Chapter 4: Brave New World (Part Three)
Crow’s hands weren’t particularly skillful, but the former creator of the yarn ball wasn’t exactly a crafting artist either.
In an attempt to continue the little girl’s creation, he tried to understand her creative intent and kneaded the tangled yarn into a voodoo doll.
So when Mr. Charles came to check on the patients that evening, he received a gift from one of them.
Mr. Charles was greatly surprised, as for Crow to make such a thing must have taken a tremendous effort. He was deeply moved, holding the strange doll and dancing excitedly, causing several gray hairs to fall out.
The nurse didn’t join in this warm master-pet interaction but instead continued to scrub the floor nearby, the sound of “scrubbing” filling the air.
In the midst of the scrubbing, the invisible contract in Crow’s hand vanished. He had completed the dead child’s final wish, and in that moment, he received something from her.
Crow remembered that his left eye could communicate with the dead.
For some reason, he wasn’t surprised at all, as if it should have been this way. He even naturally recalled the name of that left eye.
Its official name in the archives was “Tomb Raider”… but which archive was it again?
Never mind, he couldn’t remember.
“Tomb Raider” didn’t really sound like a proper name; it sounded more like a criminal label than a title. But thinking of it stirred a faint sense of nostalgia in Crow.
Because of that eye, he had also earned a nickname—some people privately called him the “White Demon.”
Like Mephisto tempting Faust, the “White Demon” coveted the souls of the living, using their trivial worldly desires as bait to exact a high price.
The “White Demon” operated in the secular world, taking things from the dead—as long as there were remnants of the deceased, even just a fingerprint, he could use it as a bridge to access their death records and last wishes.
By fulfilling the last wishes of the dead, he could obtain something from them that was “neither brought into life nor taken out of it.”
As for what he received…
It was hard to say; it was quite random and didn’t change based on the difficulty of the task—when he was lucky, he might gain a useful skill, like knitting; when his luck was bad, the deceased might leave him a “sleepless nights” function as an inheritance, and he could only curse and reject it.
In short, although it was a trade of “wishes” for rewards, while true demons were ruthless capitalists, this “White Demon” was more like a working dog being paid with junk by unscrupulous clients.
The person who gave him this nickname must have thought it fitting—the “white” was definitely the “white” of “useless” or “futile.”
The police might find his skill useful in investigating murder cases, if the legal system still functioned.
So, what did the kid named “Snowball” use to pay this time?
“Wait,” Crow paused, “‘Snowball’?”
He immediately realized something and turned to look at the nurse. As soon as he saw her, the name ‘Count’ automatically came to mind.
He knew what kind of payment this was.
It was a gift Crow couldn’t refuse—knowledge.
Because knowledge was a curse, an incurable disease; once you’re exposed, there’s no returning to ignorance.
The child Snowball hadn’t even had the chance to lose her baby teeth, having only briefly set foot in the world of the living before departing. Her knowledge was quite limited, just slightly better than the dim-witted Crow: she recognized the people around her and knew their names, and generously gave him all her knowledge of the world.
“It’s a good trade,” Crow thought.
Over the next few days, Crow started circling the hospital, picking up more “jobs.”
Unfortunately, he didn't encounter anyone who could help.
Most of the deceased in "Berry Hospital" were children, most too young to understand the concept of "birth, aging, sickness, and death." When they were on their last breath, all they could think about was survival, pain relief, and getting better. The useless White Demon was powerless to help them.
In addition, there was another deceased who requested a song, but the big fool had never heard of it and couldn't sing it. Another wanted to eat a can of orange slices, but when Crow tried to eat it on their behalf, the client refused, and the task failed again.
Fortunately, Crow had no special talents but was always ready to quit. His life had only two mottos: "Alright" and "If not, forget it."
So, despite his repeated failures, he didn't take it to heart and continued to live each day without a care, just eating and waiting for death.
After staying in the "hospital" for another three or four days, Mr. Charles announced that Crow had recovered and could be discharged. Then, the esteemed gentleman personally led Crow through the narrow path at the hospital entrance toward a slightly smaller door.
Though this hospital was more rudimentary than a pigsty, the doors and locks had a high-tech feel.
Crow followed Mr. Charles, feeling like he'd just stepped out of a medieval hovel and into a sci-fi movie set.
As soon as Mr. Charles stood still, a red light shot out from the door, scanning his entire body. Then, with a "tick," the identity verification passed, the red light turned green, and the small door automatically opened.
Crow peered over Mr. Charles's head and was disappointed to see more of the same: a narrow cement path and towering walls.
