Jiang Jiuzhao gazed at Ning Zhuo.
Jiang Jiuzhao didn’t have much of a story. Orphaned early, he was picked up and raised as a beast, a standout survivor of the brutal children’s fighting pits.
His mindset was as simple as a wild animal’s.
Eat, sleep, earn money, kill. He didn’t aim to rule others or die in the dirt—just wanted piles and piles of cash.
That was his lifelong source of security.
In short, Jiang Jiuzhao was an elite, textbook mercenary.
He’d heard Ning Zhuo’s story and dreams, and they hit hard.
That distant world—sometimes, he wanted to see it too.
But after the awe faded, he still had to do his job.
Even now, the aftershocks of that awe occasionally made his heart skip.
…Sail out to sea.
What would the world out there be like?
But his imagination stopped there.
The thought of his money becoming useless paper abroad twisted his face in agony, as if his heart were being torn apart.
Jiang Jiuzhao forcibly yanked his thoughts back from far-off places.
Before him, Ning Zhuo’s chest heaved, cold sweat rolling down his forehead, his cheeks smeared with blood and dirt. His pale face made the bloodstains starkly vivid, and his emerald-green eyes, unblinking in their whites, were cold and ruthless like a lone wolf.
…A lone wolf at the end of its rope, fighting to the death.
Jiang Jiuzhao: “You…”
Before he could finish, Ning Zhuo moved!
As Ning Zhuo sprang, Jiang Jiuzhao realized with a jolt that he wasn’t as weak as he seemed.
Ning Zhuo swept a leg across, and Jiang Jiuzhao blocked with both arms, but the kick landed with a sickening crack from his arm bones.
Jiang Jiuzhao tilted his head, curious, thinking, Monster.
Using the kick’s force, he leaped back lightly to the building’s edge, planting a foot on the concrete lip.
The rooftop had no guardrail, just a low concrete waterproof edge level with his ankles. A two-meter alley separated it from the neighboring building, easily jumpable with a bit of effort.
But neither had any intent to flee.
They both knew this was the final round.
Ning Zhuo raised his hand.
From his mangled arm, a 70cm compressed particle blade shot out.
Jiang Jiuzhao thought Ning Zhuo’s aim must be failing.
He dodged the blade effortlessly, letting it vanish into the fog behind him.
Those blades were Ning Zhuo’s last weapons.
At this range, even “aiming” was a waste of time.
Fueled by drug-induced adrenaline, Ning Zhuo launched a relentless swarm attack, too fast to blink.
His remaining fist’s veins burst, blood seeping through the skin on his knuckles, his torn pants revealing bruised legs.
He pushed his body to the limit. Each move seemed simple but carried the force of fire and wind.
Jiang Jiuzhao could’ve conserved energy, no need to clash head-on with a desperate Ning Zhuo.
He smelled the sharp medicinal scent mixed with blood, knowing this strength was a dying ember’s flare.
He looked at Ning Zhuo as if watching a titan burn out, self-destructing in glory.
But Ning Zhuo’s stubborn resolve lit a quiet fire in Jiang Jiuzhao’s blood, a fellow close-combat master.
Ning Zhuo, Ning Zhuo—willing to burn everything to ash.
Jiang Jiuzhao thought, Can’t back down, can I?
He grabbed Ning Zhuo’s joint, locking him down with a practiced joint technique, aiming to snap his bones.
But before Ning Zhuo hit the ground, he twisted free with flexible muscles and joints, grabbing Jiang Jiuzhao’s collar, clenching into a fist, and slamming a short-range punch into his ribs.
Jiang Jiuzhao grunted but didn’t pause, drawing a dagger and stabbing at Ning Zhuo’s neck.
Ning Zhuo ducked, forced to let go, then spun to counter, raising his stump to fire another long blade.
…Missed again.
They fought in silence, each move sharp and murderous.
Their sole goal: kill the other.
…
Shan Feibai knew Ning Zhuo was hunting the “Tuner.”
So, en route, he contacted the “Tuner.”
Third Brother, breaking the “Tuner’s” code again, gave him free intel on the “Tuner’s” work location tonight.
Thus, they easily found where Ning Zhuo was locked in battle, catching the thick stench of blood in the air before “Rousseau” spotted them.
They dismounted their silenced motorcycles early, using the heavy fog to slip past perimeter guards, stealthily entering this miniature hell on earth.
Yu Shujian grew more shocked with each step.
Bodies littered the ground, long and short, all taken out by Ning Zhuo and Kuang Hexuan together. Some barely breathed; others groaned unconsciously.
Within a minute of entering the street, the sniper and his spotter got separated.
It started when a barely-standing mercenary tried to ambush them.
Yu Shujian stepped forward, raising his whip-like, elastic blade-leg, slicing clean through half the mercenary’s shoulder.
But that brief delay cost him—when he looked up, Shan Feibai was gone.
The fog had thinned slightly, visibility now reaching fifty meters.
Yu Shujian’s recon instincts were sharp. He knew shouting was foolish, so he drew his taser, back to the wall, moving slowly while scanning vigilantly, finishing off anyone on the ground still capable of fighting.
