The next month in Silver Hammer City was eerily calm.
Glove’s question didn’t immediately spark chaos or bloodshed.
Silver Hammer remained Silver Hammer—everyone went about their roles. Life didn’t improve, but it wasn’t unlivable either.
The big companies’ tech lockdowns were comprehensive, but not flawless.
In the city’s dark corners lurked mad scientists and dreamers.
Ning Zhuo made several trips to the “tuner,” struck a few deals, and hired a professional technical team, gradually bringing them to Haina.
One was a fifty-year-old engineer, “optimized” out of his old job, now freelancing in the black market like Min Qiu once did, fixing broken appliances.
He’d been part of the Columbus design team and was Min Qiu’s acquaintance.
According to her, he’d once been vibrant, full of ambition, vowing to build an indestructible ship to carry them to the ends of the earth and sea.
Through the “tuner,” Ning Zhuo tracked him down.
When the engineer heard Ning Zhuo had the means to build a seaworthy ship, he agreed instantly, refusing payment.
For over a decade, he’d believed his failures sent that ship of youths to their watery graves.
The guilt nearly killed him.
His mental state had crumbled with the Columbus’s sinking, spiraling into alcoholism—until recently, when a brutal livestream revealed the truth behind the disaster.
Stunned by the news, his first act was booking a rehab center, kicking his addiction.
Now, given a second chance to build a ship, he wanted no money—just to make it big, beautiful, and sturdy.
Haina perched atop mountains, backed by the vast sea, a desolate spot perfectly aligned with the coordinates Settlement 184 had left years ago.
They could sail straight from Haina.
The engineer stepped off at Haina’s ring of volcanic rock.
He looked around, bewildered. “Where’s… the ship?”
Ning Zhuo pointed to a steel pulley hanging at the cliff’s edge. “Up you go.”
Engineer: “?”
The shipyard lay beneath the cliff, shielded by natural barriers, inaccessible except by mountain paths or from within Haina.
Haina’s internal structure wasn’t for outsiders’ eyes, so temporary hires had one route: a cliffside basket, lowered like cargo.
The engineer avoided looking at the drop, gripped the basket’s edge, gritted his teeth, and climbed in.
Amid howling mountain winds and the pulley’s shrill squeaks, he huddled inside, reciting Li Sao to calm his nerves.
Nearing the end of the poem, he dared peek up at the cliff top, then stretched his stiff limbs, kneeling to look down—
He was close to his destination.
Someone awaited him below.
Min Qiu, in a bright red hard hat, stood directly beneath.
She held the hat’s brim with one hand, watching the mechanical basket inch toward her.
Dark hair brushed her lips.
She gave him a faint, fleeting smile.
The engineer clambered out, stumbling as he landed.
Min Qiu steadied him with a hand.
He smiled gratefully, staring at Min Qiu’s face—Min Min’s face—searching for words to ease the awkwardness. “Have we met somewhere?”
Min Qiu replied softly, “At the ends of the earth, the corners of the sea, maybe.”
The engineer froze.
Watching Min Qiu walk ahead, he wiped his suddenly warm, stinging eyes, recalling the youths lost to the deep sea. One girl, like this woman, had said with resolve that if there were such a place as the ends of the earth, she’d go see the moon.
Past fifty, the man wept like an emotional youth, lost in memories, crying as he walked.
…
Lately, Ning Zhuo and Shan Feibai stayed at the base, venturing out only for critical matters.
Boss Fu, usually unflappable, had taken to slipping out frequently, vanishing without a trace.
Others in Haina and Panqiao gradually moved past initial doubts, packing essential belongings, preparing for a long journey.
They had no real home; together, they were family.
People who’d shared countless holiday dumplings—what else could they be but kin?
If family was moving, how could they not follow?
Amid Haina’s hustle, few noticed: Charlemagne was out of prison.
His investigation had wrapped up long ago.
…He hadn’t left because he refused to.
He knew leaving meant White Shield would disown him, leaving him with nothing.
Maybe even his life.
He was scared.
In smoother times, Charlemagne had thought his life blissful, any hiccups easily smoothed, ready to die without regrets.
Now, facing death, he realized he wasn’t ready.
Even prison’s slop meant three meals a day.
As a former official, he’d likely get some perks, not sharing a toilet with eight others.
To survive, he went all in, confessing his crimes.
“Raskin is my son, Jin Charlemagne. Basil too…”
Charlemagne wrung his hands, his nails bitten ragged and bloodied, betraying his dire mental state. “To save my son, I did a lot—gave him a bio-facial swap, swapped his lethal injection for something else… I hired Ning Zhuo, that Haina mercenary leader, to smuggle him out. That was our first deal.”
“Later, later… my son died because the drug I prepared was switched for poison… The scene had Honbu Takeshi’s inmate number, so to shift suspicion, I hired Ning Zhuo again to kill him. After Honbu vanished from prison, I paid Ning Zhuo the balance. Who knew he’d handed Honbu to my wife, pocketing double?”
Listening to Charlemagne’s confession, Lin Qin gave a wry smile.
