July marked the season when white hibiscuses shed their petals.
Snow-white petals veined with crimson threads drifted through the air, alighting on the shoulders and hair of the assembled youths, carpeting the ground beneath their feet in a tapestry of fragile beauty. Yet few spared a glance for this ethereal spectacle. All eyes were riveted on the holographic screens flickering with glowing numerals—the sacred Adaptation Values that would determine their fates.
"Adaptation Value: 64. Qualified." The military officer in camouflage and dark sunglasses recited the verdict in a monotone. A collective murmur of envy rippled through the line as the fortunate boy clenched his fists in triumph.
"Adaptation Value: 51. Disqualified."
"Adaptation Value: 7. Qualified!"
"Adaptation Value: 86! By the stars—qualified!"
Gasps erupted as a lanky youth atop the fourth testing platform basked in the spotlight. Even the senior officer leaning from his armored vehicle gaped. "An 86 in this backwater town? Unthinkable!"
Shen Zheng watched from the shadows, his obsidian eyes reflecting both longing and restraint. If only I could reach 60... Just 60, he thought, knuckles whitening. Then I could join the army, earn glory, and save Xiaoying.
When his turn came, the needle pierced his wrist. The holographic screen blazed to life—numbers spiraling madly until they froze at 98.
Silence gripped the square.
"98?" The officer's voice cracked. "Retest. Now."
The second needle delivered the same verdict. Chaos erupted. "A miracle!" roared the senior officer, sprinting from his vehicle. "Welcome to the White Wolf Star Fang Garrison, recruit! Report in three days!"
Shen Zheng stared numbly at the glowing enlistment card—a golden ticket to salvation.
Interlude: Shadows of War
As celebrations engulfed the testing grounds, rain lashed a distant military base. A convoy of armored transports revved their engines.
"What's inside?" A lieutenant shielded his superior from the storm.
"Unknown." The commander's eyes hardened. "Recovered from a crashed galac
At the Gates of Wolf Fang Garrison
The veteran guarding the barracks snapped to attention the moment he read Shen Zheng's enlistment card. "Shen Zheng? The prodigy with the 98 Adaptation Value?" His salute was so abrupt that Shen stumbled backward, cheeks flushing.
"It's him! The genius!" Whispers exploded among the hundreds of recruits. A dozen swarmed forward—boys clamoring for autographs, girls batting flirtatious lashes. Shen's head spun. Yesterday, I was a nameless laborer. Today, a celebrity?
A hulking recruit shoved through the crowd, sneering. "What's a high Adaptation Value worth if your Insect-Tech isn't combat-class? Useless!"
Laughter erupted. "Look—it's the '86' boy! Jealous much?"
Shen's chest tightened. He's not wrong. Adaptation Value alone doesn't guarantee combat compatibility...
The Laboratory: A Dance of Flesh and Chitin
Inside the sterile lab, recruits witnessed the Insect-Tech Implantation—a ritual both grotesque and sacred. The first volunteer screamed as a needle plunged into his wrist, pumping liquefied combat-insect ovum into his veins. Surgeons monitored holographic screens as the boy convulsed, his skin rippling until a blade-like limb tore through his sleeve.
"Close-Combat Type confirmed," a medic droned. "Next!"
As Shen approached the chair, the lab door slammed open.
Commander Cartes of the Third Battalion barged in, flanked by his rivals—the cunning First Battalion Leader, the golden-haired Fourth Battalion Chief, and the serene Second Battalion Commander. Their argument crescendoed until General Liang Long, Wolf Fang's iron-jawed patriarch, silenced them with a glance.
"Let the Implantation decide his destiny."
The Ordeal
Bound to the steel chair, Shen watched as a ranged-class ovum flowed into his veins. Surgeons held their breath.
ERROR: COMPATIBILITY 0%.
Gasps filled the room. The generals exchanged stunned glances.
"Impossible..." A medic swapped the ovum for a close-combat strain. Shen's muscles seized as the second injection began—
A suffocating silence gripped the laboratory.
"W-What's happening?" The medic's voice cracked as he stared at the holographic screen.
The senior surgeon hurried over, his face draining of color. "Check the ovum integrity! Recalibrate the compatibility matrix!"
