Shan Feibai somehow produced a lollipop from nowhere.
He bit down on it, the white candy stick poking out of his mouth.
His restless teeth made the stick bob up and down.
Ning Zhuo glanced at him. “Where’d you get that?”
Shan Feibai, unapologetic: “Stole it. You were off with Lin Qin, and I had nothing to do, so I scrounged some candy for you.”
His tone quickly turned boastful, practically begging for praise, as cheeky as it gets: “See how prepared I am? They’ve searched every crack out there, nothing left. If your blood sugar drops, you can collapse on me without worry.”
“These folks buy good candy—none of it’s bad.”
He patted his waist, rustling softly. “I only ate one. The rest are yours.”
Ning Zhuo pictured him stuffing candy into his clothes while walking, lowered his eyes, hiding a softened gaze behind his lashes, and doused him with cold water as usual: “It’ll all melt by tomorrow.”
He knew Shan Feibai ran hot.
Shan Feibai grinned.
When he smiled with squinted eyes, he looked radiant. “If it melts, no worries—I’ll feed it to you mouth-to-mouth.”
Ning Zhuo wasn’t one for fanciful thoughts.
But he couldn’t help recalling the day they both got hit by Motobu Takeshi’s “crush,” that scalding touch on the back of his neck.
Ignoring it was fine, but dwelling on it sent that heat rushing through his veins to his heart.
Fast—wildfire fast.
Ning Zhuo gripped his left wrist, clamping down on the untimely surge.
Shan Feibai, still joking lightly: “Can’t keep letting you collapse on me, right? I’d feel bad.”
Ning Zhuo looked up, his eyes icy clear.
Shan Feibai let out a soft sigh, smiling wryly:
What a cold heart.
Good thing he was warm enough.
After the teasing, Shan Feibai patted Ning Zhuo’s thigh, signaling a serious talk.
Ning Zhuo met his eyes, sensing he had something to say, and turned to face him.
Motobu Takeshi’s surveillance had just been removed, and new cameras hadn’t been installed in the chaos.
They had a brief window to talk freely in the prison, but time was short.
So Shan Feibai cut to the chase: “Ning-ge, this money you’re earning—it’s dangerous.”
Ning Zhuo stayed silent.
Shan Feibai summed it up: “This time, you acted directly. No matter how cleanly you pulled it off, you’re on their radar now.”
“Charlemagne loves to burn bridges. He won’t tolerate a living person holding such leverage over him. …Don’t glare at me, Ning-ge, it’s just a figure of speech—I’m not calling you a donkey.”
“And that Madame? Do you know her? Is she stable? If she succeeds in her revenge and compares notes with her husband, to this pair of desperate lovebirds, you’re at least a double-dealing conman.”
“Then there’s Motobu Ryo—he’s no pushover. A little digging, and he’ll know you were closest to Motobu Takeshi before he vanished, even monitoring you specifically. He’s trouble too.”
“And that police officer—what’s-his-name—”
Shan Feibai dragged out his words with a sarcastic lilt, glancing at Ning Zhuo.
Ning Zhuo looked back.
He didn’t believe Shan Feibai had suddenly forgotten.
He’d just called Lin Qin’s name perfectly.
Ning Zhuo filled it in: “Lin Qin.”
Shan Feibai pivoted: “The good-tempered Mr. Lin Qin… what’s your deal with him?”
Ning Zhuo vaguely sensed what he was getting at.
He pressed right on the sore spot: “Same age. Knew him a few years before you, so a few years more history. That’s the deal.”
Shan Feibai: “…You’re trying to piss me off, aren’t you?”
Ning Zhuo, coolly: “Did I?”
Shan Feibai, aggrieved and blunt: “Fuming.”
But he quickly adjusted, unsure if he was genuinely jealous or just hamming it up to tease Ning Zhuo: “Officer Lin doesn’t seem dumb. He’s already suspicious of you.”
Ning Zhuo stayed silent.
