Lu Yan didn’t have the innate talent of affinity, but he was exceptionally good-looking.

When someone who is so good-looking that a vast chasm exists between them and normal people speaks to you in a gentle, soft voice, the effect is pretty much the same, even without the talent of affinity.

During his university years, Lu Yan had dissected many rabbits. He knew perfectly well how to calm down a frightened little animal. However, considering that it was no longer appropriate to pat an adult male on the head, Lu Yan merely patted his back gently.

Tang Xun’an’s heavy breathing gradually steadied, and his tense expression relaxed. He retracted his claws but did not let down his guard; he retreated to the corner of the wall, his thick, long dragon tail coiling around himself in a circle. Even without eyesight, the gaze he directed toward Lu Yan remained full of wariness.

On the surveillance monitors, the rest of the staff let out long sighs of relief, as if a great weight had been lifted from their shoulders.

“Thank goodness. Tang indeed still retains his human reason and consciousness.” Catherine wiped the tears from the corners of her eyes with a tissue. “Now I can leave the research institute with peace of mind.”

“The previous instances of hurting people were likely just acute stress reactions caused by post-operative rejection,” Professor Wu added. “Right now, Tang Xun’an’s distortion rate is still very high. We can wait for the fusion to conclude completely before conducting further observations.”

Among this crowd of faceless researchers, a professor named Gong Weibin stood out exceptionally because he actually possessed a human face. He had a stern, joyless countenance that looked somewhat solemn and gloomy. His fingernails were bitten down quite short, leaving his hands peeling slightly, though it was unclear whether this was due to a vitamin deficiency or some other reason.

Gong Weibin said coldly, “Don’t celebrate too early. With this kind of hybrid between humans and pollutants, no one knows what kind of monster it will eventually turn into. Many experiments require time to prove their results.”

If Lu Yan were here, he would likely be shocked. During his orientation training at the headquarters, he had vaguely heard that the current director of the First Research Institute was named Gong Weibin.

His words made Professor Catherine frown uncomfortably. “We are not conducting experiments; we are facilitators. We assist combat-type Awakened in acquiring greater power.”

Gong Weibin smiled but did not reply. Instead, he brought up his own project. “I recently discovered that transplanting canine genes into androids implants a dog-like loyalty in them…”

“I will never approve of your research topic,” Catherine frowned deeply.

Seeing the atmosphere turning sour, Professor Wu quickly chimed in to break the tension. “Alright, alright, Tang Xun’an doesn’t need to be euthanized, which is a happy occasion. Why make things so serious? We won’t talk about work today. Where is Director Qiao?”

“I don’t know. I heard he had some business and went out.”

Perhaps the first wave of evolution was a selection from the heavens; among highly educated intellectuals, an exceptionally large number of Awakened had emerged.

Qiao Yu’s longtime friend, Yu Hanxi, was one of them. His innate ability was called Precognition. Yu Hanxi was also a thorough workaholic. Because he had never married and had lost his reproductive capacity, two years ago he went to an orphanage and adopted a daughter, naming her Yu Zhizhi.

The little girl was born intellectually disabled, but she was very cute. Professor Yu treated her as his own. Fearing that no one would take care of his daughter after he died, he specifically established a foundation. Because both men were busy with work, they usually communicated via messaging software whenever problems arose. Only this time, Yu Hanxi had been extremely insistent that Qiao Yu come to his house.

So, Qiao Yu came.

The moment he saw Yu Hanxi, Qiao Yu understood why the other man had insisted on his presence.

Yu Hanxi’s appearance… was somewhat terrifying.

The skin on his face was peeling off, his hair was completely gone, and the blood vessels across his body were bloated. Bright red blood continuously seeped from his capillaries, making him look exactly like someone suffering from severe nuclear radiation.

“What happened to you?!” Qiao Yu had seen plenty of grand, horrific scenes, but when this happened to someone close to him, he still found it difficult to maintain his composure. “How did you end up like this?”

Yu Hanxi smiled self-deprecatingly. “Overused my talent. Unsurprisingly, I’ll be dying very soon.”

“What did you do to overuse it?”

Yu Hanxi coughed a couple of times, spitting out a few fragments of his ruptured spleen and lungs. “I didn’t do anything. I just had a dream.”