Three minutes later, a gunshot cracked through the emptied street.
Yu Shujian saw, about a hundred meters away, a burst of blood mist erupt on a three-story building.
Someone got a precise headshot.
Not Shan Feibai.
The muzzle flash exposed the shooter’s position.
Instantly, the seemingly dead street erupted in gunfire, the air thick with acrid gunpowder, stinging eyes.
Yu Shujian hid in a back alley, wondering anxiously if Shan Feibai was alive.
Shan Feibai answered.
A second shot rang out three minutes later.
Yu Shujian clearly saw a figure, like a cement-filled sack, plummet from a five-story height, kicking up dust on impact.
At first, no one knew how Shan Feibai locked onto targets.
Unlike his fiery personality, when he fired, another Shan Feibai took over.
One shot, one beating heart stopped.
After firing, he vanished like a ghost, leaving countless bullets to shred his former hiding spot.
A mercenary, thinking himself perfectly hidden in an empty building’s stairwell, never imagined Shan Feibai would sprint along a foot-wide waterproof ledge outside, moving catlike, silent, to reach his window.
Then, a steaming, fog-draped black barrel slid through the frame.
A gunshot rang out, and all fell silent.
Shan Feibai tracked his enemies’ traces with ruthless precision.
Once he locked on, no shot was wasted.
…
On the rooftop.
One of Ning Zhuo’s eyes wouldn’t open, sealed shut, blood trickling down slowly.
The stimulant’s effects were fading; his control over his limbs was a shadow of what it had been.
His thoughts scattered uncontrollably, a chaotic buzz of voices drowning his mind. His offensive turned defensive, movements driven by instinct and muscle memory.
As his consciousness began to slip from his body, a clear bird whistle pierced through.
Ning Zhuo’s crumbling soul snapped back.
One thought rose above the rest, crystal clear, unyielding.
I can’t die.
His little bird had come, chirping brightly, searching for him.
Ning Zhuo dodged back, narrowly evading Jiang Jiuzhao’s swinging fist, but his right knee buckled, forcing him to the ground.
They pulled apart again, each gasping for air.
This breather would likely be their last before the final clash.
Life or death, victory or defeat.
But Ning Zhuo’s body was spent, his blood pressure plummeting so fast that dizziness overwhelmed him.
He couldn’t even stand.
No time left.
Ning Zhuo had to make his final move.
He raised his broken arm to his chest, picturing Shan Feibai’s morning ritual after they got together—nuzzling his head into Ning Zhuo’s chest, tickling him with messy hair.
Ning Zhuo pressed his tongue to his palate to avoid biting it, then unleashed a jolt of electric current into his heart!
The shock forced a gasp of damp air into his lungs, his pupils dilating sharply.
People do their best.
He’d stake his life on it.
Revived by the electric jolt, Ning Zhuo staggered to his feet.
A homeless ghost, wandering for years, tired, now yearning for home.
For the umpteenth time, his trembling hand faced Jiang Jiuzhao, firing three or four blades.
Thud, thud—the dull sound of sharp metal embedding in the wall, not flesh.
Jiang Jiuzhao hadn’t fought this fiercely in ages.
Had he known Ning Zhuo was the real deal, he’d have recruited him, no matter the cost, convincing “Glove” to keep him in “Rousseau.”
But Ning Zhuo’s backup had arrived, and they sounded tricky.
He’d had his fill of the fight. Time to end it cleanly.
As Ning Zhuo rose, Jiang Jiuzhao charged low, a flash of cold steel in hand. A foot-long blade pierced Ning Zhuo’s body.
Skewered, Ning Zhuo clutched the wound, but the blood was thin, barely flowing.
He was nearly bled dry.
The last trace of color drained from his face with that strike.
His shoulders arched back in pain, muscles taut in a strangely beautiful curve.
Jiang Jiuzhao, catching his breath, sighed genuinely: “Ugh, what a hassle.”
He patted Ning Zhuo’s shoulder: “Don’t you get tired, babe? Living like this looks exhausting. Even I’m worn out watching.”
Through a blood-hazed world, Ning Zhuo gave him a weary glance, exhaling long:
“…Got you.”
—What?
A sharp sense of wrongness gripped Jiang Jiuzhao’s heart.
He looked down.
…He clearly remembered aiming for the heart, not the lung.
With a faint smile, Ning Zhuo stepped forward, letting the blade sink deeper.
He wrapped his arms around Jiang Jiuzhao’s waist, posing like close friends embracing, and shoved him toward the building’s edge.
Jiang Jiuzhao, unsure of his intent, tried to break free, kicking Ning Zhuo’s chest and leaping backward.
He knew the jump was hasty; he’d fall.
But he recalled the alley below was piled high with trash—enough to cushion his escape.
Then, from the corner of his eye, he saw something unbelievable.
The particle blades Ning Zhuo had fired from his stump hadn’t missed.
They were embedded tightly, diagonally, in the opposite building’s wall, forming a deadly, jagged forest of blades from top to bottom.
In shock, Jiang Jiuzhao couldn’t stop his fall.
His joints, no matter how tough, were sliced like butter by the particle blades.
He plummeted, screaming as his body was torn apart midair.
