Charlemagne slumped by the bed, his upper face blank, staring at the figure on it.
Ruined.
Everything was ruined.
His wife hadn’t worn makeup in ages, her face bare.
The wounds on her cheeks were worsening, slightly swollen, distorting her once-familiar features.
Staring longer, Charlemagne grew confused:
Who was she?
Why was she dead?
Where… was he now?
The shock pushed him to the edge of madness. One more step, and he’d become a carefree, fearless, empty-headed lunatic.
Thankfully, their bedroom sprayed a calming mist every hour.
The hissing mist, like a ghostly sigh, yanked him from that tempting void into a fresh hell.
Alive, she was a living nightmare.
Dead, she was still a nightmare—one that spread, seeping into reality like a virus.
A stark problem faced the now-lucid Charlemagne.
What to do with her body?
To outsiders, they were still a devoted middle-aged couple.
Charlemagne glanced at her mangled face, then at the unmistakable restraint marks on her wrists.
Anyone seeing her corpse would assume she’d endured horrific abuse.
Who would subject such an elegant lady to prolonged cruelty?
The answer was obvious.
Could he “dispose” of her?
But she was an upper-district noblewoman, not a lower-district prostitute, not “urban waste” to be dumped into the ocean’s vast trash bin under cover of night.
Her family ties, though distant, and lack of close friends made a sudden death suspicious. Cremating her without letting relatives see the body would spark endless trouble.
Once, her status had brought Charlemagne prestige; now, it was a crushing yoke, suffocating him.
His eyes glazed over.
As he teetered on the brink of insanity, Ning Zhuo watched Charlemagne’s villa from afar, its lights flickering on in the dead of night.
As Haina grew, so did Ning Zhuo.
He’d long honed the skill to slip into Charlemagne’s home and slit his throat in his sleep.
But that wouldn’t do.
Charlemagne would die quickly, heroically.
People would see him as a martyr, his killer a Silver Hammer pest hating an “elite cop.”
So, Ning Zhuo bided his time, waiting fifteen years for the right moment.
No one expected Charlemagne’s fall to begin with his beloved son.
Ning Zhuo left a gift at Charlemagne’s home.
He knew tonight would bring movement.
Sure enough, half an hour later, a car sped out of the villa district.
Its license plate, thicker than standard, was a flip-style dummy.
Behind the wheel was a numb, desolate Charlemagne.
Ning Zhuo thought, Good.
Mrs. Charlemagne knew her son was pitiable, her husband framed, so she couldn’t hate her loved ones.
She first hated the “murderer,” Motobu Takeshi, and when he was tortured to death, she could only hate herself.
In her world, others’ children weren’t children; others’ ruined lives didn’t concern her.
She’d faithfully followed this creed, arrogantly shielding her heart from worldly pain.
After Jin Charlemagne’s death, her ignorance of suffering gave way to its full taste.
Tormented through a winter of agony, she finally found her escape.
Ning Zhuo picked up his communicator and dialed a number.
Kenan, in silk pajamas, was sipping his bedtime wine when an unknown call came.
He didn’t answer.
The caller didn’t press, sending a text instead: “Mr. Kenan, I’ve got big news for you. Bring some people, find a car within an hour, license plate…”
Kenan frowned, calling back.
The other side, mimicking him, refused to pick up.
Stung by the rebuff, Kenan’s interest grew. “Who are you?”
Ning Zhuo tilted his head back, exhaling a long, snowy plume into the night sky.
He replied, “Lin Qingzhuo.”
Kenan’s smile vanished at the name.
Another text followed: “Mr. Kenan, aren’t you going? News thrives on timeliness.”
Kenan knew the sender was likely playing games.
But the tone was too much like Lin Qingzhuo.
That cocky, carefree drawl clashed with Lin Qingzhuo’s upright, unyielding nature, making it grating and unlikeable.
Kenan wondered if the tip came from Lin Qin.
Who else would care about “Lin Qingzhuo”?
But he dismissed it.
Lin Qin preferred handling things personally, not playing cryptic games… right?
…
Yet, when Kenan leveraged his network and, at the border of mid- and lower-districts, led a night-filming crew to intercept the car from the text, he wavered again.
In the driver’s seat was a ghostly-pale Charlemagne.
Charlemagne and Lin Qin were both deeply tied to Kenan.
Kenan wondered if Lin Qin, fearing Charlemagne—his former favorite—might rise again, had dug up dirt to crush him for good.
