UE CH120: Endgame

A hand shot up quickly, not in agreement but with a question.

It came from Phoenix of Panqiao. “…Why bring this up now?”

Silver Hammer was rotten to the core, irredeemably broken. Living here was merely surviving.

Everyone in the room knew it.

But if they left Silver Hammer, where could they go?

Ning Zhuo’s gaze was frank. “Since Shan Feibai’s incident, you should’ve realized Panqiao crossed some big players in Silver Hammer.”

Phoenix lowered his head, nodding slightly in silence.

“Haina took in Panqiao, inviting trouble. I know, and I own it. But I’m not planning to let Panqiao drag us down for nothing. I’ve done some things on my own, and now Haina’s pulling Panqiao into the mess.”

Ning Zhuo’s words were cold, clean, and sharp.

Haina’s people were used to his “I did something, just so you know” style.

Ning Zhuo had always shouldered their burdens—expenses, safety, even their lives—so they respected his strict management and ruthless decisions.

Panqiao’s objections weren’t too loud.

From the moment Panqiao was founded, Shan Feibai had promised to lead them out of Silver Hammer—a pipe dream, but one they believed in and wanted.

But they chafed at Ning Zhuo’s orders, feeling defiant.

First, Shan Feibai always laid out clear terms beforehand and enforced them without mercy, never informing them after the fact.

Second, this was Ning Zhuo’s idea, and they instinctively wanted to push back.

A Panqiao mercenary stood, asking bluntly, “Where would we even go?”

Ning Zhuo: “Haven’t decided.”

A lie. He wanted to check Settlement 184 first.

But with details unsettled, Ning Zhuo chose to hold back, wary of another traitor like A-Fan.

The mercenary smirked, pressing unceremoniously. “You’re not worried we’ll end up like the Columbus, sinking halfway? Why should we trust you with our lives?”

Haina’s people, already uneasy from recent rumors, had been on edge about the future. But seeing a Panqiao mercenary brazenly challenge Ning Zhuo, their protective instincts overrode their lingering fears.

One jumped up. “Ning-ge asked if you agree. If you don’t, say so. Talking about sinking before we start? Bad juju much?”

The Panqiao mercenary, a recent returnee with a fiery temper, slammed the table. “I’m talking to Ning Zhuo, not you! I know you—you’re next door! Watch out, or I’ll beat you senseless at midnight!”

Words flew, and the room erupted, teetering on the edge of verbal sparring turning physical.

Ning Zhuo glanced at Shan Feibai, who returned a teasing look with a flick of his eyes.

Their shared stance: let it play out.

Both wanted to see whose crew was tougher.

A hand raised high above the chaos broke the uproar.

“Uh… isn’t this a vote?” Boss Fu, Fu Wenchu, grinned, hand up. “I’m in.”

Fu Wenchu’s unexpected voice silenced the room.

He had no specific grudge with Panqiao, no deep ties to Haina, a near-neutral figure. Quiet usually, but when it mattered, people trusted his judgment instinctively.

The meeting ended without a firm conclusion.

The two young mercenaries nearly came to blows, still at each other’s throats, but both swore loyalty to their respective leaders, refusing to back down.

Before parting, the Panqiao one raised a fist at Haina’s. “Just wait—I’ll thrash you every time I see you. On the ship, too.”

Haina’s response was a chase and a kick to his backside.

They grabbed each other’s collars and stormed off to the sparring room to burn off steam.

Two Haina mercenaries, both over 40 with families in Silver Hammer, chose to stay.

Compared to Panqiao’s younger crew, they were practically “old-timers” in the mercenary game.

Neither seafaring nor knife-edge mercenary life suited them anymore.

Ning Zhuo had accounted for them.

By his calculations, the ship wouldn’t eat all their funds.

He promised to split the remaining money evenly among them.

The two men, over a decade older than Ning Zhuo, wept silently, standing to bow deeply to him.

Ning Zhuo saw them off, sank into a chair, and exhaled heavily, releasing a weight of pent-up thoughts.

These past days, a fire seemed to flicker inside him again.

Not the vengeful blaze that had tormented him since age thirteen.

A small, quiet flame burned in his chest, its warmth nudging him, urging him to act.

Lost in thought, hand on his abdomen, Ning Zhuo was interrupted by an uninvited Shan Feibai.

