Jiang Jiuzhao was indeed in a foul mood.
Waking up, he found his already-fallen employer had sunk further, straight into the eighteenth layer of hell.
Rumor had it Charlemagne was caught at midnight hauling a corpse, ran into an old friend, exchanged a few words, and, in a panic, tried to ram people with his car.
Fortunately, no one but him was hurt in the incident.
The body in the trunk was exposed to the world, its gruesome state before death faithfully recorded and spread rapidly across Silver Hammer City’s networks, uncensored.
Mrs. Charlemagne, once a beauty, was last remembered as a twisted mass wrapped in tarp, stuffed into a cramped trunk.
Mr. Charlemagne, obsessed with his reputation, was dragged into the mire, visibly destined to follow Motobu Ryo’s path—without Motobu’s skills, only a horde of lower-district enemies from his police days.
Jiang Jiuzhao, the money-lover, lost a 14-million payout and had to halt his operations.
Munching candy, he griped to Glove about the unseen Ning Zhuo. “This Ning guy’s so damn cunning—is he some old geezer?”
Glove chuckled. “He’s a real looker.”
Jiang Jiuzhao crunched the candy, wailing, “Ten million! For ten million, he’d better be a world-class beauty!”
…
Charlemagne was reaping his bitter harvest, forced to relive it in interrogation.
He insisted his wife’s death was suicide.
The scene’s traces supported his claim, to an extent.
There were signs of a struggle at home—scattered bloodstains from Mrs. Charlemagne on the living room floor, but not enough to be fatal.
It seemed plausible the couple had quarreled and fought that afternoon, leaving her with fresh facial wounds.
Overwhelmed by grief and rage, she took the extreme step of ending her life—understandable, in a way.
But when asked about the abuse marks on her body or the chains upstairs, the eloquent Charlemagne fell silent.
White Shield, unable to crack him, moved to check his home’s internal surveillance.
Nothing remained.
Before leaving, Charlemagne had destroyed all footage, including cloud backups, wiped clean.
It was too dirty for anyone to see.
As Charlemagne stonewalled, Lin Qin found a key clue in public surveillance near Charlemagne’s home.
On the evening of the incident, a figure cloaked in sunset glow slowly left Charlemagne’s house.
Others wouldn’t recognize him, but Lin Qin knew that silhouette instantly.
Heart pounding, Lin Qin confronted Charlemagne. “Who visited your house yesterday afternoon?”
Charlemagne, lips sealed, eyes bloodshot from restraint, stayed mute.
At the question, he looked up blankly, licking his cracked lips, tasting blood. “Oh. A friend.”
“…What friend?”
Charlemagne bowed his head, solemn, but inwardly drowning in unspoken venom.
He couldn’t say.
He’d defend Ning Zhuo’s innocence to the death.
Even if he revealed “mercenary Ning Zhuo visited before my wife died,” it wouldn’t help.
Ning Zhuo’s presence had visibly lifted his wife’s spirits.
Ning Zhuo couldn’t have killed her remotely or snuck in at night to slit her throat.
Without naming Ning Zhuo, this was, at worst, a scandal: a police inspector’s wife killed herself, and he tried to dispose of her body to save face.
Naming Ning Zhuo would connect too many dots.
Motobu Takeshi’s death, the truth behind Jin Charlemagne… the web of events would form a noose to hang Charlemagne.
He wasn’t a fool; he could do the math.
And because he could, Ning Zhuo had him firmly in his grip.
Charlemagne’s heart turned to ice, as if a blade pressed against his throat from afar.
…That Ning was a devil!
…
Ning Zhuo waited a long time before Lin Qin finally called.
This time, Lin Qin didn’t probe about the case or why Ning Zhuo was near Charlemagne’s home.
Sensing something, he asked, “Ning Zhuo, you’re leaving, aren’t you?”
No matter how often it happened, Ning Zhuo was always surprised by his keen insight.
But with unfinished business, Ning Zhuo never tipped his hand early about his thoughts or wants.
He countered, “What’s that mean? Hoping I’m dead?”
“Foolish talk.” Lin Qin gave a muffled chuckle. “When can we meet up?”
“Later.”
Ning Zhuo set down the communicator and resumed speaking to Min Min. “I’m here for your sister.”
Min Min parted her hair, deftly pressing a spot behind her neck. “I’ll call her now.”
Ning Zhuo: “I’ll need her for a long time.”
Min Min thought, then summoned her go-to assistant, Xiao Wen, to help watch Jin Xueshen.
This was hardly necessary.
Yu Shifei had already taken over Min Min’s duties, tirelessly tending to Jin Xueshen, mastering basic medical knowledge on his own, leaving Min Min with little to do.
Once arranged, Min Min sat calmly in a chair, instructing Ning Zhuo. “Feed my sister well. She’s like you—won’t eat unless it’s spoon-fed. Oh, and tell her to read my diary; I wrote something for her. Also, have her fix my gramophone.”
After her instructions, she closed her eyes.
As Min Min drifted off, Min Qiu’s cold eyes opened. “…What’s up?”
Since the Columbus Memorial Concert Hall exploded, Min Qiu had rarely returned to the world, save for essential mechanical maintenance.
Ning Zhuo was always brisk and efficient with the Min sisters.
He handed Min Qiu a rolled-up sheet of wide paper.
Unfurling it, Min Qiu raised an eyebrow. “…Blank?”