If true, Kenan found it almost laughable.
…Like a petty fight for favor.
Thinking this, Kenan stepped lightly and tapped on the ashen-faced Charlemagne’s car window.
“What a coincidence,” he said with a smile. “Dan, where you headed?”
Dan Charlemagne was Mr. Charlemagne’s full name.
He called him so familiarly, as if nothing had happened.
Charlemagne rolled down the window, the icy night air instantly reddening his eyes.
Lowering his voice, he pleaded, “Kenan, don’t block me. Let me through. I’m begging you.”
Kenan leaned in, catching a faint metallic tang of blood beneath the warm, minty car air freshener.
His eyes dropped, confirming this was indeed big news.
The tipster hadn’t lied.
Scanning Charlemagne, he noticed a bulge at his waist—likely a weapon.
Kenan stepped back, smiling broadly from a distance. “Since we’ve bumped into each other, how about a drink?”
Charlemagne knew things were going south the moment Kenan appeared.
But he had no choice.
His wife’s body was curled up in the trunk.
He’d planned to find a black-market mortician to tidy her up at his home—make her look less pitiful, less suspicious.
But every contact he reached out to politely declined to visit.
The reason was simple: black-market operators were sharp. Upper-district money was tough to earn, and a job like this was bound to involve dirty work. Going to his home risked their lives.
Charlemagne lacked the guts to dismember and dispose of her at home, couldn’t let her rot there, and certainly couldn’t wall her up like some crime novel—the house was slated for demolition soon.
Desperate, he risked driving out, aiming to take her straight to a public crematorium, burn her to ash, mix in others’ remains, and claim she died of a sudden illness.
Once burned, it’d be done. Suspicious? He didn’t care anymore.
Better than her ghostly, inhuman state being seen.
Charlemagne’s heart felt like it was roasting, praying to every god along the way not to be caught.
Silver Hammer’s religions were a jumble; he vaguely hoped one might answer.
But no “god” heard—the only deity here was profit.
If his wife’s body was found in his car, no explanation would save him.
Once, he could’ve bribed Kenan to hush it up.
Now, truly broke, his family gone, he couldn’t even offer an empty promise.
To Kenan, Charlemagne himself was now a massive profit—the last one.
Once squeezed dry, he’d have nothing left.
Charlemagne gripped the wheel silently, whispering, “Kenan, for old times’ sake…”
Kenan laughed. “Dan, what? I don’t follow. Just ran into you by chance, saying hi.”
Charlemagne wasn’t listening. “…I can explain—she wasn’t my…”
The words faltered, their emptiness hitting him.
No explanation would work.
Then why bother?
He fell silent, slammed the brakes, and lurched forward, aiming to smash through Kenan and the blocking cars, to ditch the human-shaped garbage in his trunk.
Wife, lover—he didn’t need them!
As he nearly hit a young journalist with a camera, too slow to dodge, a car shot out from the side, ramming him at full speed.
The impact sent Charlemagne’s car spinning off the road, tires screeching in a wild circle.
He was knocked out, nose bleeding, by the airbag’s sudden deployment.
Lin Qin stepped out of the other car.
Kenan, ever prescient, knew Silver Hammer’s “big news” always came with risks.
So he’d contacted Lin Qin, sharing his real-time location.
Lin Qin arrived clueless, only to see a car barreling toward people like a mad beast.
To protect bystanders, he floored it, knocking the rogue car aside.
Afterward, Lin Qin asked, “What happened?”
Kenan gave him a curious look, half-suspecting Lin Qin was orchestrating this.
Tainting Charlemagne would make headlines, dragging Lin Qin out for comparison with his former protégé.
Heaven and earth, cloud and mud.
Lin Qin was clever, quietly playing the game of tearing one down to lift himself.
But using Lin Qingzhuo to toy with him? That was naughty.
Kenan, scheming inwardly, circled Charlemagne’s smoking wreck, noting the empty front and back seats—spotless.
The sedan was small.
Kenan strode to the rear and flung open the trunk.
Seeing its contents, he covered his mouth—not in fear or shock.
His eyes gleamed with delight. “My God…”
…
Ning Zhuo, mission accomplished, didn’t linger to watch Charlemagne’s arrest.
He trusted Kenan’s ability.
Kenan chased Silver Hammer’s big news with the zeal of a fly to filth.
Back at Haina, Ning Zhuo first checked on Jin Xueshen.
Min Min’s skills were top-notch.
