Charlemagne and Jiang Jiuzhao had quieted down for now, leaving only Ma Yushu, frantic as if his house were on fire.
Ma Yushu was supposed to be a dead man.
His current alias was “Ma Bai.”
Weiwei Company’s warehouse was destroyed, incurring massive losses, with a banner left at the scene: “Ma Yushu was here.”
Weiwei knew this detail from their background check but didn’t care much.
They didn’t believe Ma Yushu had set the fire.
Arson with his real name? He’d have to be insane.
Yet, that name, fluttering in the flames, sparked curiosity among Silver Hammer’s bored masses.
Overnight, “Ma Yushu’s” dark past was unearthed.
Silver Hammer’s civic infrastructure was woefully outdated.
The lower district used century-old sewers, lived in century-old crumbling buildings, and walked century-old pitted roads. Only the network’s information flow was top-tier, terrifyingly efficient.
Thanks to this web, Ma Yushu’s history was laid bare.
“Compulsive gambler,” “dragged old friends into loans,” “sudden death.”
These keywords wove a tale close to the truth.
Many in Silver Hammer had seen families ruined by guaranteeing loans for “friends”—a common tragedy.
Some recalled a Jin family, once a happy quartet in business, shattered by a loan guarantee, vanishing from Silver Hammer.
Soon, old photos of Ma Yushu surfaced.
People quickly noted his brow and jawline resembled Weiwei Group’s financial advisor.
…The dots connected.
As the crowd eagerly dug deeper, Weiwei Group, sensing trouble, scrambled to control the narrative with interest company, flooding the net with fake accounts to tie the fire to the old Columbus Memorial Concert Hall explosion, barely papering over the mess.
Given the awful PR, Weiwei suspended Ma Yushu, telling him to “rest at home” while their investigators probed the fire’s cause.
Polite words, but Ma Yushu knew: Weiwei was cutting him loose.
If he’d drawn old enemies, the loss-stricken Weiwei had no interest in shielding him.
Ma Yushu lost another backer, now surrounded on all sides.
Unlike Charlemagne, his goals and needs differed.
Ma Yushu was a businessman, profit-first, less keen on bloodshed.
If Ning Zhuo wouldn’t die, grabbing a living Motobu Ryo was a fallback to salvage something.
But when he reiterated his demand to Jiang Jiuzhao, the reply was, “Motobu Ryo? Easy. Ten million.”
Ma Yushu nearly had a stroke, blood rushing to his head. “Didn’t you agree—”
“That was a bonus. I’d handle it while dealing with Ning Zhuo,” Jiang Jiuzhao said, unapologetic. “Now Motobu’s tucked away in Haina’s base. You want me to stroll into Ning’s hands? I’m not an idiot.”
Ma Yushu knew Jiang Jiuzhao’s skill, but it was bought with cash, not favors.
He licked a sore in his mouth, tasting rusty blood.
After a moment, he gritted his teeth. “Ten million, no more hikes!!”
Jiang Jiuzhao eyed him curiously. “You still have money?”
Ma Yushu adjusted his glasses, a glint of ferocity behind the refined gold rims. “No money, but I have people.”
Resolved, he had no room for hesitation or regret.
Over a decade ago, pinned to a table by casino enforcers ready to hack off his limbs, Ma Yushu learned a truth: nothing was more important, more precious, than himself.
Without him, there was truly nothing.
Ma Yushu stormed out like the wind, dialing a number.
He stood rigid, fingers twitching nervously at his pant seam, his face a mask of numb solemnity.
Kenan’s gentle voice answered. “Got the money?”
He sounded cheerful.
Rumor was Kenan had personally brought down Charlemagne.
Squeezing every last drop of value—whether in loans or media—Kenan lived by this rule.
But that meant Kenan, unknowingly, had derailed Ma Yushu’s plan.
Ma Yushu couldn’t confront him or risk antagonizing him now.
He steadied his breath. “Please… lend me another five million.”
“Oh. No money, yet you want more of mine.” Kenan’s voice, smooth and elegant, sent shivers down Ma Yushu’s neck. “…Yushu, you’re not planning to take my cash and run again, are you?”
“No, I have collateral this time.”
Though trembling, Ma Yushu’s face remained cold and stern. “…I’ll sell my wife and child. Send someone to collect. Payment after inspection, alright?”
Kenan laughed.
Gamblers were so predictable.
They always thought, red-eyed from losses, they were still clever, masters of “sacrifice” and trade-offs.
He said, “Good. Bring them yourself. Don’t tell them where they’re going—say it’s a picnic.”
Ma Yushu’s face twisted for a moment.
Just a moment.
He replied, “Good.”
At the same time, as Kenan casually agreed, Ning Zhuo, eavesdropping with the “tuner,” leaned toward another communicator. “Hear that?”
Lin Qin, silent for a long while, finally whispered, “Thank you, Ning Zhuo.”
Third Brother butted in. “I thank you too, Ning Zhuo—you’re trying to get me killed.”
He griped, “Tipping off a big company’s guy? I’m done for.”
“I’m not tipping off a company man,” Ning Zhuo said. “I’m tipping off Lin Qingzhuo’s son, the lower district’s star student, Lin Jiayun.”
Ning Zhuo shook the communicator.
Its contact name now read “Lin Jiayun.”
Third Brother: “…Ning Zhuo, who taught you to play word games?”
“Self-taught.”
Ning Zhuo had calmly accepted others’ doubts about his changes, though he felt he hadn’t changed at all.
He muttered to himself, “Shan Feibai was right.”
…With Charlemagne dealt with, it was Ma Yushu’s turn.
