Chapter 7: A Family Must Stay Whole—No One Gets Left Behind

“A family must stay whole,” Wu Mengyu said with a tilted head and a bright smile.

“If even one is missing, it’s not a family.”

Had it not been for the web-like cracks spreading across her face, she might’ve looked like an exceptionally cute little girl. Unfortunately, fate had never given her the chance to grow up.

Lying to a traumatized child made Song Nanxing feel a pang of guilt. He took Wu Mengyu’s hand and sincerely apologized, “I’m sorry.”

As soon as the words left his mouth, he took a big step back.

Wu Mengyu blinked at him in confusion, but before she could react, she let out a sharp, piercing shriek.

A dome-like shell, about a meter tall and half a meter wide, rose from the ground and sealed around her completely. Realizing she’d been trapped, Wu Mengyu let out a scream and dissolved into writhing chunks of flesh, slamming wildly against the inside of the barrier.

Luckily, the gray material of the dome was extremely soft but incredibly tough—it bent and warped from the impacts, but didn’t rupture. Only then did Song Nanxing finally let out the breath he’d been holding.

He’d been worried the shield might not hold.

This portable containment dome was a benefit issued to employees by the Exchange Center, originally developed by the Infectious Disease Control Department to isolate and transport dangerously unstable patients.

Due to the nature of their work, Exchange Center staff had a much higher chance of coming into contact with hazardous materials. Rumor had it that, once, an employee mutated on the job from severe contamination and turned into a monster—devouring nearby colleagues before anyone could react.

Whether or not that gruesome tale was true, the Exchange Center had long since started equipping employee workstations with single-click emergency shields.

The portable version Song Nanxing used was far more expensive and unavailable for public purchase. Each employee was issued just one per year, meant for protection during fieldwork.

It was supposed to be used on himself—but after thinking it over, he realized sealing himself inside would come with too many unknowns. Sure, it could save his life temporarily, but with the thick fog still around, Wu Mengyu up front, and who-knows-what behind him, being trapped would only limit his options.

Better to act first and trap her instead.

Wu Mengyu was still screaming.

The shock had clearly sent her mental state spiraling—her face rapidly shifted between that of Xu Cai, her mother, and her father… over and over again.

Each face, no matter whose, was twisted in hatred, shrieking at Song Nanxing in the same accusing tone: “You lied to me! You lied to me! You lied to me! You lied to me—!”

Song Nanxing felt a sudden pang of guilt. He really did feel like he was bullying a kid.

Fortunately, Xu Cai’s corpse was still lying not far away. One glance at it, and Song Nanxing’s conscience was instantly soothed. Without hesitation, he turned and sprinted in the direction of the safehouse, guided by the navigation.

Behind him, Wu Mengyu’s shrieks rose higher and higher, like an out-of-tune soprano spiraling into madness. Then came a deafening boom, followed by a gust of wind thick with the stench of blood, rushing straight toward him.

The hair on the back of his neck stood on end. He turned to look—and saw the protective dome shattered into pieces. Wu Mengyu had already half-merged her body into a pulsing mass of red flesh. Her expression was twisted with hatred, and she was charging at him at an inhuman speed—

“F**k!!!”

Song Nanxing couldn’t help but curse out loud. This was his first time ever using the dome.

And the quality was this bad?!

Gritting his teeth, he sprinted forward, eyes darting in all directions, ears straining for every sound, desperately looking for any place he could hide. But all he could see was flat, empty terrain—not even a single pillar to duck behind!

Wait—pillars!

Just as the thought crossed his mind, pillars appeared.

He spotted a cluster of black stone columns looming in the fog. They looked like the ruins of some building, though strange blue patterns coiled along their surfaces. The architectural style looked… off—nothing about it seemed normal or safe.

But with death breathing down his neck, Song Nanxing didn’t hesitate. Between certain death and maybe not death, he chose the latter.

With one last burst of energy, he dashed toward the black pillars—

And instantly regretted it.

No wonder those pillars had looked vaguely familiar—they weren’t pillars at all! They were those weird tentacles that had been stalking him earlier, and now, instead of one, he’d run straight into their nest.

From the thick clouds above, massive black tendrils dangled down. The thickest ones stood like columns, reaching from sky to ground, shrouded in mist.

The tapered ends curled lazily, pulsing with a slow rhythm—almost like they were asleep.

Song Nanxing didn’t dare stare. He held his breath and tread lightly, trying to sneak his way through the tentacle forest without making a sound.

But Wu Mengyu wasn’t having it.

Her prey had slipped through her fingers again—and this time, her patience finally snapped.

She let out a shrill scream and charged after him, howling: “DIE DIE DIE DIE—!”

Song Nanxing sucked in a breath of cold air, shaken by the little girl’s fearless charge like a newborn calf unafraid of tigers. If his life weren’t hanging by a thread, he’d have applauded her bravery. That towering monstrosity was right there, and she charged straight in without even glancing at it.

Not daring to worry about whether the tentacles would be provoked, Song Nanxing broke into a sprint, nearly leaving an afterimage behind him.

