In the blink of an eye, only two weeks remained of Motobu Takeshi’s sentence.
During this time, he grew increasingly irritated with Jin Hu and his crew.
Jin Hu always seemed to have complaints about Motobu Takeshi’s decision to employ Ning Zhuo.
Though he never dared say it outright, his hesitant, unspoken expressions were enough to sour Motobu Takeshi’s mood.
Motobu Takeshi paid them to protect his home, not to give him attitude.
He didn’t care about their past grudges. Now, they should bury the hatchet and put on a show of camaraderie in his presence, even if it was just an act.
Even Ning Zhuo, who seemed devoid of human warmth, was more sensible than that Jin guy!
Fed up with Jin Hu and considering their earlier failure to protect him, Motobu Takeshi decided to dismiss Jin Hu’s team and replace them with another group of mercenaries.
He had money, didn’t mind the hassle, and refused to settle for less.
Upon receiving the order, Jin Hu wasn’t surprised or outraged—he’d seen it coming. He only felt cursed with bad luck, suspecting his fate clashed with Ning Zhuo’s.
Whenever Ning Zhuo showed up, Jin Hu was inevitably pushed out.
Hearing he was leaving, Ning Zhuo unexpectedly took time from his busy schedule to visit. “Leaving?”
Jin Hu knew his departure was set. Seeing Ning Zhuo’s face, he felt oddly calm. “Damn it, if we don’t leave, even Xin will be swayed by you.”
Since that night when Ning Zhuo gave Xin a thorough beating, Xin had been tamed, constantly hovering around Ning Zhuo, asking for tips on improving his skills.
Ning Zhuo said, “Good riddance.”
Jin Hu found the comment vague, somewhere between gloating and sincere well-wishing.
He studied Ning Zhuo for a moment before lowering his gaze dejectedly.
Among mercenaries, Jin Hu was pragmatic, believing in earning as much money as possible to keep his people fed, no matter the means.
So, looking at Ning Zhuo was like peering through fog—he could never figure out what Ning Zhuo was after.
Jin Hu and his team packed up and left, and new mercenaries quickly filled the gap.
They had no prior conflicts with Ning Zhuo. At most, they’d heard of this fearsome figure in the underworld. Upon meeting him and seeing his deceptively soft, rabbit-like appearance, they were privately surprised but maintained professional politeness and distance.
Motobu Takeshi was satisfied with this.
With his lust sated, he began to think of comfort.
Motobu Takeshi, usually indifferent to food, uncharacteristically ordered a meal, requesting a roast suckling pig.
The pig had to be freshly roasted to be perfect.
Motobu Takeshi summoned three chefs to prepare a private feast in a quiet garden.
A freshly slaughtered piglet sizzled on the grill, brushed with glaze that hardened into a crisp, deep maroon crust. When sliced, the skin crackled like scraping tempered glass.
Motobu Takeshi drank glass after glass of wine, half-drunk before the meat was even ready.
He gazed dreamily at the roasting meat, fine wine, and beautiful people, feeling life was simply too perfect.
When the pig was roasted to golden perfection, it was sliced and served.
Juices oozed, dripping along the crispy skin.
The hot meat was plated, best eaten while still scalding for optimal texture.
But Ning Zhuo didn’t care about texture—Motobu Takeshi was the one eating. His job was to ensure everything was safe.
As he meticulously checked the food for anything unusual, the chef who’d handed him the plate glanced at his back.
The chef was rotund, almost spherical, with a gentle, honest, and cheerful face that seemed utterly harmless.
When he glanced, his eyes carried a smile.
Then, he looked at Motobu Takeshi.
Motobu Takeshi was basking in the warm sun, looking like a content dog.
The heat was ample, the sunlight perfect—no one expected anything bad to happen on such a fine day.
The aroma of the meat put everyone in a relaxed state.
The new mercenary leader, “Bao Zhao (Leopart Claw),” and his men stood at a moderate distance.
Having not experienced the previous assassination attempt, their vigilance was low.
They carried stun guns at their waists, but that didn’t matter.
After surveying the surroundings, the fat chef lowered his head, picked up a carving knife still flecked with pig bone and grease.
He grabbed a cloth, wiping the knife until it gleamed.
The blade reflected his smiling eyes.
Motobu Takeshi downed a full glass of wine, watching Ning Zhuo patiently inspect the meat, and let out a big, comfortable yawn.
