Charlemagne had no desire to meet Ma Yushu face-to-face. “No need.”
He prided himself on his dignity, and even though cameras hadn’t pointed at him in ages, he still held himself to the standard of a public figure. He didn’t want outsiders knowing he was dealing with someone like Glove.
But he was too late.
Ma Yushu, who should’ve stayed in the room waiting, burst out, his face burning with impatience. “Mr. Glove, when’s Ninth Bro—”
His financial losses were piling up by the hour.
Waiting was a luxury he couldn’t afford.
Spotting Charlemagne, Ma Yushu froze, swallowing the rest of his sentence.
He recognized him as the White Shield inspector who used to be chummy with Mr. Kenan.
Charlemagne, too, found Ma Yushu familiar.
From past dealings with Kenan, Charlemagne had crossed paths with Ma Yushu a few times, always seeing him in sharp suits, all smiles, attentive to Kenan. He’d assumed Ma Yushu was some errand boy or assistant for Interest Company.
Charlemagne offered a hesitant smile at Ma Yushu’s unexpected presence.
Ma Yushu, caught off guard but used to handling surprises, stepped forward warmly. “Mr. Charlemagne, it’s been a while.”
His recent stress had sprouted two vivid sores on his lips, but the pain didn’t stop him from schmoozing. “You here on business too?”
Charlemagne returned a distant smile. “Mr. Ma, hello.”
Glove, grinning, grabbed both their hands with his sweaty, thick palms, forcing them into a handshake. “I’m telling you, you two are fated—same goal, different paths.”
Caught in the forced handshake, they eyed each other warily, both wondering what Glove meant by “same goal.”
Glove waved at a hulking mercenary nearby. “You, go get Little Ninth!”
The mercenary bellowed, “Report! Ninth Brother’s sleeping!”
Glove’s voice boomed back, “Tell him to wake up! There’s money to be made!”
A minute later, a man about Ning Zhuo’s age sauntered in.
Before showing his face, he covered half of it with his hand, yawning without a shred of grace, then revealed himself.
Sleep marks reddened his cheeks, accentuating his pale skin, dark eyes, and sharp brows. His shoulder-length, wavy hair fell in a rock-star cascade.
Like Ning Zhuo, he had the look of a pretty boy.
Ma Yushu instinctively glanced at Charlemagne.
Charlemagne’s expression remained calm.
Rumor had it “Ninth Brother” was indeed Rousseau’s boss, and Glove wouldn’t lie about that.
He had to have real skills.
Glove chuckled. “Little Ninth, meet our two guests.”
Little Ninth, clearly roused too quickly, seemed half in a dream, hands in pockets. He gave a sloppy bow, veering off-target.
Straightening, he yawned again.
Unfazed, Glove introduced him to Charlemagne and Ma Yushu. “Jiang Jiuzhao, Rousseau’s boss.”
Jiang Jiuzhao yawned twice more, finally speaking clearly. “Glove, who’m I killing this time?”
Glove explained, “Both their targets are Haina.”
Jiang Jiuzhao raised a brow. “Haina? Ning Zhuo?”
He took a deep breath, a glint of joy in his eyes. “Finally, someone’s paying me to kill him?!”
Charlemagne and Ma Yushu, before they could process that the other was also after Haina, shared a surge of glee.
Judging by his tone, did Jiang Jiuzhao have a grudge with Ning Zhuo?
Glove, curious, asked, “You got history with Ning Zhuo?”
“Never met him,” Jiang Jiuzhao said cheerfully. “But he’s been a big shot in Silver Hammer for years, deep roots, tough to kill. That makes him expensive.”
Clasping his hands like he was praying to the god of wealth, Jiang Jiuzhao bowed crisply to Charlemagne and Ma Yushu, rattling off his prices. “So, how much? Ten million for him alone; twenty million for his whole crew; thirty million, and I’ll throw in Panqiao too. …Oh, Shan Feibai’s an extra ten million. We sent our second team after him once, and he took out a bunch and crippled more. His combat skills are no joke—gotta charge extra.”
Faced with such brazen pricing, Charlemagne and Ma Yushu fell silent.
Glove laughed heartily. “Don’t mind him, Little Ninth’s only hobby is money.”
Jiang Jiuzhao pointed at himself, grinning. “Yup, and we’ve got plenty of add-on services, pay-as-you-go. Got any physical needs during our work? I’m Rousseau’s priciest—one million for top or bottom, satisfaction guaranteed.”
Ma Yushu, not into that, waved frantically as Jiang veered off-topic, trying to haggle. “I’m here in good faith. In Silver Hammer, taking out one guy averages a million, five million tops, so I was hoping…”
Jiang Jiuzhao cut him off. “Good faith ain’t worth shit. Neither’s your hope.”
