Everything fears comparison—even pheromones.

Chi Yao could’ve tolerated Li Bo’s cheap, rancid liquor‑scented pheromones.
But after catching a whiff of Jing Xi’s scent, he decided he didn’t need to spoil his nose like that.

The arena’s AI quickly identified abnormal pheromone emissions. Automated guards swarmed Li Bo, enforcing quarantine.

Medical staff rushed in to inject suppressants and stabilizers.

Chi Yao had half a mind to let Li Bo suffer longer, but now all his attention was fixed on Jing Xi’s pheromones.

Over the years, the two had crossed paths plenty of times—yet this was the first time he was truly smelling his rival’s scent.

While everyone else in the hall suffered under Li Bo’s chaotic pheromones, Chi Yao stepped out casually, raising his sleeve to inhale deeply.

“So this is your scent,” he murmured, then almost immediately lifted his sleeve again for another greedy whiff.

Addictive.

The arena air was soon purified, affected officers recovering once the stabilizers kicked in.

“Major General Jing isn’t affected at all.”
“Of course not. His pheromone level is too high—normal alphas can’t touch him.”
“I thought General Li and General Jing were at the same rank.”
“No one’s ever smelled Jing’s pheromones before. That alone should tell you how strong he is.”

The higher the level, the greater the self‑control—and the harder it was for outside pheromones to suppress them.

Watching the farce, Pei Zhenyue felt increasingly disappointed in Li Bo. Competition was fine, but losing his temper and lashing out like this was beneath an officer.

“The match is over. Everyone dismissed,” he said coldly. And walked off with his teacup.

Li Bo collapsed, too weak to stand, dark rage festering as he heard lowly-ranked officers whispering about him.

Chu Xiao and his team of rookies had come to thank Jing Xi, but after stumbling into a brutally violent “ping pong” match, they forgot entirely. By the time they came to their senses, he was long gone.

---

After the recruit rankings came out, follow‑up affairs no longer concerned Chi Yao.

On the return ship, he sat up all night staring at star maps of Cetus Sector.

In the middle of the night, damp discomfort jolted him awake. The air was heavy with pheromones. He thought he heard muffled sobbing by his ear—something warm trickled down his cheek.

Chi Yao bolted upright.

He wiped at his face. His hand came back wet.

Blood? No—no metallic scent.

Sniffling, he felt more liquid streaming from his eyes.

“Sh*t.”

He rushed to the bathroom. The mirror almost made his heart skip.

A face wearied and trembling, eyelashes wet, reddened eyes rimmed in tears. A tragic, fragile beauty.

And still crying.

“What kind of nightmare makes an iceberg cry like this?” Chi Yao scoffed, snapping a photo with his terminal and sending it to “himself.”

[Saved to album. Note: ‘Weeping Beauty Special Edition. Scent not bad either.’]

After splashing water on his face, he wiped off casually with a towel—and then, suddenly, the tears spilled again, falling hard and fast.

Chi Yao gripped the sink, swearing through tears.

“What the hell is wrong with this body?”

The air grew richer with pheromones. He inhaled raggedly, breath hitching. It smelled… good.

So he inhaled more.

Then froze.

Great. In the middle of the night, crying in the bathroom and sniffing pheromones like an addict—one big pervert.

If Old Li and the others ever saw… they’d laugh for life.

The terminal buzzed. The feed expanded, showing his own handsome face.

Jing Xi: “I used Reagent No. 5.”

Chi Yao: “No. 5?”

Still half‑asleep, he didn’t catch it.

Jing Xi’s eyes flicked away uncomfortably from the tear‑streaked face. “It usually lasts two days. Stay inside until then.”

Chi Yao: “What, crying in your sleep is hereditary?”

Jing Xi: “None of your business.”

Chi Yao: “It’s my body right now. I’m exhausted, you know?”

Jing Xi’s gaze flickered, refusing to meet his eyes. “It doesn’t affect sleep.”

Chi Yao barked a laugh.
“My pillow’s soaked through two layers, and you say it doesn’t affect sleep? Are you made of water?”

His secret—exposed in the worst way, to his sworn enemy—burned Jing Xi with shame and fury.

“If you know how to fix it, I don’t mind switching back right now.”

Chi Yao: “…”

If only he had a way out, would he still be babysitting rookies this long?

Negotiation broken, they disconnected bitterly.

Unable to sit still, Jing Xi finally caved and texted Jiang Feng.

[Deliver Reagent No. 5 suppressant to Jing Xi’s quarters.]

The reply came minutes later:

[And who are you?]

[His attending doctor,] Jing Xi answered. Breathing easier at last.

Moments later, his room door creaked open. A hulking dog carried a steel comb over to him.

“…What now?”

