Chapter 2: Brave New World (Part One)
"Crow... Crow..."
A kid was screeching like a drill, circling his head, the noise so piercing he wished he could bury himself in the ground. He tried to press his ears into his armpits to block it out.
The "drill" relentlessly pursued him, spit flying in all directions, as it shouted at the top of its lungs into his ear: "Quick, Nurse! The Crow moved! He moved!"
That shout could have shaken a satellite loose. His drifting mind crashed back into his head, the aftershock stirring tears that made his eyes snap open, revealing a strange new world.
Whoa, so clear!
He marveled at first, then felt a bit puzzled: Do I always see this clearly?
With eyes that didn’t scatter light or suffer from night blindness, he soon made out his surroundings:
It was a dimly lit, cramped room, about a dozen square meters, with a short door and a small window about a foot square. The doorframe was narrow and low, so anyone tall would have to duck to get inside. The meager light from the shabby window illuminated the desolate walls and the empty room.
There was only him and a small demon... wait!
A swollen, distorted face loomed close, and snot, following the tears, hovered just above his nose.
Good heavens, what species is this?!
The frightened man erupted with superhuman strength, sliding a foot away to escape the impending snot collision. The sudden movement sent the world spinning, and he reached out to hold his head, feeling a matted clump of hair. Running his hand down, he found it was nearly waist-length.
Who am I?
The concussed man stared, waiting for the stars in his vision to dissipate, and wondered: Where am I? What do I do? What fashion trend is this hair following?
At that moment, the door opened.
A woman responded to the "drill kid's" summons and walked in, carrying a basin.
Pausing momentarily at the door, she stepped in nonchalantly and kicked the drill kid aside: "Shut up, get lost."
She wasn’t bad-looking, with well-defined features. Facing an attractive woman, people instinctively try to act dignified. The man quickly arranged his features, intending to greet her decently, but before he could show his teeth, the woman yanked his head.
Despite her small hands, they were covered with the calluses of hardworking people, and her grip was astonishingly strong, nearly twisting his head off.
"Brainless fool." The beauty tugged at his hair, inspecting his empty head, then threw out a "wait" before hurrying out again.
The man stared blankly with disheveled hair, his body awake but his soul still confused.
The woman who had just entered was not old, but certainly not a young girl either.
He glanced at her and immediately noticed her haggard appearance, rough hands, deformed joints, and tattered clothes. Her appearance, smell, and even her gait indicated a life of hardship and long-term heavy physical labor. Yet her thick, neat hair and well-kept, pretty teeth seemed to prove she was well-nourished.
In addition, she had a small, sharp face with a soft contour—narrow jawbone and underdeveloped masseter muscles—indicating that her usual diet consisted of easy-to-chew food.
So many conflicting messages, and—
"What is my relationship with her?"
Clearly, they were close, as her actions had long crossed social boundaries, but there was no intimacy, nor any romantic hint between them.
The brief moment she met his gaze at the door was slightly awkward, as if she was avoiding him, yet there was a hint of guilt.
Like someone who has already made her move.
"No way?" He became even more puzzled, as he prided himself on being reasonably tactful. "When tea is served, I leave; when a green hat is given, we part ways gracefully." He understood at least this basic etiquette, so how had he become so disliked?
Could they be siblings fighting over an inheritance?
No, that didn't seem right either...
Suddenly, another possibility occurred to him.
Could they be father and daughter?!
That... actually makes sense!
The moment he opened his eyes, he felt palpitations, shortness of breath, and muscle weakness—signs of old age, no doubt.
His son, feeling guilty, was probably cursing him for being old.
At that moment, his mind felt as empty as a balloon, probably because of Alzheimer's.
"Have I really gotten this old? Is my life almost over?" He was stunned for a moment, then a tremendous sense of joy welled up inside him.
"Is this for real?"
Senility in old age, passing away peacefully—it was almost romantic.
