If the man’s identity was fake, what about the others he referred?
The answer was obvious.
Ma Yushu had his men call every single number on the list, but not one person could be reached.
It was a scam syndicate.
Realizing this, Ma Yushu wasn’t initially nervous.
This was his trade. In his career, he’d seen countless people trying to dodge debts or scam money.
He kept a mental tally of every loan, ensuring he never lost out.
Even if the borrower was a pile of muck, he’d squeeze oil and blood out of them.
Trying to double-cross him? Ma Yushu wanted to see if they had the stomach to swallow his money and digest it clean.
Calmly, he gave the order: “Investigate. Find out who’s behind this. Once you do, their whole family goes to the bottom of the sea. You get twenty percent of the recovered money.”
His lackeys left, eyes gleaming with excitement, itching to wipe out the scammer’s family.
Ma Yushu didn’t care much about the small sum, nor did he think it was unrecoverable.
The total amount taken from him was less than 3 million.
What truly unnerved him was something else.
After this scam syndicate swarmed in and drained his cash flow, Motobu Ryo showed up.
…It felt like an ominous sign, and Ma Yushu couldn’t help but worry.
With a knot of unease, he dialed Motobu Ryo’s new number.
When the call connected, Ma Yushu let out a breath of relief.
Motobu Ryo picked up quickly, his tone reverting to its usual numb indifference: “Hello.”
Ma Yushu chuckled: “Mr. Motobu, striking it rich, huh? Heard business is off to a great start?”
Motobu Ryo was a big client, deserving the utmost respect.
Ma Yushu had people keeping tabs on him.
Motobu Ryo had indeed gotten busy.
His technical skills were top-notch. With financial backing, he was like a withered tree blooming anew.
Previously, no one dared hire him, fearing they’d offend Titan or Ruiteng. Motobu Ryo had been personally fired by Titan, and if Titan didn’t want him, others offering him a job risked looking presumptuous.
Plus, Motobu Takeshi’s notorious reputation didn’t help. He’d committed crimes using a system Motobu Ryo designed, so hiring his father wasn’t exactly a good look.
Now things had changed. Motobu Takeshi was dead.
And Motobu Ryo, through some shady channel, had secured funding and started his own business.
Companies might hesitate to hire him, but partnering with him was another story.
Some had already reached out, hoping Motobu Ryo would design custom security solutions—a ripple effect from the “Columbus” explosion case, which made firms prioritize safety more than ever.
With a goal to chase, Motobu Ryo didn’t even have time to tend to his injured ankle, diving headlong into work.
He was always a workaholic, valuing his career above all else.
That’s why he ignored his mediocre but law-abiding eldest son while doting on the criminally talented Motobu Takeshi.
…A twisted form of love by association.
Taking Ma Yushu’s call, Motobu Ryo ignored the pleasantries, eyes glued to his screen: “Is it repayment day already?”
Ma Yushu paused: “Not yet…”
Motobu Ryo cut in bluntly: “Then don’t bother me.”
He hung up.
Ma Yushu stood there, holding the receiver, stunned, unsure whether to be angry or amused.
He slumped into his soft, comfortable boss chair, muttering curses: “Well, damn. The debtor’s the boss, huh? That saying holds true even at the end of the world.”
…
At “Haina,” Ning Zhuo and Shan Feibai had just finished a round of intimacy.
Both were languid, still entwined, lying in bed.
Ning Zhuo, waist relaxed, one hand resting on his pelvis, lay cat-like on the bed, surrounded by the warm scent of Shan Feibai’s body—clean, like sun-soaked, soft white cotton, fresh and pleasing.
Shan Feibai kneaded his spine from behind, vertebra by vertebra, top to bottom.
He asked, “Ning-ge, what’re you thinking?”
Ning Zhuo paused, realizing he wasn’t thinking about anything.
This sparked a reflexive anxiety.
He rarely felt this way.
Since childhood, he’d worried about his father’s work and his mother’s health, and as an adult, even more so. His mind was always in overdrive.
This brief moment of relaxation brought an unfamiliar mix of strangeness and shame.
He buried his face in the soft pillow, trying to escape.
