Chapter 3: Brave New World (Part Two)
"My poor little darling, quick, sit down... Finally, the fever has gone down!" Mr. Charles stretched out his furry paw and affectionately wrapped it around Crow's waist—his forelimbs were too short to reach any higher—patting and rubbing Crow, making his already shrill voice sound even more horrifying.
Crow almost broke out in hives from Mr. Charles' overly affectionate display. Due to his own... intellectual challenges, he forced himself to endure it without making a sound.
Children of Little Six's age sometimes mistake their imagined stories for truth. Even if he went out and told the adults that the famous village idiot had suddenly become eloquent, they wouldn't take it seriously.
Mr. Charles, however, wasn't so easily fooled.
Mr. Charles' skull resembled a mouse's but was slightly flatter on closer inspection. Like a human, the small area around his facial features was hairless, with some surprisingly expressive muscles. The forelimbs of a real mouse had a degenerated thumb, but Mr. Charles' paws were more like human hands, albeit with only four fingers. One of them could function like a thumb, making his grip quite flexible—he could probably even make a heart gesture.
Mr. Charles seemed to ignore Little Six entirely, his small eyes glued to Crow. He then directed the nanny, who had quietly entered at some point, to "open a can for the big baby."
The so-called "can" turned out to be a jar of sugared yellow peaches, not luncheon meat or tuna, which disappointed Crow greatly.
Crow reluctantly took it, feeling uninterested. He didn’t just dislike sweets—his soul rejected them. The bottle was adorned with a picture of a golden-haired, snow-skinned beauty. He dragged his hands around the bottle, admiring it for a moment, thinking that such a beauty should be in a shampoo ad, not on a can trying to tempt people with sugary cravings.
Beside him, Mr. Charles kept urging him to eat faster. Despite his reluctance, Crow had no choice but to obey his furry owner's command, forcing a small piece into his mouth, intending to swallow it whole without chewing.
The next moment, he froze.
The syrup made his taste buds dance with joy. His hands and mouth, those traitors, worked in perfect harmony, and before his brain could react, he had already swallowed the second piece of peach.
Crow: "..."
What the heck is going on?
Then he drank another sip of the syrup.
His soul and body were at odds over a jar of yellow peach canned fruit, while Mr. Charles sat nearby with his large foot propped up, looking at Crow as if he were a farmer inspecting his wheat field.
"Much better. He'll eat more if it's fruit. Those 'surface people' love their frail types, but this one’s a real handful to keep alive. The slightest thing and he gets sick. The other day, Old Hans wanted to borrow him to breed a litter, but I didn't dare agree, afraid something might happen before the buyer picks him up."
Mr. Charles’ words fell on deaf ears; the nanny stood there, unmoved and silent.
Mr. Charles kicked the nanny with his foot. "You darned fool, you don't even care about your own offspring."
The nanny staggered half a step but steadied herself, still indifferent and silent.
"You're both pitiful and infuriating," the large grey rat remarked with a sigh. "Your kind is already struggling with fertility, and you're so stupid. You don't even recognize your own offspring after weaning. Sigh! Other breeder females aren't like this..."
As he lamented, he made tutting sounds to tease Crow. When Crow gave him a little response, Mr. Charles' small eyes lit up with joy. "Eat, eat quickly, my little money maker."
Once Mr. Charles was done with Crow, he stood up, gave the nanny some instructions, and then pointed at Little Six, who had been lurking nearby. "He's fine. Since the experts have given their word, we'll consider him qualified. Take him back to the pen later."
Little Six's eyes lit up as if he had just received a red flower in kindergarten.
"Nanny! I passed!"
Once Mr. Charles left with his splay-footed gait, Little Six jumped... three centimeters high, happily circling the nanny. She shot him a cold glance, and he quickly pulled back his hand, which had been reaching for her sleeve. He then ran around to Crow and began earnestly advising him with a bunch of unorthodox health tips like "eat more and move less," all while swallowing his longing for the yellow peach canned fruit, muttering uncertainly, "I remember you didn't like sweets, right..."