Living through the seasons of life, first becoming a forgetful child, then a carefree infant, and when others leave this world, they only return their bodies, but he could lay down his soul as well... The only downside was that it might be a bit of a burden on his children, so he decided to make his exit while he was still lucid.
Happiness came too quickly, and just as he was about to struggle to his feet, the smile faded from his face.
"Tsk." He observed his hand for a moment, thinking, "I should've known better."
The hand, though dirty, still showed signs of soft, youthful skin. It wasn't the hand of an old man.
His newly straightened back slumped again as the boy with the drill approached.
He pondered, "Is 'Crow' referring to me?"
The previous perspective had been a bit frightening, but now that he was sitting up, he could see that the boy with the drill was just a little boy.
The boy, sniffling and bare-chested, wore only a tattered pair of shorts. He looked to be about six or seven years old... or maybe not, the kid was so fat that his flesh had deformed him.
"You suddenly fell ill, and we were scared to death," the little boy said, clutching the edge of the bed and looking at him. "The owner came to see you three times and scolded the nanny. Crow, are you feeling better?"
Crow, unable to remember his own name, reluctantly accepted the nickname. He felt that the child's way of addressing him carried a feudal, superstitious tone.
"Hmm." As Crow spoke, he suddenly felt that the language wasn't his native tongue, but he understood and spoke it fluently.
Crow paused and said calmly, "As soon as I heard you call me, I woke up right away."
The chubby kid didn't respond, his mouth hanging open in shock, as if he had just heard a dog bark in human speech.
Crow frowned, unsure what to say.
Crow wanted to pat the child on the head to ease the awkwardness, but as he reached out and saw the dirt under his nails, he couldn't help but sigh. "Is there any water?"
The chubby kid, still staring with his mouth open, pointed dully. Crow followed the direction of the boy's finger and saw a lone pipe in the corner, with a rusty, crooked faucet pointing toward a dark drain.
Crow: "..."
"Quite a fashionable design with no water pool."
The water pressure was low, but surprisingly, the water tasted fine. A warped stainless steel cup hung on the wall, seemingly hinting that it was safe to drink. Crow slowly supported himself against the wall, washed his hands, and filled the cup. After a sip, finding no strange taste, he leaned against the pipe and drank slowly.
It was only then that Little Chubby snapped out of his daze. "Y-you... are you talking to me?"
Crow: "Ah, who else?"
Chubby, shocked: "You used to only say something once every few days, and never so much!"
Hearing this, Crow was even more shocked than the child. *I was that cool?*
He took a gulp of cold water to calm himself, then realized he had slipped up. Fortunately, only a preschooler had heard it.
He started rambling, "Well, I really don’t like talking, but now my head feels so dizzy, bloated... Can you tell my head is twice its usual size? I need to release the air inside through my mouth."
With his kindergarten-level understanding, the child was utterly confused, unable to distinguish between intestines and brains.
Crow pretended to press his temples, acting, "I’m sick in the head, I’m going to become stupid..."
Chubby: "You’re already stupid!"
Crow blinked, trying not to laugh. "Thanks for the honesty, kid."
Chubby observed him for a while, then became anxious. "Brother Crow, when you fell, did you hit your head and actually become not-stupid?"
Crow became anxious too. "Wait, is being stupid here a good thing?"
"Yeah, if you weren’t stupid, how could you be sold for such a high price!" Chubby worried, "The guest has already paid a deposit, and in a few days, when the final payment is made, they’ll take you away. If they find out you’re not stupid anymore, what will we do?"
Crow was shocked by the implications in the child’s words. *There’s human trafficking involved here?!*
But what’s the selling point of a smelly, not-so-smart man? His kidneys?
Crow asked, "How much am I, the expensive me? Which guest paid the deposit?"
"I don’t know, I’ve never met the guest, but the owner said," Little Chubby raised his pinkie finger, mimicking in a high-pitched, exaggerated tone, "Our Crow is a rare black-haired, black-eyed specimen. Look at his tall stature, his perfect face, and what a quiet, well-behaved fool he is. You can’t get much better than that. On the ground, he’d be worth the price of a car, no less than 30K."
