The turbulent undercurrents outside faintly rippled toward Ning Zhuo.
As Shan Feibai had said, he was indeed being watched by many eyes.
In the interrogation room, Lin Qin sat across from Ning Zhuo.
They sized each other up.
In Lin Qin’s eyes, even at ease, Ning Zhuo carried a pale, fierce edge, like the teenager from his memories—a quiet wildfire, ready to blaze at any moment.
Before he could speak, Ning Zhuo cut in bluntly: “What’d you bring?”
Lin Qin chuckled. “Some fruit. The guards will check it and send it to your cell.”
Ning Zhuo: “Nice. Since you’re here to bother me, I won’t thank you.”
Lin Qin clasped his hands. “Tell me again about your time working with Motobu Takeshi.”
Ning Zhuo, unfazed, his expression flat: “Again?”
This was Lin Qin’s fourth time asking about this.
“You’re the only one in First Prison willing to cooperate,” Lin Qin said, propping his chin with a helpless sigh. “Humor me one more time. Give me something new.”
Ning Zhuo recounted it casually.
This time, he focused on Motobu Takeshi’s lavish debauchery.
As he spoke, he thought, expressionless: He’s probably still alive.
With today’s technology, dying wasn’t easy.
But the indulgent, extravagant prison life he described no longer had anything to do with Motobu Takeshi.
Would he, in the dead of night, miss those days of reckless pleasure?
Lin Qin’s brow furrowed slightly, listening intently.
He always asked for different accounts, never questioning, accepting everything, appearing to trust Ning Zhuo completely.
But narratives about the same events in the same space often reveal inconsistencies.
It’s the easiest time to spot flaws.
Yet Ning Zhuo’s story aligned perfectly with his previous ones, not a single detail off.
Lin Qin exhaled.
He desperately wanted to believe Ning Zhuo was clean.
He hoped Ning Zhuo could earn money safely, live well, and avoid entanglement in Silver Hammer’s elite conflicts.
With Ning Zhuo’s personality, he’d never yield to their corruption. If involved, his only outcome would be death.
Lin Qin capped his pen, saying softly, “Alright. Thanks.”
Ning Zhuo waved dismissively. “How’s the investigation going?”
Lin Qin shook his head. “No progress.”
Ning Zhuo: “Surveillance no use?”
Lin Qin: “There’s a surveillance dead zone behind First Prison.”
Ning Zhuo: “Check the vehicles entering and leaving that zone then. Not many cars would be lurking near the prison at midnight.”
“We did,” Lin Qin said, toying with his pen. “They were bold. Two groups came: one for Bao Zhou, one for Motobu Takeshi. Both black cars, from the unmonitored lower city, heading back there…”
The prison stalled them too long. By the time they confirmed Motobu Takeshi’s “escape,” the cars had vanished into the crowd, impossible to intercept.
Ning Zhuo gave a noncommittal hum, thinking: Madame Charlemagne followed my instructions well.
He asked, “The day before Raskin’s execution, did Motobu Takeshi go out?”
Lin Qin: “The prison and Jin Hu won’t admit it. They’re stakeholders; their word’s unreliable.”
He didn’t tell Ning Zhuo that on September 29 at 11 p.m., an unlicensed car had lingered near First Prison before leaving.
The timing matched.
Ning Zhuo nodded.
He’d driven that car.
Afterward, he’d disposed of it.
He’d planned to frame Motobu Takeshi, circling the prison that day and picking up Vice Professor Xue after the poisoning.
So far, things were going smoothly.
Ning Zhuo kicked the table, leaning back. “Anything else, Officer Lin?”
“Nope.” Lin Qin neatly set his pen aside, sighing sincerely, “I’m glad it’s not you.”
Ning Zhuo, about to leave, froze.
He stared at Lin Qin.
Lin Qin realized his slip, waving hastily: “Just routine. Until the investigation’s done, we check everyone—”
But that wasn’t what Ning Zhuo cared about.
“What do you mean, ‘glad it’s not me’?” His face turned cold. “Why would it be bad if it was me?”
Lin Qin faltered.
He knew Ning Zhuo wasn’t nitpicking.
Lin Qin had never dug up Ning Zhuo’s true background or records.
He was like a wild plant sprouting from the lower city, forged by fire and wind into what he was now.
But Ning Zhuo clearly had a grudge against “White Shield.”
When Lin Qin joined “White Shield,” Ning Zhuo had decisively cut ties, a clue to their rift.
