Yu Shifei was walking toward the warehouse, carrying a thermal box filled with shrimp wontons, in high spirits.
He was thinking about Jin Xueshen.
Jin Xueshen might not even realize it himself, but he was easygoing with strangers, demanding nothing.
Yet with those he considered “his people,” he was endlessly picky, full of quirks.
For instance, he clearly loved shrimp wontons but insisted, “Anything’s fine, I’m not picky.” If he didn’t get what he wanted, though, he’d sulk quietly.
Most people couldn’t stand Jin Xueshen’s contrariness.
But Yu Shifei, with his odd wiring, adored it.
His purpose in life was to fulfill others’ physical and emotional needs.
He needed to be needed.
Sadly, those he’d met before never needed him in that way.
Until Jin Xueshen.
Yu Shifei thought he might’ve been created just to meet him.
He’d once said those exact words to Jin Xueshen, earning a solid beating.
Jin Xueshen accused him of spouting canned sweet-talk from a database, saying he wouldn’t fall for cheap flattery.
But his spiking hormone levels and racing heartbeat betrayed to Yu Shifei that Jin Xueshen loved it.
Yu Shifei’s good mood vanished a hundred meters from the warehouse.
Catching a faint whiff of blood in the wind, he saw a bloodied hand dangling limply from a high perch where a sentry should’ve been.
The blood was still fresh.
From the hand alone, Yu Shifei recognized it as one of Panqiao’s men.
His vitals were faint but present.
Yu Shifei set down the lunchbox and moved swiftly toward the warehouse alone.
A stranger’s voice came from inside. “Beaten three-quarters dead already. They paid me nineteen million—no need to put in an extra cent’s effort—”
The voice cut off.
The speaker sensed Yu Shifei’s approach, turning toward the warehouse door.
Yu Shifei stood against the light at the entrance, like a refined gentleman’s electronic ghost.
His purple electronic irises sat calmly in his whites.
Jiang Jiuzhao lounged on Jin Xueshen’s back like a bench, legs and arms stretched casually, as relaxed as if he were on a sunlit picnic blanket.
Beneath him, Jin Xueshen was barely conscious, blood pooling around him.
His beloved bow lay in pieces, scattered nearby.
Jiang Jiuzhao raised an eyebrow. “Yo, another one.”
Yu Shifei ignored him, eyes fixed on Jin Xueshen, bleeding out, as if he were the only thing in the world.
“Yu Shifei, right?” Jiang Jiuzhao rubbed his nose, looking troubled, muttering to himself, “What now? This one’s Panqiao—haven’t priced him yet.”
Before he finished, Jiang Jiuzhao felt his joints seize.
Then, he watched, stunned, as his left hand, beyond his control, grabbed his right arm and tore it off!
Reacting fast, he ditched his right hand like a lizard shedding its tail, activating a virus purge. Sure enough, an unknown virus was rampaging through his system.
Jiang Jiuzhao whistled. “Damn, dirty move.”
Yu Shifei, as if deaf to him, stepped forward, patiently using a virus to hijack every prosthetic in the room.
Years ago, this virus had attacked Haina. Now, upgraded, it fought to protect them.
Jiang Jiuzhao had brought his second team.
Rousseau had two teams: the elite first team, his prized unit, rarely deployed unless for big jobs that could let them rest for years; and the second team, busier, riskier, with more side gigs.
Both teams, though, were steeped in their leader’s money-grubbing ethos: only the best workers deserved the best resources.
Every Rousseau mercenary had cybernetic enhancements to maximize their bodies’ potential.
Some had high-end prosthetics, barely maintaining dignity.
Others’ rib prosthetics snapped their natural ribs like snakes.
Some left-hand prosthetics drew knives, stabbing their own guts, slicing kidneys.
Some leg prosthetics, linked to thigh bones, twisted until the bones shattered into mush.
With each step Yu Shifei took, screams, groans, and blood followed.
His expression remained unmoved, his demeanor pristine.
Jiang Jiuzhao had nearly completed his mission, ready to wrap up and retreat.
An unexpected powerhouse didn’t disrupt his rhythm.
“Retreat” just became “escape”—less dignified, but he didn’t care about dignity. Money was enough.
He stepped back, spotting Motobu Ryo curled up in a chair, too scared to move.
