Chapter 369: It's time for humanity to meet them

The air in the basement grew thick.

Not an adjective, but a physical thickening. Xiao Zhang lay prone on the concrete floor, his nasal passages filled with his own blood, breathing as if sucking in a layer of transparent gel.

The mercenary who was pulling his gun holster had his finger caught in the trigger guard, his whole body frozen.

He wasn't subdued; rather, every hair on his body and every speck of dust were frozen in place alongside him.

The second hand of the wall clock was stuck fast at the twelve o'clock position.

The hum of electricity in the fluorescent tube vanished, but the white light overhead didn't go out—it simply stopped flickering, congealing into a pallid patch stuck to the ceiling.

Then Xiao Zhang heard footsteps.

The sound of leather shoes on marble. Each step's interval was precise enough to raise the hairs—not too fast, not too slow, like a metronome.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

Coming from the direction of the stairway entrance, it threaded through the gaps between the four mercenaries frozen into statues, wound around the shards of the shattered tempered‑glass coffee table scattered across the floor, and finally halted half a meter in front of Xiao Zhang.

A pair of black patent‑leather Oxford shoes. The creases pressed into the trousers were dead straight, the dark‑red shirt's tail tucked into the belt, and the silver buckle flashed with a cold light.

Xiao Zhang strained to lift his left eye, the only one that could still move.

His gaze traveled up the line of the suit trousers, passed a meticulously tailored vintage black suit coat, and finally settled on that face.

No, not a face.

It was a mask.

Dark gray, its texture rough as unpolished rock. No nose, no mouth, no expression at all—just two black eye sockets like dry wells; looking into them was staring into a bottomless abyss.

Behind the mask, something was laughing.

Xiao Zhang couldn't say how he knew. The mask's surface showed no change in curvature, yet he could feel—that thing behind the mask was smiling with the fascination of a collector examining a rare specimen.

"Tsk."

From beneath the mask came an almost inaudible click of the tongue.

The comer—or rather, the "He"—leaned on a black cane with his left hand, its tip set with a live eyeball. The eyeball's iris was a pupil‑less crimson, slowly turning on its own, as if scanning the entire basement.

He swept his gaze over the bloodstain in the corner, over the cigar ashtray shattered on the floor, over Chen Guoliang's face—head tipped back, mouth open, expression frozen between impatience and arrogance.

Finally, the eyeball turned back and locked onto Xiao Zhang.

The cane crept slowly forward.

The icy metal tip slipped up from beneath his chin, gave a gentle lift, and propped Xiao Zhang's blood‑smeared face upward.

"Wh—"

Xiao Zhang opened his mouth and emitted a broken syllable.

"Shh."

The masked person tilted his head slightly, made a hushing gesture—an overly elegant motion, like a gentleman in an opera box reminding his neighbor to stay quiet.

"Don't rush to speak. Look first."

The cane's tip pressed lightly, turning Xiao Zhang's face to the left.

To the left was Chen Guoliang.

This man, worth 1.4 billion, a provincial council member and the actual controller of the East Suburb Chemical Plant, an indirect killer of forty‑seven lives, now wore his silk pajamas, one hand still holding the pose of a cigar, his mouth curled in a half‑smile he hadn't had time to wipe away.

That smile was aimed at Xiao Zhang.

"Get rid of him"—the expression left on his face after uttering those words remained frozen there.

The cane then turned Xiao Zhang's face to the right.

To the right was the mercenary who had shattered his kneecap, boot still stained with his blood; beside him, the gunman who had blown through his left shoulder still held his silenced pistol, the muzzle smoke condensed into a small white puff hanging in midair.

"Do you see?"

The masked person's voice came from behind the mask, light and pleased, like a museum guide explaining an exhibit to children.

"This is the rule you humans pride yourselves on."

The cane lowered, tapping the utility knife at Xiao Zhang's waist that he could no longer reach.

"Who does the law protect? Protect him." The tip pointed at Chen Guoliang. "Protect the vicious dogs who make the rules. Your master spent a lifetime investigating cases and died on the road. Your family burned to ash. Where's the case? The evidence? Due process?"

Each question's end rose in pitch, as if telling a particularly funny joke.

Xiao Zhang's left eye was full of blood, yet he could see clearly.

The masked person squatted down.

He drew near.

Close enough for Xiao Zhang to see the mask's fine patterning, like cracks in a dried‑up riverbed. The two eye sockets held nothing but a crimson glow.

Yet a sound seeped from that abyss.

"I have something that can help you."

The masked person—Sai Men—pulled something from the inner pocket of his suit.

A seed.

Smaller than a fingernail cap, entirely scarlet, its irregular surface covered in fine wrinkles like a small clot of congealed flesh. Yet it moved—the wrinkles writhed slowly, rhythmically, as if some living thing were wrapped inside, breathing.

