The United Healthcare ambulance arrived first.
Close behind were the “White Shield” officers responsible for the jurisdiction.
Lin Qin’s premonition came true.
The dimly lit banquet hall had indeed become a makeshift interrogation point.
Kenan, burned to a husk, was barely breathing when carted off—a living cinder, clinging to a shred of life, wracked by torment even in his coma. His anguished moans echoed as he was taken away. No amount of money could save him now.
Ma Yushu fared slightly better.
Entangled by Kenan, he suffered 40% severe burns and was rushed to the hospital.
But United Healthcare’s reputation was infamous across Silver Hammer City.
With money, no matter how charred, you’d walk out polished.
Without it, your life was cheap, and doctors’ labor wasn’t free. Don’t disrupt their work.
Kenan had some clout in Silver Hammer. An incident on his turf demanded attention.
The others’ accounts were deemed unreliable by “White Shield.”
So the jurisdiction’s lead officer went straight to Lin Qin, urgently asking what happened.
Lin Qin reported what he saw.
The gathering was to mediate a conflict sparked by a high-interest loan.
Kenan set the time and place, notifying the others just an hour prior.
Ning Zhuo, Jin Xueshen, and Motobu Ryo arrived as agreed, rule-abiding, unarmed, and searched beforehand.
The room’s only weapon, the laser gun, was in Ma Yushu’s hand, fired by him.
The android waiter who flipped the fish stove, igniting Kenan’s alcohol-soaked body, was Kenan’s regular server.
Hearing this, the “White Shield” lead officer lit up: “So Ma Yushu’s the culprit.”
Lin Qin hadn’t said that.
But the officer, true to “White Shield” style, leaned close, whispering: “Officer Lin, want to tip off United Healthcare to finish Ma Yushu? One, he’s suffering alive. Two, Kenan’s no lowlife. He likely won’t survive tonight. If he dies without clarity, it’s trouble. A ‘clear resolution’ would be best…”
His rambling boiled down to one point: pin the case on Ma Yushu.
Motive? Irrelevant.
“White Shield” excelled at fabricating those.
The priority was to silence Ma Yushu fast, letting “White Shield” spin the narrative freely.
“Good idea,” Lin Qin said, patting his shoulder. “But I want Ma Yushu alive.”
The officer, unfamiliar with Lin Qin but aware of his upright “persona,” expected a stern rebuke.
Instead, Lin Qin, calm and soft-spoken, explained: “Did Ma Yushu have cigarettes on him?”
The officer thought back—none.
Lin Qin: “Kenan had a box of cigars.”
The officer’s eyes widened, grasping Lin Qin’s implication.
…This guy’s ruthless.
He mentally reviewed Lin Qin’s meteoric rise.
Lin Qin took on the 930 case no one wanted, nailing Motobu Ryo as the culprit, turning the tide in the crime-ridden lower district and stepping into “White Shield” HQ.
Then, in the Columbus Memorial Concert Hall bombing, he cracked the deaths of Xiao Lin and Jensen.
Though he couldn’t stop the blast, his prowess outshone the other jurisdictions’ leads, one of whom was demoted to a chaotic lower-district post.
Now, Kenan had fallen into Lin Qin’s hands, poised to be another stepping stone.
Was Lin Qin framing Kenan as the mastermind? Suggesting Kenan and Ma Yushu plotted the assassination, only for Kenan’s cleverness to backfire, burning himself?
If Lin Qin steered the case this way, as a key witness, his fame would soar.
The officer swallowed hard: “You mean, investigate Kenan?”
Lin Qin, unaware he’d become a scheming tiger in the officer’s mind, gently countered: “Why not? No harm in checking.”
Spooked, the officer avoided further dealings with this “terrifying” Lin Qin, turning to grill the restaurant owner.
The owner swore someone sneaked in at night, swapping the water wall’s contents—they’d never be dumb enough to store alcohol there.
But when asked for surveillance, he clammed up.
This was a highly private club, a glossy haven for Silver Hammer’s elite to hide their dirty secrets. The owner thrived on confidentiality—cameras were out of the question.
Unable to defend himself, he was cuffed and taken away.