Crow blinked, trying not to laugh. "Wow, impressive."
Chubby solemnly warned, "So you can’t get sick or die."
"I’ll try," Crow blinked, deliberately lowering his voice as if talking to himself, "But it’s really strange. Out of nowhere, how did I get sick?"
Chubby began gesturing wildly, explaining in a jumbled manner. From his topsy-turvy description, Crow pieced together a rough scenario—he’d been sick since yesterday, throwing up everything he ate. Today, when he stood up, he fainted and fell backward. The dizziness might have been from hitting the ground.
The first part sounded a bit like food poisoning, but the latter was strange. He had heard of people dying from a bad fall, but not of a head being "formatted" from a certain position.
Chubby: "The owner doesn’t know what’s wrong with you either, so you’re staying in the hospital for observation for a few days."
Crow: "..."
He glanced at the crooked faucet and the peeling paint on the walls, taking a deep breath. The smell of sewage hit him like a wave.
"Is this a hospital?"
Isn't this supposed to be a concentration camp?
Fatso: "Yeah, pretty much!"
Crow endured the dizziness, leaning against the wall for a long time, and once he gathered enough strength, he headed towards the door of the small room.
"Wow," he stood at the door and looked around, thinking, "This is worse than a concentration camp."
It wasn't night; this place was just an underground space that never saw daylight, so it was no wonder the area reeked of sewers.
The door of the small room wasn't locked, probably because there was no need. It was surrounded by prison-like high walls, with only a narrow path about twenty to thirty meters long in front of the door, both ends locked. On the walls of the room were several rows of painted gibberish, what looked like writing—he didn't recognize any of them.
Good news: in addition to being intellectually impaired, he was probably illiterate too.
Unable to see beyond the high walls, Crow didn't know what was outside. He concentrated and could hear the sounds of cars, music, and cursing... faint and obscure, like the lights of the underground city.
Who gets locked up like this? Mental patients?
Little Fatso came over and tugged at him: "Crow, don't wander around. You should go back and lie down. Mammy went to get the owner and should be back soon."
Crow stared at the high wall and asked softly, "Who is the owner?"
"The owner is Mr. Charles, and Mr. Charles is a great Harpo-Clates!"
Crow: "..."
Har... what?
Harpocrates?
"Then what about Mammy? What is she?"
"A person?" Fatso tilted his head in confusion, "Mammy isn't a person, she's a berry."
Crow was completely baffled: What kind of slang was this?
Fatso looked at him and, with an air of seniority, nodded: "It seems you really are talking a lot because of a swollen head. You're still out of it, but at least you're talking, so I'm relieved."
Crow: "..."
Thanks, I guess.
"Did you see Mammy and the owner together a lot and think she's a person too?" The reliable child carefully explained to the big fool, "No, actually Mammy is a berry like us, but she's more impressive, she's the breeder, in charge of us, and we all came from her!"
Crow: "Are you saying she's your mother?"
"What? Not 'horse,' she's Mammy, Mama."
Crow raised an eyebrow slightly.
In their language, there must be a word for "mother," otherwise the child wouldn't have blurted it out when referring to "the female who gave birth to me." But the child didn't seem to understand that "the female who gave birth to me" was "Mom."
"You just said that all of you were born by Mammy?" Crow thought for a moment and asked, "Who do you mean by 'you all'? Do you have brothers and sisters?"
Fatso blinked his innocent little eyes: "What do you mean by 'bear flute' and 'coal?'"
It was like talking between a chicken and a duck.
Crow sighed: Talking to kids really takes years off your life; no wonder helping kids with homework can drive you crazy.
The grown-up just keeps sighing, but the little kid didn’t seem to mind and patiently explained, "It's not 'you,' it's 'us.' 'Us' means you and me, big dummy Crow!"
