The day Bridge set sail, Silver Hammer City was rocked by two explosions.
One at noon, one at night.
The first was a detonation in the court of public opinion.
A post from an account named “Hope01” ignited the drowsy afternoon:
There are other humans beyond the island.
People on Island 184 are alive. Decades ago, they sent seeds, bringing hope.
But Silver Hammer’s elite shut them out.
The secret was buried deep, leaving no solid proof.
When the news first spread, Interest Corp, catching it early, opted to let it fizzle.
Such speculation flooded forums daily, only to drown in the deluge of data.
People were too busy surviving or dying to care about others’ fates.
But this was different.
The “rumor” named “Island 184” explicitly, with vivid details like “seeds” carrying hope and plausibility. Even if a lie, it was masterfully crafted.
Silver Hammer’s citizens were eager to discuss, half-joking about the account’s sanity.
But within five minutes, Interest’s cyber division got a call from above.
The order was blunt:
Ban all related content.
Suspend any account daring to mention it.
The division head, clutching the communicator, grumbled inwardly.
Such censorship would spark backlash.
He voiced his concern, grimacing.
The higher-up’s response was cavalier: “Just ban everything, problem solved.”
If the poster was human or a scripted bot, Interest’s power could silence them in ten minutes flat.
But this time, they faced a foe blending human cunning with machine-like ruthlessness—a tough nut to crack.
Seal one account, and another sprouted, like bamboo after rain. A voice kept spilling Island 184’s secret, shouting that humans lived there, that they’d sent seeds.
Silver Hammer’s citizens watched as officials chased accounts named “Hope,” banning them from Hope01 to 9999.
It became a spectacle.
Onlookers soon found their own “Hope”-tagged accounts flagged as forbidden, blocked wholesale.
This lit a fire under some, who, enraged by arbitrary bans, rolled up their sleeves and joined the fray.
Others sensed something off.
Banning the word “Hope” outright in Silver Hammer’s cyberspace? That was absurd.
“Hope” died, but an account called “De01” rose.
—Go ahead, ban the word “de” online.
This was Ning Zhuo’s final task for the “Tuner,” paid handsomely.
Duty and profit demanded the Tuner nail it.
Not just the internet—corporate elites were in chaos.
The big firms couldn’t agree.
Some said let it spread; banning fueled curiosity.
Others insisted on censorship, because the worst rumors weren’t lies—they were true.
Some saw a core secret breached, demanding a mole hunt, vowing to crush the mastermind.
Disagreeing and unpersuaded, each firm’s intel and cyber teams fought their own battles.
The PR war morphed into a covert knife fight.
Online, people asked: “Is it real? Is there really something out there?”
—“Is there really” became a new trigger for post deletion.
Silver Hammer plunged into a fierce opinion war over this bizarre account purge.
When cyberspace stifled discussion, many took to the streets, expressing themselves physically.
Many in Silver Hammer genuinely yearned for a new world beyond.
The firms’ heavy-handed “debunking” was like swimming against the tide.
Even Zhang Xingshu, recently disowned by his father, was swept into a flood of work, no time to grieve.
As street protests took shape by dusk, the ground suddenly shuddered.
It had been ages since the last quake, and tales of past tremors were just stories—until the earth shook.
People recalled ancestral horror stories, fleeing to open spaces, exchanging fearful glances:
An earthquake?
…Is Silver Hammer Island sinking?
The day’s online strife fueled their fears.
Discontent and dread, brewed all day, erupted at night.
“White Shield,” meant to hunt the “Tuner,” was fully deployed to handle the crowds.
But once a blaze starts, it doesn’t die easily.
…
No earthquake struck.
A near-depleted liquid gold vein offshore had exploded underwater.
Days earlier, it had transferred to Zhang Rong’en, ex-Tangdi Corp head.
He hadn’t even sent divers to survey it.
Unfazed, Zhang Rong’en knew liquid gold wouldn’t vanish in a small blast.
He’d just pay more to build a new extraction channel.
The cleanup and construction costs? His last scraps of wealth.
Eagerly awaiting, he was oblivious to the cruel joke ahead.
…
Under cover of this dual turmoil, Ning Zhuo and Shan Feibai’s Bridge slipped away from the white-sand-ringed island, slicing through waves unhindered.
Well-stocked with supplies and fuel, they could reach Island 184 and return.
This journey was both migration and adventure, brimming with risks, but the “Haina” and “Panqiao” crews felt a shared thrill.
