Chen Hao's fingers were still resting on the fire extinguisher, his fingertips numb. When that flame suddenly shot up, his first thought wasn't danger, but rather that if the extinguisher burned all the data, he wouldn't even have any evidence to brag about anymore.

But now, the green "positive" indicator on the screen is still flashing, like a little star that refuses to go out.

"You mean... this thing can really save lives?" His throat was a little dry, but his eyes didn't leave the screen.

Nana had already brought up a new interface, where a series of parameters were scrolling rapidly. "The antibody has been confirmed to have the ability to neutralize the h5N3 virus. It is recommended to extract serum immediately and conduct clinical trials."

"Wait, extract? From where? Draw blood from the chick's arm?" Chen Hao turned to look at the little guy in the isolation box whose feathers hadn't even fully grown yet. "How big is it? If you stick the needle in, won't it fall over and kick its legs on the spot?"

"The amount of blood drawn will be kept within a safe range and will not affect vital signs." Nana's voice was as calm as reading a recipe. "Use a sterile syringe to draw three milliliters of blood from the wing vein."

"Three milliliters may not sound like much, but for a chick, isn't that equivalent to someone washing half a basin of water off me?"

The analogy is invalid.

"Don't interrupt."

He squatted in front of the isolation box, staring at the hopping chick for a full minute. The chick tilted its head and looked at him, its eyes revealing a naive, fearless look that comes with being just born.

"Alright," he sighed, "but you have to make sure it comes out alive and can lay eggs and hatch chicks later. Otherwise, it would be too unlucky for my farm to turn into a slaughterhouse right from the start."

Nana didn't reply; the robotic arm had already reached for the medical module. Sterilized syringes, centrifuges, and refrigerated test tubes were all in place. Her movements were swift and efficient, as if she had rehearsed the procedure a thousand times over.

The chick was gently secured, its wings spread. The moment the needle pierced its skin, it struggled and let out a short "chirp."

Chen Hao's hand trembled: "It cried out! It must be in pain!"

"Neural reflexes are not dominated by pain perception."

"You're dividing it into such detailed categories?"

The blood, pale yellow in color, was quickly sent to a centrifuge. Ten minutes later, the machine stopped, and Nana retrieved the supernatant—a drop of almost transparent liquid that shimmered with a very faint blue hue under the light.

"The serum extraction is complete," she said. "The purity meets the standards and it can be used directly for injection."

Chen Hao leaned closer to take a look, almost pressing his nose against it. "This is... something that can kill viruses? It looks like bottled water."

"Appearance and efficacy are not directly related."

"I know, but I just want to complain that it lacks a sense of technology."

He took the test tube containing the serum and carefully placed it into the insulated container. Meanwhile, Nana had already transferred a sick rabbit from its cage to the observation table. This rabbit had started sneezing, had red eyelids, and was less active two days prior—clearly early symptoms of the virus.

“Prepare for the injection,” she said.

The syringe was inserted into the vein, and the liquid was slowly injected. Chen Hao stood beside him, his hands unconsciously clenching into fists.

For the first three minutes, nothing happened.

In the fourth minute, the rabbit suddenly started convulsing, its limbs stiffened, and its breathing became rapid.

"It's over!" Chen Hao blurted out, "I'm having an allergic reaction! I'm going to die!"

"The immune system is being activated." Nana stared at the monitoring screen. "Heart rate is rising, body temperature is increasing, which is a normal response."

"Normal my foot! It's practically breakdancing!"

Five minutes later, the rabbit's convulsions gradually subsided. Its body temperature began to drop, and its breathing stabilized. The viral load curve on the monitor plummeted like it was sliding down a slide.

Nine minutes later, the value dropped by 90%.

Chen Hao stood there stunned, then suddenly turned around, grabbed the toolbox next to him, and burst out laughing.

"It's done! It's fucking done! We're not raising chickens, we're raising gods!"

He rushed to the screen, pointing at the precipitous drop in the graph, practically wanting to kiss it. "Look! Who still says there's no hope in the apocalypse? I can open a hospital right now! Get an appointment with me, and I'll charge five carrots per person!"

Nana was suddenly greeted with a red warning message.