With no scenery to look at, Crow resorted to studying the guide, Mr. Charles.
Although his limbs were much thicker than a human's, the rat-headed man also walked upright. Walking upright brought misfortune.
The price of freeing the hands was a huge pressure on the spine, especially the neck, so the neck of the rat-headed man was much more vulnerable than a real rat's of the same size.
Mr. Charles's nearsighted glasses had a shading function, even in the dim lighting of the underground. It was unclear whether this was Mr. Charles's personal issue or a trait of all rat-headed men.
If it was the latter, they might be like real rats, fearing light and having poor eyesight. Their large ears and protruding nasal cavities might be organs used to compensate for their vision. In that case, the public lighting in the underground city didn't consider the physiological needs of the rat-headed men at all.
Crow lowered his eyelashes, his eyes flickering.
If that was true, not only were the rat-headed men not the rulers of the surface world, but even the great gentlemen had a low status underground.
At that moment, music and footsteps came from not far away. Crow looked up and saw a rat-headed man with a wide-brimmed hat coming toward them from around the corner.
It wasn’t clear if this was some kind of field trip or what, but the "wide-brimmed hat" held a harmonica in his claws, playing a light tune as he walked. Seven or eight chubby kids followed behind the wide-brimmed hat, like newborn ducklings, following step by step.
The kids were all cheerful, and Little Six was right in the middle of them.
"Uncle Charles," the wide-brimmed hat greeted them, putting down the harmonica. He then reached out a furry hand and gently tugged on Crow's hair, saying, "Hello, little one."
Crow maintained a blank face in silence—there were so many nicknames, and he could hardly remember them.
As soon as he saw the furry face of the wide-brimmed hat, the knowledge Snowball had left him kicked in. Crow immediately knew that the name of this rat-headed individual was "Sophia," Mr. Charles's niece.
The voices of the rat-headed men were all sharp, and their body shapes were similar. In Crow's eyes, they were just like real rats; the parts of their bodies that didn't need to be pixelated showed no distinction between male and female.
But surprisingly, their clothing and behavior exhibited clear gender differences. The "wide-brimmed hat" Miss Sophia wore a skirt and, upon meeting Mr. Charles, she would lift the hem of her skirt and greet him with a vintage curtsy.
With her short arms, Miss Sophia had to bend down to grab one side of her skirt before reaching for the other. If she ran into many acquaintances, she might have to bend over and adjust her skirt all the way, which Crow imagined would be like a mourner thanking relatives at a funeral.
This fancy dress and mannerisms didn’t seem to come from the rat-people themselves but were likely copied from some outside culture.
Crow lowered his head, allowing the one-meter-five tall wide-brimmed hat lady to play with his hair tips. He pondered the mysterious decimal system of the jarred candied fruit and sketched out a rough outline of this unknown dominant culture: highly humanoid but definitely not human, because even rats wouldn't worship the livestock they raised. Human food cans listed ingredients but not nutritional info, which might indicate that this race had a very different diet from humans.
And their social system was quite feudal.
He glanced up at the sky above the underground city and wondered what kind of strange creatures lived here.
Crow and his nephews were also warm and affectionate. Mr. Charles expressed his appreciation for his niece coming home to do farm work right after school.
"I love these little ones anyway," Crow said happily, wearing his big-brimmed hat. "If it weren’t for the ‘aboveground’ status, why would I bother going to school at all? I would have come back to inherit your farm."
"Cut the swearing, you damn rascal!" Mr. Charles slapped Crow affectionately on the back. "Get going, it’s the end of the year, and there’ll be a line."
Crow stuck out his tongue, picked up his harmonica again, and called the chubby boys to follow.
"Bye-bye, Crow," Little Six waved to him.
"Bye-bye, Crow!"
The other chubby boys joined in, calling out and bouncing along behind Crow.
"That’s one hardworking girl," Mr. Charles said with satisfaction, watching his niece and the chubby boys. "And look at those plump kids, so lively and active."
After speaking, Mr. Charles’s sharp voice rang out, and he started singing a song about life, accompanied by the distant harmonica—
"The light here never sets, hey ho hey ho,
The water here never stops, hey ho hey ho,
The happy fruit farmer counts his fruits, hey ho hey ho,
The passing girl hey ho—smiles at me..."
Crow stepped to the beat of the "hey ho," swaying along. Mr. Charles became more enthusiastic, wiggling his big behind and bumping Crow off balance.
The proud Crow steadied himself and immediately retaliated with the same posture.
The two of them exchanged glances and suddenly found a cross-species rapport, starting to dance wildly together, "hey ho, hey ho."
