After a day and a half of stagnation, their shipbuilding efforts resumed, and Min Qiu came back online.
As usual, she flipped through Min Min’s diary—their twin connection allowed an intuitive bond but not detailed telepathic communication.
For years, they’d relied on this old-school message-board method to confirm each other’s existence.
Then Min Qiu saw a bolded line: “Sis!! Ning-ning and White Wolf seem to be dating!!”
Min Qiu raised an eyebrow, amused, and replied: “Oh. You just noticed?”
After leaving the note, she geared up and headed out to work.
That evening, she returned the body to Min Min and sank into deep sleep.
The next day, waking up, she found the diary upside-down on her face.
The first page screamed three giant question marks: “???”
Min Min had unleashed a torrent of questions:
When did it happen? How did they get together? They’d beaten each other up so many times—Ning Zhuo still had a bite scar from Shan Feibai’s teeth! What kind of vicious dog bites like that? She hadn’t even gotten over it, and they were already holding hands?
The gossip was so juicy no one would believe it—they’d think she’d lost her mind.
So Min Min bottled it up, gossiping frantically with herself.
Min Qiu felt it wasn’t right to discuss details with a kid—even though Min Min was her twin, born minutes apart, Min Qiu saw her as a child to protect.
But from Min Min’s words, she caught a tidbit:
Min Min had jokingly bet herself in a wager over Shan Feibai and Ning Zhuo’s relationship, “losing” to some girl.
Min Qiu left a question: “Who’s Phoenix?”
Her world was work; few people caught her eye.
The next day, guided by Min Min, she met the fabled “Phoenix.”
Locking eyes, Min Qiu realized she’d seen her countless times.
During her first breakdown, Phoenix was there.
When working, a glance from the corner of her eye often found Phoenix nearby.
Her thigh, etched with a hollowed-out phoenix tattoo, braved the cold year-round, boldly displayed in hot pants, a human-made spectacle.
She often sat or stood, as if waiting for someone.
Min Qiu observed her for days, then approached.
“Hello,” she said, blunt as ever. “Heard my sister sold me to you?”
Phoenix, caught sneaking a cigarette in a corner, blinked at her, confused.
She knew Min Min had another personality but avoided trouble, so her actual interactions with Min Qiu were near zero.
Unlike Min Min’s pristine look, Min Qiu’s cheeks bore faint oil smudges, her loose work pants sagging, sleeves rolled to her elbows, revealing sleek, toned forearm muscles.
Seeing Phoenix hesitate, her slim mint cigarette nearly burned out, Min Qiu deftly plucked it from her lips, flicked the ash, and took the final drag herself, her dry lips closing around it.
Phoenix froze.
“No open flames here,” Min Qiu said, extinguishing the hazard, exhaling a crisp white line toward the nearby exit.
…A polite hint to leave.
Same face, yet Phoenix felt a world of difference.
Min Min was easy to read—her needs were simple, easily met. Phoenix played the mature big sister with her.
But Min Qiu had seen oceans and moons.
A single glance from her, and Phoenix, usually bold and confident, felt flustered.
She bolted.
That night, Min Qiu left Min Min a note: “Good taste. She’s a beauty.”
Min Min’s focus was elsewhere: “Sis, did you figure out who’s top and who’s bottom?”
Min Qiu cared more about Phoenix than Ning Zhuo and Shan Feibai.
Worldly, she replied: “Haven’t they already slept together? Ning Zhuo’s the bottom.”
With that, she prepared to sleep.
Five minutes later, Min Min forcibly woke her: “??? How’d you know?”
Min Qiu yawned, scribbling: “His walk.”
That night, Min Min didn’t wake her again—likely rebuilding her shattered worldview.
…
Ning Zhuo was oblivious to the sisters’ heated gossip about him.
He was now focused on physical rehab.
His first half of life was a blade, carving himself with scars and bloodlust.
Now, he aimed to sheathe that blade and start maintaining himself.
But he was a man of momentum, unable to stay still even when he tried.
To aid his mobility, Shan Feibai crafted him a sleek, lightweight liquid-metal cane.
Ning Zhuo tested it, swinging it twice in the air, then lightly tapped Shan Feibai’s backside, pleased with the feel.
He said: “Let’s check on the captives.”
The “captives” were “Spider” and his crew.
By mercenary rules, if one side halts combat, the other should release captives to maintain peace.
Tools shouldn’t trouble tools.
But with Ning Zhuo still recovering and Shan Feibai tending to him, they “forgot” about it. The battle-worn mercenaries were tossed into an interrogation room, ignored for four or five days.
When brought out, “Spider” was full of complaints but held his tongue.
Under someone’s roof, you bow.
He stayed silent.
Ning Zhuo’s cane tapped the floor, each step echoing.
