Chapter 3: Plucking Feathers · 3

The next moment, wrapped in the soft blanket, the man reverted to a white bird on the brink of death.

The two staff members swiftly packed away their toolbox and placed the general manual in a prominent spot.

O381 handed Min Fan a stack of pre-bound agreements.

“This is a legally binding confidentiality agreement. Please read it carefully, then sign and press your thumbprint. You must also guarantee not to mention any related secrets in public or private.”

After reading through the details, Min Fan signed all three copies one by one.

He sized up the Slim Tall Guy. “Someone must have transformed in public before, right?”

“In fact,” O381 said, “even if you cast Avada Kedavra on someone in People’s Square, everyone else would just think it’s some influencer filming a lame short video.”

“This agreement protects you and your friend’s basic rights while countering any leaks.”

“I’m a public figure. I know what’s at stake.”

“Very well, then we’ll take our leave.”

“Wait—you’re just going to leave like that?” Min Fan glanced instinctively at the weakened bird. “What do I need to do?”

“Secure the leash, provide food and water, and let it ride out the Transformation Period on its own.”

A274 shrugged. “If you want, you can pet it too.”

Min Fan didn’t find it amusing. He saw them out with a blank expression.

When he shut the door again, the apartment felt utterly empty, downy feathers scattered across the sofa.

The bird perch and ankle chain from the Snake-Bird Division were crudely made—clearly just temporary stopgaps.

The haidongqing could scarcely lift its eyelids, gazing at him listlessly.

“Qin Baiyan,” Min Fan threatened evenly, “if you peck me again, I’ll toss you off the twenty-second floor.”

Fortunately, the white bird was truly drained of strength and offered no resistance as the ankle chain was fastened.

Min Fan lifted it onto the perch as if handling a biology class specimen.

Its feathers felt like shards of stone from some barren plain—rough and unyielding, like relics carried back from ancient northern tempests.

Min Fan frowned slightly.

He had expected them to feel soft and fluffy.

The young man picked up the soft blanket, intending to toss it into the laundry hamper and wash it later before returning it.

On second thought, the blanket was already shredded into rags by those talons and stained with plenty of his own blood.

In the end, it went straight into the trash.

…Tomorrow he’d have his assistant buy a new one for them.

With no guests ever visiting the apartment, there were no disposable bath towels or anything of the sort.

Min Fan rummaged through the closet and unearthed a coral fleece throw.

In summer, he always cranked the AC low and slept clutching this blanket.

Its milky pattern suited the mottled white falcon perfectly. He draped it gently over the bird and snapped a photo on impulse.

In the stark contrast of deep black and pure white, it stood serene and profound—like the creator’s own favorite.

The white falcon perched motionless for a moment, then sank into a heavy slumber.

Min Fan studied it intently, shifted his angle, and took another shot.

Setting aside what an utter bastard Qin Baiyan was, this white falcon possessed a profound nobility. He rather liked it.

The instruction manual was a hefty eighty-plus pages, but its cover blazed with a glaring QR code.

[AI Assistant Chirp Chirp Always at Your Service (Little Bird Peeks Out)]

He scanned the code to download the app, set the AI to voice response mode, and turned to tend his wounds.

“Hello, Mr. Min. I’m your intelligent assistant, Chirp Chirp. How may I help you?”

The young man undid his shirt buttons and hissed through his teeth as the scabbed wound pulled taut.

Damn thing—those claws were razor-sharp.

“Do haidongqing scratches require a rabies shot?”

“Backend data shows your friend Mr. Qin is on his first transformation. As long as he himself doesn’t carry rabies, a simple disinfection will suffice for the accidental injury~ If the wound is deep, please seek medical attention promptly.”

The iodine seared the gash on his collarbone. Grimacing, the young man pressed on with cleaning, silently wiping the scratches across his abdomen.

Earlier, it had thrashed and pecked in his arms—thank goodness it hadn’t gotten his face.

Cool white light spilled silently, tracing the lean taper of his waist.

From the subtle arch of his back to the mermaid lines rising and falling with each breath, Min Fan’s half-discarded shirt evoked a Tang saber not yet fully drawn from its scabbard.

Gritting his teeth against the pain, the young man used tweezers to clean the shallow flesh wounds torn outward.

Blood beaded on his pale fingertips, smearing at the lightest touch, as if lapping at his skin.

He sensed, dimly, that it had held back.

A haidongqing’s talons and beak could rip through a wild rabbit’s hide in an instant.

It was his own fault for wearing so little, making direct contact without any protection.

“Why do people turn into birds?”

“Do you remember the Comet Night of 2012?” the AI replied mildly. “All that talk of the world ending was just mysticism playing jokes with ancient calendars.”

“But on December 21, 2012, the whole world witnessed the arrival of a comet shower.”

Min Fan vaguely recalled that old event from over a decade ago.

“Wasn’t it a meteor shower?”

“Ordinary people can’t tell meteors from comets. Many astronomers observed anomalies back then, but no existing theories could explain what caused them.”

“After the Comet Night, genetic mutations started cropping up all over the world. Because of the mutations’ incubation period, the number of cases has only exploded in recent years.”

“Why the Snake-Bird Division? What about mutated cats and dogs?”

Chirp Chirp’s tone was thick with regret.

“So far, there have only been thousands of cases of people turning into snake-birds, scattered across the globe.”

“Researchers consider traces of ancient civilizations to have immense value for study.”