His good days felt destined to go on forever, full of flavor and endless.
As Motobu Takeshi’s yawn stretched his mouth wide, the chef made his move.
Loosely gripping the knife handle, he lunged toward Motobu Takeshi with agility that belied his weight!
Ning Zhuo heard the unusual footsteps behind him. Without turning, he reacted.
Following the sound, he flung the wooden fork used for picking meat from the plate’s edge!
The fork, made of fruitwood to preserve the pork’s flavor, had only a slightly pointed tip.
But with Ning Zhuo’s strength, it became a brutal weapon.
The fork whistled through the air, piercing the fat chef’s trachea from the side!
Yet the chef didn’t stop. No blood flowed. Instead, he sped up, eyes locked on Motobu Takeshi, mimicking Ning Zhuo’s move by hurling a knife straight at him!
His aim wasn’t as precise.
The gleaming boning knife flew in a cross shape, embedding itself three inches from Motobu Takeshi into the table, its handle quivering with a low hum.
Motobu Takeshi, mid-yawn, couldn’t even widen his eyes in shock.
The chef, tasked with carving and slicing, had three more knives at his waist.
He drew a second one.
This time, it wasn’t aimed at Motobu Takeshi but at Ning Zhuo.
The throw was deadly accurate, heading straight for Ning Zhuo’s face.
Ning Zhuo used the meat platter as a shield.
The platter shattered, grazing his right eye.
Ning Zhuo didn’t even flinch, charging straight at the chef!
Motobu Takeshi, still wary of Ning Zhuo, hadn’t allowed him to carry long-range weapons.
Now, it was too late for regrets. He clumsily twisted to retreat, his hands and feet uncoordinated, toppling backward with his stool.
After their initial shock, Bao Zhao and his men sprang into action, shouting furiously as they drew their guns and fired.
Their weapons were stun guns.
But the electrodes had no effect on the chef!
He moved like a massive fish, his face plastered with four or five electrodes, his chubby cheeks still bearing a mechanical smile. He threw another knife, which landed between Motobu Takeshi’s legs, narrowly missing his most vital part!
Motobu Takeshi collapsed to the ground, legs trembling, too shocked to even scream.
The chef was too fast. Sensing danger, Ning Zhuo quickened his pace, mentally calculating the distance.
The chef was clearly not human—impervious to blades and bullets, with astonishing speed.
With only one knife left, he could only engage in close combat to kill Motobu Takeshi.
Ning Zhuo calculated his own speed and concluded he only had time to block with his body.
So be it.
With cold indifference, Ning Zhuo thought to himself, his pace unwavering as he charged forward.
But the situation once again defied his expectations.
No one saw where Shan Feibai came from.
He dashed past the sprawled Motobu Takeshi, heading straight for the fat chef.
The chef gripped his last knife, his only remaining weapon.
Shan Feibai excelled at sniping, lurking in the shadows, and waiting for opportunities.
In a head-on fight, he had no flashy moves—only his body to use.
The gleaming knife plunged into Shan Feibai’s chest, between his ribs.
The fat chef froze for a moment but quickly realized that with Shan Feibai’s interception, the assassination had utterly failed.
He glared at this obstacle with hatred, gripping the knife handle and twisting the blade, trying to pierce his organs.
It didn’t budge.
The knife was cleverly lodged in Shan Feibai’s ribs, the blade slanted into the bone, immovable.
“Hey.”
Shan Feibai embraced the chef, exhaling a bloody breath. “…You missed.”
His tone was intimate, like a spoiled young master whining. “Didn’t whoever sent you tell you to aim better?”
The next second, the fat chef was sent flying.
He crashed hard into the wall.
Still wearing his kindly smile, the chef tried to rise, but a long leg wrapped around his neck, slamming him against the wall with a brutal, mutually destructive force!
The chef’s neck cracked under the immense pressure, exposing red and blue wiring as his head slumped to one side.
Even then, his lips held that gentle smile, sending chills down the spine.
Ning Zhuo, like plucking a watermelon, tore off the chef’s head along with its wiring. Amid sparks, he turned and strode toward Shan Feibai.
Bao Zhao and his men were handling Motobu Takeshi; no one was looking after Shan Feibai.
He stood there, trembling slightly, grinning at Ning Zhuo.
Blood was pooling across his chest.
Ning Zhuo caught him with his shoulder.
