Zhang Rong’en had recently grown some stubble and lost weight, accentuating his scholarly, melancholic aura. Amid the fragrant elegance and dazzling crowd, he carried a refined air, as if brushing through flowers and willows.
But his heart held no romance, only the stench of money.
Cranning his neck like a goose, he glanced at the entrance, still not seeing the person he awaited.
He turned to ask Zhang Xingshu, “He said he’d definitely come, right?”
Zhang Xingshu wasn’t sure; he could never read his younger brother.
Hesitantly, he mumbled, “Probably…”
Seeing his spineless demeanor, Zhang Rong’en swallowed a torrent of reproach.
His eldest son was too timid, with no initiative; his younger son was too bold, reckless to a fault.
Zhang Rong’en wished he could play Nüwa, molding them into one perfect being, but, powerless, he resigned himself to fate.
In truth, Zhang Xingshu wasn’t entirely devoid of thought or personality.
When he entered the Shan family, still called Shan Xingshu, he was only two.
He saw his parents’ love as impenetrable, a bond so tight no needle or water could breach it.
He loved watching them, feeling like the happiest child in the world.
But, whether fortunate or unfortunate, Shan Xingshu matured too early, inheriting a sharp trait from his grandmother’s blood: a fierce sense of family duty.
By the time he could read Silver Hammer City’s gossip or hear classmates’ whispers, crushing guilt overwhelmed him.
He couldn’t believe his idyllic life was built on sacrificing another family.
Yet he couldn’t blame his father, who gave him a privileged life, or his mother, who birthed and adored him.
Xingshu constantly thought of his brother, left motherless in infancy, unable to sleep.
In his mind, his brother was a pitiful little cabbage.
No father, no mother, only a grandmother—Xingshu hadn’t met her, only seen photos, unsure of her character. But given his father’s reticence about her, he assumed she was difficult.
Young Zhang Xingshu, tears streaming, bit his pillow corner, secretly vowing to make amends if given the chance.
Later, at a “Tangdi” New Year’s banquet, he finally met his brother.
…A brother nothing like he’d imagined.
A polished little prince, exuding noble grace, born to be the center of attention.
Shan Feibai wasn’t melancholic or pained; he had a spring breeze smile, dimples as accents, needing no superfluous amends from Xingshu.
Holding his grandmother’s hand, he approached and greeted boldly, “Hi, big brother.”
Xingshu’s face burned red—a legitimate son like Shan Feibai having an “older brother” pop up was a cosmic joke.
He forced a smile, nearly crying from shame, eyes reddening, “H-hi.”
His brother, seeing such a dramatic reaction, paused, stunned, then glanced up, perhaps flashing a faint, fleeting smile.
Xingshu missed it, thinking it a trick of his mind.
Shan Feibai exclaimed, “Oh!” and wiped Xingshu’s eyes, “Brother, you’re crying?”
In his innocent, childlike voice, he added, “Why’re you crying? I’m not even crying.”
That meeting snuffed out Xingshu’s last spark of liveliness.
He grew inward, wishing to fade into a shadow, easing his crushing shame.
In his short twenty-odd years, Xingshu had no strong material desires, shunned luxury, and was tormented by morality, nearly living as an ascetic.
For a decade, he bore his guilt alone, as his biological parents felt no remorse.
Did they, by now, feel any regret?
…
While Zhang Xingshu was lost in thought, the tardy Shan Feibai finally made his entrance.
As in Xingshu’s childhood memory, he was still the most radiant presence.
His features were secondary—Xingshu, looking in a mirror, knew they were equally handsome, and strangers often fawned over his looks at first meeting.
But that warmth faded quickly.
Xingshu could draw people in but couldn’t hold them.
Shan Feibai’s vibrant charisma, like tidal gravity, naturally pulled people into his orbit, forming a ring of stardust around him.
Unlike childhood, this time, someone stood by his side, matching him.
Those eligible for the “Columbus” anniversary banquet were upper-city residents or those with upper-city passes—Ning Zhuo’s work hadn’t reached that level.
Most attendees, with their private mercenaries, had no need for external hires.
Thus, no one recognized Ning Zhuo, and most hadn’t even heard of “Haina.”
Upon seeing the pair, eyes lit up, and breaths were held.
Ning Zhuo, in a white suit, highlighted his slim waist and long legs, accentuating his perpetually pale complexion—not sickly, but like melting snow.
