Chapter Seven: The Test Subject

How could one merge the blood of other living beings with one’s own?
The simplest method, naturally, was to consume it.
From a biological standpoint, this was an extremely inefficient means of integration—cruder even than contact through the nasal mucosa.
Yet, while familiar with such biological truths, Xi Gu understood even more deeply that his powers were extraordinary; the method of combination mattered little. As long as there was material contact, it sufficed.
Thus, after the “connection” between his blood and his ability deepened to a certain point, one day Xi Gu captured several animals from the wild.
—A mouse, a bat, a snake, a fish, a sparrow, and a butterfly.
Spanning land, sea, and sky—it was a comprehensive selection.
After dripping a single drop of his own blood into each animal, Xi Gu began to observe their transformations in silence.
But the moment his blood touched them, through the link between his body and his blood, a strange sensation surged within him.
For the first time, Xi Gu fully perceived every ounce of energy within his own body. It spread outward in a diffusive manner, expanding into these creatures, and through the bond of blood, his formidable power surged and raged within their forms, magnified without limit...
Xi Gu’s strength—beyond that of planets—was condensed into these tiny bodies.
The high-level energy, once compressed, unfurled and expanded, instantly suffusing every fiber, every cell of the little animals, triggering a miraculous leap in their very essence of life.
The mouse’s body swelled abruptly; steel-like spines erupted from the bat’s wings; strange patterns circled the snake’s scales; horns sprouted from the fish’s head; the sparrow’s eyes glittered like diamonds; the butterfly’s wings beat, scintillating with wondrous light.
And yet, at that very moment—Xi Gu sensed that his most innate ability—the “one percent daily growth”—as its fluctuations transmitted into these animals...
Then—
“Bang! Bang! Bang!”
A series of explosive pops rang out; before these small creatures could even react, their bodies burst open, reduced to nothing more than pools of blood!
Faced with this scene, Xi Gu could only smile wryly.
“It seems... I’ll have to train my control over blood once it leaves my body.”
...
His “ability” could only truly exist within himself; for other living things, it was an unbearable burden.
—Xi Gu had suspected as much from the outset, but now that his theory was proven, he was both a little surprised and somewhat relieved.
Undoubtedly, this fact made his uniqueness all the clearer.
Though he would not become arrogant or deluded into thinking himself the king of infinite worlds, Xi Gu felt a subtle sense of relief.
He did wish to transform this world into something more fascinating, to make human society richer and more peculiar.
But had his power not been so tied to his identity—if he could simply “graft” his abilities onto any living being at will—Xi Gu would have had serious concerns.

Such is human nature; such is also its baseness.
Thus, with his worries dispelled, Xi Gu began to boldly experiment with passing a portion of his physical strength to other living beings, all while isolating his core innate ability.
As time passed, the connection and control between his vitality and blood grew ever stronger.
At the same time, he gradually learned to restrain his innate power, keeping it separate from his blood...
And then, three months later.
Xi Gu finally succeeded.
Gazing at the crystalline drop of blood in his hand, Xi Gu smiled.
—Though he knew well that, in terms of chemical composition, this drop was identical to that of any ordinary person, every component within normal medical ranges.
Yet, it was the only substance in this world that could open the door to the abnormal, allowing a living being to ascend to a wondrous state—a thing of fantasy.
Although Xi Gu had excluded his most core ability, leaving this drop with only a minuscule trace of his current strength,
even that was already beyond belief.
“The legendary blood of immortals, the elixir of life—surely, it could be no more miraculous than this.”
Xi Gu mused, a touch of vanity in his tone.
But he ought to find a new test subject first.
The explosive demise of those small animals had left a mark on his psyche, so he would not introduce this drop to humans just yet, but would seek out another animal in nature.
Even though this time, he was almost certain of success, caution was wise.
He considered his options and began his search for a suitable target.
...
“Hunger...”
“Pain...”
“Exhaustion...”
It was as if these words wrapped around it, adjectives manifest as a living being. It cowered, muddled and confused, staggering through the autumn wind.
It did not know what state it was in, nor could it describe itself with the precision of human language. It only knew it was close to dying, but still had to struggle to live.
The former was reality; the latter, a demand inscribed in its genes.
One eye was already blind—shattered months ago by a stone thrown by mischievous children. The other eye was crusted with filth, blood, and grime, leaving vision only in a tiny patch ahead.
Its left foreleg was maimed, its left hind leg half broken, forcing it to limp heavily on one side. Yet even so, it had to pause every few steps, for its nose caught scents.

—The scent of humans.
Distinct from the stench of garbage, the freshness of grass and flowers, or the aroma of food, it was a unique scent belonging only to living humans. That vivid smell.
It was also different from the scent of dogs, cats, mice, or fish—an indescribable odor unique to humanity.
Subtle, yet recognizable.
Its understanding of this scent had undergone several changes: at first, when it lived with its owner, the scent meant safety, gentle caresses, and made it instinctively approach and rest;
later, when moved to a suburban yard, the scent signified beatings, shouts, harsh scoldings, and would fill it with agitation;
and after being abandoned, wandering the streets, the scent came to mean mocking laughter accompanied by stones, sudden sticks, the shadow of death, and memories of pain, making its hackles rise and its tail tuck in retreat.
Now, it had no strength left to flee; when it smelled humans, it could only shrink into itself and keep still—hoping to avoid notice and further injury. This was hard-earned experience.
The nuance of the human scent never changed, but its understanding of it did.
In the end, it was all about survival.
But—there was no way anymore.
Life was seeping from its body, bit by bit. It did not know this state was called “dying,” but instinctively, it feared it.
It tried to move its still-functioning right legs, but no matter how hard it tried, it only managed to fall, then crawl up, only to collapse again, until finally, unable to move, it sprawled in the chilly wind, awaiting death’s arrival.
The sound of footsteps—“tap, tap, tap”—reached its ears.
These were human steps.
Yet—perhaps because its sense of smell was shattered in these last moments, though the human stood beside it, it could not detect that unique human scent.
Its mind was beyond grasping such contradictions, especially now, at the boundary of life and death. All that remained was a blur.
A man laughed softly.
“How fortunate... you’ve met me.”
A clear, gentle voice.
Then, it felt its body lifted, wrapped in warm arms, recalling the earliest days at its first home, when it, too, was held like this.
And so, it quietly, peacefully, slipped into sleep.