Five-Minute Countdown, Officially Started.
Their every move was still being broadcast live to everyone in Silver Hammer City.
—Since the other side hadn’t ordered the broadcast to stop, no one dared to shut it down on their own.
Five minutes was too short to do anything.
The bomb could be set on a timer or triggered instantly with a signal.
Even if everyone rushed out in a frenzy now, they couldn’t outrun the light and fire capable of moving mountains and overturning seas.
Hardan’s face gradually flushed red, the color spreading to his neck, his veins bulging.
As his expression darkened completely, the ferocity in his bones slowly surfaced, making him look like a thug in a suit.
The instincts and alertness of a beast quickly reawakened in his limbs.
Hardan yanked off his polished diamond tie clip, tore off his tie, and before anyone could react, he preemptively seized a woman by the neck while swiftly grabbing a knife.
His blood surged rapidly through his veins, his skin losing heat rapidly, and the knife, taken from a hot food station, burned his palm for a moment.
He let out a half-smile, half-curse, and spat, “You all want to save your own lives by sending me to my death? Well, I’m not dying!”
Sanjay didn’t move.
He wasn’t surprised by Hardan’s actions.
But his ears felt like they were boiling, buzzing so loudly that no sound was distinct anymore.
It was over.
Everything was over.
…After more than a decade of enduring a gilded cage, the perfect personas they had crafted, their concert hall.
From this moment on, the so-called “Columbus” hero was dead.
Hardan held the knife to the woman’s throat, muttering to himself nervously, “I didn’t die on the ship, didn’t die at sea. I won’t die here!”
Litton’s mind worked quickly.
He knew exactly who would be next.
The finale would be himself, and the grand finale would be Sanjay.
They had only five minutes, and relying on the police was useless.
For years, they had masqueraded as heroes, masters of their craft.
But at their core, they were ruthless, self-serving killers.
When push came to shove, “sacrifice for others” wasn’t even a consideration!
Litton had no weapon at hand, so he smashed a plate with his fist, reaching for the sharp shards to follow suit.
Now it was Hardan who was doomed, and Litton could use these precious five minutes to break out!
A flash of cold light, and Litton cried out in pain.
A champagne tray flew straight at him, heavy and solid, striking his wrist with precision, producing a faint metallic clang.
With a crack, Litton’s wrist dislocated.
After Ning Zhuo threw the champagne tray with one hand, he instinctively moved to act but was yanked back by the handcuff on his other hand, tethered to Shan Feibai.
Shan Feibai leaned close to his ear, whispering quickly and softly, “…Ge, don’t move.”
However, breaking the stalemate only took a single tray.
The crowd, pampered and unaccustomed to such intense scenes, was momentarily stunned.
But with a bit of effort, they could see that Hardan was losing it, and Litton was trying to escape.
This was about their lives.
The bomber wanted only those three! So those three could not be allowed to escape!
With this unified thought, the crowd split into two groups: the weaker ones stepped back, while one group surrounded Hardan and another trapped Litton.
Zhang Rong’en, neither old nor young, hesitated for a moment before quietly retreating, joining a group of women constrained by their tight evening gowns.
Zhang Xingshu, timid, didn’t step forward either but wasn’t as shameless as his father.
Hiding behind his brother, he whispered, “…Are, are you guys going to act?”
“Act? I’m not acting.”
Shan Feibai gripped Ning Zhuo’s hand tightly while half-turning his body, responding eloquently, “I’m a mercenary. Ning and I already have questionable identities. If ‘White Shield’ investigates afterward, they’ll definitely hold us accountable. If we get involved and kill them, ‘White Shield’ would be thrilled—finally, someone to take the fall. They’d pin us as accomplices of the bomber, working together to kill those three. …I was dragged to this banquet by you, not to deal with this kind of mess.”
Shan Feibai’s clear and logical speech completely convinced Zhang Xingshu, who was suddenly overwhelmed with guilt, feeling like an absolute beast.
Ning Zhuo quietly watched Shan Feibai.
The handcuffs were Shan Feibai’s idea.
At first, Ning Zhuo thought he was just playing cute to win him over.
Who would’ve thought he’d anticipated that when things spiraled out of control, Ning Zhuo would act?
—He was forbidding him from getting involved.
Beneath his enthusiasm and straightforwardness, there was always a hidden blade, ready to strike and draw blood.
…
Hardan watched as he was surrounded by the crowd.