Sai Men rested it between two slender fingers and brought it to Xiao Zhang's lips.

"Swallow it, and you'll no longer be an ant. You'll be able to use the true 'Gospel' to cleanse this filthy world whose rules are laid down by vicious dogs."

The seed hovered less than three centimeters from Xiao Zhang's lips. He could smell an indescribable odor—not rot, not blood—but like the air torn apart in a thunderstorm, scorching, primordial, charged with destructive vitality.

"This world doesn't need more good cops. The grass on good cops' graves is already three zhang high. What the world needs is someone who can uproot the rules root and branch and rewrite them."

The seed's writhing frequency quickened.

Xiao Zhang's consciousness surged.

Fragments. All are fragments.

Zhou Weiguo's old lighter, its brass casing warmed by his hand's heat.

In the mortuary, three bodies lay covered in white cloth; lifting a corner revealed curled, charred fingers.

His sister's face appeared at the fourth‑floor window, thick smoke and sparks streaming from behind her.

She shouted loudly. She was shouting. Her voice was half‑swallowed by the flames, broken and intermittent:

"Brother——"

Zhou Weiguo came out of the office entrance holding a briefcase, waving at him: "Xiao Xiao, see you tomorrow."

There is no tomorrow.

The USB drive shattered. The car shattered. The person shattered.

The Qin Team's taught grappling techniques, the Zhou Team's passed‑on investigative experience, all skills accumulated from twelve years at the police academy and field work——

The outcome he got was lying prone at a murderer's feet.

The murderer wore a silk robe, stepped on deer‑skin slippers, and burned his wound with a cigar ash.

The murderer said: "Who do you think you are?"

He is nobody.

A discharged policeman, a family‑dead waste, a joke about to be "disposed of" before even seeing his enemy's face.

The law cannot protect him.

Justice cannot protect him.

Nothing can protect him.

Xiao Zhang's left eye had blood congealed in it; his right eye's focus shifted from blurry to clear.

He gazed at that crimson, wriggling seed.

The struggle lasted several seconds.

To be precise, it wasn't a struggle. It was something already broken for a long time, completing its final shedding in those seconds—like a rust‑eaten iron door, lightly pushed, then collapsing with a crash.

Xiao Zhang opened his mouth.

Between the blood and broken‑tooth gaps in his mouth, his tongue curled around that seed.

He swallowed it.

Sai Men rose, brushed nonexistent dust from his cuff, and let out a satisfied chuckle.

"Welcome the coming of the Gospel."

His silhouette began to fade from the edges, like a projection image slowly dimming.

Just before time resumed flowing, Sai Men's voice drifted from behind the fading mask, his final words soft as a dream murmur:

"From now on, you are the Prophet of the Gospel."

Then everything collapsed.

Time returned.

Water droplets fell. The fluorescent tube hummed. The second hand ticked.

The mercenary's finger curled onto the trigger.

But the gun made no sound.

Because the gunman's entire arm was gone.

Xiao Zhang didn't know how he had risen. His right kneecap was shattered, his right wrist broken, his left shoulder pierced—those injuries remained. The sounds of bone breaking, muscle tearing wetly, and the white‑hot pain signals from his nerves were still there.

But they no longer mattered.

It was as if another operating system had taken over this body, downgrading the original pain feedback to a blinking red light on a dashboard—visible, but not interfering with driving.

At the moment the seed entered his stomach, it was as if something inside him exploded into a flower. Not pain, but a 'fullness' he had never experienced—like a man who had starved for twenty‑six years finally taking his first bite of food.

The mutant power surged up from the base of his spine along the nerve network.

He could feel his bones deforming, his muscle fibers being disassembled and reassembled. That power wanted to twist him into a shapeless mass of flesh—just like most of the believers who swallowed the seed, who at this stage lose their human form and become monsters that know only killing and proliferation.

But Xiao Zhang did not.

Not because of willpower.

But because of hatred.

A hatred distilled through long investigation, planning, execution, failure, being crushed, being humiliated to a purity of one hundred percent—no impurities, no hesitation, no self‑doubt.

Clean as a scalpel.

The mutant power struck that blade, splitting in half. One half honestly merged into his bone and blood; the other half his will shaped into the form he desired.

The whole process lasted less than three seconds.

Chen Guoliang finally reacted.

He saw the waste who had just lost all four limbs, lying on the ground awaiting death, now stand up. His stance was upright, even admirable. The burn scars on his face remained, the bloodstains remained, the gaps where his molars had broken remained.

But his expression changed.

Not ferocious, not mad.

It was a precise, restraining smile—the corner of his mouth curved just right, as if drawn with a protractor. The light in his eyes was calm, calm like a community worker making a house call.

That smile itself made the hairs on one's arms stand up.

