At that moment, Ning Zhuo, the target of Charlemagne’s seething hatred, was eating in the cafeteria.
Lately, Ning Zhuo’s appetite had been good.
The folks at “Haina” privately agreed that Ning Zhuo ate like a cat—small bites here and there, quickly satisfied, indifferent to the quality of food, just eating to meet basic nutritional needs.
So they’d taken to stashing snacks around the base, hoping that if Ning Zhuo got peckish, they could keep him fed.
They often nudged him to grab late-night snacks, hoping he’d crave something and bring back a treat or two.
Some even thought Boss Fu lingered in the cafeteria, eager to fatten Ning Zhuo up.
But Ning Zhuo rarely visited the cafeteria—his appearances in a year could be counted on one hand.
Now, seeing him sit down and calmly eat a few hot meals, the entire “Haina” crew was quietly buzzing with joy.
Even Jin Xueshen was pleased.
Though, facing Ning Zhuo, he’d never manage sweet words in his lifetime. “Changed your ways? Finally appreciating the good stuff?”
Ning Zhuo ignored him.
Deep down, Ning Zhuo felt his old life was nearing its end.
A new life loomed hazily ahead, unclear, uncertain.
So, like an animal facing the unknown, he decided to eat his fill first.
That evening, “Haina” and “Panqiao” held a joint gathering.
After spending so much time together, the two groups had already formed private bonds. But out of respect for Ning Zhuo and Shan Feibai, and given their years of fighting each other, they hesitated to make these ties public.
Min Min, who didn’t go on field missions and was open by nature, was the first to break the ice, befriending Phoenix with refreshing candor.
But the tough guys were shy, even if they admired each other or found common ground. They only dared to connect in secret, exchanging glances and subtle gestures like clandestine lovers.
A few drinks in, though, their reservations melted away, and they mingled, chatting loudly.
In the heat of the moment, Kuang Hexuan’s courage grew. Unable to contain his curiosity, he asked, “Ning-ge, how’d you… lose your arm?”
He didn’t expect an answer. As soon as the words left his mouth, Kuang Hexuan straightened up, muscles tensed, bracing for a scolding or a hit.
But Ning Zhuo glanced at him and answered flatly, “Ran into kidnappers.”
Shan Feibai, who’d been joking with his crew, turned his head, casting a complex look from afar, his ears perked.
Kuang Hexuan was stunned. “Who’d dare kidnap you?”
Since the topic was open, Ning Zhuo recounted his past simply.
In the grand scheme of Silver Hammer City, Ning Zhuo’s hardships weren’t extraordinary.
The city’s underbelly was full of displacement and unspeakable tragedies.
He was luckier than Jin Xueshen, still having most of his limbs.
He was tougher than Min Min, able to save himself through sheer strength.
He was clearer-headed than Tang Kaichang, knowing exactly who killed his kin and having clear enemies.
And in that hellish crucible, a young Ning Zhuo had fought his way through alone, carving out “Haina” with his bare hands in this brutal world.
Told without embellishment, as if recounting someone else’s life, the story’s misery was softened, sounding more like the origin tale of a seasoned mercenary.
Kuang Hexuan listened, utterly convinced and fired up.
Honestly, even at his age, he couldn’t match the ruthlessness of thirteen-year-old Ning Zhuo.
He looked at Ning Zhuo with fervent admiration, muttering, “Ning-ge, badass.”
But Shan Feibai, usually chatty and lively, went quiet.
He listened to the whole story in silence, staring at Ning Zhuo and his arm, eyes blinking rapidly.
Ning Zhuo noticed the gaze, unsettled by Shan Feibai’s unblinking stare.
But he didn’t look back, just quietly downed a glass of wine.
The old pain—Ning Zhuo had swallowed it whole. It didn’t form scars but forged an inner skeleton of steel.
It had to be this way. If the wounds kept bleeding, he’d never have his revenge.
Shan Feibai stayed silent until they returned to their room.
Carrying a faint, pleasant scent of alcohol, Ning Zhuo stepped inside first, flicked on the light, letting the soft glow bathe him, and asked without turning, “What’s with you today? Tongue-tied?”
The words barely landed when the room plunged back into darkness.
In the dark, someone embraced him from behind.
Hot palms pressed against his skin, rolling up his sweater to bare his shoulder and back.
Pushed forward, Ning Zhuo reached out blindly, bracing an arm against the wall.
“Just drinking, no food?” Ning Zhuo mocked coolly. “This desperate?”
But Shan Feibai didn’t cross any lines.
He only leaned down, gently kissing the thin scar where Ning Zhuo’s shoulder met his prosthetic.
Ning Zhuo’s body tensed like a taut string. “Ngh…”
His steel frame wasn’t built for this.
He heard Shan Feibai’s voice by his ear.
No whining this time—his tone sounded like he was enduring something unbearable. “…It hurts me to death.”
Strangely, Ning Zhuo understood the cryptic words.
His earlobe felt scorched, though there was no flame, only Shan Feibai’s breath.
Shan Feibai kissed his scar with care.
The bio-sensors faithfully relayed the soft, warm touch of lips to Ning Zhuo’s brain, making him tremble as if in pain.
Shan Feibai was truly hurting.
Ever since Ning Zhuo told his story, his shoulder had burned all night, the pain so intense he couldn’t think or function.
Shan Feibai pressed his forehead to Ning Zhuo’s collarbone, blaming himself. “I showed up so late.”
Ning Zhuo, amused by his tone but shaken by another kiss, let out a trembling laugh. “You were eight back then… Stop fucking kissing…”
Shan Feibai thought hard, trying to recall what he was doing while Ning Zhuo suffered in hell.