Shan Feibai collapsed naturally onto Ning Zhuo, murmuring, “It hurts.”
In the chaos, Ning Zhuo held him tightly, gripping his shoulder blade with one hand.
Shan Feibai’s voice was hoarse, barely audible to anyone but them. “Bro, were you thinking this knife should’ve hit you instead?”
Ning Zhuo gritted out three words: “…I could’ve made it.”
“I wouldn’t let that happen,” Shan Feibai whispered bluntly. “It’d break my heart.”
He buried his face in Ning Zhuo’s shoulder, obediently passing out.
…
The truth came to light quickly.
This fat chef had been brought in after the previous batch was replaced. His skills were decent, always smiling, with a cheerful face—perfect for serving others.
No one knew that this seemingly clean-background individual had a completely fabricated identity, a lie from the moment of his “birth.”
He was a bionoid specialized for assassination, harboring malicious intent, waiting for the perfect moment to deliver a fatal strike to Motobu Takeshi!
Ning Zhuo had ripped off his head, rendering him immobile, but uncovering his origins was no challenge for Motobu Takeshi.
Motobu Takeshi had the body thoroughly dissected.
Yet the results only fueled his rage.
The mastermind behind the bionoid, upon realizing the assassination had failed, had remotely destroyed it!
That’s why, after Ning Zhuo tore off its head, it ceased all resistance and movement.
All its data and received instructions had self-destructed, reduced to mush, leaving no trace of who was pulling the strings.
While Motobu Takeshi fumed helplessly at the chef’s dismantled remains, Ning Zhuo stood outside Shan Feibai’s hospital room.
He was out of danger.
As Shan Feibai had said, the knife had missed its mark.
Ning Zhuo lit a cigarette but didn’t smoke it, just held it between his fingers until it burned out.
Expressionless, he thought that the knife should indeed have struck him.
…According to plan.
He snuffed the cigarette butt in his palm.
His skin flinched in pain, but it couldn’t dispel the strange feeling in his chest.
It wasn’t pain or itch—just a heavy, uncomfortable weight.
He leaned down, punched his chest, and muttered, “Useless.”
It sounded like he was cursing Shan Feibai.
But he knew he was cursing himself.
He should go to Motobu Takeshi, continue playing the role of his protector.
Yet, inexplicably, he couldn’t move, like a useless fool.
…
Luckily, Motobu Takeshi, shaken by the ordeal, no longer cared whether Ning Zhuo was around.
After tossing and turning most of the night, he summoned Bao Zhao.
He got straight to the point. “I can’t stay here anymore.”
A month ago, the enemy was like a ghost, scheming in the shadows.
Now, that ghost had struck in broad daylight.
Someone was truly out to kill him!
He’d suspected Ning Zhuo before, but Ning Zhuo’s group hadn’t had the chance to tamper with anything.
That’s why he’d hired Ning Zhuo—partly to enjoy the eye candy, partly to keep him in check.
If anything happened to Motobu Takeshi, they’d be implicated.
Now, it seemed his decision had been a fortunate misstep.
Hiring Ning Zhuo had barely kept them in line.
But with his release approaching, they could no longer hold back.
The First Prison was secure but a surveillance-free island.
His father’s influence could reach inside, and so could other forces.
He couldn’t stay a moment longer!
Motobu Takeshi knew discussing this over a communicator was useless—it had to be in person. “Go out yourself, tell my dad I want to end my sentence early and find a safe place for me.”
Surrounded by three burly men, he curled up, muttering nervously, “Don’t come back. Stay outside to escort me.”
Bao Zhao, having just faced such a vicious attack, was shaken. He’d feared Motobu Takeshi was calling to fire him. Hearing the request to leave, guilt-ridden, he didn’t dare argue, nodding repeatedly without a word of protest before obediently leaving.
He informed Captain Pu and, late at night, slipped out of the high-security prison area through a familiar route.
The small door was discreet, with no surveillance within a hundred meters.
Facing the pitch-black sky, Bao Zhao felt dizzy, as if the day’s events were a dream.
But before he could fully exhale his frustration, his vision went dark.
An electrode lightly stuck to his wrist.
A powerful current surged, and Bao Zhao collapsed, convulsing, his skin smoldering with faint smoke.
A black sack was pulled over his head, and he was dragged like a dead dog onto a hovercar.
The vehicle sped off into the night.
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