Jin Hu lay on the bed, gingerly supporting his hip bone, nursing the legs that Ning Zhuo had half-crippled with kicks.
Xin knocked on the door outside, limping in on his own battered legs.
Ning Zhuo’s attacks were calculated—painful but not fatal, injuring without maiming. The worst-off had two steel ribs bent, fixable with a trip to the infirmary for specialized repairs.
But to Jin Hu, they looked pathetic hobbling out, like a rehab squad.
That damn Rabbit Ning did it on purpose!
At his age, wasn’t he afraid of throwing out his back?
Grumbling, Jin Hu rolled over and sat up. “Rabbit Ning and his crew still haven’t gone anywhere?”
Xin, with his odd accent, said, “Ning Zhuo hasn’t moved. Shan Feibai came out.”
He avoided calling Ning Zhuo “Rabbit Ning” like Jin Hu did.
A rabbit wouldn’t have kicked him so hard he couldn’t stand after squatting in the bathroom.
Ignoring this, Jin Hu got up on wobbly legs. “I’ll take a look.”
The day had been relatively calm.
Partly because Motobu Takeshi, after two “accidental” mishaps, lost his appetite for trouble and stayed put.
But Jin Hu was convinced the peace was due to Ning Zhuo noticing his surveillance and lying low.
Coward! Why not keep stirring up chaos?
Jin Hu stepped out, scanning the area.
When he caught sight of Shan Feibai, he startled himself.
Shan Feibai was out for a stroll, not planning to go far, sitting on a step playing a borrowed handheld game.
His skin marked easily, and the vivid purple-red fingerprints around his neck were stark, almost gruesome.
The underling tasked with watching him looked equally puzzled.
Jin Hu squatted beside him, grimacing. “What’s with him?”
The underling shook his head. “Dunno. His neck was like that when he came out.”
He rubbed his own aching left arm, comparing it to Shan Feibai’s marks, suddenly feeling Rabbit Ning had been merciful to them.
He sucked his teeth. “Ning’s too brutal… even to his own people?”
“What ‘own people’?” Jin Hu scoffed. “They’re mortal enemies, stuck together like that? Tch, one of them’s gonna die someday!”
“…Really?”
A voice from behind startled Jin Hu.
Turning, he saw Motobu Takeshi, who’d appeared unnoticed, standing a short distance away, studying the young, handsome Shan Feibai with interest.
After nearly a day of seclusion, the burns on Motobu Takeshi’s fingers had mostly healed, and his spirits had lifted.
His gaze on Shan Feibai, ambiguous and unclear, he issued an order: “Find a chance when neither’s in their room. Install a hidden camera, and—”
The next sentence was deliberately hushed.
Catching Motobu Takeshi’s intent, Jin Hu was dumbfounded. “This…”
His rivalry with Ning Zhuo was about fists and profit. He’d love to smash Rabbit Ning’s cold, pretty face until he begged for mercy.
But Motobu Takeshi’s move was vile, a hundred times nastier than Ning Zhuo’s schemes.
Jin Hu had done dirty work for Motobu Takeshi before.
But he knew Rabbit Ning wasn’t a real rabbit. If crossed, he could tear someone apart.
Plus, “Haina” wasn’t just Ning Zhuo. There was that Fu guy.
Though Jin Hu had never seen Fu—likely no one in Silver Hammer City knew what he looked like—anyone who could keep Ning Zhuo in check was no pushover.
Motobu Takeshi was acting on a whim, but if “Haina” turned against their “Gale” group, sparking a blood feud, would Titan Company foot the bill?
Jin Hu mentally rehearsed countless refusals, about to speak, when Motobu Takeshi turned casually. “Hungry. Get them to send food.”
Jin Hu’s brows knotted, burdened, as he instructed Xin, “Hurry up with the food.”
Xin’s face darkened, clearly having overheard Motobu Takeshi’s plan.
Like Jin Hu, his position left him no choice.
Reluctantly taking a few steps, a prison guard appeared nearby, rubbing his hands politely. “Is Mr. Motobu Takeshi ready for dinner?”
Motobu Takeshi’s meal was French cuisine: martini, silver cod soup, tender foie gras with filet mignon as the main course, and pudding for dessert. Each dish was exquisite, soothing half his foul mood just by looking at it.
As he ate, four mercenaries, led by Jin Hu, stood around him, pouring his wine.
The first martini, naturally, was downed by Jin Hu.
Motobu Takeshi’s fear of danger hadn’t fully faded.
Seeing Jin Hu unharmed, Motobu Takeshi relaxed, indulging in the feast.
Mouth full, he mumbled to Jin Hu, “Hey, tell me about those two.”
“Those two” meant Ning Zhuo and Shan Feibai.
The boss was asking, so Jin Hu answered honestly. “They’ve been at each other’s throats for years… No one knows why. Just that when Shan Feibai debuted, he took a contract to kill Ning Zhuo but didn’t finish it. Dunno if he didn’t want a blood feud or was showing off. Anyway, ‘Panqiao’ shot to fame overnight. Since then, Ning Rab—Ning Zhuo’s hated his guts, and they’ve been fighting for five years…”
Motobu Takeshi listened, intrigued. “Interesting. So why are they together now?”
