Chapter Seventy-Three: I Will Become the Test Subject

Underground Research Facility.

The leading figures from all fields of scientific research gathered together, deliberating over the future direction of their studies. At present, their understanding of the extraordinary realm was woefully limited—even these luminaries had no idea where to begin.

For now, the sole accomplishment they could claim was the classification system devised by combining intelligence gathered from the new world with the items brought back by Xuanlü.

First were the containment objects, as the name implied—items imbued with uncanny abilities that could only be housed in specific locations. Examples included the suspected “Script” that could manipulate causality, and the corpse locust tree, capable of affecting the mind.

Xuanlü had classified these objects into six sequences, from 0 to 6. Sequence 0 denoted the most dangerous level—artifacts that posed an existential threat to the world itself, hypothesized to be akin to eldritch gods. Sequence 1 included items with the capacity to devastate an entire nation, such as the “Script.” Sequence 2 encompassed objects capable of causing mass casualties on a provincial scale. Sequence 3, those that could inflict widespread harm within a city. Sequence 4, items able to easily result in multiple casualties. Sequence 5, objects incapable of causing human death.

The classification remained somewhat crude, primarily due to their shallow grasp of the new world and its extraordinary knowledge. It was understood that as their research deepened, these categories would be revised accordingly.

Much like the earlier analogy of using magazines to measure supernatural beings—a first-tier extraordinary could be felled with a single bullet, a second-tier with a magazine, and a third-tier with three magazines. In reality, a true professional (third-tier) extraordinary often required overwhelming firepower to bring down, unless the opponent obligingly stood still and took the assault.

Lower-tier extraordinaries had less formidable physiques, unable to dodge bullets swiftly or manifest wondrous abilities. Yet, upon reaching the third tier, a supernatural individual underwent their first qualitative leap.

Actual combat effectiveness would still depend on one’s profession, but the only certainty was that lower thirds could be shot to death, while upper thirds demanded firepower saturation.

Modern weaponry, with its overwhelming force, continued to be lethal in the new world—the only concern was the enemy’s potential for sudden attacks. Xuanlü’s current solution was to make all soldiers into legion knights, training them in battle formations so that any enemy daring to charge headlong would be met by berserkers grinding them into the ground.

Alternatively, individuals with extreme combat prowess and mobility could serve as supernatural assassins to counter such assaults.

When all had finished reviewing the intelligence on the table, Li Zhiyuan, seated at the head, spoke: “Gentlemen, I believe our top priority is not the systematization of extraordinary knowledge. With what little we’ve mastered, such an undertaking is premature, especially given how little we understand about this field.”

He raised his hand and tapped his temple.

“Our immediate concern should be mental attacks. We must use our current scientific understanding to find preventative measures.”

The scientists glanced at one another, bewildered. Compared to tangible items and the successful application of extraordinary knowledge, wasn’t the study of intangible, unseen mental assaults—especially against enemies they barely understood—an even greater challenge?

A biologist raised his hand. “Dr. Li Zhiyuan, how do you propose to study the mind, when it has neither form nor data? Frankly, I believe our efforts would be better spent observing the bodies of extraordinaries with our current technology, searching for the secrets of the extraordinary.”

“No data? Then we research and experiment. Conveniently, the corpse locust tree can mount mental attacks.” Li Zhiyuan smiled faintly.

His gentle, cultivated smile left everyone momentarily stunned, a sense of foreboding creeping in. The deeper their expertise, the further they had ventured in scientific inquiry, the more acutely they sensed the terrifying talent—and madness—before them.

He was the most gifted genius in centuries, single-handedly accelerating the march of technology. Yet he was, by all accounts, a madman.

Take, for instance, the Empire’s Tiger—the elite unit that made nations tremble—his creation. It was a marvel of biotechnology far ahead of its time, and a flagrant violation of ethical boundaries.

“What are you planning?” someone asked, voice low and eyes full of warning.

“The corpse locust tree can launch mental attacks. We can have someone undergo such an assault and administer something akin to adrenaline to see if it can produce resistance.” The smile never left Li Zhiyuan’s face, but his words were pure insanity.