As expected, the sleeping tentacles around him were disturbed by Wu Mengyu. The slender tips casually lifted and easily blocked the surge of flesh and blood she had turned into.

Trapped in place, Wu Mengyu finally realized the difference in strength. A terrified scream tore from her throat.

Song Nanxing didn’t even dare look back. He kept his head down and sprinted as fast as he could.

But Lady Luck clearly wasn’t smiling on him. Accompanied by Wu Mengyu’s screams, a familiar cold sensation wrapped around his ankle. He had been running too fast, and the moment he was caught, momentum sent him flying forward.

Cursing internally, Song Nanxing squeezed his eyes shut and shielded his head and face with his elbows.

But the expected pain never came. Instead, he landed on a slick, icy “surface.”

Opening his eyes, he was greeted by blue patterns writhing and flowing like living things. He immediately realized—he had landed on the tentacles.

He didn’t dare focus too much on those markings. His gaze darted around, catching sight of the tentacles that had blocked Wu Mengyu now stirring the pool of blood and dragging out a small human-shaped figure.

It was Wu Mengyu.

No—more accurately, it was her corpse.

The body was in pieces, stitched back together with thread. The seams where the flesh met were gaping and hideous. But compared to the way it had moved before, driven by madness, its current stillness felt almost… cute.

Below, the sea of blood churned violently, as if trying to reclaim the corpse, but it couldn’t shake the tentacles even a little.

One massive tentacle tossed the corpse aside and plunged back into the blood.

Moments later, it drew out a palm-sized statue. Compared to the sheer size of the tentacle, the sculpture looked pitifully small. But Song Nanxing had sharp eyesight, and with one glance he saw it: on the pile of flesh and bone that formed the statue’s base, sat a skull with a goat’s head.

His pupils contracted. He wanted to look more closely to confirm—but the tentacle had already withdrawn into the clouds, statue and blood in tow.

A moment later, when the tentacle dangled back down, its suction cups were empty. Only dark red blood dripped from its tip, dyeing the ground scarlet.

It looked as if it had been devoured.

Song Nanxing took a deep breath, glancing at the tentacles loosely wrapped around his body, not daring to make any rash movements. But even if he stayed still, the tentacles began to move slowly. The massive tentacles shifted toward him, standing like a cage of flesh around him, trapping Song Nanxing in the center.

The tentacle coiled around his body tightened and slid slowly, its surface starting to secrete a slippery, viscous liquid.

Afraid of provoking it, Song Nanxing didn’t dare struggle. Everywhere he looked was filled with black tentacles and their blue patterns, and that familiar dizziness and nausea surged up again. He abruptly shut his eyes, forcing himself not to recall those flowing, distorted patterns.

But with his vision restricted, his other senses grew sharper. He felt the tentacles winding up from his feet, their slender tips slipping beneath his clothes, lingering and sliding over his waist and abdomen.

The suckers on the inner side of the tentacles contracted slowly, the cold mucus first sending a shiver through him, then bringing a burning, biting sensation.

A faint sweet and fishy smell filled his nose, and Song Nanxing’s rationality wavered. In a daze, he felt his body grow lighter, as if some primal, unknown impulse was brewing and fermenting within him.

At some point, he opened his eyes. His hands repeatedly stroked the beautiful blue patterns on the tentacles, and, almost obsessively, he lowered his head to lightly lick the tip of one.

The tentacle, never having been treated this way, curled slightly at the tip. The other tentacles, neglected, grew restless, pushing and jostling to get closer to the center. Yet, because the human body they surrounded was so small and fragile, they could only reluctantly encircle him, emitting soft, overlapping murmurs:

“Like.”

“So fragrant.”

“Hide it.”

“…”

If someone were to look from a distance at that moment, they would see countless massive black tentacles gathered beneath the clouds, carefully curling into a cocoon.

In the center of the cocoon, Song Nanxing’s expression was dazed, a flush spreading across his pale face. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed, a primal desire being birthed within him.

He slowly opened his mouth wide, then greedily bit down on the tentacle—

Blue blood splattered, and the tentacle, which had been joyfully writhing moments before, trembled violently and yanked away from his mouth.

Song Nanxing lifted his head, his eyes clouded and unfocused. Blue blood trickled from the corner of his mouth, running down his slender neck. His prominent Adam’s apple bobbed repeatedly with thirst and longing.

The tentacles writhed softly, their voices laced with confusion and a hint of grievance:

“Angry.”

“Doesn’t like it.”

“Why?”

“…..”

The gathered tentacles slowly unraveled like serpents, retreating back into the depths of the clouds.

Song Nanxing tilted his head back, and the dilation in his pupils gradually receded. He looked around in a daze, then lowered his gaze to the blue liquid on his hand. The memories from earlier slowly returned.

“Staring at those patterns for too long really does mess with your mind…”

A burning sensation welled up in his throat. Song Nanxing pulled a bottle of mineral water from his backpack to rinse his mouth and wash his hands, muttering to reassure himself,

“Good thing it wasn’t poisonous.”