Shan Feibai, in high spirits, leaned over his shoulder: “Ning-ge, let’s play a game. Think of an animal, and I’ll guess what it is.”
Ning Zhuo pictured a wolf pup, eyes still covered with a thin blue film.
He muttered, “Boring.”
“Just a little game,” Shan Feibai said, nuzzling his shoulder. “Hmm… I guess a wolf.”
Ning Zhuo: “Wrong.”
Shan Feibai peeked at Ning Zhuo’s expression from the side, then retreated, certain: “I got it right.”
A wave of irritation rippled through Ning Zhuo.
His ingrained mindset didn’t interpret Shan Feibai’s words as flirting but as a flippant attitude, as if Ning Zhuo was already in his grasp, to be toyed with at will.
Calmly, he replied, “I was thinking of a rabbit. …A dead rabbit.”
Shan Feibai, who’d been cheerful, felt like he’d been doused with cold water.
He froze, a dull ache settling in his chest: “Ning-ge, don’t say ‘dead,’ or… that.”
Ning Zhuo countered, “Don’t your men love calling me that behind my back?”
Shan Feibai was momentarily speechless.
Back when they were enemies, belittling each other was par for the course.
With their bloody confrontations, being overly polite would’ve been bizarre.
Ning Zhuo was good-looking, and the “rabbit” nickname didn’t even start with “Panqiao.”
Those straight guys used to throw around phrases like “screw that Ning rabbit” for cheap thrills.
It was just trash talk, nothing more.
But Ning Zhuo cared, and Shan Feibai immediately backed down: “Ge, I didn’t keep them in check… I never led the name-calling.”
That was true.
From childhood to now, he always called him “Ning-ge,” even when plunging a dagger into him.
Shan Feibai was sharp. He knew Ning Zhuo wasn’t really upset about the nicknames.
This sudden outburst must have a reason.
He grabbed Ning Zhuo’s shoulders, trying to meet his gaze, probing: “Was it not good just now?”
“It was good,” Ning Zhuo opened his eyes. “Really good.”
He unavoidably met Shan Feibai’s focused stare.
Then, Ning Zhuo turned his face away.
He didn’t want to look into Shan Feibai’s eyes.
The way Shan Feibai looked at him was like he was earnestly sketching a future “home.”
Ning Zhuo brought up the romantic but impractical idea Shan Feibai had once mentioned: “…I thought about it. Building a bridge is too wasteful. A boat would do. Take whoever wants to go, and let those who want to stay, stay.”
Shan Feibai’s heart jolted.
But it was more dread than joy.
He asked keenly, “Ning-ge, are you one of the ones ‘to take’ or ‘to stay’?”
“Neither,” Ning Zhuo said. “Before I go, you can leave half my ashes in Yunmeng District, and take the other half. Whether you scatter them in the sea or keep them with you, that’s your call.”
This was the fairest division Ning Zhuo could imagine.
His life was already split in two, so this way, each side got its share.
Shan Feibai took a deep breath.
The restless volcano in his heart erupted silently with scalding lava.
…These past days, he’d been eagerly awaiting Ning Zhuo’s answer, hoping for a “like” or even a “get lost.”
Ning Zhuo gave his answer.
He still chose death.
The fragile peace Shan Feibai had tried to maintain was mercilessly torn apart.
Shan Feibai licked his dry lips: “…Ning-ge, I can’t keep you, can I?”
Ning Zhuo’s heart wasn’t as calm as his words.
Hearing Shan Feibai’s words, his heart ached sharply, a sour pang.
The pain was so real it made his brow furrow.
But he didn’t know how to resist it, so he endured silently.
Shan Feibai was asking if he liked him.
What Ning Zhuo heard was whether he’d abandon his past and face the future for him.
To Ning Zhuo, one question was too heavy, the other never considered.
His skin was still warmed by Shan Feibai’s, a taut, elastic sensation—weighty, hot, brimming with the force of life.
With one command, Shan Feibai could carry him and run joyfully to the ends of the earth.
But the thought of leaving Ginchu City, of possibly living a happy life, brought that long-dormant illusion rushing back, watching him silently.
He couldn’t allow himself that happiness, so he had to give it up.
To kill Shan Feibai’s hopes, “giving up” couldn’t be a gentle parting or a slow fade.