Shan Feibai captivated, making people want to offer him the world’s treasures.
Ning Zhuo commanded awe, untouchable and overwhelming.
Arm in arm, they entered—one in white, one in black—like a heavenly-matched pair of grooms.
The hall fell silent for a moment.
Three or four seconds later, scattered voices resumed.
In this formal setting, with intricate social etiquette, no one rushed to engage them.
But wherever they went, eyes followed.
Under the watchful gazes, Shan Feibai moved freely, grabbing a glass of fruit wine with his left hand, sipping to test it before passing it to Ning Zhuo, “Sweet.”
Shan Feibai wore glasses with a delicate silver chain, a tiny bell dangling, jingling softly as he turned.
Ning Zhuo had picked them up on his way back from the “Tuner”; the lenses were specially made to correct Shan Feibai’s color weakness.
These glasses were more formal than his last pair, tempering his lively aura, lending a refined, roguish charm.
…At least when he kept quiet.
Ning Zhuo took the glass with his right hand.
Ning Zhuo wore thin black gloves, concealing his “Haina” tattoo and mechanical hand.
He tasted the wine and set it down casually.
To outsiders, Ning Zhuo resembled a moving ink painting, cool and refined, best admired from afar, so no one overheard him murmur, “Look at them, gawking—what’s there to see?”
Shan Feibai leaned in, whispering earnestly, “They’re jealous of how perfect we look together.”
Ning Zhuo asked calmly, “…You want to die?”
Shan Feibai replied, “No rush, I’ll die when we get home.”
As they bickered softly, someone called from behind, “…Feibai?”
Zhang Xingshu had braced himself to approach.
He only intended to take Shan Feibai.
But when Shan Feibai moved, Ning Zhuo followed.
Zhang Xingshu froze, mouth agape, stepping forward to stop Ning Zhuo from joining their family meeting.
But when his gaze drifted downward, he stiffened, speechless.
Beneath Shan Feibai’s right cuff, a shiny silver ring linked to Ning Zhuo’s left hand.
Even someone as sheltered as Zhang Xingshu recognized handcuffs.
He saw clearly that Shan Feibai, taller than Ning Zhuo, bore more strain, his wrist rubbed raw and red.
Noticing Zhang Xingshu’s focus, Shan Feibai chirped smugly, “Bro, never seen these before? Lover’s knot!”
Ning Zhuo shot him a look, ignoring his nonsense.
Shan Feibai preened, adjusting his glasses’ silver chain, “What do you think, matches my glasses, right?”
Zhang Xingshu’s heart ached.
He’d always believed his brother became a mercenary due to a loveless childhood, and he was partly to blame.
Now, seeing him openly shackled and degraded, Zhang Xingshu felt 60% responsible, Shan Feibai 40%.
Facing his brother, he forced a smile, “…It matches.”
Shan Feibai nodded like an eager puppy, “Yo, bro, you noticed someone got me new glasses?”
Zhang Xingshu: “…?”
Before he could process the rapid topic shift, Shan Feibai was already craning his neck, “Where’s he at?”
“He” was, of course, their father.
Zhang Xingshu led Ning Zhuo and Shan Feibai to Zhang Rong’en.
Zhang Rong’en hadn’t expected Ning Zhuo to tag along, annoyed at his eldest son’s incompetence. He glared, but Zhang Xingshu, lost in his own mental turmoil, missed the look.
Zhang Rong’en shifted his gaze to his younger son.
Seeing him vibrant, not near death or crippled as rumored, Zhang Rong’en wasn’t sure if he felt joy or not.
Given his current predicament, Shan Feibai’s death might’ve been better.
Before coming, Zhang Rong’en decided to be warm toward Shan Feibai.
Needing a favor, acting high and mighty as “your father” wouldn’t do.
He softened his voice, almost fawning, “Recovered well?”
Shan Feibai nodded, replying breezily, “Great. Got new glasses too.”
Ning Zhuo: “…”
For two days, he’d been showing off around “Haina,” and now he was eager to flaunt more.
Ning Zhuo pinched his waist hard, making Zhang Xingshu, cowering nearby, flinch.
Zhang Rong’en, long out of touch with Shan Feibai, remembered him as untamed, with an inherited wild streak, almost intimidating. Seeing him speak civilly now, Zhang Rong’en relaxed halfway.
