CHAPTER 132: TAKE HIM OVER YOUR DEAD BODIES

A blazing red bracelet glowed around the child’s ankle.

"Sorry, Brother Siān—this—" the boy, Xiǎo Zǔ, remembered how those people had fastened the bracelet to his ankle and warned him not to try to pass through the door, that an alarm would sound when he left.

But he had been so overjoyed to see Siān that what happened afterward surprised him so completely he had forgotten about it. Xiǎo Zǔ felt guilty, so he did not dare raise his head to meet Siān’s eyes; he explained what had happened in a voice smaller than a mosquito’s whisper.

Siān and Lan Qíshēng both listened to the boy with dark expressions.

It was a device used on those detained under the law—meant to prevent them from escaping their homes or prison rooms.

"So they treated Xiǎo Zǔ like a high-risk prisoner, huh?" Siān scoffed loudly, his lips twisting into a manic laugh.

Siān gazed intently at the boy, his eyes drawn to the starkness of his bare scalp, the pale skin glistening under the dim light. He remained hunched over, his small frame trembling slightly as he kept his head bowed low, avoiding Sian’s scrutiny and the weight of the world around him.

Without further hesitation, Siān grabbed the boy’s chin and lifted his face so he was forced to meet Siān’s gaze. Then, with a seriousness and calm that clashed sharply with the alarms and red lights around them, Siān spoke word by word: "Hold your head high. You haven’t done anything wrong—yet. And if you ever do—"

He paused, then looked at Lan Qíshēng and the guards and the white-coated researchers who surrounded them. A flicker of malice and cunning lit his eyes. "—It will be because of them. I’ll have your back. I’ll save you, even if it means killing for you."

Siān was warning them, expressing a deep concern that if the child’s heart darkened and he descended into a life of violence, the blame would lie squarely with their treatment. He vowed to stand resolutely beside him, ready to offer unwavering support and protection against the world’s harsh judgments.

Lan Qíshēng grasped both the subtle undertones and the overt implications woven into Siān’s words. He felt an urgent need to implore Siān not to instill such dreadful ideas in the child, to underscore that taking a life violated both the law and the principles of morality. Yet, as he struggled to articulate his thoughts, the right words eluded him, leaving him in a state of profound silence, unsure of how to convey the weight of his concerns.

"What are you doing? This child is the subject of hazardous experiments. He must not leave that room. Return him at once!" One of the men in white shouted, his voice cutting through the air with an unsettling sharpness. He appeared to be an old man, with a face that bore the gentle wrinkles of age, suggesting a kindness that was ultimately deceptive. His words, however, dripped with cruelty, revealing a stark and chilling perspective. He openly acknowledged that they viewed the subject not as a child or a fellow human being, but rather as an experimental specimen—something valuable to dissect and study, stripped of its dignity and humanity.

"Colonel, what does this mean? You were granted permission to see the child and check on his condition—no more. You can’t just remove him." One of the armed men spoke up; there were about ten of them in total, all aiming their rifles at Siān and the child since they were standing by the room’s exit.

He addressed Lan Qíshēng because he knew him—he had searched Lan Qíshēng and Siān before they entered, and he knew the colonel had obtained a special permit to bring Siān in with him.

Observing Siān guide the boy toward the door, with Lan Qíshēng following closely behind, his face devoid of expression, he instinctively sensed that Siān was stirring up trouble. It was clear that Lan Qíshēng, bearing the weight of an actual military rank along with a solemn duty, was in a position where he could not afford to create discord within the walls of the state research institute.

A sound escaped—not a word, not a curse, not even a shout. It was small, barely more than a breath heard by those nearby, yet for some reason every scalp in the room prickled. If they had been cats, their entire bodies would have stiffened in terror.

Siān spoke; the edges of his eyes reddened increasingly, to the point where one might wonder whether his irises themselves would soon turn blood-red—like a lord of Hades, like a demon with accursed, crimson eyes.

"Subject of experiments?"

"High-risk?"

Siān repeated the old scientist’s words, then fixed him with a steady stare.

The old man wanted to say something, but suddenly felt a wave of unease.

He began to choke.

He could not breathe.

No—he was trying to breathe, but it was as if the air refused to enter his lungs.

The elder placed both hands on his throat. Within seconds he clawed at his neck, trying to tear open an airway so air could reach his lungs.

"Chief researcher, what’s wrong? What’s happening?" someone shouted.

"Quick—stop him! He’s tearing at his own throat!"

Blood ran down the old man’s neck where his nails had dug into the thin skin. Fortunately, the few people nearest restrained him, but he thrashed about, his face turning an ashen blue from lack of air.

Three researchers were holding him, gripping his hands to prevent further self-harm. Seeing him choke, they tried to help, but they could not understand what was happening.

To be a scientist at this institute meant that even a junior trainee could be better than the best doctors outside. Yet the geniuses who worked here stood baffled.

Only a minute or two passed.

Siān kept staring at the elder without diverting his gaze for even a second.

At last, the surrounding people recovered from their shock and looked at Siān with fear.

Anyone who felt no suspicion about what had just occurred would be foolish and unthinking.

When Siān kept his stare fixed on the chief researcher, the latter collapsed for no apparent reason.

Clearly, Siān had done something.

Would you tell them that’s impossible?

Don’t joke—this scientist had zombies and a virus that turned people into immortal monsters who died only when their heads were severed. Why shouldn’t supernatural abilities exist?

"Siān—"

"Please—"

Lan Qíshēng could not bear to see Siān become a killer. It was one thing to confront villains and criminals, but Siān standing over an unarmed—and highly placed—person in the state made Lan Qíshēng unable to let him become a wanted criminal.

He didn’t know exactly how Siān did such things, but he suspected Siān was responsible for the researcher collapsing.

"Boring." The word left Siān’s lips, and immediately the elder stopped thrashing on the floor and resumed breathing. He gulped air as if a fish returned from the air and revived in water—gasping heavily but alive. Finally, the suffering ceased.

After a few breathless moments, the chief researcher returned to a normal state, but he kept staring at Siān with wide, unblinking eyes.

Madness—sheer madness. Scientists have always craved the discovery of anomalies and miracles, even dangerous ones; otherwise, they would never study zombies without fear.

The guards and other researchers were bewildered; above all else, they felt fear.

How could one not be afraid of someone who could kill without making a single movement?

Unconsciously, all weapons that had been aimed at the trio were now directed solely at Siān.

"I have neither the patience nor the mood to stay here. Hear me—I’ll say this once and I won’t repeat it." Siān seemed indifferent to the guns pointed at his head as if they were toys. In a cold, detached voice he continued: "I’m leaving this place and taking the subject with me today. If a single person attempts to stop me, I will kill everything in this facility."

Siān looked into the eyes of each person—the chief researcher rimmed with blood, the others, and the guards—one by one. Then he turned his head and looked at Lan Qíshēng, his beloved.

Siān had no time to dwell on the myriad emotions in those ocean-blue eyes: worry, confusion, sorrow, pain, and the sense of betrayal. He didn’t need to explain himself to Lan Qíshēng or make him feel guilty. For the sake of his beloved, this was why he stood here, striving to control himself and not slaughter everyone. If not for Lan Qíshēng’s feelings, he would have torn the place apart, killed them all, taken the subject, and vanished. He didn’t do it—and that is the greatest proof that he cared for Lan Qíshēng, though he would never explain it or say a word.

He had given them a warning; if they were wise, they would let him be. If not, no one—not even Lan Qíshēng—was qualified to blame him for what would follow.