Ning Zhuo’s aura was pale and sharp, like an unsheathed blade, instantly suppressing the venomous thoughts that had just sprouted in Warden Dorn’s mind.
To someone like Dorn, a lifelong resident of the upper city’s cozy nest, fattened by privilege, people like Ning Zhuo—barefoot, fearless mercenaries from the underbelly—were naturally terrifying.
Ning Zhuo had nothing to lose and everything to risk.
If Dorn went head-to-head with him, he’d be the one to suffer.
Out of options, Dorn forced a smile onto his strained face. “You… Team Leader Lin, this is our business. There’s no need to involve outsiders.”
Lin Qin, polite but unyielding, replied, “I’m unfamiliar with the place. Just hoping for someone to show me the way.”
With that infuriatingly gentle tone, he asked again, “Have you found Mr. Motobu?”
Dorn’s face flushed with anger, silently cursing Ning Zhuo for being a money-grubbing turncoat. Following Motobu Takeshi’s heels one moment, then switching sides to “White Shield” the second the wind changed?!
Mercenaries were like that—loyal as stray dogs, serving whoever paid.
Besides, Dorn had heard about Ning Zhuo’s deal with Motobu Takeshi:
Leave the prison, and the contract ends.
Dorn was caught in a dilemma.
To him, this was an internal “White Shield” issue, one that could’ve been resolved smoothly. Even with Interest Company’s Kenan involved, it was negotiable.
But now Ning Zhuo was here.
He could handle the refined Kenan, but could he rein in a mad dog like Ning Zhuo? If things escalated to violence, injuries or deaths would be a mess to clean up.
…He could suppress them, sure.
But that would mean a peaceful resolution, avoiding force, reaching a consensus, and sacrificing Motobu Takeshi to minimize losses.
Either way—peace or force—Dorn knew his days as warden were numbered.
Ning Zhuo watched leisurely as Dorn’s face shifted from red to white to ashen, relishing the old fox’s trembling under the flood of his inner turmoil.
Finally, Dorn squeezed his eyes shut, making his choice.
Gritting his teeth, he answered Lin Qin’s question in a low voice, “He escaped.”
Before Lin Qin could ask again, Dorn repeated clearly, each word laced with venom, “Motobu Takeshi escaped!”
…
A prison break was a life-or-death matter.
Two minutes after Dorn declared Motobu Takeshi’s disappearance, blood-red warning lights began flashing throughout the high-security district.
No alarms sounded, only endless silence.
The molten red glow seeped into every corner, illuminating the decadence of this gilded gutter with stark clarity.
The opulence of the high-security district was beyond even Lin Qin’s imagination.
When he first entered, surveying the surroundings, he nearly knocked over a small table.
The two or three bottles of liquor on it, plus the half-full highball glass, were worth more than all the money Lin Qin had saved since starting his career.
Xiao Xu, following Lin Qin, flushed red with a mix of excitement and fear.
Even a hothead like him could see they’d stumbled upon a massive, hidden scandal in Silver Hammer City.
Whether this would make or break their futures was anyone’s guess.
His subordinates were quietly panicking, but Lin Qin remained composed, issuing orders.
He raised the megaphone and commanded, “Everyone, return to your cells immediately.”
The reason he had to repeat himself was that these pampered young masters, spoiled by the prison’s indulgence, mostly ignored the earlier warnings.
They disregarded the rule to finish washing by ten p.m., return to their cells, and lights out.
Sleeping all day with nothing to do, nighttime was their prime time to revel.
Some, sharp enough to read the situation, sensed trouble at the first broadcast and obediently returned to avoid disaster.
Others, still clueless, continued their usual entertainment until they noticed a large group storming the high-security district, then scurried back to their non-regulation “cells” like rats, collapsing on their beds to play dead.
But some were just shameless.
Ten minutes after the lockdown order, patrolling guards found a doped-up young master lingering by the golf training area.
His reason for not returning? Simple: he hadn’t hit a birdie yet.¹
He’d heard the two broadcast warnings, of course, but arrogance made him ignore them.
His mercenary, also high, was floating in a haze. Facing a timid guard’s pleas, he shoved him onto a golf rack, splitting the guard’s head open.
Lin Qin rushed over upon hearing, Ning Zhuo trailing slowly behind.
To the master and servant, Lin Qin said politely, “Please return to where you belong.”
The mercenary, used to swaggering through the prison and high on powder, slurred, “Got no eyes? Who do you think you are? Young Master Xiu’s playing!”
Young Master Xiu, having just shanked a shot, blamed the outsiders for ruining his swing and luck. In a shrill, whiny voice, he screeched, “Get lost!”
The next second, his grip lightened.
Ning Zhuo casually snatched the steel golf club, weighed it in his hand, and swung it back, landing a precise hit on the cheekbone of the swaggering mercenary.
The mercenary flew sideways, head over heels!
Ning Zhuo dragged the brass golf club on the ground, the grating metallic screech making scalps tingle.
His foul mood, sparked by Shan Feibai, hadn’t improved one bit.
In a cold tone, he said, “Young Master Xiu, recognize this birdie? If not, I’ll hit another for you.”
High as he was, Young Master Xiu wasn’t suicidal.
He abandoned his knocked-out lackey and scampered off like a rabbit.
Lin Qin shook his head disapprovingly at Ning Zhuo.
Ning Zhuo: “Got a problem?”
Lin Qin gave a wry smile. “I’m still here.”
Ning Zhuo: “Just turn around.”
Lin Qin sighed softly, thinking, I didn’t even have time to turn away.
The money Ning Zhuo earned was for clearing obstacles, and he didn’t care how it was done.
