The night’s dramatic twists were so shocking that they left “White Shield” dumbfounded.
Some insiders initially mocked Lin Qin behind his back:
Investigating a case is one thing, but bringing a journalist? The case isn’t even solved, and he’s already trying to mimic Charlemagne’s rise to fame?
To everyone, this was a straightforward “interrogation.”
Submit the summons, question the person, send them back.
If all went smoothly, it’d wrap up in an hour.
Was this trivial matter worth calling a journalist for?
They didn’t warn Lin Qin, eager to see the task force leader make a fool of himself.
Only Deputy Director Eller, who’d promoted him, couldn’t stand by. He cautioned Lin Qin, “Why bring a journalist? There’s nothing to film; it’s a wasted trip.”
Lin Qin replied, “Without a journalist, they’d say Motobu Takeshi had a breakdown and send me away. That’s what happened last time.”
Eller tapped the desk. “Don’t you have the summons?”
Lin Qin: “You know why it took so long to get it.”
He didn’t spell it out, but Eller understood instantly, sighing.
The summons in front of them had taken a week of heated arguments among “White Shield” higher-ups to issue.
Many didn’t want to cross the powers behind Motobu Takeshi, avoiding any involvement with him.
But the poisoner had clearly left Motobu Takeshi’s prisoner number, so they had to question him, at the very least.
…Even if Motobu Takeshi did it, he wouldn’t admit it.
When the time came, “White Shield” would back him with their “ironclad” security system, solidifying his alibi.
Eller knew Lin Qin’s trip would likely yield nothing and patted his shoulder in consolation.
Who could’ve predicted that such a routine matter would spiral into this?
They hadn’t even confronted Motobu Takeshi when he escaped from the supposedly impregnable First Prison, practically admitting guilt.
Now, “White Shield” was entirely humiliated from top to bottom.
They couldn’t even whitewash Motobu Takeshi anymore.
After an emergency meeting, “White Shield” failed to devise a plan to recapture Motobu Takeshi but unanimously agreed:
Lin Qin was still the September 30 task force leader, so let him handle this mess.
He had no backing or qualms—perfect for taking the fall.
This was indeed a troublesome affair.
Due to the “special nature” of the high-security district, there were no cameras, leaving no physical evidence.
Testimony relied solely on the word of various individuals.
With differing motives, their statements naturally varied.
Warden Dorn insisted Motobu Takeshi escaped on his own and that he’d provided no assistance.
As for the high-security district’s falsified surveillance, lax management, and over-the-top prisoner privileges, Dorn had no defense. He bluntly stated he’d retire after this, resigning in atonement.
Several prisoners close to Motobu Takeshi were interrogated.
But they knew they’d enjoyed unearned privileges in prison, and none had clean hands.
If one fell, they’d all be dragged down.
So they played dumb, claiming ignorance.
Luckily, they genuinely didn’t know much.
Just drinking buddies, nothing more.
Captain Park, who’d pointed a gun at Lin Qin, was guilty of clear defiance.
As the scapegoat, he faced severe punishment—his hand was severed, and he was immediately locked in a “low-class” cell in front of First Prison.
Though his actions were at Dorn’s behest, there was no direct evidence.
He could only swallow the loss in silence.
As for the other guards, seeing the once-arrogant Captain Park’s miserable fate, they—small fry—dared not step up to testify. They stammered, unable to say anything.
Kenan from Interest Company, with a kind yet apologetic smile, filmed heaps of prison interior footage.
Of course, he wasn’t foolish enough to publicize it.
The hedonistic young masters in the prison were scum, but their backers formed a sprawling, deeply rooted tree of influence.
Offending them all at once would mean not seeing Silver Hammer City’s sunrise tomorrow.
Those with journalistic integrity died before reaching his position.
But with this footage and leverage, his collaboration with “White Shield” could deepen.
With the prison’s unreliability, the investigation had to expand outward.
It was known that Motobu Takeshi had switched his protective mercenaries midway.
The previous team was dismissed for “inadequate protection.”
Having been with him since his imprisonment, they should know his movements.
Lin Qin’s team tracked them down, only to find “Gale” had been fired from Titan Company.
That made sense.
A mercenary team branded as “incompetent” couldn’t stay.
Fortunately, they weren’t hard to locate.
Rumor had it, after being sacked, they were seeking work in the black market.
Lin Qin personally found Jin Hu.
But Jin Hu, busy with his current job, shook his head at all of Lin Qin’s questions: “Don’t know.”
In the mercenary trade, “confidentiality” was paramount, unless paid to talk.
Jin Hu didn’t dare break it.
His former employer had immense influence. Though he no longer relied on them, he wouldn’t dream of betraying their secrets.
When Lin Qin cautiously mentioned Ning Zhuo, asking about his time working with them, a mercenary named “Xin,” speaking in a rough accent, vouched for him: “He’s a good guy, very responsible. He handled everything for Mr. Motobu Takeshi perfectly.”
Jin Hu glanced at Xin but didn’t contradict him.
Jin Hu knew being kicked out of the prison was a blessing in disguise.
Had he stayed with Motobu Takeshi, he might’ve been the mercenary “missing after fleeing with Motobu Takeshi.”
He suspected Ning Zhuo was behind it.
He recalled Ning Zhuo’s vague words when he left: “Good you’re gone.”
Very suspicious.
But what did that have to do with Jin Hu?
Now, he didn’t have to serve anyone. Life was tougher, but at least he didn’t have to grovel like a dog.
Let that bastard Motobu Takeshi rot.
Lin Qin returned to the prison, meticulously cataloging Motobu Takeshi’s belongings, and found the only surveillance device in the prison.
…It was Motobu Takeshi’s, used to monitor Ning Zhuo.