After singing and dancing for about twenty meters, Crow’s heart and lungs gave out, unable to support his soaring spirit. Dizzy and breathless, he stopped dancing reluctantly and leaned against the wall.
The oppressive narrow path had also reached its end, and another high-tech door slowly opened.
Crow pressed his throat, swallowed the sweet and fishy taste rising in his throat, and as the stars in his vision faded, he saw the behemoth behind the door.
"Damn cat."
He muttered under his breath, fitting in with the local lingo.
Mr. Charles' sharp voice rolled in the overlapping high walls, like faint ripples in stagnant water.
The high walls encased a giant "chicken coop."
It was about thirteen or fourteen meters tall, with eight levels.
The height of the levels above the second floor was no more than 1.5 meters, with no doors or windows, only iron wires separating numerous small compartments. Each level had about twenty such compartments, each crammed with five or six children, all looking remarkably similar to Little Six—no older than seven, with waistlines of at least three feet.
Hearing the noise, the children crowded to the iron wires to look out, their faces distorted by fat in a strikingly similar way.
The high walls enclosed a yard around the ground level.
The ground level was more spacious, with a height close to two meters, just enough to accommodate adults, though it might still feel oppressive. Most residents on this level were active in the yard.
There was an iron gate in the yard, locked, separating a large and small space.
About twenty women lived in the large yard, the older ones in their thirties and forties, and a few girls just entering puberty, their heights not yet fully developed.
They were either pregnant or breastfeeding. At that moment, Count was in the yard, using a crude showerhead to wash a woman who was about to give birth. The woman in the water curtain stood unselfconsciously in the yard, smiling and greeting, "Crow's back, is he all better?"
Except for Crow, every living thing—both human and rodent—didn't avert their gaze, as if this scene was perfectly normal.
Some women were washing themselves or their kids, while others chatted in groups or strolled around. The babies' coos added to the cheerful, bustling atmosphere, which felt like a whole different world from the tiny yard on the other side of the fence.
The small yard must be the "male dormitory."
It was only about two or three square meters; more like a small cage than a yard.
At that moment, there was only one middle-aged male in the "male dormitory." He had Eurasian features and was strikingly handsome, but his emaciated body made him look almost grotesque. The man was topless, wearing a skirt with bizarre patterns, lying in the cage and sunbathing under the lights. His eyes stared straight at the "sky," and only his ribs moved slightly.
Crow stared at the man for a second, and the "knowledge" inherited from Snowball told him that this guy was even worse off, without even a numerical code. They just called him "the stud."
"Stupid thing," Mister kicked the cage door. "Hey!"
"The stud" didn't respond, his eyes vacant.
Mister then opened the iron door and walked into the male dormitory, pinching his nose as he observed for a moment before declaring, "The pig dealer got this cheap junk from somewhere, what a hassle. This guy is about to die!"
The singing and laughter died down, and the women in the yard looked at each other with varied expressions, their gazes shifting to their neighbor.
Grumbling, Mister locked the male dormitory and came out looking troubled. "He's probably sick. We need to get someone to drag him away first thing tomorrow morning... tsk, what about Crow?"
Thinking with his gray-haired big head, Mister fumbled in his overalls pocket and pulled out a small device like a laser pointer, pressing it to emit a blue light. He scanned it across Count's neck, and a tiny light spot appeared near her carotid artery, which flickered and disappeared. Mister then aimed the "laser pointer" at Crow's neck and scanned it too.
Crow touched his neck, realizing that Mister had copied something from Count and transferred it to him, like a digital "copy-paste."
"For the next few days, let Crow stay with you and take good care of him. No more accidents before the buyer comes to collect him. Wash him when necessary; his fur is all clumped up," Mister instructed Count.
After hesitating for a while, Mister added painfully, "Also, give him two extra cans every day. The buyer paid for his nutrition, and it wouldn't look good if he's too thin... Man, these days, animals eat better than people."
Count didn't say anything but nodded.
"When Crow's final payment arrives, I'll get a new stud, and this time I'll make sure to get a good one, no more getting cheated. Then you can breed one more litter..." Mister paused, stroking Count with his hairy paw, then reconsidered painfully, "Never mind, just one more litter. After that, you can retire. Otherwise, I won't have anyone left to help manage the facility. Damn it... Such good quality, so fertile, at least fifteen more years of fertility, damn it..."
Muttering, Mister inspected the area and predicted the due dates of several pregnant women. He then turned to Count and said, "If anything happens, press the bell." With that, he left, looking reluctant.
The outer gate clanged shut, and after a brief silence, the sound of voices returned.