Jiang Jiuzhao and Ning Zhuo’s meeting was set at a failing fast-food joint in the lower district.
Upon seeing Ning Zhuo, Jiang Jiuzhao grinned, waving enthusiastically, as if their deadly clash months ago was a fleeting dream: “You actually came.”
The shirtless waiter leaned against the door, yawning incessantly.
The cook, engrossed in a game, slapped together two burgers, glanced at them—thinking they looked like pretty rabbits dining—sneered, and retreated to his spot, gaming obliviously.
After sitting, Jiang Jiuzhao urged warmly: “Eat up. Fair warning, these burgers are awful.”
Ning Zhuo raised an eyebrow: “Then why invite me here?”
Jiang Jiuzhao took a bite, unabashed: “It’s cheap.”
It was hot today. Ning Zhuo, naturally cold-bodied, wore a thin long-sleeve shirt.
Jiang Jiuzhao, in contrast, sported a sleeveless tank top, showing off his lithe waist and bare arms.
Ning Zhuo asked: “New arms and legs?”
“Top-of-the-line, hyper-realistic, can’t tell they’re fake, right?” Jiang Jiuzhao wiped ketchup from his mouth. “Not like you, all flashy, looking so badass.”
Ning Zhuo grabbed a takeout bag, clearly not planning a long chat: “Why’d you call me?”
Jiang Jiuzhao: “Free intel, want it?”
Ning Zhuo: “Spill.”
Jiang Jiuzhao said casually: “Safe Point 184 still has survivors. Decades ago, they contacted Silver Hammer Island, but our big companies shut them out, banned them from coming.”
Silence fell.
The shop’s ancient ventilation system groaned, barely turning, sighing faintly.
Jiang Jiuzhao’s tone was plain, lacking drama, so the slacking waiter and cook didn’t catch the bombshell he’d dropped.
Ning Zhuo leaned back, calm: “Why tell me?”
“You’re leaving anyway, so do me a favor—spread the word.” Jiang Jiuzhao swallowed another bite. “The guy who told me is dead. No one’ll know it came from me.”
Seeing Ning Zhuo’s green eyes remain steady, unfazed—no shock or thrill as he’d hoped—Jiang Jiuzhao, eager for a reaction, deflated: “I hand you explosive intel, and you’re just… nothing?”
Ning Zhuo countered: “What’s in it for you?”
Jiang Jiuzhao squinted, fox-like: “Guess.”
Ning Zhuo pressed his thumb to his lower lip, genuinely pondering.
The pressed lip paled, while the rest flushed like rouge.
Everyone loves a beauty, and Jiang Jiuzhao, pretty himself, stared unabashedly, tempted to con Ning Zhuo into a fling for a cheap thrill.
But Ning Zhuo wasn’t here for romance. Moments later, he cut through: “You’re scared Ruiteng’ll ditch you.”
All flirtation vanished.
Jiang Jiuzhao nodded frankly: “Yup. Thanks to you, your deal’s done, and that final battle was slick. But ‘Rousseau’ got screwed.”
He pouted, aggrieved: “You left me like this, a tattered rag. Now Little Boss Huo doesn’t want us for close protection. Can’t have that. So I thought—Silver Hammer needs chaos to need me.”
He laid out his twisted business logic: “If you’re a regular Silver Hammer Joe, life’s suffering, but you don’t want death, just dragging on. Then one day, someone says the outside world’s vast, you’ve been lied to, trapped on this island so they can chew through your blood and bones, generation after generation. Would you stand for it?”
Propping his chin, he blinked slyly: “…Wouldn’t you want to kill?”
His spark faded fast, frowning at the burger: “Ugh, this is gross.”
Ning Zhuo stayed silent.
Fairly, it was valuable intel.
For them, this journey with a set destination likely wouldn’t be fruitless.
For Silver Hammer’s citizens, it’d usher in a new era of confusion, upheaval, and rage.
All sparked by a mercenary captain’s selfish whim.
A fitting black comedy for Silver Hammer.
Ning Zhuo packed the burger, planning to visit the “Tuner” to delegate spreading the news, tossing in the burger as a gift.
He figured, since Jiang Jiuzhao deemed it vile, the Tuner might remember him longer for its taste.
With his schedule neatly planned, Ning Zhuo got a call from Shan Feibai.
Straight to the point: “Bro, when you back?”
Ning Zhuo: “What’s up?”
Miles away, Shan Feibai, safe from a kick, let loose: “Missing my wife so bad it hurts.”
Hearing real gloom in his tone, Ning Zhuo’s lips twitched upward, planning to deal with him later: “Nothing to do? Go find your family. Don’t say you’re leaving, just say goodbye.”
Shan Feibai, detached from family, nearly said, “My family’s all dead.” But he reconsidered—his mother in heaven, his father as good as dead, he still had one living relative, barely.
So, after hanging up with Ning Zhuo, he contacted Zhang Xingshu.
That call yielded unexpected intel.
Unable to profit from him, the Zhang father and son had to accept reality, bleeding their wealth dry.
Zhang Rong’en, ethereal as a celestial, was raised by his freeloading father to excel at spending, not earning. He sat in their grand hall, fretting over the future, yet refused to budge.