By contrast, Ning Zhuo, Jin Xueshen, and Motobu Ryo were clean as blank paper, barely worth questioning.
Jin Xueshen, tucked in a corner, spoke with Yu Shifei.
Feigning calm, he said: “I’m done here.”
Yu Shifei: “Dead or alive?”
Jin Xueshen: “…Alive.”
Yu Shifei: “That’s good too.”
He knew a man in debt, severely burned, and unable to afford treatment would suffer in Silver Hammer’s dank, cold world.
He’d ooze, rot, heal, and rot again, like a mushroom stewing in water.
Death would be a mercy.
So, live. Living’s great.
Jin Xueshen bit his lip, holding back, but tears soon streamed down.
Not from post-revenge emptiness, but overwhelming joy.
Covering his eyes, tears seeped through his fingers: “I did right by them… I can live well now. I don’t… don’t have to…”
Yu Shifei, hearing his choked murmurs, said: “Live well. I’m with you. Together in life, together in death.”
Jin Xueshen: “…”
Through tears and flushed cheeks, he roared: “Piss off! I haven’t lived enough with you, and you’re talking death? Who taught you this jinxed crap?”
Yu Shifei, earnest, named his source: “Three Thousand Famous Love Letters in History.”
As Jin Xueshen scolded Yu Shifei for reading trash, Motobu Ryo and Ning Zhuo sat together, draped in Ning Zhuo’s fireproof blanket, hesitating.
Finally, Motobu Ryo couldn’t hold back: “…You’re really leaving?”
Ning Zhuo: “One creditor’s dead, the other’s worse than dead, and you’re making money now. Still need our protection?”
Motobu Ryo, tentatively: “Xiao Tang… he’s going too?”
Ning Zhuo, curt: “Yes.”
Motobu Ryo’s heart twisted painfully, though his face stayed numb: “…Does Xiao Tang have parents?”
Ning Zhuo, unflinching: “They’re dead.”
Motobu Ryo let out a low sigh: “Oh…”
Licking his lips, knowing this might be their parting, he poured out his heart: “I’m not cursing you… but going to sea’s dangerous. Xiao Tang’s a frail kid, needs care, pampering. Living like a little rat underground, I worry he won’t adjust outside, or he’ll get hurt… How’d he end up like this? What did he suffer before…”
Ning Zhuo believed Motobu Ryo’s rambling was genuine, rooted in a primal, paternal instinct.
By some cosmic thread, he and Tang Kaichang were blood kin, naturally drawn to each other.
But so what?
Tang Kaichang was a small flower blooming in a sea of sin, not for the Ben family to pluck.
Motobu Ryo sensed his own rambling, wiped his heated eyes, and tried to regroup, but only grew more incoherent: “I just feel… so close to him in my heart… He’s leaving, and I can’t bear it, I really can’t. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. Getting old, I guess, wanting a family…”
Ning Zhuo watched coldly as grief creased every wrinkle on Motobu Ryo’s face, shutting him down with one question: “…And where were you before?”
Where were you when your son wrought havoc?
Where were you when Tang Bi died alone in murky nutrient fluid?
When Motobu Takeshi’s filthy deeds came to light, what did you do?
Now this man, old and craving family warmth, wants a dutiful, compatible grandson by his side.
Is there such a cheap deal in this world?
Ning Zhuo didn’t waste more words, wheeling away, leaving Motobu Ryo—this man numb for most of his life—to stew in belated, gut-wrenching pain.
He’d be haunted by this lonely agony for the rest of his days.
He didn’t deserve happiness or redemption.
As Ning Zhuo left the room, he glanced sideways and saw Lin Qin, waiting outside for who-knows-how-long.
Lin Qin straightened, saying: “You can go.”
He knew Ning Zhuo was suspicious.
But no evidence pointed to him, not even their recent conversation inside, which couldn’t be used to accuse anyone.
Lin Qin saw it clearly: Ning Zhuo operated by Silver Hammer’s rules.
Here, as long as others under those rules were innocent, so was he.
Lin Qin: “You said you’re leaving?”
Ning Zhuo: “Yeah.”
“Leaving Silver Hammer City?”
“Yeah.”
Lin Qin handed him a cigarette, one the lead officer had shared: “So sudden? Not scared I’ll arrest you, are you?”