Some people on the outer edge were collecting sharp objects like table knives and quickly distributing them to those encircling him.
Hardan’s gaze swept past the crowd, looking outward, and saw their leader, Sanjay, standing there with his hands idle, as if he’d given up resisting.
And those elites, holding weapons, stared at him unblinkingly.
In Hardan’s eyes, they were a flock of sheep.
Sheep surrounding a wolf in a suit?
This made Hardan feel everything was surreal, utterly laughable.
Time ticked by, second by second.
The atmosphere grew increasingly thick and tense.
An invisible wildfire greedily consumed the oxygen in the hall.
Under the rich oxygen conditions, everyone felt a suffocating illusion of struggling to breathe.
But Ning Zhuo was an exception.
He could already see that Hardan was doomed.
He might have once been an exceptionally skilled killer.
Ning Zhuo guessed he might even privately complain that such cushy days were boring and crave a kill.
But truth be told, Hardan’s skills had rusted over the years.
If Ning Zhuo were in his shoes, cold-blooded as Hardan, he’d slaughter without hesitation—indiscriminately killing everyone on the scene.
He’d keep killing until they didn’t dare approach.
…Because this was a no-win situation, so instead of waiting for death, he’d take a few down with him.
Even now, Hardan thought he was still a wolf.
But after living as a civilized man for so long, his fangs and ferocity had unknowingly dulled.
Hardan scanned his surroundings like a hawk, searching for a breakout point, his muscular arm loosely holding the hostage, afraid that if she died, the crowd would swarm and turn him into a pincushion.
However, he was too focused on external threats to notice that the small woman in his grasp wasn’t screaming.
She was terrified, her body trembling slightly, but her eyes were remarkably clear.
She, too, was quietly waiting for her chance.
Because in this situation, the kidnapper wanted her alive, but the desperate elites around her didn’t.
If it came down to it, they wouldn’t hesitate to kill her along with him.
After three minutes had passed, Hardan stopped waiting and started moving toward the hall’s exit.
But no one was a fool.
As soon as he moved, the encircling crowd instantly closed in by half.
Hardan tightened his grip on the knife, pressing it into the woman’s pale neck.
The table knife, meant for cutting cooked food, wasn’t particularly sharp.
But with just a bit of force, a thin line of blood trickled slowly down her neck.
The woman let out a low whimper, clutching her handbag tightly, her body sinking several centimeters, her legs dragging limply on the ground as if paralyzed by fear.
Hardan slightly eased the knife’s edge, holding her hostage, intending to force his way out.
But who could’ve predicted that the woman, sensing his intent to kill, seized the fleeting moment as her body slumped downward? With a fierce, flexible kick, she drove her slender high heel into Hardan’s groin!
Hardan let out a scream, his vision darkening, his arm loosening slightly.
The petite woman, agile, ducked low and slipped from his grasp, stumbling forward several steps with disheveled hair before collapsing, tears streaming down her face.
In that moment, seven or eight dull table knives stabbed at Hardan from all directions as he fell!
In an instant, Hardan was riddled with wounds, blood gushing, turning him into a blood-soaked figure.
He howled in agony!
But the others gave him no chance.
Amid the chaos, the crowd worked with eerie precision.
Some pinned him to the ground.
Others pulled out knives, stabbing him wildly.
Taking advantage of the bloody pandemonium, Litton made a sudden move.
He barreled through the encircling crowd, knocking a shorter, slimmer man off balance, sending him rolling across the soft carpet.
Then, he bolted.
Litton wasn’t tall, but he hadn’t neglected his training over the years, his suit hiding a muscular frame.
His sudden escape made him hard to stop.
Soon, people reacted, shouting and giving chase.
Litton, familiar with the concert hall’s layout, weaved through it and reached the entrance.
He couldn’t hide inside the hall.
Perhaps the bomber’s next task would be to have everyone hunt him down.
That slow, torturous death was unbearable!
Outside the broadcast’s range, facing “White Shield,” maybe these crazed people would regain some sanity.
Soon, Litton spotted “White Shield.”
He rushed toward them, filled with hope.
But as he sensed something was off, he slammed on the brakes.
The outer line of “White Shield” stood in a row.
—It was unmistakably an execution squad formation.
Each member drew their gun, silently and coldly aiming at Litton, fully exposed in their line of fire.
Litton never imagined his careful calculations would fail at the critical moment.