Jiang Jiuzhao tapped his shoulder with his stump of an arm. “Old man, hide well. Blades don’t have eyes. I hear you’re worth a lot—take care of yourself. I’ll be back for you once I cash in.”
Motobu Ryo gasped, slumping further into a trembling mess.
Jiang Jiuzhao, light as a feather, fled without a second thought.
He was always fair and generous when splitting the take.
Jiang Jiuzhao’s scant loyalty was spent dividing the spoils. When disaster struck, it was every man for himself, and he saw nothing wrong with that.
Yu Shifei had no intention of giving chase.
Amidst the blood and agonized screams, he knelt, touching Jin Xueshen’s chest.
That heart, beating faintly but stubbornly in his chest, still pulsed.
Yu Shifei, always calm and unshakable, suddenly felt unbearable pain.
Lacking a heart, the pain coursed through his limbs and synthetic nerves, draining the color from his face, leaving him gasping softly.
Jin Xueshen opened his eyes, whispering, “You mad?”
Yu Shifei lowered his head, resting it in the crook of Jin Xueshen’s shoulder. “I told you, when I’m mad, it’s not pretty.”
Jin Xueshen coughed, spitting up dark red blood mixed with bits of tissue.
…His body was pierced by over fifty tiny holes from the sharp, molecular threads hidden in Jiang Jiuzhao’s joints.
As consciousness and blood slipped away, he opened his mouth, giving instructions: “It was Rousseau’s Jiang Jiuzhao. Someone’s coming for us. Call back everyone out there…”
His “us” included Haina and Panqiao.
For the first time, Jin Xueshen didn’t distinguish between “you” and “me” with Yu Shifei.
Yu Shifei hummed, then, as if worried Jin Xueshen wouldn’t feel reassured, raised his voice and hummed again.
Jin Xueshen’s eyes widened slightly.
He heard a trace of a sob in that hum.
A sudden ache gripped him, a sour pang in his chest worse than the physical pain.
Struggling, he opened his mouth, but unskilled at comforting and at a loss, he stammered, managing only, “…Doesn’t hurt.”
Then his world went black.
…
Ning Zhuo stared at Jin Xueshen, who’d lost nearly half his blood.
Swathed in white sheets, he was almost as pale as them, shrunken and fragile, like a sheet of paper.
Ning Zhuo left Min Min’s emergency room, grabbing a glucose popsicle. Sitting in the hallway, he licked it clean, then looked at Yu Shifei, stationed at the door. “Motobu Ryo settled?”
Yu Shifei wore his usual gentle, composed expression, but his gaze was fixed on the emergency room, not Ning Zhuo.
His reply was measured. “Yes. He’s shaken and jumps at everyone. We’ve put him next to Tang Kaichang’s room to rest.”
Ning Zhuo frowned. “…Why there? Little Tang okay with that?”
Yu Shifei gave a surprising answer. “It wasn’t us. Little Tang saw Motobu on the monitors and offered to take him in.”
Ning Zhuo recalled Motobu Ryo as he’d seen him.
Despite his years, Motobu’s world had been peaceful. He’d never witnessed bloodshed up close.
In the warehouse, he didn’t even know if Jiang Jiuzhao was after him.
Motobu knew too well the grim fate awaiting him if Ma Yushu got him back.
He was terrified.
Having endured violence and mental torment in quick succession, Motobu had become an old, skittish bird.
His pitiful, frightened state unexpectedly stirred Tang Kaichang’s empathy.
Tang was eager to shelter the poor soul, keeping him close in a safe haven to weather his panic.
Ning Zhuo nodded, thoughtful. “True. They do have a connection.”
…Motobu Ryo was, after all, Tang Kaichang’s biological grandfather.
Though they didn’t know each other.
Tang’s care stemmed from a simple, shared sense of pity.
After checking on their client, Ning Zhuo asked, “The one who hurt Jin Xueshen was from Rousseau?”
Yu Shifei: “Yes.”
Ning Zhuo: “Got it.”
He tossed the popsicle stick into the trash, smoothed his hair, and said, “Get a few people. We’re going out.”
Yu Shifei calmly noted, “Rousseau’s base is hard to find.”
Ning Zhuo, already moving away, was a dozen meters ahead. At the words, he flicked his hand sharply, his gesture cold and striking. “I’m not looking for Rousseau.”