"You——" Chen Guoliang sprang from the sofa, his voice catching.

Four mercenaries fired almost simultaneously.

The suppressed pistol's report in the enclosed space sounded like clapping—pop pop pop pop—four 9mm bullets shot from four directions at Xiao Zhang's torso.

The bullets hit.

They pierced through.

Then it flew out from behind and embedded itself into the concrete wall behind him.

Xiao Zhang lowered his head and glanced at the four bullet holes on his chest. The entry holes were neat, no blood flowed out—or rather, blood welled up at the edges of the holes, then was sucked back by some force. Two seconds later, the four bullet holes closed at a visible speed, the skin healed, not even a scar left.

He raised his head, still that same smile.

"My turn."

His voice was soft, his tone even.

The steel chains binding him—industrial grade, rated for four tons—snapped into pieces with a casual tug. The sound of the metal breaking was crisp, like snapping a biscuit.

The first mercenary's motion to change magazines was halfway done.

Xiao Zhang used no weapon. The shattered bones in his right wrist had already been knit back together by the Seed's power; he curled his five fingers into a fist and casually thrust it forward.

Not fast; indeed, it was leisurely.

But at the instant his fist struck the mercenary's chest armor, the mercenary's entire upper body shuddered as if run over by an invisible truck from the front. The tactical vest, the hypnotic body, ribs, spine—all structures shattered simultaneously and flew backward.

Red. White. The wall was covered in them.

Three mercenaries remained.

The second mercenary felt for the tactical knife at his waist; the blade tip had just emerged half an inch.

Xiao Zhang's left hand merely rested on his shoulder—light, like a friendly pat between friends. Then his fingers closed, and the scapula was pulled out whole.

The third mercenary ran toward the door. He took two steps. As Xiao Zhang stepped past, he casually grabbed the mercenary's ankle, lifted him off the ground like a chicken, and flung him into the concrete wall.

Once.

A human-shaped depression appeared in the basement wall.

The fourth mercenary raised both hands: "I surrender—"

He didn't finish the sentence.

The basement's light tubes were smeared with flying blood plasma, turning the light a dark red.

Xiao Zhang released his grip, and the last mercenary's corpse—or rather, remains—slid down the wall.

Twelve seconds. Four fully armed retired special forces, from living men to minced meat, took twelve seconds.

Only Chen Guoliang remained in the basement.

This provincial association committee member leaned against the sofa, his legs weak, the left foot of his deerskin slippers already missing. His mouth gaped like a drowning fish, his throat emitting choked sounds—not words, but a pure physiological fear reflex.

Xiao Zhang walked up to him.

The soles of his shoes splashed in the blood pool, making a gurgling sound.

He crouched, putting himself at eye level with Chen Guoliang.

Still that same smile.

"Boss Chen."

Xiao Zhang's voice was even softer than before, like speaking to a critical patient in a hospital ward.

"You just asked me what I'm after."

Chen Guoliang shook his head wildly. Tears, snot, and saliva mixed together, his whole face scrunched up. The dignity of his 1.4 billion yuan fortune collapsed at this moment, more shattered than broken glass.

"I've thought about it," Xiao Zhang tilted his head, "indeed I'm after nothing."

The basement door was locked from the outside. No one locked it—the bolt slid into the slot on its own.

What happened next lasted a long time.

How long exactly, Xiao Zhang didn't count. He only remembered that after finishing, the basement's four walls, ceiling, and floor all needed to be repainted.

The rainstorm continued.

As Xiao Zhang walked out of the villa's front gate, the rain washed the blood off his body layer by layer. The searchlights in the yard remained off, the surveillance still down.

No one saw him go in. No one saw him come out.

He walked barefoot on the asphalt, the rain pouring on his head, cool and pleasant.

As he exited the villa compound's main gate, he picked up something from the roadside drainage ditch.

An old police badge.

It probably slipped out during the operation just now.

Xiao Zhang picked it up.

After the rain washed it, the paint on the badge was mottled beyond recognition of its original color.

He rubbed it with his thumb.

Then he clenched it in his palm.

Under a dim streetlamp, in the rain, a drenched young man stood by the drainage ditch, head lowered, speaking softly to the tattered police badge in his palm.

His voice was mostly drowned by the rain, only the tail end leaking from between his lips and teeth.

"Qin Team."

He paused.

"This world is terminally ill."

Rain ran down his nose bridge, slid past the corner of his mouth, and dripped onto the badge.

"What those Weird ones did…… was right."

He stuck the badge to his chest, right over where the four bullet holes had just healed.

"So I've become them."

A smile.

Still that precise smile that could make one's scalp tingle.

"Humanity should also welcome them."

He turned and walked into the depths of the rain.

The streetlamp stretched his shadow out long, and it shattered into pieces in the standing water.