Far from polluted skies, they flocked to the deck daily, watching winds, waves, and moons. Spotting flying fish or gulls, they’d call everyone like kids with new toys.
Ning Zhuo, though, couldn’t savor it.
Shan Feibai’s earlier worry hit the mark.
—Ning Zhuo, fine with cars, was floored by seasickness, barely able to rise.
Shan Feibai sat by him, pressing a warm towel to his forehead.
Outside, another clamor rose, aggravating Ning Zhuo’s headache.
The crew, like rejuvenated teens, chattered like high schoolers in their thirties.
“Go look at the sea,” Ning Zhuo, pale and eyes shut, ordered. “Come back and tell me.”
Shan Feibai obeyed, but soon returned, scooping a limp Ning Zhuo from the blankets.
Ning Zhuo, bewildered: “…What?”
Ning Zhuo wasn’t light, his long, graceful limbs a handful.
Shan Feibai, cradling him, bolted outside: “Gonna toss you in the sea!”
Ning Zhuo shut his eyes: “Nonsense.”
Shan Feibai, gleeful, glanced down.
Ning Zhuo was solemn, beautiful, pristine even bedridden.
Once resolved, he could truly transform, live well, thrive.
This thought made Shan Feibai wild with joy, itching to nip his neck, mark him all over.
His hunter’s urge for him only grew.
But Shan Feibai did nothing.
On the deck, Ning Zhuo squinted under radiant halos, beholding a breathtaking sight.
In the distance, a pod of dolphins leaped.
Beneath a cloudless sky, the sea glittered like mica flakes.
Their sleek backs, polished by water, gleamed brilliantly, forming fleeting bridges across the surface.
This living bridge stretched endlessly, no end in sight.
Ning Zhuo stared, rapt, until the dolphins, swimming opposite, vanished. He exhaled.
“Seen enough, let’s go,” he said.
Realizing their intimate pose, he added: “Put me down.”
The sea’s sun reddened his pale skin in minutes.
Shan Feibai, reluctant to let him burn, brought him out for fresh air and called it quits.
Supporting him, they walked back slowly.
In Shan Feibai’s arms, Ning Zhuo felt no dizziness.
But on his own feet, the world spun.
A few steps in, Ning Zhuo’s vision darkened. He gripped the cabin wall, retching silently.
Shan Feibai rushed to pat his back, whispering: “Really pregnant, huh?”
The response was a sharp smack, hard enough to make Shan Feibai dizzy too.
They tumbled together, Shan Feibai chuckling as he pinned Ning Zhuo against the cabin wall, sneaking a peck on his neck: “A kiss, and you’ll feel better.”
Ning Zhuo let out a low “mm” at the kiss.
Shan Feibai pushed his luck: “A hug would help even more.”
Then he was kicked out by Ning Zhuo, still stewing over the “really pregnant?” jab.
But Ning Zhuo’s kick lacked its old flair, all intent and no force.
After, he clutched his stomach, staggering back.
Shan Feibai brushed off his belly, unbothered, trailing behind like nothing happened.
Seasickness dulled Ning Zhuo’s sharpness and perception.
He didn’t notice that, after the dolphin show, the crew started stealing glances at them, growing more alarmed.
Back at “Haina’s” sprawling base, Ning Zhuo had his own three-story domain.
To the crew, cats were solitary, needing private turf, so they respected his space.
But the ship was tiny.
A half-hour stroll covered every door, top to bottom, even down to the hull, where they’d tease Tang Kaichang through the door.
The fact that “Shan Feibai and Ning Zhuo were always together” dawned on everyone.
No one dared ask the pair directly.
Asking Jin Xueshen got a “piss off.”
Asking Phoenix or Min Min yielded a cryptic “see for yourself.”
Something felt off, but no one dared dwell on what.
Since it was their first dolphin sighting, they threw an impromptu party.
Barbecue, drinks, under the sea’s moonlight—pure romance.
Someone popped a drink to the moon, beer and orange juice.
Malt and citrus scents wafted across the deck.
Their captain, Min Qiu, in the cockpit, lit a cigarette, watching the revelry from above.
This voyage held no schemes or fake camaraderie.
“Haina” and “Panqiao” were still rivals. That morning, two hotheaded mercenaries—one from each—brawled, inevitable as dynamite meeting flame.
But Min Qiu, unhurried, smoked calmly, thinking: Good days.
Glancing back, she saw Phoenix behind her, hesitating to speak.
Min Qiu smiled rare: “Hold on. Let me finish this cig, then she’s yours.”
…
The evening breeze was soothing, coaxing Ning Zhuo out.