He’d pieced it all together, except for Mrs. Charlemagne’s role.
She’d been unremarkable until the dying Honbu Takeshi revealed he’d been ruined by an upper-district woman, leading Lin Qin to consider the deranged mother.
Ironically, when Lin Qin took the transcript to his superiors, White Shield’s leadership bickered for a month, concluding that Charlemagne couldn’t be jailed or convicted.
They’d championed him before.
If he was scum, it’d prove they’d been blind, propping up a disgrace as White Shield’s face.
White Shield was already humiliated; they couldn’t afford another self-inflicted blow.
Besides, Charlemagne, once powerful, had tied up loose ends flawlessly.
In short, there was no physical evidence.
Though White Shield often favored testimony over evidence, this time, to spare Charlemagne, they issued their most “just” ruling ever:
Insufficient evidence. Not guilty.
As for his accusations against Ning Zhuo…
If Charlemagne was innocent, so was Ning Zhuo.
Moreover, Ning Zhuo’s actions left no trace, no evidence.
Though some White Shield higher-ups knew Ning Zhuo was up to something and wanted him locked away for life, others, unaware and defending White Shield’s honor, fiercely opposed jailing Charlemagne. Unable to speak plainly, they swallowed their words.
Realizing he couldn’t stay in prison, Charlemagne was gutted. Waking at midnight, he sleepwalked, banging his head against the wall. Caught by guards, it was reported to Lin Qin.
Lin Qin observed coldly, noting his mental state was fraying.
…Likely because his wife’s dying act was to stain him with her blood.
Out of minimal professional ethics, Lin Qin arranged a psychologist for timely intervention.
But for Charlemagne, this was deeply unethical.
He’d been seeking mental escape.
Lin Qin didn’t want him to break or go mad.
His body was about to be freed, so let his mind rot in torment—a kind of unfair fairness.
Charlemagne was practically evicted from prison.
Tempered in that sunless cell for so long, he felt no joy returning to the free world. He stood alone on the street for ages, then shuddered awake, like a rat realizing it was exposed in broad daylight, darting into an alley’s shadows.
Nearby, a surveillance camera trained on the prison gate whirred, fixing on the alley where Charlemagne vanished, emitting a faint glow.
…
The “tuner,” Third Brother, propped his chin, looking at Ning Zhuo. “He’s out. Wanna take him down?”
Ning Zhuo tore his eyes from the live feed. “Let me deal with someone trying to take me down first.”
“Need help?” Third Brother offered. “I’ll close shop, see you home.”
Ning Zhuo studied him, then patted his shoulder. “Stick to being weird. This sappy side’s creepier.”
Third Brother scoffed but said no more oddities, just watched him leave silently.
He didn’t believe an AI like him had a “sixth sense.”
But today, his sixth sense about Ning Zhuo felt… off.
…
Lately, Ning Zhuo sensed more eyes on him.
So he’d been cautious, not even racking up traffic violations.
White Shield was likely scouring for his crimes, hoping for an excuse to haul all of Haina into jail.
Fortunately, under Ning Zhuo’s lead, Haina operated cleanly, mostly in the unmonitored lower district, staying within Silver Hammer’s rules.
Still, White Shield could shamelessly raid the base without cause.
If that happened, Ning Zhuo needed to be there.
Today, Silver Hammer was lightless, shrouded in thick, damp fog, a clammy white haze choking the air.
With no natural light, neon signs—artificial suns—lit up early.
Rebellious slogans like “This world’s done for” were drowned out by the city’s sprawling neon glow.
Ning Zhuo sped through the fog, racing homeward on this blurred day-night street.
But today, his road home was destined to be long.
Dozens of bee-like micro-drones silently buzzed after him.
Abu, detecting their approach, flashed red, its exhaust blasting fiery light, incinerating most of the pursuing drones.
But Abu’s flame endurance was limited, and the drones too numerous.
The moment Abu’s fire ceased, a silver straggler latched onto Ning Zhuo’s rear tire.
Half a second later, flames and shrapnel erupted in a fierce blast!
Abu’s tire burst, the rear lifting high, the bike nearly vertical.
Abu’s calm robotic voice announced the crisis: “Out of control, out of control, out of control.”
Ning Zhuo’s expression didn’t flicker. He gripped the handlebars tightly, only whipping the bike into a screeching tailspin stop once the rear slammed down.
With the rear tire shredded, he’d skidded at high speed, exhaust roaring with a heart-stopping growl.
Using one hand as a brake, he forced the bike to a halt.
When Abu precariously stopped, a long trail of churned gravel stretched before Ning Zhuo.
He lifted his hand from the ground, stone dust falling from his steel fingers.
Someone whistled, praising, “Cool.”
The admirer stepped from the shadows.
Ning Zhuo, after waiting so long, had finally reached this moment.
Amid his boiling blood, his heartbeat stayed eerily steady.
He relaxed his taut frame, gazing at the figure emerging from the fog, and said, “Jiang Jiuzhao, you’re here.”