Jin Hu’s goal was to hint he also “didn’t want a blood feud”, but Motobu Takeshi ignored the subtext.
Either he didn’t get it or didn’t care.
Jin Hu forced a reply. “Ning Zhuo… probably wants to torment him.”
Motobu Takeshi’s eyes gleamed brighter. “So he choked that pretty boy’s neck like that?”
Jin Hu’s face soured. Steeling himself, he tried to be blunt. “Mr. Takeshi, Ning Zhuo and Shan Feibai are both tough nuts. If you want to play, we can find professionals, no problem. Especially Ning Zhuo, he’s really not—”
Before he finished, a glass of cold wine splashed across Jin Hu’s face.
“Can’t you understand plain words? I’m not trying to mess with him. The Shan guy’s good-looking, but not my type.”
Motobu Takeshi set down his empty glass. “Didn’t you say Ning’s been thoroughly played? He doesn’t seem like it. But I’m wary of filth.”
Jin Hu didn’t dare wipe his face, swallowing his rising anger as he refilled Motobu Takeshi’s glass.
Picking up his utensils, Motobu Takeshi smeared foie gras onto bread, then pointed the knife at Jin Hu. “I just want to see Ning getting played. Got a problem with that?”
His imperious attitude was like a spoiled, prank-loving kid.
No surprise there. Sheltered by his father, Benbu Liang, he’d always gotten his way, raised without discipline, retaining a raw malice and animalistic streak.
Delicacies? He’d eat them on a whim.
Heinous acts? He’d do them just because.
Jin Hu’s thoughts churned as his gaze dropped to the knife spreading the foie gras.
Its surface glinted with tiny, irregular flecks, looking off.
But Motobu Takeshi, cheeks bulging, had already bitten off half the foie gras-slathered bread.
After chewing twice, his face twisted. Clutching his mouth, he lurched back, squealing like a pig.
He spat out a chunk of bread, speckled with dots of blood.
Covering his mouth, blood seeped through his fingers, flowing faster, a ghastly sight.
Jin Hu’s heart sank. Snatching the knife, he examined it closely, finally seeing what the glints were.
…Tiny, thin shards of glass.
Unlike the high-altitude fall or electrocution incidents, meals in the VIP prison zone were bespoke, one-on-one service.
This was unmistakably aimed at Motobu Takeshi.
Pale, Jin Hu looked up at his men.
Catching his meaning, they shook their heads, panicked.
Ning Zhuo hadn’t left his cell since last night.
Shan Feibai had only wandered briefly under their watch.
If it wasn’t them, then who?
“…Investigate,” Motobu Takeshi growled, clutching his agonizing mouth, tears streaming, blood dripping as he roared, “Who did this? Find them!”
That morning, he’d lied to Lin Qin, claiming illness.
By night, his lie became reality, landing him in the infirmary.
Motobu Takeshi’s fury forced Jin Hu and his crew to drag Captain Pu, the shift leader, into turning the VIP prison zone upside down.
Regular inmates ate the lowest-grade nutrient paste, no question there.
The VIP zone employed three master chefs to serve these elite scumbags.
To accommodate individual tastes and restrictions, the kitchen prepped common ingredients, labeled with prisoner numbers, stored separately.
Since this wasn’t a prestigious operation, the special kitchen was a covert area, lacking cameras.
A roaming camera patrolled the corridor outside, but it caught no suspicious figures entering.
The three chefs pleaded innocence, insisting no outsiders had been there.
This matched the footage.
Jin Hu’s head throbbed as they babbled defenses. Slamming the table, he sent knives on the rack clattering. “No one came in? So, what, you did it?!”
To the chefs, Jin Hu was a terrifying Yama. They shrank back.
One, voice trembling, explained, “Mr. Jin… are we idiots? This food passes through us. If something’s wrong, we’re the first ones blamed.”
Irritated, Jin Hu had to admit he had a point.
They were familiar faces, long-time staff for the VIP zone’s meals.
Would they suddenly go mad, risking their cushy jobs to spike Motobu Takeshi’s food with glass?
Jin Hu pinched his nose. “Any leads?”
Chef A hesitated, then offered, “You’ve been here long enough to know we work on a request system. Guests order what they want, we cook. But Mr. Motobu Takeshi’s different…”
Motobu Takeshi was indeed unique.
He focused on “play” and didn’t bother planning meals, rarely fussy about food.
Most times, he ate whatever the chefs served.
Jin Hu grunted.
Chef B added cautiously, “So we draft the menu a day ahead to avoid a morning rush…”
He pointed to a storage cabinet in the kitchen’s southeast corner.
A handwritten menu was neatly taped to the door with adhesive paper.
Jin Hu leaned in to inspect it.
As he read, his heart jolted.
He slammed the cabinet, startling the trembling chefs again.
Glower, he demanded, “Motobu Takeshi didn’t touch his breakfast or lunch. Where are they?”
Chef C, silent until now, answered timidly, “They were sent to the disposal unit…”
Jin Hu: “Has the disposal unit been run today?”