Shan Feibai, reading his reaction, nodded knowingly: “You already know all this.”
“Knew before I started,” Ning Zhuo said coldly. “Some things just have to be done.”
Shan Feibai: “Why the rush?”
Ning Zhuo closed his eyes. “Because opportunities don’t wait. Once it starts, you can’t stop.”
That was the truth.
A chance to turn Silver Hammer City upside down—he’d waited years for it.
For Ning Zhuo, living in this illusion took immense courage every morning.
The raging fire ignited in his soul at thirteen had burned him for years.
He was tough enough to not be ash yet.
If Shan Feibai hadn’t burst into his life, stealing so much of his focus, Ning Zhuo might’ve died from the tedious wait.
All these years, he and Shan Feibai never had a life-or-death showdown.
How much of it was relying on him to keep going? Ning Zhuo couldn’t calculate it all.
Shan Feibai sighed heavily.
Ning Zhuo opened his eyes coldly: “You trying to talk me out of it?”
“Why would I?” Shan Feibai said, exasperated, like scolding a fool. “I’m saying you’re being dumb!”
Ning Zhuo: “…?” He thought he’d misheard.
Shan Feibai’s tone was lively and earnest: “I’ve said all this, and you don’t get it? I mean, they’ve got their eyes on you. If your next plan’s tough to pull off, I’m ready to step in.”
“Leave it to me, no burden.” Shan Feibai’s eyes curved, his smile carefree. “I’m easy to use and love stirring up trouble.”
Ning Zhuo: “…How do you know I have a next plan?”
Shan Feibai: “You said it yourself—‘can’t stop.’ Doesn’t that mean there’s something else to do?”
Silence.
After a long pause, Ning Zhuo called his full name: “…Shan Feibai, why?”
Shan Feibai raised one eyebrow curiously.
On others, the move might look awkward.
But with his striking bone structure and charm, the gesture was effortlessly suave.
Ning Zhuo asked, “Why be a mercenary? I told you to study.”
“I did study.” Shan Feibai grinned lazily. “The year I stabbed you, I’d already done two years of college. These years, I worked and studied—got every degree I was supposed to. …Oh, that time you blasted me with shrapnel, I even had to delay an exam.”
Shan Feibai rambled but dodged the core question.
Ning Zhuo pressed, “Why be a mercenary?”
For someone of his class, it was practically self-degradation.
“Why?” Shan Feibai dragged out his words in that whiny tone Ning Zhuo usually hated, yet it didn’t grate. “When I met you as a kid, I looked into your eyes and wondered: Ning-ge’s so proud—what’s the world like in your eyes? Is it different from mine?”
Ning Zhuo: “Did you see it? What’s it like?”
Shan Feibai didn’t answer directly.
He’d climbed to the same level as Ning Zhuo, but he didn’t see some dazzling, vibrant new world.
All he ever saw was Ning Zhuo.
Proud, unapproachable, yet unexpectedly soft-hearted.
Ning Zhuo hadn’t changed.
Shan Feibai had.
Seeing Shan Feibai evade, Ning Zhuo didn’t share his half-formed plan either, saying only, “What I’m doing might get you killed.”
Shan Feibai raised a brow, a pang of unspoken frustration rising. “So you’re keeping me out?”
“No. Just need to ask you one thing.”
Ning Zhuo rested a hand on the table’s edge. “…Are you willing to die with me?”
As partners in crime, they were bound to live or die together.
At that, a flush surged to Shan Feibai’s cheeks, his electronic tattoo flickering erratically.
Ning Zhuo teased, “What, scared?”
Shan Feibai pressed a hand to his chest, trying to muffle the deafening heartbeat before it betrayed him. “…Buried together?”
“Who knows.” Ning Zhuo shrugged. “Might not even leave a body.”
Shan Feibai nodded, his smile barely contained.
His mood soared, and he didn’t correct Ning Zhuo’s slip:
Once, he’d sworn Ning Zhuo would die by his hand.