Ning Zhuo took it, not lighting it, just holding it between his lips: “Try me.”
Lin Qin lit his own, the tobacco hissing, releasing a sharp minty scent: “Papa Fu leaving too?”
Ning Zhuo: “Don’t know. You coming? We saved a spot on the ship for you.”
Lin Qin, cigarette dangling, let the smoke curl upward: “Not going. This place still needs me. I’ve got unfinished business.”
Ning Zhuo nodded, approving his choice: “Can you hold up alone?”
Lin Qin: “If I can’t, I’ll think of you all, think of Dad, and I’ll manage. Can’t let you down.”
Ning Zhuo: “Dealing with these people, can you stay true to yourself? Who’ll keep you in check?”
The question cut deep, hard to answer.
Lin Qin fell silent, smoking half his cigarette before responding.
“If you come back someday, and I’ve really changed…” Lin Qin pressed a cold brass bullet into his hand, “use this to kill me.”
Ning Zhuo accepted it casually: “Anything else?”
“Nothing here.” Lin Qin smiled reluctantly. “Just came to say you’re free to go.”
“You’ve got nothing, but I do.”
Ning Zhuo looked at him: “Back then, you asked how to manage your team. I told you to sort out who’s genuine and who’s planted, assign them tasks, and focus on the case. But I left out something critical.”
Lin Qin listened intently.
“…You need to figure out which factions the plants belong to. Like in your 930 task force, ‘maybe’ it wasn’t just Charlemagne’s people sneaking in, but Charlemagne’s wife’s too. Their goals differed—one in the shadows, one in the open—so they’d disrupt your investigation from different angles.”
Lin Qin’s eyes widened in realization.
Back then, Ning Zhuo hadn’t pointed out Charlemagne’s wife deliberately, to keep his own plans on track.
Lin Qin, sincerely: “…Thanks for the heads-up. Good thing we’re not enemies.”
“My enemies are waiting outside.” Ning Zhuo waved, wheeling himself out, his translucent arm flicking carelessly. “Lin Qin, see you if fate allows.”
…
One dinner left one dead, another gravely injured.
Alone in the descending elevator, Ning Zhuo exhaled a long, heavy breath.
He was suddenly exhausted.
As his body and mind wore down, he saw Shan Feibai.
Bathed in faint light, he stood quietly waiting, looking young, lean, and healthy.
His skin, under the parking lot’s glow, shimmered like honey.
Noticing Ning Zhuo, Shan Feibai strode over, bending to check the small graze on his shoulder, brushing it with his lips. He cradled Ning Zhuo’s face, staring into his emerald eyes, studying them before offering his silly game’s answer.
“…I bet you were thinking of me.”
Ning Zhuo blinked.
Truth be told, during the banquet, he hadn’t thought of much.
Except Shan Feibai.
After the fire, Ning Zhuo had swiped a lotus-shaped pastry, wrapped it in tissue, and pocketed it.
Lacking the knack for guessing fillings, he wasn’t sure if Shan Feibai would like it or turn up his nose.
Ning Zhuo resolved: if the little wolf pup got picky, he’d shove it in his mouth.
Shan Feibai’s eyes gleamed, their ripples sparkling: “…Were you thinking of me?”
Ning Zhuo gazed at him, silent.
He was pondering something else:
Is someone you always think about called a beloved?
Ning Zhuo felt he wasn’t great at love. Even realizing this, no epiphany shook him.
He just wondered: when had it started?
Probably long ago, hating him, loving him, but never hating enough to kill.
Betrayed and hurt by him, striking back, his heart racing when Shan Feibai was hurt by others, thrilled when he was hurt for Ning Zhuo.
When had Shan Feibai become the one and only?
As Shan Feibai leaned down, softly kissing his lips, Ning Zhuo was still musing, tilting his neck slightly to meet the tender, lingering kiss.
A communicator clattering behind them broke his thoughts.
Both turned.
Jin Xueshen stood at the parking lot entrance, gaping at the kissing pair, suddenly feeling his night’s revenge had turned surreal.
…The world must be ending.
How else could he see Ning Zhuo kissing Shan Feibai?
