The mysterious iron door opened with a burst of bright light and smoke. The white light fell upon Steward Sun’s body, as if trying to suck him inside.
Having spent so long in the dim environment, their pupils constricted sharply under the intense close-range light. Xiao Zhou used his arm to block some of the light, turning to see Da Ling step forward and follow Steward Sun into the much brighter real laboratory. He squinted, making out the layout under the harsh lighting. Blinking away the reflexive moisture, the young alpha followed.
The smell of disinfectant hit them—broken, giant cylindrical glass tanks lined the walls, their surfaces coated with stiff blue mucus. A strange, sweet, fishy stench mingled with the disinfectant, extending to a few dilapidated mobile beds nearby. One could vaguely imagine what had been convulsing in the blue bubbles, crashing against the glass, and finally collapsing onto those beds. Deeper inside, dense rows of instruments and bottles and jars suggested this place also served as an operating room—a hospital-grade surgical table gleamed eerily not far away. Additionally, the walls were covered with research findings on glandular medicine and data produced by this very lab.
The low-temperature constant system or exhaust pipes let out low whimpers, like the roar of a beast—dull and long. Steward Sun’s voice was equally dull: “Six years ago, Chu Ke’s glands mutated due to radiation exposure. The only solution was to remove them. Gland removal meant the loss of his alpha status—and it also meant he might die.”
Xiao Zhou said: “But he survived, didn’t he?”
Steward Sun looked at him approvingly. “Correct. Miss Ke found the best doctor and saved Chu Ke from the jaws of death. Unfortunately, he couldn’t accept being a beta, so he begged Kolia to find a way to restore his alpha status.”
Da Ling studied the materials displayed on the walls. Even though he wasn’t a glandular specialist, he could understand a lot of the data. The number of people sacrificed in this grotesque human gland transplantation experiment had reached an astonishing 245—and that was only last year’s statistic. He didn’t know whether this count started from when Chu Ke fell ill or if it represented just the experimental subjects from the previous year alone.
This place was conducting the cruelest human experiments in the world, treating these people as if they had no consciousness or will. Those numbers were recorded as flatly as a slaughterhouse logging how many pigs were killed that day.
Just looking at it made Gu Lingzhou’s chest fill with a suffocating rage. His voice cold, he demanded: “How many people have they killed in total?”
“…” A long silence. “I don’t know either…”
“Why didn’t you stop her?!” The alpha’s hand grabbed that pale piece of paper, his fingertips turning white as he spun around to glare at the gentleman. “You invented the time machine—why didn’t you stop her earlier?! This is illegal! She’s killed so many people—life imprisonment and the death penalty aren’t enough to atone for her crimes!” The fury in his voice was a plea for justice for those 245 people—or for even more.
Those poor souls with no social standing, considered ants by the upper class—they could have been a worker heading home with a meager paycheck, not even getting to enjoy a good meal before being abducted and having their glands ripped out; they could have been a child who’d accidentally let go of their parents’ hand, dying before their parents could give them what they wanted; they could have been a student sitting on a park bench admiring the view while waiting for their partner, the one who arrived first but ended up being called the one who stood them up. These people—fragile and unremembered by many—all vanished in a short span of time, all for one person’s greed.
This was selfishness. This was a crime.
The alpha’s voice echoed through the vast space, radiating fury and despair. Those pitch-black pupils were bottomless, filled with rage—why could some people give up their lives for complete strangers, while others could destroy countless lives for their own sake?
Steward Sun met the grieving man’s gaze. Thirty-two years old—for humans with a lifespan of 150 years, that was barely a fifth of their life. To him, this one was still just a child. “Young master,” Steward Sun sighed, “I’m just an ordinary person who came from the future with one blind eye. Even in this prison-like estate, there are many eyes watching me. All I can do is give you hints.”
This was the first time Xiao Zhou had seen Da Ling lose his temper like this. The young alpha was too frightened to speak. He was terrified by his grandmother’s experiments and mourned for those suffering people, but aside from calling the police, he seemed powerless to help. So what if he was a descendant of the Gu family? At a time like this, he realized he was just an ordinary person too.
Da Ling’s chest heaved. Finally, he suppressed his anger and looked back at that paper laden with sin. “With so many people, why can’t they find a compatible gland?”
“Chu Ke’s gland was A-class. A-class alphas are rare to begin with, and gland compatibility requires stringent conditions—blood relatives have deeper connections and higher success rates.” After explaining, Steward Sun gazed at him deeply. His prosthetic eye looked especially eerie at this moment, both eyes pointing in different directions. “Young master, have you ever wondered why the Madam wants a great-grandchild?”
At that, both alphas felt a chill run down their spines. They had already grown accustomed to the basement’s cold air, but now they were plunged into an even deeper abyss. The reason was almost on the tip of their tongues. The alpha clenched his fists; the white cloth wrapped around his hand seeped a small patch of dark red blood, faint fir pheromones seeping through before quickly dissolving into the disinfectant.