Shaking his head, he tried to retreat back to the warm banquet hall.
He regretted it!
He didn’t want to die!
Opening his mouth, choked by the wind, he barely managed to shout, “Don’t kill me, don’t… the one who hired me was your—”
Hardy and Bell stood behind the makeshift firing squad, their hearts long hardened by the sea breeze.
They had no interest in Litton’s dangerous, meaningless pleas.
Numbly, they gave the order: “Fire.”
Amid the gunfire from seven or eight barrels, Litton’s body lurched backward, flung onto the central sculpture in the hall.
The siren on the sculpture, lifelike, seemed to sing.
Litton, arms spread, eyes wide, with pools of blood staining the marble waves, looked like a sailor bewitched by the siren’s song, dying in a daze.
In Silver Hammer City, lives had their hierarchies.
Hearing the rapid gunfire from outside, Shan Feibai leaned his head on Ning Zhuo’s shoulder, rubbing it playfully.
Anyway, he’d only given those three two options: physical death or social death.
They could’ve died with dignity—why insist on making it a multiple-choice question?
In just five minutes, Litton was dead, and Hardan was gravely wounded—those table knives were awfully dull.
In the end, it was Sanjay, staggering forward, who stopped the madness.
He held the cake knife specified by the bomber.
“I’ll kill him,” his voice carried an unspeakable weariness. “He said I should do it.”
To survive, the sheep who’d briefly turned into crazed beasts scattered quickly.
Sanjay raised the knife, pressing its edge against Hardan’s carotid artery.
Hardan, bleeding out and unable to move, opened his mouth, letting out an “ahh” of dying groans.
Sanjay cradled him, whispering softly, “Everyone’s watching, Hardan. You’re leaving, right?”
With a clean, decisive stroke, he slit the throat of Hardan, who still clung to life.
Sanjay usually lived quietly, but he always had his convictions and calculations.
His goal was to preserve their heroic image.
Otherwise, what were all those years of pretense and hardship for?
The bomber wanted to destroy their image, to let them die in the ugliest way possible!
As Hardan breathed his last, the long-silent bomber let out a faint, amused sigh.
“Now, please welcome our great hero, Sanjay, to the stage.”
The guests, hands stained with varying amounts of blood, didn’t dare make a sound, standing like quails, craning their necks, awaiting the bomber’s next move.
The bomber said softly, “Please have Mr. Sanjay walk out of the concert hall, onto the ‘Columbus’ Bridge, and go to the Interest Company reporters.”
“There’s a box on the ground there.”
“Please pick up that box and bring it back to the memorial hall.”
The bomber’s request, broadcast live, reached countless ears.
The Interest Company reporters, who’d been eagerly awaiting big news on the bridge, scattered like a receding tide, revealing a lone suitcase in the center.
Time was of the essence, and “White Shield” immediately checked nearby surveillance.
But what they found nearly made them curse.
During the bomber’s broadcast, over a dozen new interview vans had arrived, and a few had been called away.
The vans were parked haphazardly, their tall, thick bodies creating blind spots in the surveillance.
Amid the bustling, noisy crowd seeking the best filming angles, no one noticed who placed the box there.
While “White Shield” seethed, Sanjay appeared at the concert hall’s entrance.
With heavy steps, under the silent, icy gazes of the crowd, he walked toward the box no one dared touch—not even “White Shield.”
There were still VIPs inside the concert hall.
After the string of explosions that evening, they weren’t willing to take any more risks.
The path from the concert hall’s entrance to the bridge was long, very long.
Long enough for Sanjay to think about many things.
In Silver Hammer City, lives had their weight.
On this day, Sanjay finally realized his life was as light as a feather.
He couldn’t help but wonder: back then, if he’d acted on impulse, abandoned his mission, and joined the “Columbus” and those naive young people to explore the new continent?
Maybe they’d have perished at sea, or maybe they’d have found a rich, peaceful new land.
Whether they lived or died together, they’d have been equals.
Sanjay was lost in thoughts of that beautiful life.
Meanwhile, he reached his destination, bent down, and grasped the handle of the suitcase.
The suitcase was surprisingly light, about the weight of a bottle of milk.
Sanjay turned around and walked back toward the concert hall.
The cold wind stung his skin through his thin suit, pricking like needles.
He gazed up at the fortress he had built with his own hands, and his legs suddenly went weak.
But he had no choice.