A few drinks cured his dizziness.
Finding it effective, the usually abstinent Ning Zhuo let loose.
The result: he got drunk fast.
Holding a flat bottle, he waved at Shan Feibai: “Come here.”
Shan Feibai obediently leaned over.
Except for a few in the know, the crew was floored by their closeness, as if seeing ghosts.
Ning Zhuo stared at Shan Feibai.
Shan Feibai gazed back earnestly.
Ning Zhuo’s green eyes, gem-like, held stars and reflected the moon.
His mind buzzed, heart tugged with each beat, warm and cozy: “You came.”
Shan Feibai: “You called me.”
Ning Zhuo: “I call, and you just come?”
Shan Feibai nodded brightly: “Yup. Call me, can’t drive me off.”
The “Panqiao” crew frowned, suspecting their boss had a streak of shamelessness.
Ning Zhuo became eighteen again: “Where’s the flower you promised? Got it?”
…He still remembered at eighteen, bringing “Xiao Bai” home, “Xiao Bai” vowing to show him real flowers come spring.
Shan Feibai’s heart skipped, blooming inside: “Come with me. I’ll pick flowers for you.”
Ning Zhuo searched his memory, shut his eyes, shaking his head: “No. You only make me mad.”
Shan Feibai: “True, I love pissing you off.”
Ning Zhuo, lazily gentle: “Why?”
“I want your love. You won’t give it, so I take heaps of hate.” Shan Feibai whispered, “Hate’s a kind of favor. You’ve favored me for years, and you don’t even know—I’m the winner.”
Ning Zhuo: “Who loves you?”
Shan Feibai, sincere: “I love you.”
Ning Zhuo lowered his gaze, studying him.
Then, fiercely, he grabbed Shan Feibai’s nape, kissing his lips.
Their words, the crew caught eight-and-a-half out of ten.
But the kiss? Everyone saw it clear, including Tang Kaichang, watching via monitor from the deck party.
…Truth revealed.
Tang Kaichang, long suspecting from the feeds, nibbled his milk carton, savoring their moves like a rom-com.
Jin Xueshen downed his drink, grinding his teeth.
Great, real discreet, kissing in public.
Next, they’ll be dropping pants, huh?
Yu Shifei, calm, went to fetch sobering meds.
Phoenix and Min Min clinked glasses, downing their drinks, sharing a knowing look.
Those like Yu Shujian, who’d guessed but doubted, could no longer deny it.
Yu Shujian felt almost touched, thinking: It’s good.
Ning Zhuo finding a home was good.
Sure, it was Shan Feibai, but they were on the same boat now, lives tied. With them watching, Shan Feibai wouldn’t pull another betrayal.
The clueless, unprepared crew? Their cups and cans burst.
Two young “Haina” and “Panqiao” mercenaries, after gaping, slipped off to brawl over Ning Zhuo and Shan Feibai’s “roles.”
Kuang Hexuan’s eyes nearly popped out. He sulked all night, sleepless.
…
The next day, Ning Zhuo rose late, past mid-morning.
He vaguely recalled flashes of last night but forgot he’d dropped a bombshell.
He summoned Shan Feibai: “Did I do anything drunk yesterday?”
Shan Feibai, all innocence: “Nope. Just the usual.”
Feeling spry after the binge, Ning Zhuo started to get up when shouts erupted on the deck, thrilling:
“Island! It’s an island!”
Island 184, reached.
As they sighted its coastline, the island detected them.
A wobbly drone approached, its tech clearly shoddy compared to Silver Hammer’s.
A mild, steady male voice crackled from it: “Hello, this is Drone Flight Team T272 on mission. Please state your origin and purpose.”
Shan Feibai, dragging Ning Zhuo’s hand, rushed to the deck.
Waving at the drone, he shouted cheerily: “Hey! We’re from Island 183! We’re here to see your seeds!”
Ning Zhuo didn’t look at the drone but at Shan Feibai.
His purpose here was simple.
—To live, and live better.
They say soulmates are rare, yet without much searching, he’d saved a wild little foe from a den, tangled in blades and bonds, leading to now.
Even now, he hadn’t said “love” to Shan Feibai.
He’d never loved anyone, it seemed.
But Ning Zhuo would live for him, share years upon years, long and lasting.
This wasn’t love.
Just living together now, dying together later, that’s all.
__
Author’s Note:
[Silver Hammer Daily]
Breaking News:
Island 184 reports signs of human activity.
The spark lives, hope endures.
—Deputy Editor: Zhang Xingshu