A veteran Silver Hammer capitalist, how could he stoop to new ventures?
With no choice, Zhang Xingshu, the younger generation, fended for himself, landing a job as an editor at Interest Corp.
Sensitive and reserved, shaped by Zhang Rong’en, he had a knack for words, quickly rising to deputy editor, earning enough for himself and his mother.
But supporting his art-obsessed, indulgent father was a strain.
Zhang Xingshu, aware of his illegitimate status—lower in rank and name than his brother—never complained, only highlighting the positives.
Softly: “Leaving home showed me earning and spending my own money feels right. Feibai, you figured that out before me.”
Shan Feibai didn’t linger on the topic.
Shan Feibai and his nominal brother had never clicked, always at a loss for words.
After hanging up, blinking in thought for a while, Shan Feibai’s next call went to Zhang Rong’en.
Zhang Rong’en never imagined Shan Feibai would reach out.
Even less did he expect Shan Feibai to propose a deal.
“Dad,” Shan Feibai cut to the chase, “I’m leaving.”
Zhang Rong’en was baffled: “…Leaving? Where?”
Shan Feibai said: “Like the Columbus, out to sea. Silver Hammer’s too small, too boring.”
Zhang Rong’en had no time to probe his reasons or destination.
His mind raced, latching onto the vast empire behind Shan Feibai.
Those assets couldn’t be taken along!
This call, at such a time, sent Zhang Rong’en—lately scraping by—into a frenzy of joy.
He forced a calm tone, masking his greed: “Then… the Shan family’s companies…”
“Oh, those.”
Shan Feibai’s voice was flat: “I don’t want them. Grandma’s uncles have run them for ages. Let them have it, just donate 10% of profits to a charity for lower-district disabled folks.”
Zhang Rong’en’s soaring hopes crashed halfway.
As his heart dimmed, Shan Feibai’s next words yanked him from the abyss to the skies: “But Grandma gave me a liquid gold vein, a personal gift. Since we’re father and son, I thought—”
Shan Feibai grinned, a wolfish glint: “…I’d give it to you.”
Zhang Rong’en couldn’t see it.
As Zhang Rong’en’s breathing grew heavy, Shan Feibai drawled: “Not for free. I have conditions.”
“I want you to publicly disown Zhang Xingshu and his mother.”
“I want you to buy a page in Silver Hammer Daily, confess your faults—no blaming others—apologize to Grandma, Mom, and me. The content’s gotta satisfy me.”
“Do it quick. I’m leaving in days. The sooner you finish, the faster we handle the transfer.”
Zhang Rong’en hung up in a daze, his heart riding a rollercoaster, mind reeling from the impact, fixated on one thing: a vein of liquid gold.
A whole vein.
Shan Feibai’s demands were reasonable enough.
He’d likely despised Zhang Xingshu and his mother for years, determined to kick them out and cut their lifelines before leaving.
Zhang Rong’en, hardened by recent slights, clenched his fist, resolved.
A master of words, he needed no ghostwriter to craft a dazzling piece.
He’d pull an all-nighter to finish the draft!
…
While Shan Feibai stirred trouble, Ning Zhuo had met the “Tuner,” completing Jiang Jiuzhao’s task.
But something nagged at him—a grudge left unsettled.
He parked Abu roadside, slumped over the dashboard, thinking hard, until it clicked.
Ning Zhuo checked a message on his wrist device, confirmed the photo’s details, and started Abu.
…
In a bustling night market, a man with an alloy jaw sprawled on a plastic stool, guzzling synthetic malt beer, bragging loudly about his glorious role in a brawl.
Mid-boast, a sharp gust whipped past, like a motorcycle speeding by.
Before Alloy Jaw could react, a fierce slap struck his head, sending him sprawling.
The fall was brutal.
His chin hit the curb, vision spinning, taking ages to refocus.
Furious, Alloy Jaw staggered up, cursing: “Fuck! Who the hell—”
His words froze, choking in his throat.
The culprit hadn’t fled but stayed brazenly, leaning on the motorcycle, watching him.
Alloy Jaw swallowed blood-tinged spit, petrified.
He remembered Ning Zhuo.
About a year ago, in a bar bathroom, he’d badmouthed Ning Zhuo behind his back, only to get caught red-handed.
“Remember?” Ning Zhuo said carelessly. “You owe me a slap. I told you, didn’t I? Don’t move, stay put, I know who you are.”
He flicked his wrist.
The device displayed Alloy Jaw’s ID code.
A year later, he hadn’t forgotten that slap.
Alloy Jaw didn’t dare speak or rage, shrinking like a quail, watching Ning Zhuo ride off.
Ning Zhuo mentally crossed him off his grudge list, deleting his ID from the device.
The cool breeze on his face felt exhilarating.
Those he hated had met their fates.
Those he loved waited for him at home.
Ning Zhuo hadn’t known such good days in ages, a strange, long-lost joy bubbling up.
He’d forgotten this was called happiness.
So, he kept his face blank, guarding it, lest it slip, be seen, or stolen.
He rode toward his haven, fearless and forward.