“I only have enough time left to tell you… Qiao Yu.” A profound exhaustion covered Yu Hanxi’s face. “In my dream, I saw Zhizhi. Her entire body began to glow. As I approached that light source, I could feel my talent losing its effect… No, it wasn’t losing its effect; rather, I returned to my pre-cataclysm state.”

“I was astonished, so I took Zhizhi to look for you. On the way, we encountered the Wall of Resentment. However, after that wall was illuminated by the light from Zhizhi’s body, it turned back into an ordinary wall…”

“There were also many pollutants along the road. They all reverted to their pre-cataclysm states. But… there were too many of them. They seemed to have gone mad, continuously launching attacks at Zhizhi. The light on her body grew dimmer and dimmer. Dimmer and dimmer. I wanted to protect her, but she still extinguished in my arms. In that instant, the world fell into pitch-black darkness, swallowed by pollution.”

Bloody tears streamed down Yu Hanxi’s face, blurring his vision. “Then I woke up. Do you remember our initial hypothesis?”

Deep inside, Qiao Yu was profoundly shaken. “…Since there is pollution, there must be purification.”

“Yes. My distortion rate will soon exceed 100%. But I don’t want to become one of those things. After you leave, I will end it myself.” Yu Hanxi’s tone was remarkably casual, as if they were just chatting about daily trivia. “I leave Yu Zhizhi in your care.”

“Alright.” Qiao Yu’s tone was firm, yet it carried an indescribable sorrow.

Yu Hanxi turned his head and waved to the little girl who was silently watching everything from upstairs. “Zhizhi, come here. Daddy won’t be able to watch you grow up with his own eyes. Listen to Uncle Qiao Yu from now on.”

And so, another little girl appeared in the First Research Institute. She was neither an Awakened undergoing modification nor a researcher.

It was said that she was the only daughter of Director Qiao’s good friend. His friend had supposedly died of a sudden brain hemorrhage, leaving no one to care for the girl, so Professor Qiao had no choice but to bring her along.

This explanation couldn’t quite withstand close scrutiny. Because at their level of scientific research, they weren’t lacking money. Furthermore, how could a world of cold, mechanical instruments be as colorful and vibrant as the outside world for a child?

Yet, Yu Zhizhi was exceptionally steady and quiet. She neither cried nor threw tantrums. When Qiao Yu was writing experiment reports, she would quietly stay by his side, drawing pictures or playing Tetris on a pixel game console.

Yu Zhizhi’s drawings were all simple children’s sketches, using bright and vivid colors; she seemed to be quite a talented child. Director Qiao always ruled with an absolute word in his own institute, and since Yu Zhizhi never caused trouble, everyone tacitly accepted her presence. Some researchers, overflowing with maternal instincts, would even specifically go out after work to buy beautiful dresses for Yu Zhizhi to change into.

Whatever was happening outside the tenth underground floor had nothing to do with Lu Yan for the time being.

His job was to record Tang Xun’an’s daily physical condition and feed him. Although Awakened didn’t have much need for sleep or food, going without food or drink for a long time would still cause physical issues, manifesting as the degeneration of digestive organs.

Fortunately, right next to Tang Xun’an’s bedroom were Lu Yan’s quarters and a kitchen.

Lu Yan preferred to call his quarters the “nanny’s room.” Whether it was because space had run tight by the time they excavated the final basement floor, the place he lived in was only about the size of a six-person school dorm. On the other hand, right next to his bedroom was a recreation room, which was incredibly spacious. To put it more intuitively, the size of Lu Yan’s living quarters couldn’t even match the bathroom with the bathtub inside Tang Xun’an’s bedroom. Presumably, when this place was built, no one had ever expected anyone other than Tang Xun’an to live here long-term.

Fortunately, Lu Yan lived alone, so it was manageable.

At Lu Yan’s request, staff members would deliver fresh ingredients to the elevator door every day. In the morning, Lu Yan would open four doors to go out, grab the groceries, and close four doors to come back. A single round trip was less than 500 meters, yet it took half an hour and required 16 identity verifications.

Cooking was one of his few hobbies. Today’s lunch consisted of tomato meatball soup and stir-fried pork with green peppers. The minced garlic and ginger slices sizzled loudly in hot oil, smelling incredibly enticing.

As he plated the cooked food, he caught a glimpse out of the corner of his eye of someone peering at him through the crack of the kitchen door. When he turned his head, however, the doorway was completely empty. There didn’t seem to be anyone else on this floor besides him and Tang Xun’an.