As always, it had to be a clean cut.
Ning Zhuo’s green eyes gleamed with ruthless coldness: “Your skills are good. But a fling shouldn’t get too sentimental.”
Shan Feibai let out an angry, cold laugh, his body trembling slightly: “Can’t I be a reason for you to live?”
“No.”
“Aren’t I your accomplice?”
“Yes.”
“After committing crimes together, shouldn’t we escape together?”
Ning Zhuo said calmly, “No need. We cut ties and go our separate ways.”
Shan Feibai flipped over, pinning Ning Zhuo down, his loose wolf-tail ponytail falling in strands.
His sudden movement tugged at Ning Zhuo’s body.
Ning Zhuo let out a soft “mm,” pushing against his shoulders.
Then he heard Shan Feibai’s voice, tinged with a sob: “What about when I’m heartbroken? Don’t you care?”
“You left me once, and I barely caught up. Are you going to leave me again?”
He took a shaky breath, making Ning Zhuo’s lungs ache: “Ning-ge, am I destined to be a burden thrown away?”
Ning Zhuo’s grip tightened, squeezing Shan Feibai’s shoulder until it made a faint joint-cracking sound.
He recalled their childhood fight.
That fight, fueled by anger and misunderstanding, ended in mutual hurt with no resolution.
Ning Zhuo’s hand slid back, easily finding the tip of an old whip scar.
This time, as old enemies, they knew exactly how to cut each other deep.
Ning Zhuo patted Shan Feibai’s cheek: “If you don’t want to be left behind, you can make use of me. Pin everything on me and turn me in.”
“I was going to trade myself for Lin Qin’s future. You made me feel good, so if you want it, you can have it.”
Ning Zhuo said all this in one breath, feeling dizzy, and leaned back into the soft pillow, breathing lightly with his eyes closed.
Shan Feibai was silent for a long time: “…Have you said this to your parents?”
Ning Zhuo didn’t look at him: “They haven’t come around in a while.”
He didn’t tell Shan Feibai that his parents were standing mournfully in the corner, watching them.
Suddenly, a strange sensation overwhelmed him, making Ning Zhuo clutch the sheets: “Ugh…”
Shan Feibai said coldly, “You’re lying.”
Ning Zhuo drove his knee into Shan Feibai’s chest: “Let go. Get out.”
But another wave of aching fullness sapped the strength from his knee.
Before their argument, they were already in this position—advance for tender intimacy, retreat for a brawl.
Shan Feibai leaned close, whispering: “If you won’t say, let your parents watch, Ning-ge. …What would they think, seeing the expression you’re making while I’m doing this to you?”
Ning Zhuo’s eyes snapped open, glancing at the corner in panic.
He carried years of buried pain.
Min Min had said he had cyberpsychosis—a condition where cybernetic enhancements altered his psyche.
Ning Zhuo genuinely believed his parents’ spirits lingered.
The illusion hadn’t faded.
His face flushed red, breath quickening as he kicked at Shan Feibai: “Get off! Stay away!”
But moving triggered his hypoglycemia.
A dizzying whirlpool engulfed him, and his kick landed weakly on Shan Feibai’s chest.
In the spinning visuals, his lips were pried open, a mint candy slipped inside.
But with that gentle, sweet kiss came a bloody assault.
Shan Feibai was fierce and resolute this time, charging straight for his heart.
As Ning Zhuo’s hypoglycemia eased, he was swept into a fiery storm beyond his control.
His strength soon gave out, and he collapsed backward, exhausted.
He felt adrift, as if already dead, the occasional sounds he made feeling detached from himself.
As he neared fainting, someone whispered in his ear: “If I die with you, would you allow it?”
Ning Zhuo, barely conscious, murmured, “No.”
Shan Feibai’s lungs felt like they’d explode, his voice nearly breaking: “Why not?”
Ning Zhuo’s consciousness teetered on the edge, his mind faintly conjuring the vibrant, colorful Shan Feibai.
“I’d only live for you…” In his delirium, Ning Zhuo let slip a shred of truth. “Don’t die for me.”
The person above him froze.
Then, something hot fell—not tears, but a flurry of kisses.
