The old butler was in so much pain his eyes almost popped out, but his entire palm was wedged into the tabletop—he couldn’t even retreat.
Because of his earlier scream, a commotion had started to stir around them.
The waiter, who had just helped them with their business and had witnessed a smooth, “pleasant” transaction, was now at a loss. His hand hovered uncertainly over the alarm button, hesitating whether or not to press it.
Shaking like a leaf from the intense pain, the old butler’s mind suddenly cleared.
Only now did he realize that the two people sitting in front of him were desperate criminals—one of whom was rumored to be mentally unstable.
He was drenched in sweat, deeply regretting his recklessness.
What if they actually took his advice and slit his throat?
Ning Zhuo lightly held the dining knife with a false gentleness, lowering his voice. His enunciation was light but precise:
“You misunderstood me. We really can’t just randomly kill people. We’ve got no grudge with the guy—what if they say it was a random killing? That we’re lunatics? If they don’t send us to prison and instead toss us in a psych ward, how are we supposed to get anything done?”
The old butler clenched his teeth, sweating profusely. He thought it was utter nonsense but couldn’t get a single word of rebuttal out. Trembling with fear, soft groans slipped through his gritted teeth.
Ning Zhuo gripped the knife tighter and made a twisting motion.
“Think about what you’re gonna say to the cops later. Oh, and don’t forget to pay us—remember the drop spot?”
Terrified, the old butler forced his chattering teeth to still and recited along with Ning Zhuo:
“Cash. Light Rail Port Station C Exit, Locker A-802. Manual code 746#.”
The old butler would send someone to drop the money. Jin Xueshen would send someone to pick it up.
Of course, neither the sender nor the receiver knew exactly what the money was for—both sides were intentionally kept in the dark.
The old butler dared not object, nodding frantically as if his life depended on it, terrified that Ning Zhuo would twist the knife further and make the pain worse.
He nodded so violently that his sweat and tears flew out together.
While Ning Zhuo continued his completely disrespectful threats, Shan Feibai took the opportunity to sneak bites of all four types of pastries one by one. Finally, he held up a piece of coconut cake to Ning Zhuo’s mouth.
“This one’s good.”
Ning Zhuo glanced at him. Shan Feibai smiled so innocently it was as if he were offering up his whole heart.
Ning Zhuo said nothing and accepted the sweet bite.
…
That knife did the trick beautifully.
Tears streaming down his face, the old butler explained to the arriving “White Shield” officers that he had tried to strike a private deal with mercenaries, but when the price negotiations fell through, he cursed at them—and they stabbed him in response.
Since the tea house wasn’t exactly legit, the security cameras were, of course, “broken.”
With the butler testifying and the waiter as a witness, and since the two mercenaries didn’t object, they were smoothly arrested.
The old butler dared to handle matters for Charlemagne only because, though officially the Charlemagne family’s butler, his registered identity was that of a “consultant” for an entertainment company under Interest Corp.—a respectable B-class citizen.
Attacking a B-class citizen in public over a payment dispute was considered a serious offense by “White Shield.” Even without Charlemagne pulling strings, the judicial process moved unusually fast.
In less than seven days, Ning Zhuo and Shan Feibai received their sentencing.
This saved Charlemagne a great deal of trouble—exactly what he needed during his current crisis.
Charlemagne quietly praised Ning Zhuo for executing the plan beautifully, with a well-chosen target.
As for the fact that the old butler paid for the stabbing—Charlemagne didn’t really care.
Ning Zhuo and Shan Feibai were sentenced to three months’ detention.
Since the detention centers in Atber District were all “coincidentally” full, they were placed in a nearby prison instead, occupying a private room and not housed with criminal inmates.
After a perfunctory medical exam, they were driven to their true destination.
—Atber District’s First Prison.
As a mercenary, Ning Zhuo had taken all kinds of jobs and was very familiar with the ins and outs of prison systems.