“Not yet…”
“Open it,” Jin Hu ordered. “Let me check.”
Upset, Motobu Takeshi hadn’t eaten all day.
Jin Hu, cautious, cross-checked the menu, pulling out the ingredients meant for Motobu Takeshi’s meals.
To his horror, he found glass shards in both breakfast and lunch.
Breakfast: glass mixed in the strawberry jam.
Lunch: metal shards in the rice.
Dinner: the culprit finally succeeded, feeding glass shards into Motobu Takeshi’s mouth, leaving it bloodied.
Who? How did they do it?
Jin Hu’s first suspects were Ning Zhuo and Shan Feibai.
But their four men, eight eyes, saw clearly: Ning Zhuo never left his cell. Shan Feibai, during his outing, didn’t touch food, only playing games.
Baffled, Jin Hu inspected the storage cabinet’s strawberry jam, rice, and foie gras.
All were clean, free of contaminants.
Even if tampered, the chefs should’ve noticed immediately.
The strawberry jam, rice, and foie gras were all perfect for concealing tampering.
Jin Hu investigated the “weapon” further.
The glass had been meticulously crushed, likely with a heavy object, into fine, sharp, nearly invisible shards. Swallowed whole, they could pierce the digestive tract.
The thought was so vicious it sent chills down his spine.
But the glass was ordinary—possibly from a cup or plate.
Smashed too finely, its original form was untraceable.
Could it be the guard delivering the food?
But what was the motive?
Reeking faintly of spoiled food, Jin Hu returned to the VIP prison zone, heavy with worry.
Two of his men were watching Motobu Takeshi in the infirmary, doubling as his punching bags.
Xin stayed behind, keeping an eye on Ning Zhuo and Shan Feibai.
Seeing Jin Hu return, Xin approached but, noticing his ashen face, swallowed his questions.
Jin Hu slammed a fist against the wall, frustrated. “No movement from those two?”
Xin shook his head, stammering, “Ning… just came out. He grabbed food, told Shan to head back and eat.”
Jin Hu’s heart sank.
He’d clung to the hope that Ning Zhuo had slipped out unnoticed, not staying in the cell.
If he’d been there the whole time, what now?
Could there be a door, a window, or some hidden passage in that cell?
Jin Hu’s head throbbed. Thinking of Motobu Takeshi’s vile task, a sudden idea struck.
He had to check Ning Zhuo’s cell!
After some thought, Jin Hu instructed Xin, “Tell Captain Pu to check what Rabbit Ning and Shan Feibai brought in—anything glass-related. I’m going to Motobu Takeshi. When both of them are out, contact me immediately.”
Xin hesitated, staring at the ground, nodding reluctantly.
Jin Hu visited Motobu Takeshi first, bracing himself to report his near-zero progress.
Motobu Takeshi’s mouth was ravaged, stuffed with medicated cotton, making speech difficult. His face radiated impatience and rage, glaring at Jin Hu as if he were the one who’d spiked the food, his eyes practically flaying him.
Stung by the stare, Jin Hu couldn’t stay. Without waiting for Xin’s signal, he found an excuse and slipped out.
Mulling things over with a grim expression, he passed Ning Zhuo’s cell.
Just then, Ning Zhuo emerged, coming face-to-face with the limping Jin Hu.
A day apart, Ning Zhuo was still himself.
His face was pale, as if recovering from a chill, but his aura remained a drawn blade, a single glance enough to weaken one’s knees.
Behind him trailed a grinning Shan Feibai.
Jin Hu froze, staring.
Ning Zhuo sized him up coldly. “Good dogs don’t block the way.”
Normally, Jin Hu would’ve rolled up his sleeves for a fight.
Losing didn’t matter—it was about pride.
But after a day of setbacks, his fire had dimmed. Hearing this, he felt no urge to clash, just lowered his eyes and shuffled forward listlessly.
Ning Zhuo watched his back, then called out, “Hey, quit.”
Jin Hu heard but played dumb. “What?”
Ning Zhuo: “While you’re not old, while your spine’s not bent to habit. Quit.”
Jin Hu spun around, scowling. “You, a punk, lecturing me?”
Ning Zhuo: “I don’t have a father addicted to being a dog.”
Jin Hu trembled with rage. Knowing Ning Zhuo was right, he still snapped, “Being a dog pays. Being human starves!”
Ning Zhuo said no more, brushing past with a light, mocking comment, “Spineless.”
Jin Hu’s ears rang, blood surging through his veins, only to cool at his nerve endings.
Troubled, he watched Ning Zhuo and Shan Feibai leave, then turned, using a key from Captain Pu to unlock their cell door.
Jin Hu scoured the room, tapping walls and floor, finding no secret passages.
Compared to Motobu Takeshi’s lavish cell, this one was spartan and windowless.
There was a ventilation duct overhead, on the ceiling.
Hopeful, Jin Hu climbed onto a table, reached up, and pulled, only to find it welded shut, screws and blades caked with years of grime.
Clearly, no one in the cell had touched this duct, let alone escaped through it.
Hand dusted with dirt, Jin Hu was utterly lost.
Not them?
Could it really be… someone out to kill Motobu Takeshi?