Dismissing Ma Yushu, whose face flushed red and purple, he turned to Charlemagne. “You, sir?”
Charlemagne stayed silent.
Charlemagne and Ma Yushu were indeed brothers in misfortune.
Both, because of the same man, were strapped for cash, pushed to a point of no return where they had only one final shot.
Charlemagne didn’t know Ma Yushu’s full situation. His plan wasn’t to spend money but to goad Ruiteng Company into taking out Shan Feibai again.
Regardless of Shan Feibai and Ning Zhuo’s current relationship, Panqiao and Haina were still nominally one entity. If Shan Feibai went down, Haina and Ning Zhuo wouldn’t escape unscathed.
But he hadn’t expected Rousseau’s boss to be a dyed-in-the-wool money-grubber, all about the bottom line, nothing else.
After Ning Zhuo’s relentless squeezes, Charlemagne’s liquid assets were nearly gone.
Killing Ning Zhuo would lift a massive weight from his chest.
As someone burdened with a natural need for a flawless image, Charlemagne loathed having his weaknesses in another’s hands.
But Ning Zhuo’s worthless life, once snuffed out, would cost him his comfortable, leisurely retirement.
Not killing Ning Zhuo and lying low wasn’t the worst option.
But Charlemagne knew himself—peace of mind would be impossible going forward.
Charlemagne had options, room to weigh them. Ma Yushu had none.
He couldn’t even run.
It was do or die.
With no choice, Ma Yushu played his last card. “I’ve got five million.”
Jiang Jiuzhao shook his head, smiling. “Not enough, Mr. Ma. Like your loan shark deals, I don’t do business at a loss.”
He turned to Charlemagne, more intrigued. “Mr. Charlemagne, as a White Shield officer above inspector rank, you get a property allocation, right?”
Jiang Jiuzhao seemed carefree, but he was sharp, casually exposing their backgrounds.
“…Yes,” Charlemagne paused, then admitted, “but it’s White Shield property, non-transferable.”
Jiang Jiuzhao tapped a button on his neck, and a holographic record screen popped up. “Which district? Oh, right, Atber. Northwest or southeast? Prices differ there.”
Charlemagne gritted his teeth and confessed.
Jiang Jiuzhao ran the numbers effortlessly. “Your place is 280 square meters. I’ll take half. Ruiteng will soon negotiate with White Shield to ‘redevelop’ your property, splitting it into two 140-square-meter units. After demolition, rebuilding, cleanup, and premium renovations for both—these costs come out of my share—I’ll end up with a unit worth—”
He flashed the figure. “Fourteen million.”
Jiang Jiuzhao grinned, showing perfect teeth. “Mr. Charlemagne, you in?”
Charlemagne fell silent.
He was old, had lost his son, and his wife was mad. He’d be alone.
A big, empty house held no appeal.
Seeing Charlemagne waver, Jiang Jiuzhao turned to Ma Yushu, who was smugly thinking he’d skate by without paying a dime while Charlemagne footed the bill. “Oh, right, Mr. Ma, you two can split the cost. That’s about twenty million.”
Ma Yushu, caught off guard, froze. “…Huh?”
Jiang Jiuzhao continued, “You came together, so you pay together. Or are you okay letting Mr. Charlemagne cover the tab alone?”
Ma Yushu was cornered, unable to advance or retreat, his forced smile uglier than a grimace.
Jiang Jiuzhao pressed lightly. “You two pool the money, and I’ll take the job.”
Glove chuckled silently.
He knew Little Ninth’s nature.
Jiang Jiuzhao would pick up a penny off the ground.
Before Ma Yushu could dodge, Charlemagne said softly, “…Fine.”
…Half a house for a clean slate. Worth it.
Jiang Jiuzhao flicked his hair, bowing elegantly. “Rousseau, at your service.”
…
Jin Xueshen was in the temporary warehouse Motobu Ryo rented, watching him work feverishly at several screens.
Motobu’s aged face was thinner than during his vagrant days, wrinkles carved deeper, like gullies.
Jin Xueshen thought he might turn into a tree spirit any second.
But his eyes burned bright, tireless.
Yu Shifei had gone back to Haina, promising to bring back something tasty.
Bored, Jin Xueshen set his bow in front of him, plucking the string to play notes, humming to himself.
Yesterday, Yu Shifei said his singing was nice.
Jin Xueshen had snapped at him to leave.
Today, he belatedly felt pleased, willing to hum a tune in private, savoring it.