Shan Feibai, on the other hand, was completely clean and had never set foot in a prison. Curious, he looked around with interest, earning a few silent jabs from Ning Zhuo’s inner monologue.
Anyone capable of landing themselves in prison was likely aggressive and combative.
Many inmates had undergone body modifications.
Removing them all uniformly would be cruel to those who lacked limbs or even skulls.
So prison regulations required all modified inmates to deactivate any weapon functions in their prosthetics. They also had to wear shock collars for immediate control by guards.
Ning Zhuo had already switched to standard prosthetics, and Shan Feibai had no special spinal implants.
So they passed the check without issue.
Since they weren’t major offenders, the guards treated them rather casually, like shepherds herding sheep. While yawning, they lazily pointed them toward automated windows to collect their uniforms, ID tags, collars, and special hygiene kits.
Then, they were brought to the showers for a full body cleaning.
They had entered at 9 a.m., not shower time, so the room was empty—just the two of them.
The guard gave Ning Zhuo a long, suggestive look, thinking he was unnaturally pretty—definitely the type to become popular in the shower room.
He then glanced at Shan Feibai, who just so happened to look back and flash a dazzling smile.
The guard thought he was handsome but had a dumb, carefree air that made even his looks irritating.
Trying to assert authority, the guard barked a few warnings, told them to clean themselves thoroughly, no smuggling anything in, then left the warm but filthy bathroom.
Shan Feibai grumbled,
“I thought the hygiene in Atber prisons would be better than this.”
As he said this, Ning Zhuo was pulling his pants down, hands gripping the waistband.
He sneered,
“Already whining, young master?”
Shan Feibai glanced at Ning Zhuo—and couldn’t look away.
Stripped to only a pair of underwear, Ning Zhuo’s ankles were sharply defined, legs long and straight, hips round and muscular beneath the thin fabric.
But that near-perfect body was marred by scars of all kinds.
Some were vicious red gashes that made him look like a shattered porcelain figure, stitched together again.
Shan Feibai’s gaze slid upward, then quickly dropped.
A faint smile played on his lips. With a quiet pride, he thought: Those were all left by me.
In all of Silver Hammer City, only he could hurt Ning Zhuo—only he could leave his marks on that body.
Still… not all of them were his.
…Some pale scars on Ning Zhuo’s thighs were not his doing.
Meanwhile, Ning Zhuo was also looking at Shan Feibai.
The last time he’d seen his body was in Min Min’s surgical records.
Shan Feibai normally looked like a sunny college student. His physique only became apparent when the clothes came off.
That once-frail boy he could easily cradle with one arm had grown tall and strong behind his back—like a clean, upright white poplar.
If he weren’t a mercenary, he could’ve been a model.
Ning Zhuo’s eyes swept over Shan Feibai’s chest casually.
Shan Feibai’s gaze had landed on Ning Zhuo’s thigh.
—They both thought of a distant memory at the same time.
It was three months after the car crash they’d had outside the coffee shop.
Maybe their feud had become too famous in the underground world—it made waves, even outside the circles.
So this time, the enemy of Ning Zhuo’s employer hired Shan Feibai to take him out.
Shan Feibai did his job well, setting up another ambush.
But this employer had a loose mouth and sloppy work. His people leaked the plan early, and “Haina” got wind of it.
Furious, Ning Zhuo led Haina in a counter-ambush against “Panqiao” and personally injured Shan Feibai with a “Blackbird” bomb.
The “Blackbird” was a notorious non-lethal weapon—“black” as in “dirty,” meant to wound without killing.
Shan Feibai took over 200 shrapnel hits, the worst wound on his right chest, a puncture almost grazing his lung.
At the time, under Shan Feibai’s lead, Panqiao’s morale was sky-high. Seeing him so badly hurt, they went berserk and fought their way out with his unconscious body.
Their escape route happened to cut through Jin Xueshen’s unit.