…He couldn’t remember.
He was a pampered little prince, surrounded by stars.
Ning Zhuo was a demon forged in blood and fire.
Their lives should have been heaven and hell, with no overlap.
Yet now, locked in an embrace, their souls seemed to melt together under fervent, tender kisses.
Shan Feibai had never been tamed by Ning Zhuo.
When Ning Zhuo told him to stop kissing, he kissed harder, until Ning Zhuo’s legs weakened, feeling as if Shan Feibai was setting him ablaze.
He gritted his teeth. “Stop…”
Shan Feibai knew he should listen.
They’d agreed to save their energy for bigger things, to hold off on passion.
But tonight, Shan Feibai had been drinking, and his heart ached unbearably.
In pain, he lost control, testing boundaries, wanting to bite, to act recklessly, to claim Ning Zhuo entirely—his pain, his unease, all of it.
The warning went ignored, and Ning Zhuo’s patience snapped.
He easily broke free of Shan Feibai’s embrace, kicking him against the wall with a dull thud.
Then, in a dizzying moment, Shan Feibai’s chin was seized by a cold hand, another circling his nape.
In a stance that could snap his neck, Ning Zhuo kissed his lips.
Cold lips, warm mouth.
Ning Zhuo rarely initiated kisses with Shan Feibai.
Unskilled, his kiss was fierce, carrying the sharp edge of conquest and punishment.
But when ice met fire, they became inseparable.
Both felt the other’s barely restrained emotions.
A longing to draw closer, to kiss, to embrace and conquer each other in this world.
Their union, so improbable, carried a profound mutual understanding, a perfect fit.
And so, everything fell into place.
…
During this wild night, Charlemagne, unable to endure his increasingly unhinged wife, left home and wandered the lower district’s streets.
Ning Zhuo had to die.
He wasn’t just a deceiver but a knower of secrets.
That alone was reason enough for his death.
Having lost nearly everything, Charlemagne went to the spot where his old butler’s body had vanished into the sea, buying a bottle of wine and a handful of flowers to pay his respects.
Back then, though he found the butler’s death suspicious, Charlemagne hadn’t felt he’d lost anything vital.
Now, without even someone to confide in, forced to personally deal with lowlifes like mercenaries, he realized he’d lost a crucial ally.
Facing the dark sea horizon, Charlemagne downed half the bottle, pouring out his troubles to a dead man.
Until a loud sneeze stopped him. Wrapping his coat tighter, he decided to move on.
Returning home…
Charlemagne shuddered.
He had no heart to face the ghost waiting there.
But as he turned, a shadowy figure crept closer.
A blind homeless man, clearly drawn by the scent of wine, had been lurking, salivating, waiting for Charlemagne to leave so he could pounce on the bottle, crawling on all fours like a dog.
Charlemagne shot him a disgusted glance.
Then, something clicked—the face, hidden under greasy, matted hair, looked familiar.
He paused, then approached the man silently.
The homeless man heard Charlemagne’s returning footsteps.
Nervous, he lunged for the bottle, guzzling it down, then flopped over like a dead dog, back to Charlemagne, braced for kicks or curses.
Charlemagne studied him closely, confirming the familiarity.
But it was only “familiar.”
On a whim, he asked, “What’s your name?”
The man’s lips trembled, spitting out a single syllable. “Fan…”
“What?”
After a pause, he muttered, dreamlike, “…A-Fan.”
Charlemagne gazed at the human garbage, exhaling slowly.
Oh, this guy.
The one who sold Shan Feibai to them.
Charlemagne nudged him with his toe. “From Panqiao?”
A-Fan jolted, denying frantically, “No! I’m not!”
Charlemagne said softly, “Hey, want revenge?”
A-Fan, trembling with excitement, turned his dead, unseeing eyes toward Charlemagne, lips quivering. “…Yes.”
Charlemagne reached into his coat pocket, finding only a few candies.
He tossed them at A-Fan’s head like treats for a dog. “Tell me, who are Ning Zhuo’s enemies in Silver Hammer City?”
…
Shan Feibai woke up.
Stretching comfortably, he glanced at Ning Zhuo beside him, his fingertips itching to do something naughty.
But he restrained himself.
Shan Feibai grabbed his glasses from the nightstand and placed them on the pillow.
Through the lenses, he saw a new world.
—Ning Zhuo’s pale skin made every mark vivid and striking, almost beautiful.
Through the glasses, Shan Feibai lightly touched the kiss marks he’d left, feeling a sense of accomplishment.
His quiet enjoyment of Ning Zhuo was interrupted by a call.
It was Kuang Hexuan.
Not wanting to wake Ning Zhuo, Shan Feibai answered quickly, voice low. “Kuang-ge, what’s up?”
Kuang Hexuan paused, then lowered his voice too. “Oh, Ning-ge’s sleeping, huh?”
He seemed ready to chat idly, suggesting it wasn’t urgent.
Shan Feibai rolled over, resting his cheek on his palm, stealing glances at the vibrant marks on Ning Zhuo’s body. “Get to it.”
“…So…” Kuang Hexuan hesitated. “A-Fan, you remember him, boss?”
“Oh, him.” Shan Feibai rubbed his steel-plated nape. “Hard to forget.”
Kuang Hexuan licked his lips. “He says he’s got a big deal for us, wants a cut if it goes through, just enough to get by. I didn’t hear him out and hung up, but it felt off afterward, so I’m asking… should we deal with him?”
