When Motobu Ryo arrived at the “White Shield” General Hospital by car, he shrank back slightly at the sight of the well-dressed crowds passing by.
He could feel his own wretchedness.
People say a man should remain dignified even in ruin, hold onto his ambition even in disgrace—but the faintly surprised glances and the discreet gestures of people covering their noses were enough to kill him a thousand times over.
Motobu Ryo hurriedly smoothed the wrinkled corners of his clothes, which carried the stench of garbage.
But that changed nothing.
So he simply gave up the futile effort to tidy himself, and with a face dulled by numbness, stepped out of the elevator and headed towards the ward where Motobu Takeshi lay.
The security along the way was unusually tight—guards every five paces, sentries every ten.
Before he officially entered the quarantine ward area, they thoroughly searched him from head to toe.
Trying to ease the tension, Motobu Ryo spoke with the man scanning his body with an instrument, his voice tinged with forced friendliness: “Such strict measures?”
The “White Shield” guard frowned slightly. “Yes.” To prevent anyone from sneaking in to silence the patient.
Ryo pressed on: “Is he… doing okay?”
The man answered hurriedly: “You may go in.”
Despite his questioning, Ryo had gleaned no information.
It was only after he had walked another dozen steps down the hallway that he suddenly understood why the “White Shield” officer had frowned and brushed him off so quickly.
…He was holding his breath.
The man couldn’t stand the stench Ryo carried.
In a daze, Motobu Ryo kept moving forward.
Waiting for him outside the ward was Deputy Director Eller of the “White Shield,” someone with whom Ryo had once shared meals.
Eller briefly scanned Ryo’s pitiful, ragged appearance in surprise but said nothing. He simply reached out a hand in greeting.
But Ryo hid his own hands behind his back, concealing the black grime under his nails.
He got straight to the point: “How is Takeshi?”
Having been rejected, Eller fell silent, retracting his hand and gesturing politely towards the room.
As Ryo pushed open the door, he heard a young officer whisper to Eller, “Shouldn’t we make him wear protective gear?”
Eller hesitated for a moment, then replied, “No need.”
Ryo pulled aside the heavy gray radiation-proof curtain—and finally saw his son.
…That thing still breathing might no longer even be called “son.”
Motobu Takeshi lay on the bed, his chest faintly rising and falling.
What kept him breathing was not the will to live, but a pair of low-quality artificial lungs.
What little flesh remained on his shell of a body smelled like unsold frozen meat left to rot in a market stall—cold and decaying.
Ryo staggered to the bedside.
His eyes felt dry and hollow, yet with a single blink, a tear slid down his cheek.
He crouched beside the bed, resting his arms on the edge, and called softly, “Takeshi…”
There was a reaction.
First, his bladder emptied itself—the artificial urinary tract leaked slightly.
Then Takeshi trembled and slowly opened his eyes.
For a long time he stared blankly at the blurred ceiling, dazed for over two minutes before he seemed to realize he was awake.
And once this awareness dawned, panic and frenzy overtook him. His mouth opened wide, letting out hoarse, inhuman noises of “ahh—ahh—” as his bald fingertips scraped desperately at the sheets, as if eager to do something.
But his tear ducts were broken—no tears could fall.
His panic infected Ryo.
Ryo hurriedly leaned in, grabbing his son’s hand. “Takeshi, what do you want? Tell me, please.”
Takeshi spasmed slightly, as if shocked, and rasped out with effort: “Let me die…”
Ryo froze.
Eller bent over, speaking gently to Takeshi. “Takeshi, your father’s here.”
He gave Ryo a sidelong glance. “Tell your dad properly—who hurt you? Dad and Uncle will stand up for you.”
At once, Takeshi pressed his lips tightly shut, face contorted in pain, every muscle trembling.
“Eller-san, leave us.” Ryo wiped his face, steadying his voice. “Let me talk to him alone. He’s… probably terrified of people right now. The more there are, the worse it gets…”
Eller agreed this made sense.
Maybe the father could draw out something more from him.
When Eller left the room, he left the door slightly ajar to listen in.
So Ryo heard the brief exchange outside.
A mid-ranking detective from White Shield Headquarters—born and raised in the upper city—asked, “Chief, is that Motobu Ryo? I heard he used to be some capable businessman?”
Eller waved dismissively. “Ah, don’t even mention it.”
The detective sneered faintly, a look of condescension and pity in his eyes. “Guess he really loved his son. Lost the boy, lost all ambition. No drive left at all.”
Ryo’s face remained blank, but he gave a little smile.