But Shan Feibai’s next words threw him off: “Mr. Zhang, what do you want?”
That “Mr. Zhang” stunned him.
Seeing Zhang Rong’en’s surprise, Shan Feibai kindly reminded, “Didn’t you sell me off for 180,000?”
Zhang Rong’en quickly composed himself, saying gently, “Blood is thicker than water; we’re always family.”
Shan Feibai, earnest yet puzzled, “My bones were broken, and I didn’t see any of that ‘family’ then.”
Zhang Rong’en swallowed hard, throat dry, scalp tingling.
For the sake of his refined lifestyle, he set aside pride: “Blood still binds us—you can’t deny that. Back then, you caused trouble, and I had no choice—”
“Sorry,” Ning Zhuo cut in, “I recall our agreement clearly: if Mr. Zhang came to ‘Haina’ looking for his son, we’d refuse. So whose dad are you?”
In a public setting, Zhang Rong’en wasn’t intimidated by Ning Zhuo.
If he acted out, the “White Shield” outside would toss him out.
He stiffened, “This is family business. Mr. Ning, please mind your manners and stay out of it.”
“‘Family’?”
Ning Zhuo sneered, pulling a notarized contract from his pocket, “Speaking of ‘family,’ he’s mine. I bought him, you sold him. Signed and paid. The Zhang family’s a big name—liking to break contracts explains your current state. A dab of aloe gel might fix that face.”
Ning Zhuo’s voice was cold, but it sent Zhang Rong’en’s heart racing, face flushing.
He realized Shan Feibai had long known about Shan Yunhua’s clause.
And now even this Ning guy knew.
They were teaming up to tear his family apart!
Zhang Rong’en knew he had neither law nor sentiment on his side, only blood.
But sentiment was scarce, and no amount of effort could dredge up father-son warmth.
His pale face turned red, stammering, “Feibai, we’re… father and son, we’re family…”
Shan Feibai said idly, “I’m Shan, you’re Zhang—where’s the family? Just a shared ‘early’ in our names; no need to claim kin.”
Ning Zhuo added timely, “Heard you had two families by my age, running around, real busy. Now you’re older, don’t knock on the wrong door.”
As Zhang Rong’en faced defeat, nearly stroking out, Bell and Hardy, fresh from their patrol, stood outside the hall, gazing at the golden light flooding the island.
They felt part of it.
After days of working together, Bell and Hardy had become like brothers in arms.
Hardy lit a cigarette for Bell, “Done. Our guys are on the perimeter, cameras inside, everyone’s checked on entry—no body searches, but no contraband’s been scanned. I don’t believe they can pull anything off. Unless it’s ghosts!”
Bell, still uneasy, exhaled smoke that the northwest wind blew back, choking him. He wiped cold spit from his mouth, staring at the sky, silently praying the night would pass quickly.
A room full of elites—any scratch would be his ruin.
Hardy made small talk, “Where’s Consultant Lin?”
Bell, tense and sparing words, “Checking live feeds.”
Hardy laughed, “So many people, can he keep up—”
A wave of applause erupted from the hall.
Hardy rubbed his wind-chilled hands, “It’s starting.”
Bell grunted, planning another patrol, since standing here just fueled anxiety.
Suddenly, his peripheral vision caught a dark mass riding the wind.
At first, he thought it was a seabird.
But he quickly sensed something off.
—The shape was wrong!
And so many seabirds, nearly blotting the sky?
He’d anticipated danger from the bridge or guests, not the sea!
The wind was fierce, and the object came fast.
Bell drew his gun, shouting, “White Shield, alert!”
…
At that moment, Sanjay, in a suit, reviewed his speech.
It thanked the banquet’s attendees, mourned lost comrades, and outlined the concert hall’s future.
The same old lines.
He’d recited them countless times.
He just needed his usual sincere, warm expression.
Steeling himself, Sanjay strode to the podium, adjusted the mic, and was about to speak—
A distant, familiar voice came through the mic.
“Hey, hey, is it tuned?”
Before Sanjay, hair standing on end, could place the voice, another voice—a woman’s—emerged, ghostly.
Cold, calm, with no synthetic trace,
“Hello, Sanjay, long time no see. Hello, everyone, first time meeting. I’m Min Qiu.”