His voice, still weak from blood loss, said: “By the rules, you abandoned your mission, conceding to us. We should follow suit and let you go.”
“Spider” lowered his head, face blank, but his lips twitched, clearly unconvinced.
Then, a thunderclap question hit: “But I’ve got one question. Who was the last to ambush Shan Feibai back then?”
Ning Zhuo had kept the android’s head from that fire scene.
During “Rousseau” Team B’s raid on “Haina,” many mercenaries’ prosthetics bore the same fireproof tech as that android.
It was Ruiteng’s proprietary, non-shared craft for insiders.
Shan Feibai confirmed he didn’t recognize anyone from Jiang Jiuzhao’s Team A.
But Team B’s “captives”? He knew half of them.
At Ning Zhuo’s sudden revisit of old grudges, “Spider’s” body tensed slightly, his eyes flicking to a teammate.
That teammate glanced back.
“Spider” glared fiercely: You dare speak?
The mercenary quickly dropped his gaze.
Ning Zhuo, leaning on his cane, dressed in crisp white hospital garb, his unmarked hand hanging by his side, looked harmless.
This seemingly non-threatening man scanned them, then issued a casual order: “No one’s fessing up. Break their spines.”
“Spider” shuddered, roaring: “You wouldn’t dare! That breaks mercenary rules!”
Ning Zhuo flicked him a bored glance: “Anyone who thinks I broke the rules can come talk to me.”
He tapped his cane, turning to leave, addressing “Haina” and “Panqiao” members calmly: “Five minutes from now, if I see any ‘Rousseau’ still standing, you’ll be the ones lying down.”
Before he took his first step out, a mercenary shouted: “It was him! Our captain, ‘Spider,’ did it!”
“Rousseau’s” team, deeply influenced by Jiang Jiuzhao’s ways, cracked.
The spine, unlike other body parts, carries immense risk for prosthetic replacement surgery. No one can guarantee full success; a single mistake could mean lifelong disability.
For mercenaries, their bodies are their capital, their everything.
Eager to avoid being implicated, the “Rousseau” crew acted swiftly. Before “Haina’s” people could move, they shoved “Spider” out from the group.
Unable to dodge, “Spider” stumbled forward, knees buckling, nearly collapsing before Ning Zhuo.
Ning Zhuo looked down, eyeing “Spider,” hands bound behind his back: “Oh, you.”
“Spider” swallowed hard, knowing groveling was useless now. He steeled himself: “If you’re gonna hit, hit. If you’re gonna kill—”
Ning Zhuo: “Not killing you.”
With that, he raised his cane, striking “Spider’s” head with a sharp crack.
The blow stung without knocking him out. “Spider” felt his skull throb, his fleeting bravado shattered.
Ning Zhuo didn’t curse, just kept striking, one blow after another.
The liquid-metal cane, hard yet light, drew echoes from bone with each hit.
Ning Zhuo’s strikes were savage and precise. Under the relentless barrage, “Spider” soon screamed, writhing on the floor.
After dozens of blows, “Spider” resembled a bruised, mottled arachnid, his exposed skin a ghastly mix of purple and red.
“That’s enough for me,” Ning Zhuo said.
Still recovering from his injuries, he’d broken a cold sweat after this unconventional rehab exercise.
He handed the cane to Shan Feibai: “Your turn. Your bones, your pain—you know where it hurts most.”
Shan Feibai took the cane, weighing it in his palm. He nudged the dazed “Spider” over with his toe, pinning his lumbar spine with a foot, aiming precisely.
Softly, he said: “This debt—I’m collecting now, whether you like it or not.”
With a precise swing, the cane cracked down, and “Spider’s” spine let out a sickening snap.
“Spider” howled, then passed out.
Ning Zhuo took back the cane from Shan Feibai, too drained to wipe his sweat, letting it roll down his cheeks. Squinting, he leaned against the wall to regroup: “What’ll you say when you get back?”
The “Rousseau” Team B mercenaries exchanged glances.
Mercenaries had unwritten rules:
If a job was botched, leaving survivors who sought revenge, as long as the retaliation wasn’t excessive and mirrored the original offense, the losers had to accept their fate.
Both sides called a truce, but everyone knew “Rousseau” had been crushed by “Haina” and “Panqiao.”
“Rousseau’s” reputation was already battered. If word got out that “Spider” had screwed up back then, letting the victim break his spine in revenge, “Rousseau” would become a laughingstock.
A quick-witted young mercenary, chilled by Ning Zhuo’s icy stare, answered fast: “Second Brother got hurt in the melee. It’s a work injury, not personal.”
Ning Zhuo glanced at him, nodding slightly: “There’s a medical van downstairs. Take it. Consider it a gift.”
The mercenary, showing no disdain, thanked Ning Zhuo before directing two others to fetch a stretcher and haul “Spider” away.