A middle-aged man with graying hair, severe expression, and an air of uprightness slammed the table and cried angrily, “Dr. Li Zhiyuan, this is a new era—this is the Republic, not the Empire! We will never allow inhuman experiments here, nor does our law permit human experimentation!”

The rest of the scientists were similarly incensed. While they had come to expect madness from this man, acceptance was another matter.

Seeing their anger, Li Zhiyuan remained composed, shrugging as he replied, “Dr. Du Haoxuan, you must understand that scientific research often pushes at the boundaries of ethics, inch by inch. And, the Republic’s laws do not ban human trials outright—they prohibit experiments with a mortality or disability rate above three percent.”

“But your proposed experiment has a fifty percent death rate—life or death, a coin toss! We have no idea what might happen,” Du Haoxuan glared at Li Zhiyuan. “We must uphold the final moral line, especially as scientists.”

“The final line... Ha!” Li Zhiyuan echoed, then covered his face with a laugh, as if mocking his opponent.

“Major, what kind of country have you created?”

“What’s so funny?” Du Haoxuan asked gravely.

“Nothing amusing.” Li Zhiyuan stopped laughing, slowly stood, one hand on the table, the other over his heart.

“To date, the greatest threat we’ve encountered in the new world is mental assault. To safeguard our troops—and you, Major—we must exhaust every means to discover a defense. If the mind truly exists, can willpower influence it? If so, can drugs in turn affect the mind, even slightly?”

A manic gleam shone in the eyes lurking behind his disheveled black hair.

“The Major is this nation’s hope for survival—at least in my eyes. That’s why I propose a human trial, a fifty-fifty chance of life and death. I will be the subject.”

Silence.

Everyone stared at Li Zhiyuan in disbelief.

“Are you insane?” Du Haoxuan stammered, then realized his question was superfluous—this man was always mad.

“I am not mad, nor have I ever been. I am a pure rationalist,” Li Zhiyuan replied, his smile gentle once more, as if he were a refined, scholarly gentleman.

“Gentlemen, the path of science is like walking in the dark—one must grope forward, and someone must lay down their body to pave the way. For this experiment, I will endure repeated mental assaults until it is certain modern medicine is ineffective. Today, I will be the pioneer. Someday, you too may pave the road with your corpses.”

Mouths agape, all fell silent at last.

The meeting ended. Li Zhiyuan submitted his experimental proposal in writing.

…

On the third day, all researchers assembled before Containment Chamber 3-02: [Corpse Locust Tree].

Li Zhiyuan donned his protective suit, signed the waiver accepting life-or-death risk, and prepared to begin.

“Why do you all look like this? It’s not as if I’m marching off to my doom,” he joked.

Du Haoxuan raised his right hand to his temple in a grave salute. “I will never forgive what you have done. But your contributions will never be forgotten.”

The other researchers saluted as well, offering him their highest respect.

“For the Republic.”

Those who go to their deaths deserve respect.

“Such drama! I’m not even a citizen of the Republic—merely a man atoning for his crimes.” Li Zhiyuan put on his helmet and strode step by step toward the laboratory, the metal door opening slowly to reveal a gnarled, withered tree within.

“Major, I’m beginning to believe in your ideals.”

…

Dawnlight Royal Capital, in the palace.

With the help of two maids, Qin Le, for once, donned a suit. (Don’t ask why it’s a suit.)

As he straightened his tie in the mirror, he spoke, “After tonight’s victory ball, I’ll be leaving the capital. Would you care to return to my domain with me?”

Honoring his previous promise, he was also intrigued by the extraordinary assassin knowledge these two maids possessed. Perhaps they might serve as the king’s eyes and ears, helping to reassure the monarch.

Xuanlü did not mind the king’s surveillance. What could not be seen did not exist in this world; what could be seen was already here. As long as no trouble was stirred, Xuanlü would remain the Dawnlight Kingdom’s partner, just as the kingdom was Xuanlü’s early shield.

At his words, the livelier maid’s eyes shone with delight. “Thank you for your grace, my lord duke. We are willing to follow you.”