Unfortunately, Jin Xueshen bore the full brunt of Panqiao’s fury, got his arm broken, and was captured.
Shan Feibai woke up in unbearable pain.
He forced himself up, glanced down at his bandaged, mummy-like self, and let out a bitter chuckle.
Back at Panqiao’s base, their second-in-command “Third Brother”—a bold, respected figure—was issuing orders when he heard movement.
He rushed over, excited:
“Boss, you’re awake!”
Shan Feibai, already recalling what happened, pressed his temple and asked,
“What happened after I passed out?”
Third Brother thought for a moment and decided to start with the good news.
With pride, he said,
“We caught one of Ning’s guys! He wanted him back, and I said sure—but only if he takes three stabs and six slashes. Fair deal, right?”
Shan Feibai’s hand clenched imperceptibly.
His voice dropped:
“…He did it?”
Third Brother, thrilled with the deal and the humiliation it dealt Ning Zhuo, proudly brought over the recording.
The video was shaky, handheld.
In the unstable footage, Shan Feibai saw that face he’d longed for, day and night.
Third Brother’s voice rang out, dripping with glee:
“Hurry up, we’re recording. Don’t waste time. Stab him, and you can take your man.”
Jin Xueshen was forced to kneel ten meters away on the concrete, his hands twisted behind his back with wire. His eyes were shut, shoulders trembling.
He was holding back fury and pain.
He whispered,
“Don’t. Let them kill me.”
Ning Zhuo’s reply was cold and sharp:
“Shut up.”
That cold and cutting rebuke made Shan Feibai, watching from outside the screen, shudder involuntarily.
It was the depths of winter.
Ning Zhuo undid the toggles of his thick coat and spread it on the ground, so the blood wouldn’t spill everywhere and make a mess.
Then, he picked up the dagger that Third Brother had thrown over, and, without a change in expression, stabbed it into his own thigh.
The sound of flesh being split open was perfectly captured in the video—so chilling it made one’s scalp tingle.
Shan Feibai narrowed his eyes slightly, as if the splattered blood had stung them.
Every stab Ning Zhuo made was deep and vicious, leaving no room for Third Brother to nitpick.
When he pulled the knife from the wound again, he raised his sweat-soaked eyes and looked at Third Brother with a detached gaze.
Third Brother, true to his word—such was the code among mercenaries—waved his hand, and Jin Xueshen was shoved back toward Ning Zhuo, stumbling into his arms.
Ning Zhuo let out a breath from the impact but quickly grabbed Jin Xueshen by the back of his collar and pulled him up.
He looked at Jin Xueshen, whose lips were bitten bloody, and said nothing, only patted the back of his neck comfortingly.
The video ended there.
As the footage stopped, just as Third Brother was about to gauge Shan Feibai’s reaction, he heard Shan Feibai say blandly, “Third Brother, go to the punishment room and pick a whipping machine. Take ten lashes. Your choice. I don’t have the energy.”
Third Brother, still wearing a smug expression, froze, not even knowing what he’d done wrong.
He was about to defend himself when Shan Feibai suddenly hooked an arm around his neck.
Shan Feibai leaned close to his ear and explained softly, “You broke the code. What if one day you’re captured by ‘Haina,’ and Ning Zhuo does the same thing to get you back? …You’ve put me in a tough spot.”
Shan Feibai’s words were smooth and tactful.
To Third Brother, it sounded like Shan Feibai was saying that he, too, would be willing to bleed and suffer to bring back one of his men—just like Ning Zhuo.
Third Brother said nothing more, straightened up, bowed deeply to Shan Feibai, and then turned decisively to go to the punishment room.
Not only did he not receive praise, he got a scolding. The others involved in the matter slinked away sheepishly.
Shan Feibai was left with a rare moment of peace. He lay down for a bit, but couldn’t stay still. Eventually, he got up and slowly made his way to the reception room—
Where Ning Zhuo had injured himself in exchange for someone.