He recalled Shan Feibai’s light words: “Charlemagne’s out of funds, and I’ve cut off Ma Yushu’s lifelines. Desperate, he’ll likely target his own family.”
Having known familial love, Ning Zhuo frowned, not entirely agreeing.
Shan Feibai was certain. “People like him have no shame, no capacity for love.”
After this bold claim, Shan Feibai showed his true colors. “…Unlike your little dog, who only likes you, then likes you most.”
Ning Zhuo meant to push his head away, but the words were so sweet and pleasing that Shan Feibai got a gentle forehead shove instead.
Emboldened, Shan Feibai leaned in, kissing Ning Zhuo’s lips fervently, sharing his warmth unreservedly, his tongue teasing with animalistic possession and conquest.
Ning Zhuo’s spine tingled, pushing him back. “In heat?”
Shan Feibai grinned. “Marking you.”
…
The “tuner” saw the faint smile on Ning Zhuo’s lips and sighed. “I talk to you daily, and it’s in one ear, out the other. But when someone else speaks, you obey faster than an imperial decree.”
Ning Zhuo ignored his theatrics. “What do you think about what I mentioned?”
“Head to sea?” Third Brother waved a hand. “Not my thing. Tell me when you’re leaving—I’ll see you off. …Bet no one else will.”
Ning Zhuo wasn’t too disappointed by the “tuner’s” response.
The tuner was a product of Silver Hammer, born and raised here. The open sea wasn’t its world; it would only confine him.
Ning Zhuo flicked a hand. “I’m off.”
“Not staying? Off to save someone?”
Ning Zhuo said, “Someone else will handle the saving. I’m heading back for a meeting. Haven’t told them we’re leaving yet.”
…
Motobu Ryo, lately holed up underground, cut off from the dangerous world, wasn’t anxious. He lived comfortably.
He could focus on his framework tasks.
But age was catching up; sitting long made his joints ache.
Wanting to stretch his stiff limbs, he stepped out and heard a soft “oh.”
Startled, Motobu Ryo looked toward the sound, spotting a young man with a milk carton in his mouth, peeking warily from a nearby room.
He froze.
Those eyes were strikingly like his late wife’s.
She was a beauty, the third person Motobu Ryo had truly cared for beyond code and data.
Sadly, both sons took after him, leaving him no way to reminisce.
Seeing such familiar eyes, Motobu Ryo warmed to the youth. “…Hello.”
Tang Kaichang hid behind the wall and milk carton, sipping to calm his nerves, then murmured politely, “Hello.”
Tang Kaichang felt he’d taken in this pitiful old man.
When he arrived, Motobu Ryo had been petrified.
To Tang Kaichang, he resembled an unlovely, pathetic old cat or dog.
Neither was talkative. After their brief greeting, an awkward silence stretched.
Motobu Ryo racked his brain. “What do you… do next door?”
Tang Kaichang whispered, “Haina’s mechanisms and surveillance maintenance.”
Motobu Ryo was surprised. “Just you?”
Tang Kaichang: “Yeah. I built it, so I know it.”
Motobu Ryo was stunned.
Those eyes didn’t lie; the kid wasn’t bragging. “Can I see?”
“No.” Tang Kaichang refused flat-out. “Only our people can enter. You’re not one of us. If you try, I’ll call someone.”
Motobu Ryo: “…”
He gave a wry smile. “Then… hold on.”
He returned to his room, brought out a laptop, and pointed at the screen. “I hit a bug here.”
He set the laptop in the corridor, stepping back to show it was safe.
Tang Kaichang, noting his age and possible poor eyesight, hesitated, then cautiously emerged from his “fortress.”
Barefoot, in loose clothes, he shuffled to the laptop, crouched, and glanced up like a wary stray cat.
His sharp chin and slightly round cheeks were pale from lack of sun.
Confirming Motobu Ryo stayed back, he deftly pulled up the error log, scanned it, and began debugging lightly.
Soon, Tang Kaichang retreated carefully to his stronghold. “Done.”
Motobu Ryo approached, studied the screen, and after a moment, his eyes stung.
This was a bug he’d used as CFO at Titan to test new hires, with a 10-minute debug limit.
Over the years, the fastest record was 5 minutes, 30 seconds.
Seeing Tang Kaichang’s skittish demeanor, Motobu Ryo hadn’t set a time limit, just tracked it silently.
…Two minutes, thirty-five seconds.
Genius.
A true genius.
When Takeshi was young, he’d fancied himself a genius but never bothered with such training, growing wild and unchecked.
Motobu Ryo, indulgent of his talent, wasn’t without regrets.
His eyes held an indescribable emotion as he looked at Tang Kaichang. “Kid, what’s your name?”
The little genius answered, “Tang Kaichang.”
Feeling he’d met his daily quota for activity and talk, Tang Kaichang nodded and retreated, leaving Motobu Ryo alone in the corridor.
His eldest son was staunchly single; his youngest, a hedonist, drowned in debauchery.
Neither had children.
Motobu Ryo, once absorbed in work, hadn’t thought much of it.
But meeting a prodigy like Tang Kaichang, he was suddenly overwhelmed with unbearable pain.
—Such a fine kid, such talent, yet no tie to the Motobu family.
Was the Motobu line doomed to die out?
Was it his sin?
Had he failed to rein in his sons, earning this lonely, hopeless old age?
Ning Zhuo couldn’t have foreseen that Tang Kaichang would stir such endless grief in Motobu Ryo, tormenting the old man’s withered heart.
Back at Haina, Ning Zhuo used the intercom to summon everyone. “Except Xiao Tang and the one in bed, everyone to the first-floor lounge. …We’re doing something big.”