He brought the dishes to the dining table, thought for a moment, and then knocked on the bedroom door. “Are you awake? Do you want to come out and eat?”

There was no response.

But when Lu Yan woke up from an afternoon nap and prepared to put the dishes into the dishwasher, he found that the plates on the table were entirely empty. Cooking for one person or cooking for two didn’t seem to make much of a difference. Lu Yan was used to portioning food onto separate plates, and he was also used to washing dishes after taking a nap.

By the fifth day, his invisible roommate finally walked out of the bedroom and silently sat down at the dining table.

Tang Xun’an’s physique hadn’t changed much, but the dragon wings and tail on his back could not yet be retracted. They took up a lot of space, making him look exceptionally bulky.

Lu Yan had prepared chopsticks for him, but his clearly mutated hands obviously couldn’t grip such things anymore. Any food he picked up would fall back onto the table within three seconds. Yet, Tang Xun’an had a stubborn streak. He probably really wanted to display his “human” side in front of Lu Yan; despite repeated failures, he insisted on using chopsticks to eat, his eyes growing red with frustration.

Bright red blood vessels laced the whites of his eyes, making them look terrifying and ferocious.

Lu Yan put down his chopsticks and fell silent for a moment. “Let me do it.”

Thus, Tang Xun’an sat motionless in his chair.

Tang Xun’an’s teeth were very sharp, giving Lu Yan the illusion that he might be bitten at any moment. But from beginning to end, Tang’s behavior was very docile. He even subconsciously wrapped his dragon tail around Lu Yan’s waist.

The tenth day of living together.

Lu Yan put down the thick “Modification Surgery” record report beside him, turned off the light, and prepared to sleep. He had requested a vast amount of research data from Professor Wu. In real life, these were absolute top-secret files. If he didn’t read more of them while inside the dream, it would be a massive loss.

Everything seemed to be progressing in a good direction. Tang Xun’an’s distortion rate was gradually dropping, and the dragon wings on his back no longer bled, though he had to shed scales every day.

Every morning when Lu Yan went to record the data, Tang Xun’an’s bed was always covered in blood and pitch-black dragon scales. New scales would be sharper and sturdier than the old ones, but if the old scales weren’t completely shed, the two layers would squeeze together. Due to insufficient energy supply, abnormal white scales would form.

Therefore, Lu Yan had another task every day: to help Tang Xun’an check if the old dragon scales had been cleaned thoroughly. If not, he needed to pull them out using tools.

Lu Yan had had his own scales pulled before, so he knew how much it hurt. But he really had no other choice.

This was almost the most vulnerable time of the day for Tang Xun’an. His head would rest powerlessly on Lu Yan’s shoulder. Whenever an extra dragon scale was pulled off, he would let out a muffled groan from his nasal cavity, enduring the pain. Painkillers were virtually useless on Tang Xun’an. Lu Yan could only soothingly pinch the back of Tang Xun’an’s neck—because of the shedding, Tang Xun’an was often a bloody mess, leaving Lu Yan unable to find a place to even offer a proper hug.

For both parties, the most agonizing area was the scales on the dragon tail, especially near the base of the tail. The sensations here were far more sensitive than anywhere else; when the scales were pulled, Tang Xun’an’s reaction was exceptionally intense. Specific expressions included, but were not limited to, gripping the bedsheets, trembling all over, and letting out soft whimpers.

Lu Yan wasn’t sure if he heard Tang Xun’an crying. But even so, the other party still very obediently lifted his tail to make it convenient for Lu Yan to check.

Lu Yan: “…”

After pulling just a few scales, he couldn’t help but put down the large surgical forceps and head to the bathroom to splash some water on his face to calm down.

“A human, at the very least, shouldn’t be…” Lu Yan muttered expressionlessly to himself in the mirror, “…this perverted.”

In short, everything was progressing smoothly.

The thirtieth day.

Tang Xun’an’s distortion rate finally dropped below 90. His palms reverted to human form, he regained basic cognitive abilities, and recovered some of his voice.

Tang Xun’an could finally speak. The three phrases with the highest frequency of appearance were: “Lu Yan, hungry,” “Lu Yan, tired,” and “Lu Yan, hurts.”

