The entrance security corridor was cleverly designed to resemble a dark gangway, stretching toward the second floor.
High-density infrared scanners in the corridor scrutinized every passerby—skin, hair, accessories—as if peeling back their very insides for inspection.
A gentle robotic female voice looped the audience guidelines:
“Please dress appropriately and enter in an orderly manner.”
“Smoking is prohibited throughout the venue. Do not bring any ignition devices.”
“No food or liquid beverages are allowed.”
“Sharp objects, flammable or explosive items, compressed or liquefied gases, strong oxidants, toxic or infectious substances, radioactive materials, corrosives, or any items that may endanger others are strictly prohibited.”
“Items or goods exceeding 0.5 meters in length or width are not permitted.”
“Audience members with prosthetic modifications may only wear functional prosthetics.”
“Thank you for your cooperation. Wishing you a wonderful and joyful musical evening.”
The lengthy list of “prohibited” items sent a chill, as if someone might toss a bomb and reduce the place to rubble at any moment.
Regular attendees, chatting and laughing, ignored the warnings.
As for Ning Zhuo and Shan Feibai, though they had ulterior motives, their goal was merely to scout the “Columbus” hall’s layout, so they entered empty-handed and at ease.
At the top of the gangway, Ning Zhuo glanced back through a glass panel.
He could still see Sanjay below.
With no new guests arriving, Sanjay stood alone, pulling out a handkerchief to wipe his palms.
It was a social courtesy—keeping hands dry and clean.
But Sanjay wiped with meticulous care, even cleaning his nail crevices, his overly focused demeanor betraying a nervous, almost paranoid edge.
Ning Zhuo raised a brow, then turned and walked away.
…
Sanjay, engrossed in his cleaning, sensed someone ten steps behind.
His shoulder twitched, instinctively mapping out a counterattack in his mind.
He didn’t turn.
The newcomer, aware of Sanjay’s growing quirks, stopped three steps away, asking from a distance, “Any important guests tonight?”
Sanjay folded his handkerchief into a neat pocket square, tucking it into his suit’s breast pocket. “Austin’s youngest daughter, from United Health, is in the VIP box. Leighton’s handling her. You’re up next time.”
The man was Hardan, one of the five survivors. With a quarter Mongolian heritage, he was tall and imposing. A second mate on the “Columbus,” now nearing forty, he still looked like a rugged thug, not a manager.
“Ha,” Hardan shrugged. “Don’t call me next time either. I hate dealing with pampered rich kids. Seeing them makes me want to kill one or two, hear how their screams differ from others’.”
Sanjay stiffened, glancing around to ensure no one heard, then shot Hardan a reproachful glare.
Hardan was the odd one out.
Over the years, the others had become polished and civilized, but Hardan’s mouth still carried a murderer’s edge.
Hardan clapped Sanjay’s shoulder. “Sanjay, what’re you scared of? Ghosts?”
He laughed heartily, reasoning logically, “They died at sea long ago. No compass, no navigation—they couldn’t drift back or find their way home!”
He roared with laughter, as if he’d told a brilliant joke.
Sanjay stared at the floor’s intricate wave carvings, his mood as turbulent as the tides.
The older he got, the less carefree he became.
Especially these past two years, he felt he’d never truly left the “Columbus.”
Sanjay’s life was better than 95% of Silver Hammer City’s residents.
But he knew what it cost.
Eleven years ago, he was a United Health mercenary.
Unlike most, he was an orphan, raised from childhood as a killer, hidden in the shadows.
To put it bluntly, he was an assassin who never saw the light.
Leighton, Hardan, the other two survivors—Xiao Lin and Jansen—and the three who died at sea shared the same origin.
All were from corporate mercenary teams, orphans trained as killers.
Three days after the “Columbus” project was finalized, Sanjay was summoned by a United Health executive for a “private talk.”
Nervous, he received a strange mission:
Lead a team to infiltrate the “Columbus” and carry out a massacre at sea.
The ship’s keel hadn’t even been laid yet.
Sanjay didn’t ask why.
Killing since fourteen, he knew the more secrets you held, the faster you died.
Luckily, only three of their team died at sea, and they miraculously drifted back to the island.
United Health’s executives never called him again. His identity was cleaned, transforming him from a gutter rat to a Silver Hammer City hero—albeit with an “unfinished mission.”
Truthfully, Sanjay knew the company preferred them dead at sea.
But since they survived, the company didn’t burn bridges. With a flourish, they built the memorial concert hall, stuffing all five inside.
