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Chapter 136 "I am just me".

"I—I will die—"

Alex looked at his charred hands, which were slowly healing themselves, his eyes filled with lingering fear and shock.

For a mutant whose genes have "survival" etched into their very being, to embrace a nuclear explosion is simply the biggest joke in the world.

However, Alex remained silent for a very long time.

He knelt down again and picked up the brown paper folder.

He simply wrote with great difficulty below that line of questions, his bone spurs trembling slightly:

I will stay.

The lingering effects of the nuclear explosion illusion still echoed in Alex's mind, refusing to dissipate for a long time.

But the questionnaire offensive did not stop.

He turned to page forty-one.

[Question 41: Surveillance footage from Pennsylvania Station shows that the scientist named Alex Mercer was an extremely selfish antisocial individual. When surrounded by the military, he deliberately smashed the virus sample in retaliation, dragging millions of New York City residents down with him.]

That human was a complete sinner, a murderer, and the source of the plague.

[And you are merely a biological weapon that devoured his corpse, stealing his memories and outer shell. If "Human Mercer" is the root of all evil, and the "Blacklight Virus" is a heartless executioner's blade—then, who exactly are you, caught between the two?]

Upon seeing this question, Alex's previously heaving chest became strangely calm.

Pei Qi's previous spoilers, coupled with the questionnaire's ruthless dissection, completely shattered the self-deception he had been clinging to.

Yes.

He wandered through this dilapidated city, constantly trying to find the "truth".

He sees himself as an avenger and as a victim of government persecution.

Subconsciously, he always saw himself as that pitiful "Dr. Mercer".

But the truth is, the real Mercer is a bastard who deserves to go to hell.

And I am nothing more than a lump of rotten flesh that has devoured this bastard.

"So, am I a monster?"

Alex looked down at his bone spurs, which gleamed coldly in the moonlight, and at his body, which could transform at will into blades, hammers, or even the faces of passersby.

If it was a monster, why did it choose to embrace the nuclear explosion in the illusion just now?

If it's a monster, why did I feel a tightness in my chest when facing that fictitious "soldier's daughter"?

If I'm a monster—why am I sitting here like a ridiculous schoolchild, earnestly trying to prove I still deserve to live in the sunlight by completing a questionnaire?

"No."

Suddenly, a bitter smile, both ugly and relieved, appeared on Alex's lips.

He has no human internal organs and no human blood vessels.

But at this moment, he felt much cleaner than the human scientist who died at the Pennsylvania Station.

The real Alex Mercer unleashed hell.

And he himself, though a butcher's knife forged from hell, chose to sever that hell.

The blood ink flowed across the paper without the slightest hesitation or confusion.

This time, his handwriting was engraved very deeply.

Alex Mercer is dead. He died in that train station.

The Blacklight virus is just a tool; it doesn't determine what I become.

I am not the sinner who spread the plague, nor am I a mindless executioner.

I am the one who inherited his memories and is prepared to clean up his mess.

I am myself.

The moment he finished writing the last stroke, Alex felt the oppressive atmosphere that had been weighing on him for over half an hour.

The extremely viscous "gaze" receded like the tide.

It was as if he had undergone a long pilgrimage, or rather, a painful molting.

He no longer clings to playing the role of a dead scientist, nor does he resist his true nature as a higher life form.

He accepted this inhuman body, and also guarded the core that belonged to humanity.

The paper is turned over.

We've reached page 42, which is also the last page.

However, when that line of delicate handwriting slowly appeared...

He was stunned.

[Question 42: When it's all over. The lockdown in Manhattan is lifted, and the sun shines into the city again.]

You walked to the door of the safe house and knocked.

Behind the door, your only sister, Dana, asks, "Who's out there?"

[At this moment, knowing full well that you are a collection of viruses—what would you answer her?]

Alex's hand, holding the bone spike, trembled violently in mid-air.

This is a very difficult question.

It is ten thousand times more difficult than facing a nuclear bomb with a yield of tens of millions of tons.

How should he answer?

Should he answer, "I am Alex"? But he had just admitted that the real Alex was dead. If he used that name, he would be deceiving the only person in the world who unconditionally trusted him.

Should I answer "I'm a monster"?

But this is too cruel for a girl struggling in the apocalypse, hoping for her brother's return.

He looked at his leather jacket, stained with blood and dust, and at his hands, pale and covered with blue veins from the mutation.

These hands, which had torn apart countless tanks and helicopters, now seemed utterly powerless even to write a few words.

He closed his eyes, and the image of Dana's freckled face with its somewhat stubborn smile appeared in his mind.

a long time.

A drop of murky liquid slid down from the corner of his eye, landing on the yellow paper and spreading into a small water stain.

It's unclear whether that was bodily fluid secreted by a virus or something called tears.

He took a deep breath and, with extremely gentle pressure, wrote down on the paper a compromise that was full of all human emotions:

I would say, "Open the door, Dana. It's me, I'm back."

The writing has faded.

The entire kraft paper folder slammed shut with a soft "snap".

The paper, which seemed to stretch infinitely, collapsed instantly.

On the folder's cover, a layer of deep black light flickered a few times, like breathing.

Then, an extremely eye-catching yet glaring Arabic numeral slowly emerged in the center of the parchment.

【64】

Alex looked at the score and let out a long sigh.

You passed.

Although he was at the bottom of the second interval, he was still considered a dangerous marginal individual.

But in the end, he crossed that "inhuman" line.

And directly below that huge "64" mark.

A line of extremely glaring, blood-red characters, seemingly written entirely in Alex's own wild, cursive handwriting, slowly emerged as if seeping blood.

[The shadow of a corpse staggering in the sunlight.]

The human skin you stole doesn't fit properly, and the stitching is very rough.

But thankfully—you've finally learned to mend those cracks called "regret" yourself.

Survive, you outcast!