"All parameters are optimal," the technician muttered, fingers trembling over the control panel. "The system shows... zero compatibility with close-combat strains."
General Liang Long strode forward, his medals clinking like funeral bells. "Explain."
Shen Zheng's throat tightened as the truth dawned—98 Adaptation Value, a number that once glittered like stardust, now mocked him as cruelly as the recruits' jeers.
"Fraud!" A voice sliced through the silence. "Your 'genius' was a lie!"
The lab erupted. Recruits who'd begged for autographs hours earlier now hurled insults, their admiration curdling into venom. Shen's knuckles whitened against the restraints.
"Silence!" General Liang's roar rattled the glassware. "This man remains your comrade. Show respect—or face disciplinary action!"
Yet even the general's authority couldn't stifle the commanders' disdain. Three battalion leaders turned away, their earlier fervor replaced by icy contempt. Only the Second Battalion Commander met Shen's gaze—a flicker of pity in his calm eyes.
The Bitter Revelation
"Proceed with medical-class implantation," the senior surgeon ordered wearily.
As technicians loaded a hexagonal case marked Foundation Insect, sneers rippled through the crowd:
"Foundation Insect? That glorified vitamin pill?""Perfect for a fraud—he'll shine boots with his 'healing touch'!"
The ovum's liquefied essence flowed into Shen's veins. Agony erupted—a million serrated teeth gnawing through his marrow. Yet he bit back screams, locking eyes with his tormentors. Let them see. Let them remember.
Muscles writhed beneath his skin like caged serpents. Visions flickered—Xiaoying's chemo-bald head, landlords pounding on their door, the doctor's pitying "Two years..."
No. I'll endure hell itself.
Suddenly, the pain evaporated. Shen gasped as vitality surged through him—every cell humming with alien symbiosis. The hologram blazed green:
IMPLANTATION SUCCESS: FOUNDATION INSECT (100% SYNCHRONIZATION)
"Remarkable..." The senior surgeon shook his head. "A flawless merge... with this."
Echoes of War
Two hundred kilometers west, a military convoy snaked through mountain passes. Inside the lead armored vehicle, Captain Varek monitored terrain scans.
"Sir," his lieutenant frowned, "the Chrysalis artifact's energy spikes are—"
SCREEEEEEE!
The forest erupted—a tsunami of chitin and claws. Thousand-strong Razorclaw Swarmers cascaded down slopes, mandibles snapping.
"Deploy!" Varek barked.
Doors slammed open. Two hundred Insect-Tech warriors leaped into the carnage. Blades sprouted from wrists; plasma glands glowed at palms. A symphony of slaughter unfolded—limbs flying, acidic blood sizzling on armor.
Within minutes, silence reclaimed the road—save for the drip of purple ichor.
"Pathetic," Varek sneered. "Move ou—"
BOOM!
The earth ruptured. Colossal Ironback Burrowers erupted—armored leviathans dwarfing their kin. Warriors faltered. A rookie screamed as serrated legs sheared through his torso, crimson arcs painting the dirt.
"Regroup! Phalanx formation!" Varek roared, his own arm-blade meeting carapace in a shower of sparks.
Somewhere beneath the chaos, the Chrysalis pulsed—a dormant god stretching in its sleep.
The Weight of Shadows
Back at Wolf Fang Garrison, Shen staggered from the implantation chair. His enhanced senses magnified every sneer:
"Enjoy your new career, Nurse Zheng!""Maybe he'll massage the General's feet!"
Yet one voice cut through the malice—a round-faced recruit stepped forward. "You stood unbroken in that chair. That's worth ten of their petty blades."
Before Shen could reply, alarms wailed. Holoscreens lit with emergency broadcasts:
"CODE BLACK: BURROWER BREACH AT GRID 77-ZETA. ALL COMBAT UNITS MOBILIZE!"
The lab emptied as commanders barked orders. Shen stood abandoned—until the Second Battalion Commander paused at the door.
"Foundation Insects stabilize metabolic systems," he said quietly. "Stay close to medics... and stay alive."
Alone amidst humming machines, Shen clenched his fist. Vitality thrummed beneath his skin—not the thunder of blades, but the relentless tide of mending flesh.
Adaptation Value 98. The number haunted him. Somewhere in this alien symbiosis lay a truth none had glimpsed.
Somewhere...