Was it that he lacked ambition?
No. It was simply that Silver Hammer City offered no vine to grasp for those falling, no plank for the drowning to cling to.
Fall to your death, drown if you must—it made no difference.
Silver Hammer City had plenty of people. It would function just fine without one more or less.
Ryo’s cheeks were gaunt, his flesh gone, only old bones remaining.
Just like the son he had once loved most dearly, rotting now into something unrecognizable.
In his mind, he heard Ning Zhuo’s low murmur: “Look on the bright side—he’s still alive, isn’t he?”
A bitter prophecy fulfilled.
Ryo smiled wryly. This? This could still be called “alive”?
The voices outside continued faintly:
“We spent so much to keep him alive. His treatment costs tens of thousands a day.”
“Can’t we replace his organs with something better?”
“Impossible. His body’s trash system has adapted to this setup. Disconnect anything and he’ll die immediately.”
“We have to make him spit out something useful… otherwise all this effort is wasted.”
Just listening made Ryo’s organs ache.
On the bed, Takeshi could not grasp these words.
He was too busy suffering the real, raw pain—experiencing, minute by minute, the very agony he had once inflicted on others when he made them into mechanical dolls.
He muttered endlessly: “I was wrong. I shouldn’t have done that…”
For years, Ryo had spoiled him—even knowing of his inhuman crimes, he hadn’t bothered to intervene.
Never had he heard Takeshi apologize to anyone.
So when these words reached his ears, Ryo felt no comfort in his son’s repentance—only a slow, creeping terror blooming in his chest.
…His former son had already mutated, inside and out.
Motobu Ryo reached out and gently touched that face, its surface now hard as armor.
He murmured, “Takeshi, you’re too tired. And so am I.”
In the end, his hand rested on Motobu Takeshi’s abdomen.
With a sudden push of his palm—crushing all of Takeshi’s abdominal organs—he also yanked out the oxygen tube in one swift motion and clenched it tightly in his hand.
Motobu Ryo whispered, as if possessed:
“Die. Just die.”
“When you die, you’ll be freed. And I’ll go to prison… at least I won’t have to fight others for scraps of garbage anymore.”
When the White Shield officers sensed the anomaly and burst in, furious and panicked, they pinned Motobu Ryo to the ground. But he offered no resistance, no struggle at all.
The doctors arrived immediately.
After examining Takeshi, they could only shake their heads helplessly.
The makeshift waste-processing circulatory system in Motobu Takeshi’s body had been completely destroyed.
He was beyond saving.
Perhaps realizing that release was finally at hand, the tension and anxiety in Takeshi’s mind eased a little.
He moved his useless eyes, searching amid the chaos, and caught the faint, gasping sound of a familiar low voice.
With his broken mechanical vocal cords, Motobu Takeshi rasped softly: “Is that… Father?”
Everyone present was stirred at the sign of his returning awareness.
Motobu Ryo was freed at once and shoved by seven or eight hands toward his dying son.
He was forced to face the boy he himself had just pushed to the gates of hell. Through fierce heartache, he could barely speak for sobbing. “Takeshi…”
Before the White Shield men could urge him, he gritted his teeth and asked, “Who… who did this to you? Was it Ning… Ning Zhuo?”
“…Ning Zhuo… who’s that?”
The name sounded so distant, like something from a past life, that Takeshi had no memory of it.
Takeshi shook his head, his breath faint and ragged. “Not a man… it was… a woman.”
This answer stunned Motobu Ryo. “A woman?”
“About forty… a woman… pretty… from the upper city… kept insisting I… killed her son…” Takeshi weakly gripped his father’s hand and softly said, “Dad… kill her…”
Motobu Ryo was momentarily dumbfounded. Just as he was about to press further, the slight strength clinging to his hand suddenly vanished.
Motobu Takeshi, who had no eyelids, died with his eyes wide open.
He died like a fish thrown on a market stall.
At that moment, Lin Qin finally returned from the “Haina” district. On the way, he had received news of Takeshi’s impending death and rushed to the hospital, only to hear the sharp, piercing “beep—” of the monitor as he arrived outside the ward.
He gripped the doorframe, listening as the White Shield officer hurried out and passed on Takeshi’s strange last words.
A woman from the upper city?
Claiming Takeshi killed her son?
A thought slowly took shape in Lin Qin’s mind.
Takeshi mostly targeted women, and occasionally pretty young men—but without exception, all his victims were helpless, powerless poor from the lower city.
As cruel as he was, he was never stupid enough to touch anyone from the upper city.