Wherever he moved, the dog followed with the comb in its jaws. Into the study—still trailing him.

Finally, Jing Xi accepted, and the beast obediently stretched out its forepaws.

“You really know how to spoil yourself.”

He brushed reluctantly—but soon found himself absorbed.

The dog sprawled happily, gazing at his reflection in the window. A proud mane, sleek as a lion’s.

“Owoo!”

For some reason, Jing Xi could feel the animal’s delight. He muttered despite himself, “So handsome today.”

The dog froze mid‑howl, threw itself down, paws covering its eyes.

When he finished grooming, Chun Qin knocked and entered with freshly laundered clothes. On her way out, she suddenly turned back.

“Boss. Maybe it was just an offhand line to you, but that child remembered it. If you have time… could you visit?”

Jing Xi frowned. “Tie Xiong? What happened?”

“He cried all night when you took his gun away. Now he’s burning with fever.”

Jing Xi’s chest tightened. An image of the boy’s reaching hand came back.

The oversized firearm strapped to a child so small—it would stunt growth someday. He’d even swapped it for a light, remodeled air pistol for safety.

But he hadn’t expected such backlash.

He followed Chun Qin to the boy’s quarters.

The “children’s room” was draped in animal bones, black walls, with a giant wolf’s head mounted—bigger than the child himself.

On the bed, Tie Xiong lay burning hot, eyes swollen, his tiny voice a whimper.

“Boss?”

Chun Qin swapped out the cold patch. “Your boss came to see you.”

“Huh? Boss?” Through fever haze, Tie Xiong began to sob again.

“Boss doesn’t want me anymore, right? He took my gun. I have no work now.”

Voice hoarse, tears flowing.

Jing Xi guessed the truth and sighed, sitting by the bed to wipe his cheeks.
“Stop crying. If you want that one, I’ll give it back.”

The boy blinked up, saw him—and bawled even harder, blowing a giant snot bubble.

“…Do I pop this first before wiping?”

“Boss!” he wailed, reaching.

Jing Xi reluctantly pulled him into his arms, awkwardly patting his back.
“Don’t cry.”

But the gentler he was, the more the child broke down.

Head pounding, Jing Xi looked to Chun Qin—then noticed something wrong.

Golden fur sprouted across the boy’s hand; nails thickening into claws.

Shock jolted him—images of Golden Mask’s grotesque transformation at the mine flashed back.

Illness? Mutation?

His eyes narrowed. “Medicine?” he demanded.

Chun Qin produced a syringe and injected.
“He’s young. If emotions spike, he loses control.”

Slowly the hair receded, nails shrank back.

“Does this happen often?” Jing Xi asked, voice flat.

“Much less than before. First time in half a year,” Chun Qin said softly.

The boy calmed, sniffled, and begged,
“Boss… if I have nowhere to go, can you at least wait until I’m older to throw me away?”

Jing Xi forced calm. “I replaced it because the old gun was too heavy. Not because I’d throw you away.”

“…Not heavy,” the boy said blankly.

“My fault, then.”

Eyes lit, Tie Xiong shook his head furiously. “No, Boss isn’t wrong!”

Jing Xi clasped his hand. “Does it hurt?”

The boy puzzled. “Hurt? Nope. Feels sooo good.”

“…Good?”

“Like when you poop.”

Jing Xi: “…”

---

Later, leaving the room, Jing Xi’s face turned grim.

What the hell is happening inside this group?

Mutations. Numbers burned into arms. How far did this go—including Chi Yao himself?

Meanwhile on the other side—Chi Yao was still crying his eyes out.

Exhausted. Was this what Tie Xiong had felt when he bullied him into tears? Pure misery.

The door buzzed—delivery. A syringe lay outside, labeled with a bold “5.”

A message pinged from Jiang Feng:

[Sir, the suppressant has been delivered. Please self‑administer.]

Suppressant?

Chi Yao stopped short, realization dawning.

So this wasn’t just some random defect.

Jing Xi’s tears… were from being in rut.

No wonder. His awkward expression earlier…

Chi Yao shook his head, half‑laughing to himself.

He’d forgotten—normal alphas had such cycles.

But Jing Xi? Cold, untouchable Jing Xi—in rut?

And so intense? Did that mean… he liked someone?

---

Author’s Note:

Chi Yao: Forced to endure a rut that isn’t even mine. [stubbornly wipes tears]
Jing Xi: …Tough luck. [stone‑faced]
Chi Yao: At least tell me who you like. Maybe I’ll forgive you.
Jing Xi: Guess.
Chi Yao: ……

(P.S. Author’s setting: The stronger the emotions, the stronger the rut symptoms. Monsters like Chi Yao, who “have no heart,” don’t get ruts at all.)