xun’an waded into the small cave. The water here rose to his waist. Lu Yan was propped against the innermost wall, one arm draped over the rocky ledge.

"Where’s your muzzle?" Lu Yan asked, his voice raspy. "Did you lose it?"

[It’s called a bite guard,] the system interjected helpfully. [Even the dogs Tang Xun’an raises don’t wear muzzles.]

Tang Xun’an wanted to reach out and gather him close. He’d once seen an aberrant human—a mother so consumed by love she tried to force her child back into her womb. He’d thought it a grotesque perversion of affection. Now, he understood the desperate impulse. He wished he could tether Lu Yan to his side.

The fear was a physical thing. Fear that the sun would fall and crush him, fear of passing cars, of water offered by strangers. Fear that the calm in Lu Yan’s eyes would one day soften with pity—pity directed at someone else.

A sour-sweet ache of something lost and found again swelled in his chest, but it felt wildly disproportionate to their actual relationship. In reality, they’d barely exchanged more than a few formal words.

So, Tang Xun’an simply looked down and answered, "The doctor said I’ve found… other restraints for myself. I don’t need it as a reminder anymore." His gaze flickered over Lu Yan’s form, taking in the golden scales and the hint of a fish tail shifting in the pink-tinged seawater. "Are you alright? Do you need help?"

Lu Yan had never been a person of strong desires. But now, a faint, curious itch stirred within him.

He thought for a moment. "Come here."

Tang Xun’an obeyed, closing the distance slightly, but still maintaining a polite gap.

Lu Yan lifted his newly formed tail and brushed it lightly against Tang Xun’an’s calf.

Every muscle in Tang Xun’an’s body went rigid. Shock and profound awkwardness flashed across his face. The night was preternaturally still, the water eerily calm, making the sudden, heavy thud of his heartbeat thunderously loud in the confined space.

Lu Yan’s eyes narrowed, a slight, inexplicably pleased curve touching his lips. "Where’s your tail?"

The night eroded reason, wore down self-control.

"…"

After a beat of silence, a thick, powerful draconic tail materialized behind Tang Xun’an. It was mostly useless—he didn’t need it for balance. In combat, its length was often a hindrance. He’d even considered having it removed once, but feared unforeseen consequences.

"May I touch it?" Lu Yan asked, perfectly polite.

Tang Xun’an was taken aback. "…Yes."

Lu Yan shifted closer and finally laid a hand on it.

"It feels bigger than when you were nineteen."

"…Mn." Tang Xun’an’s reply was stiff. The moment that peculiar, undeniable sensation registered, he began to regret his permission. He forced himself to look away, maintaining a facade of calm.

Distracted, Lu Yan found the agony in his lower half receding to a manageable throb. He leaned against the pool’s edge, cradling the draconic tail, and nuzzled his feverish cheek against its cool surface. It was surprisingly soft between the scales.

Driven by an unknown whim, he gently scratched at the scales where the tail met the base of Tang Xun’an’s spine.

He was immensely satisfied to see the entire tail tense, straighten, and lift like a startled cat’s.

Tang Xun’an’s reaction was violent. If he had a system, it would be screaming warnings about perverts and demanding an immediate retraction.

But he had no system. And the thought of refusing Lu Yan never crossed his mind.

Theirs was a strange bond. Those three months of being cared for had forged in Tang Xun’an a unique blend of dependency, protectiveness, and possessiveness toward Lu Yan.

Lu Yan understood this perfectly.

He just didn’t know how to love back—how to reciprocate that kind of altruistic, self-sacrificing emotion that defied every animal instinct. He’d spent years learning to mimic a normal life. But the advanced curriculum of loving another person remained utterly foreign to him.

Rare joy bubbled within him. He asked the system, "Is this another side effect of overusing my abilities?"

[Confront your own heart, host,] the system said sternly. [Don’t blame everything on side effects. Be honest. You’ve wanted to do that for a while, haven’t you?]