The bloodstains on the ground hadn’t been washed away—or perhaps were deliberately left, so Shan Feibai would see them after he woke up and feel better.
A toggle coat, now stained with blood, had been tossed carelessly in a corner like trash.
Shan Feibai saw the bloodied footprints snaking their way out of the room.
He seemed a bit dazed, staggered forward, bent down with effort, and picked up the excessively heavy coat.
Then he stepped along the trail of Ning Zhuo’s blood, hopping and stumbling like playing a game of hopscotch, until he reached where the blood ended.
Ning Zhuo had left him again. Another layer of resentment would grow.
At the time, Shan Feibai was only eighteen, and as he stared in the direction Ning Zhuo had gone, his heart ached with an inexplicable sadness.
But when he lowered his head and smelled the blood on the coat, his heart fluttered with something he couldn’t quite name.
At that moment, Shan Feibai couldn’t tell what he was feeling—he just held Ning Zhuo’s coat and stood in the drying blood for a long time, until the warmth of it finally faded.
Later, Shan Feibai washed that coat himself, bit by bit, and stored it in his wardrobe.
Not long after, Third Brother died unexpectedly in a gang shootout.
When a man dies, it’s like a light going out. Ning Zhuo never came back for revenge.
After mourning Third Brother for a while, Shan Feibai recruited Yu Shifei—a man known for his precision and rationality—as the new second-in-command.
…
Back to the present.
Ning Zhuo noticed Shan Feibai staring at the scar on his leg and yanked off the loose shower head, turned on the hot water, and sprayed it directly at his face: “What are you looking at?”
Shan Feibai wiped the dripping water from his face and returned to his usual playful demeanor. “Looking at you, Ning-ge.”
Ning Zhuo dragged the shower head back to rinse himself. “What’s there to look at?”
Shan Feibai replied, “But you can’t get mad if I say.”
Ning Zhuo: “Depends.”
Shan Feibai: “Ning-ge’s figure…”
Ning Zhuo stared at him silently, waiting for the nonsense that would follow.
Shan Feibai paused, then smiled, dimples appearing. “Looks very fertile.”
Ning Zhuo: “…”
The dirtiest curses he knew were still more pleasant than that line.
A string in his head snapped.
Clutching the broken shower head and a piece of hose, Ning Zhuo began chasing Shan Feibai around the room, intending to strangle him on the spot.
Meanwhile, a figure darted out from behind the bathhouse, weaving through several corridors until he arrived at a door.
He peeked through the one-way glass embedded in the door and gestured frantically until the person inside finally opened it in irritation. “What?”
It wasn’t recreation time.
All prisoners in First Prison were supposed to be crammed into hot cocoons, performing manual labor under guard supervision.
But some well-connected inmates enjoyed privileges far above others.
For example, this room had been turned into a fancy KTV karaoke room, where a sentimental love song was currently playing.
The pounding beat nearly made the newcomer’s head explode, and he had to shake it off before speaking urgently, “Deputy Liu had us out pulling water hoses to irrigate the grounds. Guess who I saw outside the bathhouse?”
A burly, shirtless man stepped out, showing off a powerful physique. “Who? Just say it already, don’t play guessing games!”
The visitor tiptoed and whispered hurriedly into his ear.
The man’s expression changed, voice rising. “…Ning Zhuo? You’re sure?!”
“And Shan Feibai too!” the visitor added dramatically. “They seemed to be fighting… I’ve no idea how either of them got in here!”
The singer inside the room overheard the commotion and poked his head out.
He had an unfortunate face, with old acne scars covering his cheeks, a flabby frame, and glasses perched on his nose—he looked like the type who would usually be bullied in prison.
But the moment he stopped singing, his little gang of cronies became anxious, rushing to flatter him: “Keep singing, Boss Ben! We love your voice!”
