Chapter 66: Wang Ganju

In the monitoring room of Hengsha Ecological Park, the night shift guard Wang Ganju looked up at the clock—it was just past 4 a.m., four more hours until his shift ended and he could go home.

This week it was his turn for night duty; next month he’d be on day shift again, and he’d have to readjust his circadian rhythm once more.

Security work at the ecological park was grueling—the area was vast, and incidents were frequent. Despite repeated orders from management, visitors kept getting injured by toxic plants or ignoring rules to feed the animals, requiring constant intervention.

They were paid security wages but did livestock labor. Sometimes they even had to help feeders haul feed and fertilizer.

Fortunately, break-ins were rare; the main dangers came from the animals themselves. Wang Ganju still remembered the 2008 flood when torrential rain caused the Taojiang River to overflow, submerging the park built along its banks. The grounds were left in ruins, and several crocodiles and water pythons had been swept away, sending the riverside neighborhoods into panic.

“Thankfully, over the years, water control infrastructure has been built upstream on the Taojiang, and the park’s security has improved—now the entire area is covered by a glass dome, and animal escapes have become exceedingly rare…”

As Wang Ganju was feeling relieved, a nimble black shadow flashed across the monitor screen.

“What the hell?” His lingering drowsiness vanished instantly. He sat up straight and stared at the screen where the shadow had passed: “Birds section?”

The entire Hengsha Ecological Park was enclosed under a massive steel dome; wild birds from outside could hardly enter. So the flying shadow on the camera could only have come from within the park.

“Fuck, did the damn feeder forget to lock up again? How the hell did this happen?” Wang Ganju cursed, triggering the alarm and broadcasting a warning to other guards over the intercom before hastily pulling on his coat and heading out.

This was urgent—the birds confined in that section were raptors: owls, peregrine falcons, golden eagles. If any escaped, they’d be hard to catch and dangerously lethal.

A full-grown golden eagle could easily snatch a human child into the air and drop it to its death.

The alarm blared across the entire park. On-duty guards rushed out, and the assigned feeder was urgently summoned. They immediately began counting and verifying the identities of all birds in the aviary section, determined to pinpoint which one had escaped.

But strangely, as the feeder and guards in protective gear inspected each exhibit one by one—the owls, peregrines, golden eagles, hummingbirds, swifts—all locks were intact, all isolation systems undamaged, and not a single bird was missing.

“Could this have been a false alarm? Did some wild bird accidentally fly in through a crack?” Wang Ganju felt a chill of relief. Thank goodness the surveillance footage could be replayed—if not, he’d have caused everyone to scramble at midnight for no reason and would’ve been reprimanded.

For safety’s sake, everyone rechecked every section of the bird exhibits thoroughly—still no sign of any animal escape.

While grumbling about Wang Ganju’s overreaction, they began inspecting other exhibits—this was park protocol: if any section suspected an animal escape, the entire park had to undergo a full inspection.

It was an inhumane rule, but it had its reason.

Unsurprisingly, Wang Ganju was assigned to check the feline exhibit.

The exhibit he was responsible for housed “Siberian Forest Cats,” an ancient working breed long domesticated by locals to protect crops, with a long history of domestication and stable genetics, dense fur adapted to extreme cold, and a relatively calm, affectionate temperament.

That’s why he dared to inspect alone in protective gear. “004, 026, 015… Good, good, everyone’s here.” He slowly moved through the exhibit, matching each cat’s collar tag number against the registry—quickly completing the inspection without a single error.

Calm animals were easier to check; the colleague assigned to the lion and tiger exhibit dared not enter at all, only observing from afar with binoculars. Wang Ganju silently apologized to them in his mind.

Just as he finished and turned to leave, a splash came from the artificial pond—something had jumped into the water.

“Huh?” Wang Ganju frowned, cautiously approaching the pond.

He’d already checked—the forest cats were all clustered near the climbing frames. The pond area should’ve been empty. Where had the sound come from? He carefully shone his flashlight downward—the water was empty, nothing there except a round, bouncy ball floating on the surface. Clearly, that’s what had made the noise.

“I’m losing my mind. Every little noise makes me jump.” Wang Ganju sighed helplessly, turned off the flashlight. The still pond reflected the image of a haggard man.

“You should get some sleep.” He pointed at his reflection, shook his head, locked the door, and headed off to inspect the next exhibit.

A few minutes after Wang Ganju left, the quiet little pond stirred again. A water python quietly lifted its head from the cold water, slithering its long body onto the soft grass by the shore.

A few cats on the climbing frames noticed the movement and curiously approached.

But before they could get close, the nearly three-meter-long giant water python dissolved into a hazy mist and vanished, replaced by a plump, bright-eyed Siberian Forest Cat, sitting still in place.

The cat ignored the curious stares of the others, darted nimbly to the wall corner, and its glossy fur vanished again—transforming into a beautiful Sunburst Butterfly, which flew straight out through the ventilation duct.

Only the Siberian Forest Cats remained, crouched on the grass, staring blankly at each other, utterly baffled by what had just happened.

The butterfly stumbled through the ventilation duct, its wings flapping erratically—sometimes fast, sometimes slow, like a drunk fly, repeatedly slamming into the walls.

But Ning Zhe’s luck held today. After a long, unsteady flight, he finally escaped Hengsha Ecological Park safely.

The disoriented butterfly had barely flown over the wall when it instantly transformed into a disheveled boy, crashing to the ground with a thud, clutching his head and curling up in pain.

Bai Zhi, waiting patiently in the car, saw his strange state from afar. She set down her shotgun and approached cautiously, crouching to gently pat his trembling shoulder: “Are you okay? What happened?”

“I’m fine… I’m fine.” Ning Zhe gasped for breath; emerald snake scales and hazy mist flickered faintly across his collarbone. “Let’s go—to the hospital. I’ve got one trial run. It’s time… it’s time to face the coward hiding behind the scenes.”

The cost of this trial run might very well be “myself.”

(End of Chapter)