With the captives gone, Shan Feibai carted Ning Zhuo back to his room.
“Spider’s” blood had splattered Ning Zhuo’s hand.
Shan Feibai knelt by the bed, wiping it with a hot towel.
The steaming cloth glided over Ning Zhuo’s pale skin, erasing the blood, revealing its soft, fair texture.
Ning Zhuo avoided Shan Feibai’s focused gaze, looking away: “…Got your revenge.”
Shan Feibai: “Thanks, Ning-ge.”
Ning Zhuo: “Just convenient.”
Shan Feibai: “You tired?”
Ning Zhuo: “Nah. Fine.”
They chatted idly, as if they’d just taken a stroll, not settled a brutal score, now debating lunch.
Ning Zhuo, sweaty, would feel gross resting like this. Shan Feibai took charge, stripping him to his tank top and shorts, changing his dressings, and wiping down his exposed skin.
He lifted Ning Zhuo’s leg, gently cleaning the thigh’s base with the warm towel.
He said: “When we settle down, maybe we can raise a pet?”
Ning Zhuo turned sideways, silent.
Silver Hammer City had no zoos.
The last bred pet cat died fifty years ago.
Ning Zhuo had only seen cats and dogs in books.
He couldn’t picture a non-human animal at home.
But he said: “Sure.”
Shan Feibai painted their future, dimples flickering, eyes glinting like embers: “We’ll build our own house—not underground, but reaching for the sky, catching at least four hours of sunlight a day…”
Lost in Shan Feibai’s dreams, Ning Zhuo seemed distracted.
Suddenly, he frowned, grunting in annoyance.
Shan Feibai looked down, realizing he’d been so caught up in daydreams that his wiping had gotten careless, stirring Ning Zhuo up.
Shan Feibai’s eyes sparkled. He slid behind, wrapping Ning Zhuo’s cool, lean frame, steadying his waist: “…Ge, you up for it now?”
Ning Zhuo shot him a look: “Are you up for it?”
Shan Feibai chuckled low against his ear, adding pressure to his grip, exploring familiar spots, savoring Ning Zhuo’s arched neck and soft gasps, his heart brimming with serene joy.
Mindful of Ning Zhuo’s condition, Shan Feibai held back, keeping it measured, sweat beading on his forehead.
After, Ning Zhuo felt no pain, casually getting up to grab his cane by the bed.
Shan Feibai, planning to cuddle and sleep, saw Ning Zhuo wasn’t settling down. Tugging his shirt, he said: “Ge, you’ve done enough today. Rest.”
Ning Zhuo, lazily buttoning up: “I’m fine. Gonna check the ship.”
Shan Feibai raised an eyebrow.
He remembered—Ning Zhuo never heeded gentle advice.
He’d used the wrong tactic.
Snatching the cane, Shan Feibai tossed it aside. As Ning Zhuo lost balance, tipping over, he caught his waist, hoisting him back onto the bed.
Ning Zhuo bounced, glaring: “What’re you doing?”
Shan Feibai loomed over him: “Making you rest.”
This time, he unleashed a storm, tossing Ning Zhuo into a raging sea.
Caught in towering waves, Ning Zhuo was swept away, his body torn between pain and a tingling comfort. Waves surged within, trapping him in a push-pull, nearly tempting him to sink forever.
After this long journey, Ning Zhuo was utterly spent, exhaling a long breath before slipping into deep sleep.
…
For Ma Yushu, these days were a crucible of torment.
No one beat or berated him, but his heart simmered in relentless agony.
No word came from “Rousseau.”
His wife had swiftly divorced him, cutting ties, taking their child, refusing to linger near this gambler.
Worst of all, he watched his years of savings vanish in a tidal wave, leaving only barren sand.
Even if “Rousseau” captured Motobu Ryo, what then?
He’d be back to square one, the penniless Ma Yushu.
How would he face the future?
The thought drenched him in cold sweat.
One night, amidst his panic and dread, Ma Yushu got a call from an unknown number.
He couldn’t risk going dark, fearing Kenan would suspect he’d skip out on his debts.
If Kenan grew wary, Ma Yushu’s slim chance to breathe would vanish.
Bracing himself, he answered: “Hello—”
The greeting came from someone Ma Yushu never expected: “Hello, Mr. Ma. How’ve you been lately?”
Ma Yushu bolted upright, clutching the communicator, stunned, before squeezing out a broken whisper: “…Motobu Ryo?”
“Thanks to your help earlier, you did me a huge favor,” Motobu Ryo said, his tone as cold as ever. “I didn’t expect you’d blow things up this big. I didn’t want this—it’s caused me a lot of trouble. My work’s been going well lately, so I think we should settle this peacefully.”
“How about this: you, me, and the man behind you—we meet and talk. We’re in this to make money, not enemies.”
“What do you say… agree?”