The footage was intact.
In it, Ning Zhuo appeared entirely compliant, as if unaware he was being watched.
The surveillance fully proved Ning Zhuo’s impeccable behavior, faithfully executing his guard duties without contacting the outside world or showing any signs of plotting against Motobu Takeshi.
He even tidied the place daily.
In the high-security district, he could’ve been named a “model prisoner.”
Watching Ning Zhuo on the screen, Lin Qin couldn’t help but sigh.
Ning Zhuo’s lips were sealed tight.
No matter who asked or how, he stuck to the same story:
He was serving someone else’s sentence, got targeted by Motobu Takeshi’s men, was recruited as a bodyguard, went with the flow to earn some cash, and did his job flawlessly—nothing to fault.
Seeing they couldn’t get more from Ning Zhuo, the police reluctantly turned to Shan Feibai.
To their surprise, during separate interrogations, Shan Feibai’s story matched Ning Zhuo’s perfectly, down to the details.
After all, aside from the small part Ning Zhuo concealed, it was all true.
Shan Feibai passionately recounted how he’d protected Motobu Takeshi with his body and half his life, strongly urging the officers to find Mr. Motobu quickly.
Grievously, he said, “Such heroic actions deserve Mr. Motobu’s reward. Why’d he run? So boring.”
The trouble was, despite tightly sealing the news for days, it still reached the ears of Titan Company’s CTO, Motobu Takeshi’s father, Motobu Ryo.
He rushed to the scene.
Like his son, Motobu Ryo was a small, unimposing man with single eyelids, his features slightly more refined than Motobu Takeshi’s but not by much.
Silently, he paced twice in his son’s lavish yet empty cell, then stopped at the door, looking at Warden Dorn, who hadn’t yet resigned.
He said, “This is your prison’s fault. Don’t pin it on my son. If you hadn’t failed, how could he have vanished?”
With “White Shield’s” reputation at stake, Dorn knew what mattered most and refused to take the blame. He calmly retorted, “Motobu Takeshi is currently missing. He might contact you. If you know his whereabouts, please inform us promptly and don’t conceal anything.”
Motobu Ryo, inwardly frantic but outwardly composed, snorted coldly and stormed off.
If Little Takeshi wasn’t found, this wasn’t over!
Amid the external chaos, with everyone scheming, Ning Zhuo sat calmly in prison, tallying his accounts.
Mr. Charlemagne wanted Motobu Takeshi’s life: 1.2 million.
Task completed.
Madame Charlemagne wanted him to lure Motobu Takeshi out: 2 million, paid upfront, a straightforward scumbag.
Task completed.
Motobu Takeshi hired him for personal protection, limited to the prison: 660,000.
Task completed.
He extorted 50,000 from Lin Qin to keep the scene under control and suppress Dorn’s little schemes.
Task completed.
Dorn slipped him 100,000, as Ning Zhuo’s neutrality needed buying to keep his mouth shut.
Task completed.
Ning Zhuo thought for a moment and added the night he cared for Shan Feibai to the list.
As he wrote, he inexplicably recalled them hiding in the bathroom, Shan Feibai holding him, saying he liked him.
He clutched his chest, frowning through that subtle flutter.
…Those 20,000 were the most awkward he’d earned.
Ning Zhuo believed he’d executed his tasks perfectly, though some disagreed.
Like Mr. Charlemagne.
At that moment, “White Shield” was busy confiscating contraband, carting it out load by load.
Ning Zhuo’s communicator, by contrast, was too ordinary.
And well-hidden, it went unnoticed.
Charlemagne called, cutting straight to the point: “I heard he’s gone?”
“Yeah,” Ning Zhuo said. “Someone will take care of him.”
…Though he probably wasn’t dead yet.
Motobu Takeshi would likely linger in that living hell for a while… maybe.
Charlemagne’s tone wasn’t fully trusting: “How can I be sure he’s really dead?”
“His disappearance is the best outcome. It affects no one but him.”
Ning Zhuo countered, “Do you want his body displayed publicly, or for him to just vanish from Silver Hammer City?”
Charlemagne paused, then ended the call: “This is our last conversation.”
He hung up.
Shan Feibai, dangling his legs nearby, asked, “How’s the customer satisfaction survey?”
Ning Zhuo: “They don’t dare be dissatisfied.”
After ending the call with Charlemagne, Ning Zhuo dialed Tang Kaichang.
He opened with, “…Did you see it?”
Tang Kaichang, stationed at “Haina,” was confused by the question. “See what?”
Ning Zhuo: “Motobu Takeshi’s disappearance.”
Tang Kaichang blinked, puzzled. “…Huh?”
To Tang Kaichang, Motobu Takeshi, his “biological father,” meant nothing and was a stranger.
His past was a blur, their last meeting when he was a child.
He didn’t even remember his face.
Prompted by Ning Zhuo, he searched Motobu Takeshi’s name, found only old news of his imprisonment, and curtly replied, “Nope.”
By comparison, he cared about something else.
“Ning-ge, when are you coming back?” he asked softly. “I want good food. Boss Fu’s noodles aren’t as good as yours.”
Ning Zhuo, coolly: “Wait.”
“Oh.” Tang Kaichang, like a dejected animal, mumbled, “Miss you, Ning-ge.”
Ning Zhuo lowered his eyes. “Soon.”
After hanging up, Shan Feibai, propping his chin, asked, “…By the way, why did Miss Tang name him Tang Kaichang?”
Ning Zhuo, curtly: “Dunno.”
Shan Feibai muttered to himself, thoughtful: “Kaichang… Kai… Triumph.”
Go home, keep walking.
Don’t be sad—sing a song of victory all the way.
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