"Serve stability assessment complete," she read aloud. "The effective duration at room temperature is 72 hours, and can be extended to 96 hours under low temperature conditions. Beyond this time limit, the antibody structure will disintegrate and lose its neutralizing ability."

The laughter stopped abruptly.

Chen Hao looked down at the pale blue test tube in his hand, as if he were holding a piece of ice that was about to melt.

"Three days?" His voice lowered a few decibels. "Four days? And then it's useless?"

"yes."

"What if someone else gets infected? The chicks won't produce ten tubes of blood a day, will they?"

"We are not ready for mass production at present."

He gently placed the test tube into the insulated box, closed the lid, and moved as lightly as if he were placing an egg.

"So we've saved a rabbit, which is like buying a life with a limited-time coupon." He smiled wryly. "Next time the virus comes, we'll have to start the lottery again."

"I recommend initiating an antibody-based chicken breeding program," Nana said. "At the same time, we should optimize the storage plan and extend the usage window."

"Breeding? Makes for it. I only have this one positive hen right now, and it's questionable whether it will even survive to lay eggs. Besides, are its offspring guaranteed to have antibodies? What if it's just random inheritance? Wouldn't I be gambling with my life?"

"Uncertainty exists."

"You just love saying that."

He slid down against the wall and sat on the ground, the back of his head lightly bumping against the metal plate with a dull thud. Outside, it was getting dark, and the ecosystem's lighting system automatically switched to energy-saving mode, the lights dimming one by one, leaving only a ring of yellow light shining around the chicken coop entrance.

“We’ve been lucky,” he said, looking at the insulated container. “But luck can’t put food on the table. We can save one rabbit today, but what about tomorrow? The day after? We can’t keep waiting for the control panel to catch fire before we get any good news.”

Nana stood to the side, the optical lens slightly tilted, reflecting a corner of the test tube with a faint light.

“We have already made a breakthrough,” she said. “The next step is to consolidate our achievements.”

“Consolidation…it’s easier said than done,” he murmured. “But we don’t even know how we got here. To whom was that automatically uploaded signal sent? Did anyone receive it? Or is it that our efforts are like shouting into a well, with no one hearing it at all?”

He paused for a moment, then suddenly looked up: "Do you think there might be others doing the same thing? Trying to find ways to combat this virus? If we could find them and share this data..."

“The receiving end cannot be traced,” Nana said. “The protocol did not return coordinate information.”

"Then we'll have to rely on ourselves."

He took a deep breath, stood up, and dusted off his pants. He clutched the insulated food container tightly in his hand, as if holding onto something he couldn't afford to lose.

"First, preserve this batch of serum," he said. "Then, try to keep the chicken alive for a few more days, and ideally, find it a mate so it can lay eggs in peace. As for the rest... we'll take it one step at a time."

Nana nodded and simultaneously started the serum activity monitoring program. A countdown window appeared on the main control screen: **Remaining stable time: 71:58:42**, decreasing every second.

Chen Hao glanced at the time, then at the chicks in the coop. They were pecking at bits of feed on the ground, their movements clumsy yet full of life.

"You absolutely mustn't die," he whispered to the glass. "You're the most expensive chicken I've ever seen in my life."

He turned and walked towards the main control area, his steps not fast, but each one steady. The insulated food container swayed gently against his outer thigh with each step.

Nana followed half a step behind him, her robotic arm retracted to her side, the optical screen continuously updating various data.

Just as he reached for the record board, the sealing strip of the insulated box made a slight "click" sound.

He didn't notice.

The pen tip landed on the paper, writing the first line: **Antibody serum was successfully extracted for the first time and clinical trials have confirmed its effectiveness, but its stability is extremely poor, and a continuation protocol needs to be urgently developed.**

Nana suddenly spoke up: "A slight temperature fluctuation was detected."

Chen Hao looked up: "What?"

"The temperature of the external contact area of ​​the insulated box rises by 0.6 degrees Celsius."

He immediately put down his pen and picked up the box to examine it. There was an almost invisible crack at the edge of the sealing ring, as if it had been loosened when he hit the wall earlier.

He pressed his finger, and the slit opened slightly.