Xiao Zhou’s voice trembled as he spoke: “What she wants… is the child’s gland?” Da Ling lowered his hand from the wall and turned to face the butler. Steward Sun nodded under their prolonged stares—but that confirmation felt worse than a denial. Xiao Zhou nearly lost his footing. The cold spread through his limbs, crawling over his skin like ants.
“Wh—why?” He asked numbly, his brain completely shut down. In an instant, he’d received too much information, all tangled together like balls of yarn—some with loose ends he could follow, others tied into impossible knots.
Da Ling interrupted Steward Sun before he could speak. “When did Grandmother find out that Yuxing is a 3S-class omega?”
In the field of genetics, the prevailing theory was that high-level pairings often produced higher-level alpha or omega offspring—
For example, if both partners were A-class, their child would most likely also be A-class. Therefore, many high-level Alphas and Omegas chose partners based on their classification when considering marriage. Some high-class but low-status Alphas and Omegas were treated as commodities by the powerful. Certain wealthy families would even choose to keep the child and discard the father or mother to secure a high-ranking heir. If Shi Yuxing was a 3S-class omega, and with him being an S-class alpha, any child they bore would only be higher than S-class—with a higher probability of producing SS or even 3S-class offspring.
If Grandmother had known all along that Shi Yuxing was a 3S-class omega and had orchestrated this marriage, then their marriage was nothing but a gigantic scam!
Steward Sun didn’t hesitate: “Before you got married.”
This sentence struck both Gu Lingzhous like a thunderbolt. Grandmother, in order to find a compatible gland for Chu Ke, had set her sights on him and Shi Yuxing. First, their high classifications would likely produce a high-class alpha. Second, he carried Grandmother’s genes—though diluted through the generations, the blood relation still meant there was a chance of producing a gland compatible with Chu Ke.
Those stunned, speechless eyes suddenly thought of something. Da Ling: “…The woman who showed up before—was she a high-class omega?” Back when his parents were still alive, an omega had once tried to break up their marriage.
Steward Sun couldn’t bear to see the child he’d raised since infancy make such an expression, but he had to say it. “While your parents were still alive, Miss Tang was coerced by the Madam into repeatedly trying to interfere with their marriage. Later, when the Madam realized your father couldn’t leave your mother, she found a way to cause your mother’s death—never expecting that she would end up killing your father as well.”
The red liquid seeping through the bandages dripped onto the floor. Steward Sun was quick—he pulled out a handkerchief, crouched down, and wiped it away. “Young master, let me re-bandage that for you. We can’t leave your traces here—it’s too dangerous.”
“One last question.” Gu Lingzhou let the butler untie the cloth from his hand, his cold voice carrying an indescribable bitterness: “Are you on her side?”
The sound stopped abruptly. The butler didn’t speak, only focusing on re-wrapping the bandages. Amid the long, faint whisper of airflow, Steward Sun said: “I’m not. My mission is to protect every generation of children. From the moment Miss Ke entered the Gu family, my task was to protect your father—and then, you.”
“Protect… me?” Xiao Zhou spoke up from behind him.
“Yes. Until the young master and the young madam’s child is born, I will keep protecting you.” The butler’s expression softened. In the long years, when Gu Lingzhou was left alone, there had always been someone watching him from the shadows.
After Shi Yuxing became a true star, the Gu family had no descendants left, and his protection target became fixed—Gu Lingzhou became the only child he had left to protect. He tightened the bandage and silently stepped back—just as he did in the future, retreating to a corner where he couldn’t be seen.
The shock in Gu Lingzhou’s eyes was beyond words. This butler, who had worked diligently his entire life, had protected three generations—and the last person he had to protect was himself. “You…” Before he could finish, Steward Sun suddenly turned his head, his gaze sharp, his movements quick and decisive. He grabbed both alphas with each hand and shoved them deep into the laboratory.
“Hide quickly! This place has been abandoned—no one comes here. No matter what happens, don’t come out. I’ll get you out later.”
The laboratory door closed, returning to that blue dimness. Footsteps echoed. Then—
“What are you doing here? You scared me to death—this door was open and the surveillance guy was unconscious, I thought outsiders had broken in. The Madam is looking for you—hurry up and go.”
Steward Sun gathered the loose flesh on his face, looking at the woman in a doctor’s coat. “I came down to check because I was worried he’d fallen asleep. Don’t worry, there’s no problem.”
“Is that so?” The woman sneered, turning to head upstairs. “I sure hope so. Over there, I’ve already administered the strong aphrodisiac as the Madam ordered. They probably won’t be coming out for the next few days.”
Steward Sun followed behind her, the darkness receding from him. The world behind the bookshelf was sealed once more. He glanced at the surveillance operator, who was begging the woman not to fire him with a terrified look, then withdrew his gaze and walked out. When he reached the corner, he expressionlessly gathered up the hidden strips of cloth and tape.
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