Chapter 46: Chen Lie Shi

"You don't need to worry about Ge Lifei Tai Tai's rules."

Roger leaned back in his chair, hands clasped: "You should know the nature of my relationship with her."

"Relationship?" Sullivan widened his eyes slightly, startled, shoulders rising in disbelief: "You mean… Wei Er Xun… is real?"

"Mm-hmm." Roger didn't answer directly, only gave him a look to let him figure it out.

"Alright, alright, Dr. Blake, wow, I really have to admire you now."

Sullivan seemed utterly stunned by the news; he stepped back, retreating out the door: "Then I'll go ahead."

"See you later." This book is originally published on Du Xiao Shuo, Tian Tian Kan Xiao Shuo, ttks. tw, offering you a reading experience with no errors and no out-of-order chapters.

Roger gave a slight nod.

After Sullivan left, he swiftly moved to the door, listening to footsteps outside.

"It's the left elevator."

After hearing the elevator's hum, he wrapped his hand in his clothing, opened the door, and stepped into the corridor.

Standing before the elevator doors, the display numbers were slowly decreasing.

"Third floor, second floor, first floor, B1."

The elevator finally stopped at B1.

"So the fourth-floor operating room is just for show." Roger pressed the elevator button, his eyes scanning the surroundings unconsciously.

He was suddenly drawn to a promotional poster on the wall.

"Al Griffin, founder of Margaret Retirement Home."

Above this description was a woman with deeply wrinkled skin and snow-white hair.

"Damn, she's old enough to be Blake's grandmother!"

Roger hadn't expected Wei Er Xun to spread rumors linking the 70-something Ge Lifei Tai Tai with the 20-something Blake; no wonder Sullivan looked so shocked—he'd been stunned by the absurd age gap.

"Damn it!"

The moment he recalled his own words, he felt a physical wave of nausea.

But then he thought: what did Blake's affairs have to do with Roger?

"Ding!" The elevator doors opened.

Fortunately, no one was inside; Roger stepped straight in.

But after pressing the B1 button, nothing happened.

"There must be some kind of key or card."

Roger thought: he hadn't found anything like that on Blake's clothes; so the key must be hidden in the office.

He returned to the office.

With clear intent, he quickly found a small key card in a drawer.

Then he returned to the elevator, swiped the card, and pressed the B1 button.

The enclosed elevator groaned as it descended, a faint, whispering wail—like the mournful sigh of buried souls—reaching his ears, making his palms grow cold.

Seconds later, the elevator stopped.

As the cabin doors slid open, a dry, cold breath rushed over him. The basement was a minimalist industrial gray, exposed concrete and pipes interwoven. Cold-toned lighting illuminated everything, creating an oppressive sense of order.

A long corridor was precisely divided by sturdy partition walls into several sealed rooms, like a hive designed to imprison unspeakable secrets.

Before Roger stood a metal gate, clearly meant to deter unauthorized intruders.

A man in a black security uniform stood behind the gate; when he saw Roger, he immediately smiled.

"Hey, Dr. Blake."

"How's it going?" Roger didn't call the man by name; instead, he gestured toward the corridor's depths with a tilt of his chin, implying his question.

"Fine—only had a brief outburst after waking up." The guard opened the gate willingly: "Why are you wearing a mask?"

Roger tilted his head: "My throat's a bit sore. Where's Dr. Sullivan?"

"He went to the operating room."

"Alright, thanks for your work."

"No problem—it's what I'm supposed to do." The guard smiled broadly.

If you ignored the evil hidden here, these people looked no different from ordinary folks.

But once you knew who was imprisoned here—the innocent victims—Roger found it impossible to see these men as human.

Calling them demons felt too gentle; even demons who hungered for souls understood the principle of equal exchange.

Roger walked slowly down the silent corridor.

The operating room lay ahead, its silver door half-open.

He slipped through the gap into the room and found it unnaturally clean—no blood, no stains—but this excessive tidiness carried an unsettling unease.

Sullivan stood before the operating table, humming a tune as he selected tools from the kit.

"What are you doing?"

The sudden voice startled him.

Sullivan spun around, sighed in relief when he saw Roger: "God, you scared me, Dr. Blake."

"Really? You're supposed to be doing psychological counseling—why are you picking up these?" Roger stepped beside him, staring at the forceps, tweezers, and scissors in the kit.

"You know, just like hypnosis—words matter, but a beautiful pocket watch can double my efficiency!" Sullivan stared eagerly at the tools, his face alight with excitement.

Roger didn't answer; his gaze fixed on the room next to the operating theater.

It was a narrow, icy door, fitted with mosaic glass, bearing a sign above it reading "Chen Lie Shi."

Seeing Sullivan still selecting tools, he walked to Chen Lie Shi, pushed the door open.

"Squeak."

The first thing that caught his eye were towering metal shelves reaching the ceiling.

Next came countless glass containers packed tightly upon them.

When he flipped on the light switch, under the cold blue glow, Roger could see the bottles and jars filled with pale yellow preservative fluid.

More terrifying still, faint shadows lurked within the fluid, opaque even to the light.

If he leaned closer to examine them, he could make out fragments of their strange silhouettes.

"Ward… fucking hell!"

Roger's scalp prickled, for if he hadn't misread them, those shadows were unmistakably parts harvested from different Gundams.

They drifted slowly in the faint current of the liquid, as if still retaining some eerie vitality.

If the system scored him now, Roger knew his SAN Value would plummet in an instant!

These damned bastards had the audacity to keep fragments of their victims—and even called it Chen Lie Shi.

Roger's inner rage had boiled over.

But he said nothing, only silently circled the metal shelves.

It was this action that led him to spot a conspicuous jar on the deepest shelf.

He noticed it because its bottle was covered in bright star stickers children often use.

Roger leaned in and saw a slender, pale finger submerged inside the jar; on the sticker outside, elegant handwriting penned a few lines.

"To Blake: Remember to take your medicine. Stay warm. See you tomorrow."

"Signed: Zhu Di."

Sometimes, what makes a person human is empathy and love. But right now, Roger felt these creatures deserved no such name—they were flesh-wearing cannibal monsters.

He couldn't fathom what psychological sickness drove Blake to stick Zhu Di's stickers—written by the girl who loved him—onto the jar containing her remains.

Pathological?

Or deranged?

Roger had no intention of probing their twisted minds; he only knew they all deserved to die in the most agonizing way possible.