Amid their tentative probing, the air subtly warmed.
Ning Zhuo rubbed his inexplicably hot left knuckles, thinking the heater was too high.
The guards’ shouts broke the moment: “Chow time!”
Motobu Takeshi’s escape shattered the high-security district’s internal balance and unwritten rules.
After such a scandal, “White Shield” couldn’t play deaf anymore.
On the third day of Motobu Takeshi’s escape, the district’s meals reverted to standard prison fare, no longer hand-delivered by respectful guards. Inmates had to line up at the public cafeteria.
Rumor had it, in a week, they’d be put to work at sewing machines.
Ning Zhuo, used to roughing it, didn’t care.
Shan Feibai was picky, but the daily carrot juice had left him miserable.
Its sudden absence made him eager to eat.
The real sufferers were the prisoners used to gourmet meals and fine wine.
They cursed Motobu Takeshi with crude words for ruining their good days.
Those with three or four years left moped, while those facing decades broke down, wailing that such a bitter life was worse than a firing squad.
Word was, Young Master Hans, stripped of his liquor, had withdrawal shakes, barely able to hold a spoon, spilling half his food.
As for the golf-obsessed Young Master Xiu, his drug addiction and torment drove him to hang himself with his belt in the bathroom.
The high-security district’s chaos rippled outward to Silver Hammer City’s upper echelons.
Ning Zhuo and his crew didn’t yet know the undercurrents brewing outside.
They just watched the show.
In a week, their detention would end, and they’d be released.
…
Meanwhile, Charlemagne had settled a matter—not cleanly, as he hadn’t seen Motobu Takeshi’s body, leaving him uneasy.
But his goal was achieved.
The waters were thoroughly muddied, everyone caught in the whirlwind, too distracted to probe why he’d shot Raskin.
Covering his scandal with a bigger one was risky but, results-wise, worth it.
In a better mood, Charlemagne finally felt ready to go home.
At home, only the butler greeted him.
He glanced around. “Madame’s not here?”
The butler, deferential: “No.”
Relieved, Charlemagne relaxed further.
During these nerve-wracking days, he’d barely been home.
Partly, he was under investigation and avoided family contact to shield his wife from being implicated.
She wasn’t clean either, if scrutinized.
Partly, he couldn’t face her eyes.
Charlemagne knew the potent poison injected into Little Gold’s veins was beyond saving, even for a god.
Shooting his son’s face was a desperate act.
Even now, the memory made his chest ache dully.
His wife, who loved their son fiercely, felt it worse.
Her absence spared them the pain and awkwardness of meeting.
As the butler took Charlemagne’s coat, his hand twitched, a faint pain from his bones.
No longer young, the knife Ning Zhuo drove through his hand, despite careful treatment, didn’t heal as well as it would’ve in youth.
In cold, damp weather, the pain gnawed at his joints.
Having lived in luxury half his life, past Silver Hammer City’s average lifespan of 52, he was ready to retire comfortably—yet now bore a permanent, piercing wound.
It’d likely haunt him to his grave.
He didn’t dare speak it, but he deeply hated Ning Zhuo.
Charlemagne sipped honey tea. “That Ning guy did a clean job.”
The butler hummed lightly, his tone perfectly balanced—agreement or disdain, take your pick.
Charlemagne, noticing the honey’s poor quality, smacked his lips, setting the cup down dissatisfied.
Mid-smack, he abruptly raised a topic: “Heard ‘Haina’s’ boss is surnamed Fu. What’s his full name?”
The butler thought. “Don’t know. Never heard his full name mentioned.”
After answering, the butler’s heart leapt with glee.
—Charlemagne was planning to deal with Ning Zhuo!
Sure enough, Charlemagne mused, “So, the outside world knows Ning Zhuo, but not this Fu guy.”
He tossed out a question slowly: “Doesn’t this Fu guy have any thoughts about that?”