Suddenly, an unexplainable pang hit his chest.
He glanced at the surveillance screens.
Everything looked normal, no signs of trouble.
But his instinctual danger radar was blaring.
He called the hidden sentries via a secure channel. “Report. Anything wrong?”
The line connected, but only static buzzed through, grating and endless.
…No response.
Sensing trouble, Jin Xueshen barked “Alert!” to the Haina and Panqiao mercenaries, who hadn’t yet caught on. He nocked his bow, aiming at the door.
As he took his shooting stance, an arrow-shaped golden-red flame flickered on his empty bowstring.
The next second, the warehouse door was blasted open!
Before the dust settled, Jin Xueshen’s arrow shot like a meteor, exploding into a brilliant spark against a transparent blast shield.
“Hello, my…”
Jiang Jiuzhao emerged from behind the man-high disposable shield, his wavy hair tied back in a sharp high ponytail.
He glanced at his ledger casually. “…My two million.”
Jin Xueshen wasn’t interested in talk.
As the first arrow’s glow faded, a second blazed out like a fiery comet, streaking toward the southeast corner above.
A figure sneaking through a newly opened second-floor hole fell to the string, turning into a screaming fireball.
Jin Xueshen’s gaze locked coldly on Jiang Jiuzhao.
Jiang Jiuzhao didn’t spare a glance for his burning subordinate.
Jiang Jiuzhao held a peculiar, almost magnanimous worldview: those who worked with him had to be skilled to be worth anything.
If someone got killed, they weren’t skilled—they were trash.
Trash died for nothing, unworthy of sharing his profits.
With this logic, Jiang Jiuzhao felt no grief or anger at his comrade’s death. He casually stretched his arms and legs, warming up for the fight.
Jin Xueshen, barely containing his shock and fury, demanded, “…Who are you?”
Jiang Jiuzhao pointed at himself.
He wore a red fingerless glove covering his palm. “Me? From Rousseau. You just heard, right?”
Rousseau?
Ruiteng Company’s… Jiang Jiuzhao?
Jin Xueshen’s sharp eyes caught something odd—Jiang Jiuzhao’s finger joints bulged unnaturally.
The next instant, a golden thread shot from Jiang’s wrist, held level at his side, flashing before Jin Xueshen’s eyes.
Instinctively, Jin Xueshen raised his bow to block.
With a sharp twang, something tough and unyielding wrapped around his bow, yanking with terrifying force to wrest it away!
Knowing he faced a formidable foe, Jin Xueshen rolled swiftly.
His gloves were custom-made: the left, holding the bow, was a full-fingered fire-resistant glove; the right covered only the palm, thumb, and index finger in sleek black fire-resistant material, leaving three fingers free.
Gripping the bow tightly with his left hand, Jin Xueshen shook it hard. The bow ignited in a blaze, melting the tough thread entwined around it!
The fire left a stark white gash on the bow.
…If more of those threads had caught his body, Jin Xueshen knew they could’ve sliced him into pieces.
Jiang Jiuzhao raised an eyebrow, impressed. “Well, damn. You’ve got skills.”
Jin Xueshen’s mind raced.
Mercenaries never wasted breath asking, “How’d I offend you?” when an enemy attacked.
If someone came to kill, you fought or killed back. Loyalty to the job came first.
Jin Xueshen guessed Jiang was likely after Motobu Ryo.
So, he drew his bow like a full moon, five arrows forming instantly, aimed at Jiang Jiuzhao’s face, shouting, “Alert! Protect Motobu Ryo!”
“…Not Motobu Ryo.”
The voice was ghostly, unnervingly close.
Jin Xueshen, having given his order, whipped his head around to find Jiang Jiuzhao just three steps away.
Jiang pulled an umbrella-shaped weapon from his back. “…It’s you.”
A chill ran through Jin Xueshen, quickly burned away by blazing anger.
He could tell this man was a close-combat fighter on par with Ning Zhuo—a tough bastard.
Jin Xueshen’s arrows were versatile; if he wanted, he could escape.
But he couldn’t abandon his team or Motobu Ryo. What if Rousseau’s attack was a feint to snatch Motobu while they were distracted?
Losing Motobu Ryo would ruin Haina’s reputation, and Jin Xueshen wouldn’t stand for it.
That reputation was built on Boss Fu’s name, carved out by Ning Zhuo’s blood, fists, and life. Credibility was sacred, untouchable.
He couldn’t abandon a client.
He’d die protecting one.
Jin Xueshen knew what facing an unrestrained Ning Zhuo would mean.
But he didn’t flee or flinch. Spinning his bow, he formed a towering fire shield, face blank. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”