"Alright, so we're from the same generation now," Crow gave up trying to communicate with the child, "She gave birth to me? Or did I give birth to her?"
His voice stuck, and his gaze froze—not far away, there was a dirty glass window. A stray beam of light swept across it, and the reflection showed a figure.
He saw a thin, black-haired male standing next to Little Fat Kid. The man was almost nothing but a tall skeleton, hollow and empty. His naturally curly, long hair fell to his waist, dirty and clumped, covering a ghostly, familiar face—his own face.
He looked quite miserable but extraordinarily young, almost between adolescence and youth.
A thought bubbled up, and he dazedly thought, "Isn't this the age when I first met Teacher?"
The bubble rose and "popped," dispersing. He snapped out of his trance.
"Teacher?" He became confused again, "Who's that? Did I have a teacher? And they taught me to be illiterate?"
"Why isn't Mother back yet?" Fat Kid tugged at his clothes and peeked out, "I should head back."
"By the way," Crow asked Fat Kid, "Why are you at the hospital too?"
"For a body check-up," Little Fat Kid said somewhat embarrassedly, twisting and turning, "I'm underweight."
Indeed, the child couldn’t afford to gain more weight.
Just as Crow was about to comfort him with "With proper exercise, you'll definitely lose weight," he heard Fat Kid worry, "If I don’t meet the weight, I’ll have to keep putting on more. Sigh."
Crow choked, and after a long while, he weakly squeezed out, "Buddy, by the standards of which species do we need to gain more weight?"
Fat Kid wrinkled his face, "By the standards for fat chicks!"
Fat... what?
Thinking for a moment, Crow crouched down to face Fat Kid, "You know a lot of things, can you teach me?"
Children of this age couldn’t resist flattery. Fat Kid immediately puffed out his chest, "Hmm!"
"What's your name?"
"Xiao Liu!"
"Xiao Liu?"
That’s a bit too simple. ‘Crow’ sounds way cooler.
"I'm the sixth berry born by Mother, so I'm called Xiao Liu. But the sixth berry born by other breeding mothers are also called 'Xiao Liu.' There are many Xiao Lius where I'm from." Fat Kid was a little unhappy, "Your names sound way better than ours."
"Hmm... and what's a fat chick?" Crow teased deliberately, "Don't tell me you know everything about that?"
"Of course I know!" Fat Kid clenched his fist, accepting the challenge, "Hmm... what's a fat chick? A fat chick is me! Of course, you're not a fat chick, you big dummy Crow, you're too scrawny to be a fat chick!"
The very scrawny Crow, "..."
"Alright! If I'm not a fat chick, then what am I?"
Fat Kid Xiao Liu, "You're a stud!"
Crow tilted to the side, almost slamming into the door, "Wait… kid, what did you just say about me?"
Little Fat Kid, "A stud!"
Crow thought he must be losing it. His brain really wasn't up to par. Just two words nearly fried his brain.
"Ah!" Little Six shouted, "It's the owner! The great Mr. Charles has arrived!"
Crow looked in the direction the child was pointing and saw the legendary owner.
He didn’t need to ask about Mr. Charles’s accomplishments. Just one look was enough to see what made him "great." He… no, it was about 1.5 meters tall, with an arm circumference of at least 70 centimeters. No neck, with a triangular head perched on broad shoulders, a pair of large ears on top, with a tuft of grey hair in between... clearly a large grey rat!
A 1.5-meter-tall large grey rat!
It was hunched over, its body a strange mix of human and rat features, its short and thick forepaws curled in front of it, claws that glinted menacingly.
Although its appearance was quite raw, the gentleman's attire was very refined: he wore a plaid shirt and denim overalls, and a pair of scholarly square glasses perched on his protruding pointed snout, like a tech-savvy rat.
It was only at this moment that Crow finally wiped the fog from his mind and understood his identity.
"I’m a stud animal raised by this giant grey rat," he marveled inwardly, "Holy crap, that’s actually kinda cool!"