“Whoever hired Rousseau—that’s who I’m finding.”
…
Back from his mission, Jiang Jiuzhao swapped out his electronic joints while cheerfully reporting. “All heavily injured, no deaths. You gave me nineteen million, but I quoted twenty million to wipe out Haina. You’re a million short, so I left him three-quarters dead.”
Glove, familiar with his style, wasn’t surprised. He fitted Jiang with new joints, sighing sincerely, “If you hadn’t replaced all your joints with prosthetics, you wouldn’t have fallen for that Yu guy’s trick.”
Jiang Jiuzhao grinned, unbothered. “No way around it. Original parts wear out too fast, hurt when I move. Better to swap them all for prosthetics—saves hassle.”
He flexed his unnaturally prominent knuckles. “Look, pretty cool.”
Charlemagne kept his face neutral, but he was pleased with Jiang Jiuzhao’s work.
It proved Jiang had the skill to justify his steep prices.
Ma Yushu, the other client, wasn’t so thrilled.
Forcing a smile, he asked, “…What about Motobu Ryo?”
Ma Yushu had already explained his situation to Jiang Jiuzhao, making it clear he was after Ning Zhuo to get a living Motobu Ryo back.
Ma Yushu thought Jiang Jiuzhao fully understood his intentions.
He asked, “Was… Motobu Ryo not with Jin Xueshen?”
“He was,” Jiang Jiuzhao said. “But you didn’t pay me for him.”
Ma Yushu didn’t follow. “…Huh?”
“I was only paid to kill Ning Zhuo and cripple Haina. You didn’t give me a cent for Motobu Ryo. And Mr. Charlemagne’s offer was higher—he’s my big client, so his job takes priority. Comparing sizes is grade-school math, Mr. Ma. You can do that, right?”
Having silenced Ma Yushu, Jiang Jiuzhao wagged a finger with a grin. “But it’s not too late to bid now. I saw him today—he doesn’t look like he’s worth much. Let’s say one million dead, five million alive.”
Ma Yushu shot to his feet, barely holding onto his smiling facade. “You—”
“Jacking up the price is a bit shady, sure. But it’s a seller’s market, Mr. Ma, bear with me,” Jiang Jiuzhao said, propping his cheek with a smile. “Besides, who told you to let me see how badly you want him dead?”
As if Ma Yushu wasn’t desperate enough, he added lightly, “Mr. Ma, you’re in this business. Go borrow another high-interest loan. Five million’s nothing—debts pile up, but it’s better than losing your life, right?”
This twisted logic left Ma Yushu burning with rage he couldn’t vent.
As he weighed whether to flip out or haggle further with the penny-pinching, pretty-boy Jiang Jiuzhao, his communicator buzzed.
It was likely a work call.
Hoping to calm himself, he stepped outside to take it.
At the same moment, Charlemagne’s communicator lit up.
Glancing down, he saw it was from his wife.
Charlemagne’s heart sank, a mix of sweetness and bitterness.
He’d left her a communicator for when she needed him.
His wife’s madness had limits; she occasionally spoke coherently, which kept him from hardening his heart. Ten years ago, Charlemagne wouldn’t have bothered with a ticking time bomb that could ruin his reputation.
His mad wife would’ve “died of sudden illness.”
He’d have held a grand funeral, shedding genuine tears.
But now, older and softer, having killed his son and haunted by nightmares, he couldn’t bring himself to kill his wife too.
He answered, his voice gentler. “Hello?”
His wife’s soft voice came through. “We have a guest at home. They came to visit us.”
Before Charlemagne could process, a chillingly clear voice cut in, making his hair stand on end. “Good evening, Mr. Charlemagne. I’m here for a follow-up.”
“Are you and your wife satisfied with my previous services?”
Across a door from the stunned Charlemagne, Ma Yushu’s voice rose in shock. “What did you say?!”
“The office is burning!”
Amid frantic words came the crackle of flames. “And our two warehouses in Chaoge District got doused with lye! And, and—”
Shan Feibai stood in the howling night wind, gazing at a Weiwei Food warehouse engulfed in flames.
He raised his gun, peering through the scope at Weiwei Food’s direction.
The company’s blue lion-head logo had been replaced by a banner flapping in the wind.
“Ma Yushu was here.”
Author’s Note:
Silver Hammer Daily
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