“You’re part of Haina too. I need you,” Ning Zhuo said. “I want you to build a ship.”
Min Qiu frowned slightly, thinking she’d misheard. “…A ship?”
“Yes. You’re the only one here with experience, so I’m putting you in charge. People? Ask me. Money? Ask Jin Xueshen. We have plenty. Enough to build a ship.”
Ning Zhuo’s words were light and cold, his long lashes shading emotionless emerald eyes, his expression and tone utterly detached. “Power, weapons, food, water, storm resistance—these basics are up to you. I have a few demands: lots of rooms, enough for all of Haina and Panqiao; comfortable beds; and a small, private room at the bottom of the hold for Xiao Tang.”
Min Qiu stared at Ning Zhuo, stunned.
She’d once dreamed of boundless skies and seas, but her moon-gazing aspirations felt like they belonged to another life.
Suddenly, her dream was before her again.
She could even draft its blueprint herself.
Faced with such a gift, Min Qiu’s first thought was: too good to be true.
She challenged him outright. “Will everyone agree to leave?”
Ning Zhuo was blunt. “Those who want to go, go. Those who don’t, stay.”
Min Qiu: “Building a ship can’t be hidden. Big companies will notice.”
Ning Zhuo: “I’ll handle it.”
Min Qiu: “Not enough hands. Shipbuilding’s precise work—few in Haina or Panqiao can assist. Hiring outsiders—” From her experience, that was risky.
It was a real hurdle.
Ning Zhuo thought of the “tuner.” “I’ll find help.”
Min Qiu didn’t fixate on that issue, pressing further. “Once it’s built, where to?”
“First, Settlement 185. If the island’s still there, we stay. If it’s gone, we move on.”
Speaking of the stars and seas, of forging ahead, Ning Zhuo’s tone held no romance or excitement, just plain fact. “…To see the moon.”
Min Qiu lowered her gaze to the blank paper, her fingers brushing its surface with a faint rustle.
The soft sound of waves echoed in her ears again.
Her hand trembled. “Does the ship have a name?”
“Not decided,” Ning Zhuo said. “Call it ‘Bridge’ for now.”
Building a bridge for all to cross was Shan Feibai’s impractical fantasy, demanding countless resources, maybe unachievable in a century.
Ning Zhuo honored his debt to Shan Feibai but refused his sentiment, aiming to shatter that century-long dream.
Before, Ning Zhuo stayed because he had no reason to live.
If he chose to leave, a ship big enough for everyone would suffice.
As a fallback, the ship could be named “Bridge.”
But before departing, Ning Zhuo had much to settle.
Entrusting the ship to Min Qiu, he stepped out, only to find Boss Fu at the door, holding a meal for the sick, having listened for who knows how long.
Ning Zhuo paused, asking, “…Heard it all?”
He hadn’t meant to hide it from Boss Fu.
He needed Min Qiu’s agreement first before bringing it up with him.
Boss Fu scratched his ear, saying oddly, “…Good. Silver Hammer’s no place to stay. Leaving’s good.”
Ning Zhuo exhaled softly. “Then pack your stuff. Take only what matters. You’ve got the most baggage in Haina.”
Boss Fu said, “I’m not going.”
Ning Zhuo glanced at him, assuming it was a joke.
Boss Fu loved the bustle.
Since Ning Zhuo met him, he’d been the most worldly of men, carving out a lively nook of sizzling stir-fries in Silver Hammer’s decadent chaos.
With things to do, Boss Fu tossed out, “If you don’t come with us, where’ll you go?”
Boss Fu didn’t answer right away.
Smiling, he watched Ning Zhuo leave, then gazed ahead, sighing wistfully. “Before I met you, I was just alone.”
Yu Shifei, emerging from the sickroom unnoticed, studied him curiously from behind.
Boss Fu turned, meeting Yu Shifei’s pure, translucent purple electronic eyes.
Yu Shifei noticed Boss Fu hesitate visibly, his heart rate and breathing spiking briefly.
But he quickly steadied, even offering a warm smile. “Made some kelp pork rib soup for Little Xue. Get him to drink more—it’s good for him.”
Taking the carefully prepared soup, Yu Shifei suddenly asked, “Boss Fu, what’s your full name?”
Everyone called him Boss Fu. Some curious Panqiao folks had tried digging for his real name, only for him to dodge with a grin, silencing them with a salt-grilled fish.
Yu Shifei expected him to be cagey.
To his surprise, Boss Fu answered readily. “Me? I’m Fu Wenchu.”
…An unexpectedly elegant name.
Yu Shifei searched his database, shocked to find no record of him. Like Ning Zhuo, Fu Wenchu seemed to have sprouted in Silver Hammer out of nowhere, growing silently into a towering tree.
But he was even more enigmatic than Ning Zhuo. Few spoke of him, and when they did, it was just “Boss Fu” or “that Fu guy.”
People gossiped about Ning Zhuo or Shan Feibai.
Fu Wenchu seemed to have a natural knack for vanishing into the background.
If he chose, he could truly hide in plain sight, blending into Silver Hammer like an unremarkable drop of water.
At that moment, Fu Wenchu was lost in thought.
He mused that his Ning Ning was still a bit green.
Ning Ning’s revenge, his borrowed knives, toppling a few Charlemagnes—it didn’t matter to the big companies.
But leaving Silver Hammer, whether by bridge or ship, couldn’t be done quietly.
…To those companies, he’d crossed a line.
