"Ah! AHHH—!" Fatty Jun writhed in the chair, his obese body convulsing violently for a full seven seconds before gradually calming down.
"I... I'm not dead?" He panted, looking down at his right arm where the bullet had struck. Strangely, there was no blood—just a small black hole.
Then his arm began to "melt" again, "fermenting" before swelling into a grotesque tumor that spat out the bullet with a wet plop. Moments later, it returned to normal.
The other three exchanged glances.
Huang holstered his gun. "That arm is definitely beastly. No talent in the sequence list causes such bizarre mutations." He massaged his temple. "But you... are still human. For now."
"For now?" Fatty Jun deflated.
Huang sighed, turning to Gao Yang. "Thoughts?"
"Bro Yang! Save me!" Fatty Jun wailed. "You wouldn't abandon me! You even saved Kai! How could you—"
"Not killing him yet," Gao Yang cut in.
"Why not?" Wang Zikai looked disappointed. "Useless deadweight."
"Who's useless?!" Fatty Jun screeched. "I'm your team's only healer! I have value!"
Gao Yang explained, "The mutation started after the white cat bite. If it spreads, we eliminate him. If it's contained to the arm, he's more useful alive."
"Exactly!" Fatty Jun latched onto the lifeline. "I can heal! Indispensable!"
After a pause, Huang nodded. "Tie him up. Observe for a few days." He turned to Wang Zikai. "This glorious task is yours. Keep him fed."
"No problem." Wang Zikai grinned darkly. "I'll take good care of him."
By 5 AM, dawn tinted the river outside Wang Zikai's penthouse. The three men lounged on beanbags, beers in hand, watching the water turn from slate to blush.
"First time seeing this," Huang admitted. "But he's not a beast. Not yet."
"Was that white cat a beast too?" Gao Yang mused. "I thought they only mimicked humans. Do some spread infection? Like zombies?"
"Unknown." Huang shook his head. "My contact once hinted there are more than just Lost Ones and Rage Beasts... We're seeing fragments of the iceberg."
His gaze drifted to Wang Zikai, who'd passed out snoring after his earlier partial transformation.
"Your friend... might be a new subtype of Lost One."
Gao Yang agreed. Wang Zikai was nothing like Old Liu. Lost Ones typically filtered out all beast-related information, but Wang Zikai absorbed it all—rationalizing everything without transforming.
Is it really just low IQ shielding him?
"Don't know if it's a delusion," Huang said wryly, "but since meeting you, the world feels... unbalanced. Like things are spiraling out of control."
He lit a cigarette. "In my years awakened, I've seen all types—strong, weak, reckless, cautious, insane, cold-blooded... Most died. But you?" Huang exhaled smoke. "You've got something special."
"Me?"
"You'll live long."
"Really?" Music to my ears.
"Which makes me... endangered." Huang's tone darkened.
"Why?"
"Childhood manga taught me this: Protagonists survive. Side characters?" He mimed a gun to his temple.
Gao Yang sweatdropped. Can't argue. As a transmigrator with a system, I do have protagonist vibes. Or maybe it's survivor bias...
"Decision made." Huang stood. "I'll keep my distance."
"What? Don't abandon me!"
"Not like that." Huang smirked. "We're joining the organization. More allies means my mortality rate gets diluted."
This uncle's the real transmigrator!
Huang scribbled an address. "Midnight tonight. Bring Qing Ling. Interview time."
After napping at Wang Zikai's, Gao Yang briefed Qing Ling on the rooftop—downplaying Wang Zikai's transformation. She remained silent.
He then strategically rebuilt his social facade—chatting with classmates, accepting lunch invites—selling the narrative that Li Weiwei's death had caused his reclusiveness.
By evening, they met at their usual alley rendezvous. When Gao Yang began stripping off his uniform, Qing Ling stopped him.
"No disguise today. The location's too far—we'll take the last subway."
As they exited the alley, Qing Ling suddenly looped her arm through his, resting her head against his shoulder in a picture-perfect teenage romance act.
"Plausible cover," she said.
Can't complain about having a deadly beauty as my bodyguard.
After a subway ride and a twenty-minute walk through Feiyang District—with a mandatory spicy skewer stop for Qing Ling—they reached Huangsong Street.
The derelict neighborhood looked straight out of the 90s: cracked sidewalks, flickering streetlights, and boarded-up shops. Number 121 was a grimy storefront with a half-shuttered metal gate, behind which neon lights pulsed to the sound of vintage arcade machines.
"Didn't know these places still existed," Gao Yang murmured, nostalgic for childhood days spent watching older kids master Street Fighter on a single coin.
"Let's go." Qing Ling masked up.
"Wait." Gao Yang hesitated.
"What?"
"Give me one song's worth of time."