Under the watchful eyes of the crowd, under the muzzles of “White Shield,” Sanjay, half-covered in blood, felt his tears dry in his sockets.
Belatedly, he began to regret, to fear, to feel his heart break.
Yet this seemingly endless road home suddenly felt within reach.
It was as if he crossed from the bridge to the concert hall’s entrance in a single step.
With a rigid posture, Sanjay stepped through the door.
In that instant, red lights flashed relentlessly all around.
A shrill female voice blared the ultimate alarm: “Warning! Warning! Someone is carrying an item of the highest danger level. Security, take position immediately! Immediately!”
Sanjay froze in place, unable to hold back his anguished sobs!
He had already guessed the bomber’s true killing move.
“White Shield” had guessed it too.
But they couldn’t believe that the so-called “bomb” in the memorial hall was nothing but an elaborately crafted empty box.
They didn’t dare take the risk.
So, in unbearable panic and rage, they could only watch as Sanjay, carrying the suitcase deemed “highest danger level,” dragged his dying steps toward the memorial hall.
The memorial hall’s public entrance had long been sealed shut.
Following the bomber’s instructions, the minors left in the memorial hall had tremblingly locked the heavy door connecting it to the concert hall from the outside, leaving only Sanjay, clinging to his final heroic dream, inside.
With this done, the bomber’s voice grew light and cheerful.
“Now, everyone’s task is complete. Thank you for your cooperation.”
“Please, in an orderly manner, take the broadcasting equipment and leave the concert hall.”
“You have seven minutes.”
“Oh, and I hope the officers outside retreat to the bridge as well.”
“This is my one and only heartfelt, sincere advice.”
“The ‘Columbus’ thanks you for coming.”
“Farewell forever.”
The guests, as if granted amnesty, fled in droves.
Ning Zhuo walked out shoulder-to-shoulder with Shan Feibai.
When the sound of footsteps outside had completely faded, Sanjay, in the suffocating silence, tremblingly lifted the suitcase’s lid with stiff fingers.
Inside was a crude, homemade timed bomb, attached to the simplest of timers.
When he opened the suitcase, the bomb’s detonation countdown showed one minute remaining.
…Just like the first crude explosion the bomber had orchestrated at the “Columbus”’s anchoring point years ago.
Sanjay had expected this.
He immediately stood and rushed to the “Columbus” model where the “bomb” had originally been placed.
With little effort, he lifted the delicate box.
…No explosion.
It was just an ordinary box.
A box with all the perfect detonation setups… but still just a box.
Sanjay hurled it to the ground, smashing its back panel, then frantically tore it apart.
The box, which “White Shield” had mistaken for a bomb, was another finely crafted box, nested like a matryoshka doll, lying quietly inside.
Sanjay blinked his burning eyes, trembling as he opened it.
It was clean and empty, save for a single note.
On it was written a greeting: “Dead yet?”
As the searing red light of the explosion flared, Sanjay collapsed to his knees before the indoor monument in the memorial hall, a guttural rasp escaping his throat—half sob, half laugh.
His final posture was eerily like one of repentance.
…
Meanwhile.
Ning Zhuo, already retreated to the other side of the bridge, draped in Shan Feibai’s warm coat, looked at the sea trembling from the blast.
In the night sky, an orange-red sun leaped into existence.
Its radiant light spilled forth, golden and clear, engulfing the entire “Columbus” Memorial Concert Hall.
The majestic, exquisite building shrank smaller and smaller, becoming a tiny sunspot, then vanishing without a trace.
…
In the “Haina,” Min Min jolted awake from her bed in the middle of the night.
She felt like she’d slept for ages, but her muscles ached with exhaustion.
She guessed her sister had visited.
So, Min Min climbed out of bed, crossed her arms behind her head, stretched with a graceful yawn, and decided to grab a glucose popsicle to recharge.
Out of habit, she tapped the “read news” function on her communicator’s “Silver Hammer Daily.”
“Severe explosion at the ‘Columbus’ Memorial Concert Hall, engulfed in flames. Current casualty count: three.”
“The Silver Hammer Daily will continue to follow this story.”
Min Min, bending to open the freezer, didn’t have time to look shocked before a reflexive smile spread across her face.
…This was a dream, right?
Perfect time to grab something tasty—midnight snacks in dreams don’t make you fat.
But the next second, the freezer’s cold air hit her face, snapping her senses into focus.
She stared at her communicator in disbelief.
…No way…?