That was the only way he could keep indulging in his depraved pleasures without fear of exposure.
According to official records, the only victim of Takeshi’s confirmed by name was Raskin—the man who had been killed with poison during the 930 incident.
But in the files, Raskin seemed like a man who had sprung from the earth itself: no parents, no background, perfectly clean.
Lin Qin closed his eyes and let out a helpless laugh.
Ning Zhuo, is this what you wanted me to keep digging for?
…
When Motobu Takeshi’s life-support system was fully disconnected, Third Brother contacted Ning Zhuo and got straight to the point: “Relax. He’s dead.”
Hearing San’s unmistakable voice, Ning Zhuo gave a calm “Mm. Got it.”
San made no mention of his own captivity. “Hey… how’s Shan Feibai?”
On Ning Zhuo’s end, there was a strange silence.
Then he replied, “He’s fine.”
San: “?”
A muffled, smug chuckle came from the communicator.
The call was abruptly cut off.
Ning Zhuo tossed the communicator aside, only for Shan Feibai to catch it in one hand and neatly place it on the nightstand.
It wasn’t until they returned to the room that Ning Zhuo noticed, in the mirror, just how bad his white clothes were—the places that ought to have been covered were not covered at all.
As he changed, Shan Feibai sat nearby, openly studying Ning Zhuo’s body.
“Your waist is this slim.”
Shan Feibai raised a hand, measuring the width, then mimed grasping his calf in midair. “And your calves are this thin.”
He sighed. “Why is it only your butt that has meat on it?”
Half-naked, Ning Zhuo glanced at this foul-mouthed little wolf cub through the corner of his eye, intending to teach him a lesson.
Facing the mirror, he pressed a hand to the faint bluish fingerprints Shan Feibai had left on his side waist.
Still lazily sprawled on the bed, Shan Feibai’s Adam’s apple bobbed. Unable to resist, he flipped over and sat up.
Ning Zhuo gently pressed down, stirring the hidden ache awake.
He inhaled softly, murmuring to himself, “Such strength.”
He knew full well this was deliberate seduction, which left him utterly calm.
But the spark Shan Feibai had lit within him rekindled at the worst possible moment, light and heat spreading recklessly through his body, making the muscles of his lower belly move with unnatural rhythm.
Expressionless, Ning Zhuo forced himself to endure the desire blazing inside like wildfire.
Ning Zhuo could endure—but Shan Feibai would not.
He scooted over, burying his face in Ning Zhuo’s back, and softly called his full name: “Ning Zhuo.”
Ning Zhuo frowned. “What did you call me?”
Shan Feibai breathed in the faint mint scent of his skin, speaking with genuine feeling: “Ning-ge. Hug me.”
He noticed Ning Zhuo’s frown deepen—but not in refusal.
And then, to Shan Feibai’s surprise, Ning Zhuo blushed.
The flush spread all the way to the tips of his ears.
Ning Zhuo didn’t mind being pinned to the wall and fucked.
Toward his body, he always felt a strange detachment—as if it wasn’t really his. No matter how much pain he bore, he endured it indifferently, with calm acceptance.
But what he couldn’t stand was innocent affection.
Like his mother praising him for being a good child, like his father’s gentle kisses.
…Like Shan Feibai hugging him like this.
Shan Feibai liked him so much he didn’t know what else to do, and bit lightly at Ning Zhuo’s neck—not hard, just gently.
Ning Zhuo clicked his tongue, the flush fading from his face like the retreating tide. “Are you part dog?”
Excited, Shan Feibai began babbling again: “If I’d known Ning-ge liked this, I would’ve done it long ago.”
Ning Zhuo gave him a cold look in the mirror. “Then your ashes would’ve scattered over the Atlantic by now.”
Shan Feibai knew their tangled grudge couldn’t be untied in a few words.
A year earlier, six months, even three months ago—things would’ve ended differently.
But now his heart was full of sweetness. He leaned close to Ning Zhuo’s ear and whispered mysteriously, “Ning-ge… wanna know? The first time I jerked off, I was thinking of you bleeding…”
Seeing him grow more outrageous, Ning Zhuo wanted to shove him away.
“…I’m crazy about you, Ning-ge.” Shan Feibai shamelessly continued, “Do you like me?”
At this rare moment when Ning Zhuo was left speechless, Jin Xueshen saved him.
Jin Xueshen knocked on the door from outside.
His eyes were still red, but his mood had steadied.
“I have an idea,” he said bluntly. “I don’t want Ma Yushu dead yet. I want his money. All of it.”