Irritated, Ning Zhuo turned, only for Shan Feibai to pop up from nowhere, slinging an arm around his shoulder and suggesting, “You should’ve given Young Master Xiu’s ass another whack.”
Ning Zhuo, eyes forward, elbowed Shan Feibai in the chest.
Shan Feibai flinched in pain but clung to Ning Zhuo’s shoulder, whining, “Murdering your husband!”
Ning Zhuo: “You drunk? Who’s your husband?”
Shan Feibai whispered in his ear, “A husband bought for twenty thousand is still a husband.”
Then he grinned, his dimples faintly visible.
Ning Zhuo, expressionless: “In character again?”
Shan Feibai rambled, “Oh, I’m in, I’m in. Hubby, let’s go beat someone up together.”
Ning Zhuo slung the golf club over his shoulder and gave Shan Feibai’s back a sharp tap.
Unfortunately, Shan Feibai’s spine was tougher than the club, and the clang only made his mischievous glint sharper.
Lin Qin trailed behind, watching their playful scuffle, his mind replaying the interrogation of “Barbie Doll.”
He had asked the girl, “The person who saved you from Motobu Takeshi—what’s their name?”
The girl hesitated, her hands clenching and unclenching in front of her.
Her internal struggle was clear.
That person had kept her captive for two years, providing food, clothing, and education, yet never touched her.
In her mind, he was a mysterious, enigmatic “shadow” with unclear motives.
She could only guess anxiously whether he meant her well.
If he didn’t, why spend money to care for her?
If he did, why keep her confined?
The police bringing her here to ask for that person’s name made her sense trouble.
Yet, she craved genuine warmth.
A cup of milky candy water from Lin Qin was enough to make her feel guilty, like she owed him something.
Torn, she answered cautiously, “I couldn’t hear clearly through the wall.”
“Someone called him… something like Mr. Ras… something.”
She lied.
She’d heard it clearly—someone outside called her captor “Raskin.”
This naive girl hoped that by vagueing the name, she could satisfy the kind policeman while not betraying the Mr. Raskin who’d fed her for two years.
Since her release, she’d focused on survival, keeping her head down passing billboards, fearing recognition.
She didn’t know how infamous “Raskin” was.
Anyone hearing the name would grasp the massive implications behind her evasion.
She said Raskin saved her.
Sure, there were a dozen Raskins in the world.
But coincidentally, one “Raskin” had died spectacularly two months ago.
The girl’s prosthetic eye held footage of Motobu Takeshi’s crime, the direct evidence that sent him to prison and a mental hospital.
This gave Motobu Takeshi a motive for murder.
When Lin Qin finally secured a search warrant, Motobu Takeshi “escaped” from the supposedly impenetrable First Prison in Yatebo District.
Whatever the reason, the key was: Motobu Takeshi could leave the prison at will?
If confirmed, his airtight alibi would crumble.
Initially, Vice Professor Xue Liu’s motive, alibi, and poison-making skills outshone Motobu Takeshi’s.
But his core motive couldn’t be openly analyzed, and other aspects were merely “suspicious,” lacking solid proof.
His demeanor was so gentle, his reputation among students and colleagues stellar.
Everyone said he was a good person.
As the investigation deepened, Motobu Takeshi’s suspicion gradually overshadowed Xue Liu’s.
It seemed only natural.
One was a kind, scholarly man who, despite his daughter’s disappearance and a disfigurement scandal, still held hope for life.
The other was a scumbag who’d cruelly “remodel” his own kind on a whim.
Everyone preferred to believe the latter was the killer.
Lin Qin felt an invisible hand steering their investigation, guiding every clue toward Motobu Takeshi.
And these clues were ones they’d diligently uncovered themselves.
Yet, there was a glaring flaw.
For instance, Raskin was an undeniable pervert—would he really care for a girl for two years without touching her?
But the girl, ambushed and hooded, never saw Raskin’s face and couldn’t identify him.
Now, with Raskin dead, only Motobu Takeshi could defend himself.
So, where was Motobu Takeshi now?
…
Pain jolted Motobu Takeshi awake.
He groaned weakly, the faint echo bouncing from all directions, stinging his buzzing ears.
Struggling to open his eyes, he saw a cylindrical sky, the stench of gasoline filling his nose.
Still groggy, Motobu Takeshi gagged twice.
He’d been dumped in a wide, half-human-height gasoline drum, lips bleeding, unable to move.
He thought it was a nightmare—too unreal.
The gourmet meal he’d eaten hours ago lingered in his stomach, the taste of aged wine still on his tongue.
Yet his nose picked up the faint sourness of his own sweat.
For fastidious Motobu Takeshi, this was intolerable, sparking irritation.
He turned his head, scanning around, trying to rock the drum to escape.
Suddenly, an expressionless face appeared at the drum’s edge.
Caught off guard, Motobu Takeshi screamed.
With a “He’s awake,” the drum was kicked over with a clang.
Motobu Takeshi tumbled out like spoiled meat, face-planting onto the cold, hard ground.
His elbows ached from the fall. About to curse, a steel whip lashed down on him without warning!
Stuck in the drum in a twisted position for so long, his blood barely circulated. Dazed, he took two hits before feeling the pain.
It was excruciating!
He’d never been beaten like this in his life. Wailing, he scrambled on all fours, shouting, “Stop! Stop! Let’s talk! It hurts—do you know who I am? Do you know who my father is?”
At those words, the whip paused.
Shivering in pain, Motobu Takeshi heard a hoarse female voice ask, “Then do you know who my son is?”
Author’s Note:
¹ Birdie: A golf term for scoring one stroke under par.