Shan Feibai bounded in, plopping cross-legged before Ning Zhuo, arms draped over his thighs, grinning up at him with nonsense. “Said I’d get Ning-ge pregnant last night, and today you’re already expecting?”

Ning Zhuo shot him a look, tempted to ensure he’d never have kids.

Unaware of the dark thought, Shan Feibai gazed at Ning Zhuo, liking him more by the second.

Lately, he’d paled slightly and gained a bit of weight—strategically, all in his rear.

He’d shared this theory yesterday, nearly earning a kick off the bed.

Ning Zhuo looked down. “What do you want?”

Shan Feibai met his eyes, black and blue pupils glinting with fervor.

Ning Zhuo disliked that look—it made him want to hide.

He tapped Shan Feibai’s face. “Speak.”

Shan Feibai countered, “When did you decide to leave?”

Ning Zhuo paused, lowering his lashes, giving a vague answer. “What kind of fool builds a whole bridge just to leave? How much money would that take? How many years?”

Shan Feibai: “People need dreams.”

Ning Zhuo: “And practicality.”

Shan Feibai caught the subtext.

Between death and love, Ning Zhuo chose Shan Feibai.

He made his choice but wouldn’t say it outright, so he’d build a ship to take him away.

That was Ning Zhuo’s “practicality,” tinged with wild possessiveness.

Shan Feibai straightened, wrapping his arms around Ning Zhuo, burying his face in his chest.

Ning Zhuo gave his back a light pat, then, feeling it wasn’t enough, ruffled the back of his head.

Shan Feibai, a bit unhinged, always pushed boundaries when given an inch.

Now, with a massive win, he was unstoppable.

His fingers grazed the zipper of Ning Zhuo’s black jeans, resting there, his dimples peeking out. “Bro, let me sweet-talk you a bit.”

Ning Zhuo looked away.

Shan Feibai’s smile was kind of pretty.

But just as he started to move, a firm knock sounded at the door.

Ning Zhuo’s senses snapped alert. He straightened, swiveled his armchair, and faced the door.

Thankfully, his desk was semi-enclosed, letting Shan Feibai slip beneath it effortlessly.

Two pragmatists entered, representatives from Haina and Panqiao.

They’d stayed at the base, quietly bonding over time.

As technicians, they’d come to discuss ship design ideas.

Ning Zhuo sat ramrod straight, yet a nagging illusion plagued him: his waist wouldn’t hold, and he’d slide off the chair.

Each time the sensation hit, he jolted upright, finding himself still seated, only a faint sweat on his brow.

Gripping the armrests, eyes half-closed, he seemed to listen, but all his focus was on his vocal cords—don’t make a sound, or it’s over.

Shan Feibai, heedless, continued his silent work.

Each motion was light, deliberate, and maddeningly meticulous in its slowness.

His body radiated heat, his face and mouth a unified warmth.

Ning Zhuo had never felt so hot. He could only press a foot against Shan Feibai’s shoulder, neck tilting back, letting a restrained hum slip out during a pause in answering. “…Mm.”

Opening his eyes, he said calmly, “Looks good.”

The two young men, rarely praised by Ning Zhuo, redoubled their efforts, offering several solid design concepts.

Shan Feibai’s prior bridge-building funds, insufficient for that dream, were more than enough for a ship.

As for technicians, they’d hire discreetly, ideally through the “tuner” as a middleman to source talent and resources.

While pitching ideas, they noticed Ning Zhuo’s face—pale with a flush, his innate fragile beauty amplified by the rosy tint.

But their minds were on the unborn ship, and this faint oddity circled their thoughts once before drifting away:

Ning-ge looks really healthy.

…

Meanwhile, Jiang Jiuzhao, flush with Ma Yushu’s payment, regained his drive.

But after tailing Haina, he found Motobu Ryo guarded like a fortress—too tough to crack.

Luckily, Ma Yushu, deflated after paying, left vowing to deliver Motobu Ryo in three months.

With time until the deadline, Jiang Jiuzhao was content to keep probing from the sidelines.

As weeks passed, Charlemagne vanished from the scene, reportedly still under investigation, locked away.

The former cash cow had truly fallen, reduced to shattered clay.

Before Jiang Jiuzhao could plan how to crack Haina’s tough shell and snatch Motobu Ryo, he stumbled on an unexpected find: Haina was bustling, but not with jobs.