According to what the System had said previously, the key to breaking the situation was to make the master of the dream wake up. But Lu Yan had stayed here for so long, and he still didn’t know how to make Tang Xun’an regain consciousness. Because life was too peaceful and fitting, Lu Yan even felt as though he had integrated into this dreamscape. Only when he saw some faceless people walking to and fro would he realize that this wasn’t reality.

The research team stated that as the fusion further perfected and the distortion rate decreased, Tang Xun’an would gradually break out of this “child-like” state. Lu Yan felt this might be true, because a month later, Tang Xun’an finally learned to pull out his own scales, no longer requiring his assistance.

When he was locked out of the bedroom by Tang Xun’an, Lu Yan actually felt a pang of bittersweetness, akin to a parent realizing their “child’s wings have grown strong.”

The research group discussed and decided they wanted Tang Xun’an to have more contact with the outside world to restore his social functionality as soon as possible. Thus, Lu Yan gained a new task, which he was willing to call “dog walking.” One end of the chain was in his hand, while the other end was fastened to a high-voltage electric collar around Tang Xun’an’s neck.

The 8th and 9th underground floors served as the dormitories for other volunteers undergoing surgical modification. The 4th and 5th floors were where the researchers usually stayed and rested. The 1st floor was a shelter, while the 2nd and 3rd floors were experimental zones.

Every day, Lu Yan would take Tang Xun’an for a two-hour stroll around the 9th to 5th underground floors. This was likely effective, as Tang Xun’an’s learning speed was rapid. When they were on the tenth floor, he couldn’t even master chopsticks in a month, but after going outside for just two days, he learned how to use them.

To this day, Lu Yan still didn’t know where the First Research Institute was actually built. However, this underground space seemed to follow an inverted pyramid structure, getting narrower the further down it went.

In the beginning, everyone was somewhat tense. After all, if Tang Xun’an suddenly went berserk, it was estimated that no one present could restrain him. Fortunately, although Tang Xun’an looked ferocious, he was very obedient to Lu Yan. As time passed, everyone stopped being so nervous.

Professor Wu highly praised the completion of Lu Yan’s work, patting him on the shoulder. “Little Lu, I knew Director Qiao wouldn’t misjudge a person. You have simply overachieved on this assignment!”

Beside him stood a timid little girl.

To Lu Yan’s surprise, this little girl’s face was also very clear. Having stayed in the dream for so long, Lu Yan basically understood one thing: those who still retained their facial features in Tang Xun’an’s dream were likely important NPCs.

Professor Wu introduced her, saying she was Director Qiao’s niece, named Yu Zhizhi.

Lu Yan replied, “Thank you.”

Tang Xun’an’s cold gaze fixed upon the hand Professor Wu had used to pat Lu Yan’s shoulder. Old Wu suddenly felt a chill run down his spine and retracted his hand. “Haha, Professor Qiao said that the eye modification surgery for Tang Xun’an has already been designed. We have found a suitable source of pollution. If the modification succeeds, he can obtain a pair of Golden Pupils that will never go blind…”

Yu Zhizhi couldn’t speak. She glanced at Lu Yan and the Tang Xun’an beside him, then lowered her head, scribbling away on a piece of paper.

Lu Yan and Professor Wu had only happened to cross paths in the breakroom, so they didn’t converse for long. Just as he was preparing to leave, the little girl took a step forward and tugged at the hem of Lu Yan’s clothes.

Unable to speak, Yu Zhizhi stood on her tiptoes and handed over two drawings.

Professor Wu said with a smile, “Zhizhi loves to draw. These are presents for you two.”

“Thank you, Zhizhi,” Lu Yan flashed a gentle smile at her. “The drawings are beautiful.”

He looked down at the two pieces of paper. The smile on his lips suddenly froze.

On the first piece of paper, a black dragon was drawn. Its body was immense, surrounded by flames. Though it was a simple sketch, the image still carried a frenzied feeling. Two blue crayon strokes were heavily scrawled across its golden eyes, making it look as though it were weeping.

The other drawing used blue waves to depict an ocean, with a person at the bottom of the sea whose gender could not be discerned. The lower half of this person’s body was a long, dark-gold tail; rather than a fish tail, it looked more like a snake or a dragon. The tail occupied two-thirds of the entire page. Even though no facial expression was depicted and the colors used were very bright, the vibe given off by the picture was incredibly gloomy.

Fine black lines coiled around its long tail, as if attempting to drag it down into the abyss.