As she said, if mercenaries came back with a breath left, she’d handle the rest.
Ning Zhuo rarely visited the fourteenth floor—Haina’s only smoking area.
The mercenaries, lounging in twos and threes, smoking and chatting, gaped at Ning Zhuo’s tall, solitary figure. Unaccustomed to seeing him there, their boisterous chatter dropped to a hush.
Ning Zhuo found a quiet spot and lit a cigarette.
He didn’t smoke, just held it, letting a wisp of smoke rise slowly.
Timing his move against Charlemagne now had purpose.
Jin Xueshen’s dying words, combined with Yu Shifei’s account, gave Ning Zhuo enough to piece together the plot.
Hiring Rousseau required serious cash.
From the “tuner,” he knew Charlemagne and Ma Yushu’s finances. Alone, neither could scrape up that sum quickly.
Charlemagne’s accounts showed little change.
So, he’d likely targeted his property.
The catch? That villa was White Shield’s allocation.
What if he made an irredeemable mistake?
His house would be reclaimed by White Shield.
…Just like Motobu Ryo, who seemed to have it all, commanding the winds and rains, but when the big company wanted to take it back, he had to tuck his tail and slink away.
Ning Zhuo’s move was to pull the rug out from under Charlemagne.
He’d never dealt directly with Jiang Jiuzhao.
But seeing how he handled Jin Xueshen, Ning Zhuo had already glimpsed the money-grubbing mercenary’s methods and mindset.
—Jiang Jiuzhao loved cash, did exactly what he was paid for, and never gave a damn about favors.
Ning Zhuo was curious to see how Charlemagne, stripped of his property rights, would settle Jiang Jiuzhao’s exorbitant bill.
At that moment, Shan Feibai, tipped off by a subordinate, hurried to the fourteenth floor.
Having run the whole way, he stood before Ning Zhuo, slightly panting, and asked, “How’d it go?”
Ning Zhuo replied tersely, “Should be smooth.”
Hearing this, Shan Feibai relaxed, flashing a faint smile as he leaned against the opposite wall.
Using Mrs. Charlemagne was Ning Zhuo’s master plan.
Shan Feibai had contributed plenty of dirty tricks to flesh out the details.
For instance, sealing Jin Charlemagne’s photos in glass frames was his handiwork.
Mrs. Charlemagne’s battered heart had been briefly soothed by Ning Zhuo’s “gift.” Another shock could worsen her condition beyond repair.
Whether she killed herself, killed someone, or, in a final act of despair, spilled everything to the media—it all worked in their favor.
Haina and Panqiao’s mercenaries, unaware of their alliance, watched them silently, worried they’d clash again.
Ning Zhuo’s face looked unusually grim, far from satisfied.
Shan Feibai said with certainty, “Jiang Jiuzhao’s gonna be pissed.”
“…Yeah.” Ning Zhuo wasn’t surprised. “I cut off his payday.”
Shan Feibai: “Heard he’s a hell of a fighter.”
Ning Zhuo: “Best if he comes to me. If not, I’ll go to him.”
He saw Jin Xueshen, bled nearly dry.
Then, Shan Feibai collapsing in roaring flames.
Leaning against the wall, Ning Zhuo lit another cigarette, clumsily exhaling thick white smoke.
He didn’t want to smoke—just didn’t know what expression to wear facing Shan Feibai. “He can chase his money, I don’t care. But coming to my turf to stir shit? That’s a mistake.”
Shan Feibai paused, catching the double meaning. “…It was him?”
“Yeah.” Ning Zhuo shot him a glance. “You didn’t figure? You wanted to build a bridge, mine that vein—Ruiteng Company’s the one you pissed off most.”
Shan Feibai grinned. “Thought of it, but plenty of big companies want me dead. In all of Silver Hammer, only Ning-ge cares about me.”
His tone was coy. Ning Zhuo gave him another look, ignoring the bait.
Through the heavy smoke, Shan Feibai asked softly again, “Ning-ge, do you like me?”
Ning Zhuo felt he’d never really liked anyone in his life.
He seemed to have a life but no heart.
Back then, Shan Feibai was his enemy, meant to fall by his hand alone.
Anyone else touching him was a defilement.
Now, Shan Feibai belonged to him, body and soul.
Avenging him was only right, a matter of course.
He didn’t think that counted as liking.
Ning Zhuo exhaled a sea of clouds, saying coldly through the haze, “Get lost.”
Author’s Note:
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