Their operations had nearly halted, taking only short-term gigs.

Both funds and personnel moved faster than ever, hinting at a major move.

Jiang Jiuzhao had no interest in picking off these errand-running small fry.

To strike the heart, he’d need to lull them into a false sense of security.

But two months later, before he could act, Glove approached him.

Glove cut to the chase. “How many in Rousseau’s A and B teams?”

Jiang Jiuzhao rubbed his nose. “With recent losses… 130, 140-ish.”

Glove nodded. “I’ll triple that. Target: annihilate Haina and Panqiao. Can you do it?”

Jiang Jiuzhao’s eyes gleamed. “Big job, huh? They sure made enemies.”

Worried about manpower for a frontal assault, he welcomed Glove’s offer. “What’s the price this time?”

“…No pay.”

Glove twisted his chubby fingers, clasping them under his chin. “Ruiteng’s mission. Official.”

Jiang Jiuzhao hopped onto the table, meeting Glove’s towering gaze. “…Can I ask why?”

Glove’s usually mild demeanor darkened. “You want to know?”

“I’m in charge now, right? I need to understand why. Are they dangerous? Cooking up some high-kill weapon? Hand-crafting nukes? …I can’t charge in blind and unpaid. If my money’s left unspent, that’s no good. Right?”

Glove’s answer was concise. “They’re building a ship to leave. They can’t be allowed to go.”

Jiang Jiuzhao raised a brow. “That’s it?”

He’d expected some nation-wrecking crime.

He pressed. “Why? Wouldn’t it be great if they died at sea like the Columbus crew? The world’s dangerous, empty. No logistics, no supplies—just them. Pure suicide.”

Glove’s eyelids lifted. “The world’s dangerous. But not empty.”

He frowned. “Settlement 184 sent a signal once.”

Jiang Jiuzhao froze.

After a long silence, he stared at Glove. “…When?”

Glove mused, “Can’t recall… my mentor mentioned it before he died. Fifty-some years ago, I think.”

“Interest company caught it first.” Top execs from the big companies met, deliberated, and replied:

Stay away.

“We told them our situation: scarce but self-sufficient, no need help or raiders. If they entered within a hundred miles of Silver Hammer, we’d respond with unconditional, unlimited self-defense.”

He glanced at Jiang Jiuzhao, smiling. “Think Ruiteng drills so far out for liquid gold? …It’s a lookout.”

Jiang Jiuzhao swallowed. “They really want to attack?”

“Who knows.”

Glove’s tone softened. “Their message sounded sincere. Said their first decades were spent on infrastructure and agriculture, taking detours from scratch. They asked if we were still here, if we needed trade or navigation, said ancestors lost kin, but descendants might reconnect… sent seeds, too.”

Jiang Jiuzhao fell silent, his hands clenching unconsciously.

…Beyond Silver Hammer, there were others.

Silver Hammer’s people weren’t alone, adrift with nowhere to go.

If life here became unlivable, they had a second place to turn to.

Before this strange feeling could take root, Jiang Jiuzhao snuffed it out.

Glove asked softly, “You want to leave?”

Jiang Jiuzhao looked down, deftly dodging Glove’s probing, faintly lethal gaze.

“Nah, I’m staying,” he said. “My money’s only good here. I want Silver Hammer peaceful forever so I can spend it.”

Glove smiled faintly at him.

With this secret, he’d locked Jiang Jiuzhao to Rousseau, just as his mentor’s revelation had bound him to service.

A small loyalty test.

Any hint of disloyalty, and Jiang Jiuzhao would be swarmed and killed.

Glove’s right index finger slid off the laser gun’s trigger beneath the table.

He asked, “Little Nine, you taking the job?”

---

Author’s Note:

[Silver Hammer Daily]

Editorial: A Memorial for Forgetting

In the blink of an eye, Silver Hammer has drifted alone in this world for a hundred years.

Isolated and unaided, it has grown to its present state through our diligent hands.

Hope and despair are two sides of the same coin. Because of despair, because we harbor no vain hopes for the outside, we’ve created miracle after miracle.

Thanks to hardship, poverty, and setbacks, let us continue striving to build our Silver Hammer, for those who have died.

—Guest Commentator: Kenan

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