Whether this was an objective observation or not was debatable, but Crow, despite not entirely agreeing with the advice to eat more, couldn't bring himself to eat alone in front of a young one. So, most of the canned fruit ended up in Little Six's belly.
The child hugged the bottle and finished off the syrup in one go before reluctantly being led away by the nanny.
As the hospital fell silent, Crow fiddled with the empty bottle, pondering Mr. Charles' words: his buyer was a so-called "surface person," someone who seemed to be rich but foolish. Seems like these 'surface people' were into the sickly and frail—probably some idle rich folks.
So, what kind of "earth person" is this, dressed in gold and silver like a wealthy rat?
It might not be a rat, though.
Mr. Charles's swear words always involve "cats." A five-foot-tall rat wouldn’t bother with a ten-pound kitten. So, if there are rat-headed people, this "cat" is likely an eight-foot cat-headed person.
As for common sense, Crow doesn’t have much. At this point, he can only "view the sky from the bottom of a well," making inferences based on the limited clues in front of him. Fortunately, his brain is defective, missing many functions. For instance, in such a clueless situation, he neither feels anxious nor panicked and finds everything oddly new.
Soon, he realizes that it's great to be livestock, especially pampered livestock. There's no KPI, no "996," just eating and lazing around all day—truly a divine life.
The only downside is the food—there’s a ‘buffet’ in the corner cabinet, and you grab whatever you want when you’re hungry.
Their main meal is a type of small biscuit resembling dog food. They’re soft and soggy, at least at the level of being left outdoors for three days during the rainy season. No wonder the nanny’s jaw muscles are so weak.
The caretaker is also quite sloppy, mixing different flavors of biscuits in one plastic bucket. A handful in your mouth could randomly combine four flavors: spicy banana, vanilla beef, and more. It’s quite an experience.
Every time Crow chews the dog food, he feels a newfound respect for Little Six, wondering how that kid managed to grow so much flesh on this stuff.
During his hospital stay, Crow misses Little Six a lot. The kid was like a living answering machine, always ready to answer questions. But the child never came again, while the nanny and Mr. Charles visited every day.
"Nanny" seems to be a position; he doesn’t know her name.
At first, he thought names like "Crow" were just nicknames, but now, understanding his role, he realizes this is the given name of their livestock.
The nanny comes with Mr. Charles every day to clean. Crow welcomes her enthusiastically but can’t bring himself to see her as a mother. He always feels like his soul is older than hers, even if it’s just in his mind. Even without mentioning his swollen soul, given the nanny’s age, it’s unlikely she’d have such a large son.
The early maturity of the livestock is a bit exaggerated.
When Mr. Charles is around, the nanny is like a soulless tool. Once he leaves, she "revives" coldly. She has large eyes with deep eye sockets. Occasionally, Crow notices her quietly staring at him in the dark, her gaze more complicated than the ingredient list on a can—no offense to the can intended.
Mr. Charles brings him cans as extra meals, mostly fruits, occasionally ready-to-eat meat and grain cans, leaving behind many colorful cans. Crow can’t chat freely in front of other living beings, so when no one is around, he talks to the labels on the colorful cans.
His body is as fragile as dried garlic skin, and he’s mostly drowsy throughout the day, only waking up properly to eat. Nevertheless, he’s quite efficient and has managed to chat his way into having three female confidants and two sworn brothers.
Although the ingredient lists of his canned friends are longer than Mr. Charles's height, at least the taste is better than the "dog food," which Crow is very grateful for. Moreover, long ingredient lists have their advantages. Besides basic terms like "water," "sugar," and "antibiotics," Crow has deduced the writing of many food additives by comparing the flavors and colors of various cans.
The ingredient list doesn’t include calories but does show the amount of each ingredient, which also taught him numerical writing and measurement units.