“For instance, in the historical worship of the Feathered Serpent God or phoenixes, you can infer that humans once had deep ties to those two kinds of creatures.”

“Speak English.”

Chirp Chirp fell silent for a moment before saying, “Some people’s genetic locks were unlocked that Comet Night.”

“Got it.” Min Fan changed into a fresh set of pajamas and said wearily, “These aren’t things I can get involved in.”

As a nameless passerby in Qin Baiyan’s life, he had already gone above and beyond.

He ordered some minced meat for takeout and set out a bowl of fresh water. He left a nightlight on for the White Falcon in the living room, then removed his makeup and turned in alone.

Late as it was, Min Fan didn’t sleep soundly.

He could faintly smell the upstairs neighbors’ freshly renovated guest room—the paint reeked like moldy apples.

The night air hung heavy with humidity; rain was surely coming with the morning.

His earlobe itched…

A sudden crash snapped Min Fan awake.

Another bone dish lay shattered on the floor, followed by the heavy drag of something across the boards and a frantic burst of panicked shrieks.

He rolled out of bed in an instant. The living room was a disaster zone when he got there.

The water bowl and food bowl had been knocked over, porcelain shards scattered everywhere.

The Haidongqing thrashed desperately against the ankle chain, shrieking as it beat its wings and somehow toppled the bird perch from the coffee table to the floor.

It could already manage short flights, so it strained all the harder to haul its shackles toward higher ground.

Min Fan circled around from the side and, with increasing skill, bundled it up in a soft blanket.

“Stop running,” he said sternly. “You begged me to lock you up here yourself.”

The Haidongqing, deep in fight-or-flight, resisted all the fiercer as the human drew near—one wing smacked Min Fan right across the face.

“Don’t move!” Min Fan barked.

He bore down harder, cradling the entire bird in his arms and clamping its neck tight in the web of his hand.

“Qin Baiyan, you’d better play nice. I never owed you a damn thing from the start.”

The Haidongqing wheezed under the pressure and let out a feeble cry.

Min Fan peeled back the blanket a little.

“Still causing trouble?”

The Haidongqing cocked its head and finally gazed at him quietly.

Its eyes gleamed bright and limpid, carrying that pure wildness all untamed creatures possess.

Min Fan had never even owned a cat; the White Falcon’s stare left him flustered.

“It’s only three-thirty,” he coaxed in a low voice. “Try to sleep some more, alright?”

The Haidongqing went still and let him hold it without a peep.

Min Fan thought to himself that he couldn’t very well sleep clutching a bird all night.

What if it suddenly shifted back halfway through, leaving two men glaring at each other from the same bed? No way to explain that one.

He woke the AI and asked what to do.

“Maybe it needs to see you at all times,” Chirp Chirp suggested. “Cut off from its flock in this strange place, it could use some gentle comfort.”

Min Fan sighed and mentally jotted down three more strikes against Qin Baiyan. Holding the bird, he set about cleaning up again.

The Haidongqing stayed mute in his arms, merely twitching a wing now and then if something pinched.

He moved the bird perch and a new food bowl to the desk in his bedroom.

When he set the White Falcon back on the perch, it craned its neck toward him, no longer fighting.

Afraid it wouldn’t spot him in the dark, Min Fan left the nightlight on.

As he lay down, he couldn’t help checking the bird’s position.

The bedroom was tidy and roomy, but the desk sat far from the bed.

There it perched in the corner on its makeshift stand, like some forgotten stuffed animal.

The young man ruffled his hair in irritation, hauled himself up, and shoved the desk right up to the bedside—half a meter away at most.

“Happy now?” he muttered.

The Haidongqing didn’t understand a word of human speech, but its eyes remained serene and crystalline.

Like a star piercing the endless Arctic night, or a clear spring amid a blizzard.

Min Fan pulled up the covers and at last sank into deep sleep.

The next morning when he woke, the minced meat in the food bowl had vanished.

The haidongqing was squinting in the sunlight, basking lazily. When it caught sight of him stirring awake, it let out a soft chirp.

“Such a good boy. Good morning,” Min Fan said, already starting to feel like he was raising a pet. “I’ll head out in a bit and pick up some things for you.”

He left the bedroom door ajar as he stepped into the bathroom. He hadn’t been there long when he faintly heard the bird perch topple over again.

…What was this? Separation anxiety?

Min Fan hurried back to the bedroom, toothbrush clamped between his teeth. He hadn’t even had a chance to furrow his brow and deliver a scolding when his breath caught sharply.

Qin Baiyan sat on the desk, utterly bare, the ankle chain still locked around him.

He hugged his knees to his chest. Even the slightest shift sent a faint clink echoing from the iron chain and shackles.

Min Fan leaned against the wall. He didn’t rush to unlock the chain. Instead, he took his time, his gaze tracing every inch of the man before him.

“My favorite Water Lily Bowl—the one made in Britain. You smashed it to pieces yesterday,” he said coolly, settling the score. “And you clawed me up everywhere. It itches, it hurts, and I barely slept a wink all night.”

Qin Baiyan murmured softly, “I’m sorry. It was my fault.”

If he hadn’t apologized, Min Fan might have fired back with a few sharp retorts. As it was, the words caught in his throat, leaving him speechless.

The man reached down and gathered the chain tethered to his ankle. He carefully righted the bird perch at its end once more.

Even the shadow he cast seemed to shimmer with a quiet, restrained obedience.