To Sanjay, it was a gilded prison.
As heroes, people expected humility, elegance, chastity, and indifference to wealth—heroic ideals.
With official identities, they complied, only leaving the island for speeches, ribbon-cuttings, or galas.
Thus, Sanjay lived a happy, stable life, growing more fractured and fearful, like a skittering centipede in the dark.
While the corporate old-timers clung to life, everything he had could be stripped away.
Back then, the “Columbus” was for pioneering; dangers were expected, so weapons were carried.
Now, Sanjay needed none but wished to fortify the concert hall into a lavish fortress, barring all risks.
He couldn’t confide this to Hardan—a savage who lived day by day.
Sanjay waved him off, rubbing his stiffly smiling cheeks.
He cherished his life.
Compared to the company’s ancient executives, he was still young.
He had to outlive them all to safely enjoy his good life.
…
Ning Zhuo, unlike normal people, lacked the nerve for “enjoying a good life.”
As the stage’s youths sang vibrant tunes, preparing for their voyage, he fell asleep.
He slept quietly, breathing evenly, lashes casting cool shadows, softening his sharp edge and adding a painterly charm to his deep-set eyes.
Shan Feibai didn’t disturb him, knowing Ning Zhuo treated himself like iron; any rest was precious.
He lightly touched Ning Zhuo’s fingertips, careful not to wake him.
When his fingers grazed the bite mark he’d left, Shan Feibai’s heart itched, tempted to launch a sneak attack and bite again.
But after some thought, he couldn’t bear to.
Covering his mouth, he yawned like a cat, glancing at the stage where teens bravely fought a hurricane.
As the young master of the Shan family, he’d seen this musical before.
Now, knowing the truth, it felt like a grotesque farce.
Five rows behind, two pairs of eyes ignored the stage, fixed on them.
Shan Feibai was keenly aware of their gaze.
Sensing something off, Shan Feibai immediately turned his head.
But at that moment, the stage cleared, and a “sun” rose.
In the blinding light, all the audience squinted.
Shan Feibai lost his targets.
The two watchers, now alert, didn’t glance at Ning Zhuo or Shan Feibai again.
Two and a half hours later, in a stage-lit sunrise scene, five battered survivors stood shakily on a lifeboat, gazing at Silver Hammer City’s faint outline on the horizon.
The actor playing “Sanjay,” tears in his eyes, delivered the final line: “We’re home. My dearest friends, do you see? We’re home.”
His tone was stirring, his emotion raw: “…But you’re gone. Where is home now?”
As the curtain fell, Sanjay was the first to stand and clap.
The roaring applause finally woke Ning Zhuo from his deep sleep.
He looked around, dazed.
Seeing this rare side of Ning Zhuo, Shan Feibai’s playful side emerged. While the lights were still dim, he rubbed his cheek against Ning Zhuo’s. “You’re all warm from sleeping.”
Ning Zhuo’s face was blank, his mind groggy, not immediately registering the offense. “…How long was I out?”
He recalled when he’d lost consciousness, answering himself, “Hm, pretty long.”
Then he added, “You should’ve woken me.”
Shan Feibai stood naturally, glancing back.
As the audience dispersed, the prying gazes didn’t return.
Thinking, he replied, “Sleep was good. This plot’s kind of nauseating.”
…
The evening forecast hadn’t mentioned rain, but as they left the concert hall, acid rain drizzled outside.
The air carried a faint, bitter tang, like spoiled brine.
Private vehicles could park in the hall’s lot, but public ones like driverless taxis weren’t allowed on the island.
They had to walk off the island.
With the rain showing no sign of stopping, Shan Feibai ran to find an umbrella, spotting Sanjay and unabashedly asking to borrow a custom one.
As a “hero,” Sanjay’s years of privilege had conditioned him to be generous and kind. He lent the umbrella without hesitation, though he vaguely felt Shan Feibai looked familiar.
His paranoia wouldn’t let any oddity slide.
Smiling, Sanjay probed, “Have you seen The Shipwreck before, sir?”
Shan Feibai nodded cheerfully, adding, “Brought my boyfriend this time!”
Sanjay relaxed, giving him a warm smile.
Shan Feibai scampered back, twirling the umbrella like a peacock showing off.
Ning Zhuo: “…Just one?”
Shan Feibai nodded like a puppy, eyes earnest. “Yup, hard-won. Shall we go?”