Interestingly, the numbers are in decimal.
This doesn’t match his initial guess of octal, meaning eight-fingered rat-headed people are likely not the masters of this world.
More interestingly, Crow thought he was just a carefree idiot, but when he used his brain a bit, he uncovered some knowledge of unknown utility—he’s quite good at math and knows a lot about chemicals related to the food industry.
He seems to be illiterate but not entirely so.
After days in the "hospital" where time seemed to stand still, Crow feels he’s becoming increasingly chewy.
I hope Mr. Charles has strong teeth, or I might chip his fancy dentures.
On the fourth or fifth day, upon waking, Crow finally feels much better, able to walk around the small room for three laps in one go.
At the same time, along with his recovery, a familiar but strange sensation came back to him.
It’s like when you finally get that cast off after breaking a bone—the parts are your own, the instinct to walk remains, but the legs feel a bit unfamiliar at first.
He pondered for a moment, then let that invisible "leg" guide him to the cabinet where the "dog food" was stored.
"Let’s see… What’s the message, old friend?"
There was a five-centimeter gap between the wooden cabinet and the floor. It looked normal from the outside, but Crow could sense that something underneath was calling out to him.
He reached in with the long-handled spoon from his fruit can and poked around. He pulled out a dark, dusky ball of yarn. Upon closer inspection, it turned out to be an unfinished yarn doll. The head was already tied, but the body was not yet formed, giving it a somewhat eerie appearance.
What’s this for? Some kind of voodoo doll? Who’s it supposed to curse?
Just as he was puzzled, Crow suddenly felt a throbbing in his chest, and his left eye socket became slightly warm. His left eye went dark.
In the dim light, his left pupil slowly transformed into a hexagram, spinning faster and faster on his iris—
His right eye still saw the present, the empty dark room, and the creepy dirty yarn ball. But through his left eye, the dark yarn ball shed its dust, revealing its original blue color and a small, dark fingerprint.
A semi-transparent hand emerged from the fingerprint, followed by an arm, a body, and a head. In less than a second, a little girl—around seven or eight—stood before him.
With his left eye, Crow saw the child struggling to move toward the water pipe.
She was skeletal from illness, each step sapping what little strength she had left. Her eyes were glazed over, fixated on the pipe, but her small hand kept reaching out, driven by thirst. Suddenly, she tripped over something and lost her balance, falling to the ground.
Without thinking, Crow reached out, but his hand passed right through the air. The child was already gone, just a ghostly presence.
He could only watch helplessly as the small life fought, then finally went still.
In that moment, Crow felt every last sensation the child had experienced. Cold sweat immediately broke out on his forehead, and his already pale face turned even whiter. But he didn’t move, discerning the feeling of suffocation and lack of oxygen, judging that the child had most likely died from congenital heart disease.
At that moment, the scene in his left eye froze. The child, already in the realm of the dead, stretched out her hand toward him.
Without any guidance, Crow instinctively reached out. This time, he didn’t miss. Across time and space, he touched the familiar sensation of death.
As the living and the dead hands met, a shadow enveloped them. Crow slightly tilted his head, and in his left ear, he heard a hoarse child’s voice, “The gift for the great Mr. Charles is not finished yet.”
Crow sighed.
When someone dies, their light goes out, and the dead can no longer speak. This phrase was merely the echo the child left behind in the world, reverberating in Crow’s ears.
“Alright,” Crow gently pressed down on her hand, “Consider it done. I’ll finish it and give it to him for you.”
As his words fell, the shadow enveloping his hand turned into a pitch-black contract and plunged into his palm. Crow was abruptly pulled back to the living world, the illusions in his left eye vanishing, his pupil returning to its original state, and the lingering presence of the dead child disappearing without a trace.
Crow squeezed his palm, feeling like this hand had held many similar contracts before, but no matter how hard he tried, the memories eluded him.