What landed was just a torso and head.
The soft trash heap below cradled his broken form perfectly.
Jiang Jiuzhao tried to cry out in pain but only choked on thick blood.
His bloodshot eyes locked onto Ning Zhuo, coldly staring down from above.
His vocal cords failed him.
But he desperately wanted to ask: How did you know you wouldn’t fall with me?
Ning Zhuo read his mind.
Flatly, he answered as if to himself: “…All you need to know is that you’re the one falling now.”
Ning Zhuo coughed, arms weakening, teetering on the edge of the blade-filled abyss below.
But a hand, reeking of gunpowder, yanked him back from hell’s brink.
Turning too fast, Ning Zhuo’s cheek grazed a scalding gun barrel.
Shan Feibai, who’d tracked him down, stared blankly at his Ning-ge.
He’d had a thousand things to say, but seeing Ning Zhuo, they vanished.
Holding him, just holding him, was enough.
Ning Zhuo’s body looked utterly wrecked.
Shan Feibai’s heart and guts twisted in shared agony.
He grabbed Ning Zhuo’s blood-matted black curls, burying his face in his chest, listening to his heartbeat, willing his warmth into him.
Ning Zhuo fought to stay conscious.
He knew fainting would terrify Shan Feibai more.
He bit his tongue to stay alert, shared a quick, bloody kiss, then pressed Shan Feibai’s neck, locking the warm body against him, heedless of whether he could breathe.
Having survived this ordeal, Shan Feibai had no right to be comfortable.
He should share the pain.
Until a damp warmth hit Ning Zhuo’s shoulder.
Pretending not to notice, Ning Zhuo kissed the top of his head.
It was the last thing he could do.
Ending their brief embrace, Shan Feibai quickly tended to Ning Zhuo’s wounds while briefing him on the attack on the “Haina” base.
Ning Zhuo let out a soft “hm” from his nose, asking a question Shan Feibai had overlooked for a while: “If ‘Haina’ is in trouble, where’s Boss Fu?”
…
Ruiteng Corporation controlled Silver Hammer City’s energy and tech, dominating its core district. Its sleek, streamlined exterior, sprawling like a mountain range across half a block, exuded a stark, steel-jungle aesthetic.
Yet inside, the air was perpetually laced with the scent of grassy perfume, a façade of artificial vitality.
A pair of clean but slightly worn leather shoes tread across the mirror-polished floor.
The man wore plain office attire, dragging a simple suitcase, navigating Ruiteng’s every corridor with uncanny familiarity.
He swiped an employee card.
The face on it matched his own by about fifty percent.
The first scan failed.
He adjusted his facial muscles subtly—eyelids tightened, jaw retracted, cheeks slightly hollowed.
Now, he bore a striking seventy percent resemblance to the card’s photo.
The system chimed: “Welcome.”
He passed the front desk, then security. They glanced at his suitcase, but only briefly, never lingering.
His posture was too relaxed, too natural, like any employee they saw daily.
Fu Wenqu reached the elevator, pulled a full fingerprint sleeve from his pocket, and slipped it onto his index finger. Using a Ruiteng executive’s identity, he smoothly accessed the management-level elevator.
Inside, Fu Wenqu rolled his neck, muttering to the air: “All these years, still the same perfume.”
At the management floor, he used restrooms and corridors to precisely dodge patrolling guard androids.
Unimpeded, like a ghost, Fu Wenqu reached his destination.
He pushed open the heavy, ornate door.
“Glove,” mid-work, turned at the sound, locking eyes with the intruder. His expression froze, his plump face blank: “Wen-ge? …You’re still—”
Before he could finish, a blade slit his throat.
The gem-obsessed red dragon collapsed, eyes wide, his bulky frame hitting the carpet with a muffled thud.
Fu Wenqu stared straight ahead: “Yep, back in the game.”
Without glancing at “Glove’s” corpse, he opened the final door he needed.
Inside sat Ruiteng’s president.
Dressed casually, reviewing his afternoon golf schedule, he was oblivious to the chaos outside. The sudden intruder startled him: “Who are you?”
Fu Wenqu lowered his gaze, naming him precisely: “Huo Qiya, Little Boss Huo.”
“Over a decade ago, I worked a few days for your dad, Old Boss Huo… or rather, I worked for every major company in Silver Hammer City.”
Huo Qiya, confused, stealthily reached under his desk for the alarm button: “Oh… so what do you want?”
Before his fingers touched it, Fu Wenqu grabbed his suitcase and smashed it into Huo Qiya’s face.
Huo Qiya yelped, tumbling back with the suitcase, his fingers grazing the button but missing it.
Fu Wenqu approached slowly, lifting his suitcase, stating his purpose: “I’m here to stay with you for a bit. And to ask a favor—tell your people to stop targeting ‘Haina.’”
“Otherwise, after I clean you up, I’ll move on to the next. Until no one dares touch my people.”
He tilted Huo Qiya’s chin, studying his terrified expression, then patted the back of his head reassuringly: “If you don’t believe me, ask your dad what kind of man I am.”
“My cooking’s nothing special, but for years, I’ve been damn good at ‘cleaning.’”