The night was dark, the rain darker, falling in a drizzle, casting a hazy mist over the glowing sea.
Under one umbrella, their tall frames forced them into an embrace-like stance.
Ning Zhuo suddenly asked, “Why’d you rub my face earlier?”
Shan Feibai looked puzzled. “Huh, can’t I?”
Ning Zhuo met his eyes, sensing dishonesty, but before he could speak, Shan Feibai leaned in again, rubbing once more, defiant. “I just will.”
Ning Zhuo: “…”
Swiftly, he grabbed Shan Feibai’s ear and twisted.
Shan Feibai yelped, shameless but still holding the umbrella steady. “Ow! Stop, stop! You’ll get wet!”
Ning Zhuo only meant to teach a lesson, letting go but itching to touch Shan Feibai’s neatly shaped earbone again.
Seeing Shan Feibai rub his reddened ear with a wronged look, Ning Zhuo felt inexplicably pleased.
On the return trip, Ning Zhuo drove.
At a mid-city intersection, he unexpectedly saw Lin Qin on a commercial plaza’s big screen.
Lin Qin, bandage off, revealed golden eyes marked with a Libra symbol and an unscarred upper face.
His face was striking.
With the bandage, he was an eerie oddity.
Without it, scars and flaws vanished, leaving only pity and regret in viewers’ hearts.
It was a press conference for a case.
As leader of the 930 task force, Lin Qin announced their findings.
Ning Zhuo caught one line:
“…Motobu Ryo claims ignorance of Motobu Takeshi’s actions and has voluntarily resigned as CTO of Titan Corporation…”
The red light flashed.
Ning Zhuo looked away without lingering, hitting the gas.
Shan Feibai, curious: “Not listening?”
Ning Zhuo, eyes forward: “Don’t tell me you didn’t notice we’re being followed.”
Shan Feibai flicked his tongue against his cheek. “Since the theater.”
He asked, “Who?”
Ning Zhuo, concise: “Don’t know.”
It was true.
Stepping from the shadows to the spotlight made him a target for many factions.
With the situation complex, they had to be extra cautious.
But that snippet of news gave Ning Zhuo key intel:
Motobu Takeshi, through Ning Zhuo’s maneuvering, was pinned as the true culprit for infiltrating “White Shield” and killing Ruskin.
In this high-stakes game, Motobu Ryo lost spectacularly.
…
Meanwhile, Motobu Ryo didn’t watch the live press conference tied to his fate.
Clutching a deep blue virtual card, he played a mournful tune in a desolate alley in Black Tide Street, Lower City.
The door opened.
Instead of a warm welcome, a small pistol met his temple.
Tormented psychologically, Motobu Ryo was gaunt, his already lean frame withered, resembling a shriveled, sharp-faced old woman.
Unfazed, he murmured, “‘Tuner’?”
Today’s “Tuner” was a tall, striking woman with expressive eyes, holding a gun in one hand and a slim cigarette in the other, her sharp gaze lazily fixed on him. “Mr. Headquarters, you know we don’t serve Upper City folks. They step in, they die.”
Motobu Ryo was calm. “I’m not Upper City anymore. Lost my job today, house repossessed by Titan. I’m a low-class citizen now.”
The “Tuner” smiled.
She was the prankster among the “Tuners.”
If Motobu Ryo hadn’t been ruined by his son, plummeting to a low-class citizen with no way back, he’d never have qualified to approach them.
Motobu Ryo bowed his head, outwardly submissive, but inside, his heart twisted like a steel blade, raw with pain.
His unremarkable eldest son cut ties instantly.
Their father-son bond, worn thin by Motobu Ryo’s favoritism, was severed cleanly, leaving nothing.
A lifetime’s work, gone overnight—from A-class citizen to homeless drifter—made him almost resent his cherished younger son.
Unlike his son’s reckless ways, Motobu Ryo maintained himself, clearly able to live many years.
…In pain and destitution.
Unwilling to show weakness, he shakily pulled heart medication from his pocket, swallowing it dry, a faint sound escaping his throat. “…I need you to do something.”
“Find your son?” The “Tuner” spread her hands. “That was when you were A-class. We don’t handle those matters.”
Motobu Ryo gritted his teeth, settling for less. “Then another request.”
He raised his head. “…You know ‘Panqiao’s’ Shan Feibai?”
The “Tuner’s” expression shifted, but she stayed silent.
A cold glint flashed in Motobu Ryo’s ashen eyes. “I want control of his spine. Just once.”