Lin Qin couldn’t explain why he’d joined “White Shield” or what bad blood existed between it and Ning Zhuo.
For a mercenary like Ning Zhuo, “White Shield” was a colossal, terrifying machine.
Lin Qin couldn’t imagine what kind of revenge Ning Zhuo could enact without being crushed to dust.
He tried persuading: “Ning, I know you’ve got issues with ‘White Shield.’ I’m not telling you to let go, but hatred’s exhausting—”
“I’m not discussing this,” Ning Zhuo cut him off. “I didn’t keep you in ‘Haina’ because we’re not the same kind of people.”
“You won’t like it, but I’ll say it,” Lin Qin softened his tone. “Your health’s poor—don’t push yourself too hard. Let go a bit; it’s better for you… I want you to take the right path.”
“The ‘right path’?” Ning Zhuo scoffed, changing the subject. “Speaking of the ‘right path,’ I heard something interesting.”
He crossed his arms, resting them under his chin, voice sharp: “That Kenan guy—wasn’t he your father Lin Qingzhuo’s old colleague? Know his background?”
Lin Qin’s shoulders twitched uncontrollably.
“Or do you think teaming up with him, climbing Charlemagne’s ladder, is your so-called ‘right path’?”
Seeing Lin Qin grip his pen, fingers trembling, Ning Zhuo stood, walked to his side, and lightly patted his scarred cheek.
That was his way—good or ill intent, if he hurt, those who hurt him wouldn’t escape either.
He whispered coldly, “‘Let go’? If you can do it, so can I.”
…
Leaving the interrogation room, Lin Qin walked alone down the prison’s narrow, stifling corridor.
His vision seemed shrouded in a thin black mist.
The path ahead grew darker, like a rainy night’s street, endless and indistinct.
Lately, he kept thinking of his father.
No, to be precise, the young man Lin Qingzhuo—hair always slightly messy, tamed only with water, always flashing a toothy smile at him—wasn’t his biological father.
As a child, Lin Qin’s faint cries from a mid-city dumpster had drawn the attention of Lin Qingzhuo, heading home from work.
It was during a wave of “abandoned baby fever.”
In the lower city, impoverished families couldn’t afford contraception. They could bear children but not raise them, so they gambled, abandoning newborns in the mid-city, hoping wealthy, idle folks might adopt them.
If the babies froze or starved, at least they’d be spared years of suffering.
Overall, it seemed worth the risk.
Lin Qin was one of the luckier ones from this wave of abandoned infants. On that freezing rainy night, he met his savior.
Lin Qingzhuo named him Lin Jiayun, nickname Little Apple.
Living in the mid-city, Lin Qingzhuo was a freelance writer for “White Shield.” The title sounded prestigious, and he had status, but he had little money.
When a slightly older Lin Qin asked, “Dad, why call me Little Apple?”
Lin Qingzhuo said, “That day, I splurged on some apples, craving something fresh. But you were crying from hunger, and formula was on backorder. So, I made apple puree for you.” He chuckled, “I watched the machine, heart aching, wanting to split it with you. But I worried it wouldn’t be enough, so I didn’t.”
He laughed at himself: “Pretty greedy, huh?”
Despite his words, Lin Qingzhuo never shortchanged Lin Qin.
He was frugal in some ways, like his own meals—plain rice with water was enough.
But for Lin Qin’s necessities—clothes, food, housing, books, tea—he was generous.
He’d say, “I’m not practical, not cut out for family life. Probably never finding a partner. But heaven dropped a son on me, skipping all the steps.”
Lin Qin thought his father was the best in the world and knew for sure he was hopeless with romance.
When colleagues set him up, he brought Lin Qin to the date, saying, “My son hasn’t eaten dinner yet. Let’s all eat together.”
With a mysterious-origin kid in tow, his already slim romantic prospects vanished.
Fortunately, Lin Qin lived up to his father’s nurturing and expectations.
From elementary school, he locked in the top spot.
He grew into someone everyone liked.
Handsome, tall, spirited, academically stellar, with a fiery heart and bright eyes—the most dazzling, radiant youth.
But Lin Qin’s ambitions were small.
All his efforts were to make his father happy.
His father was too good to him. With little to repay, he pushed himself to shine, hoping to bring his father a bit of pride or joy. That was enough.
Lin Qingzhuo loved writing with a fountain pen, so Lin Qin learned, mastering delicate calligraphy.
In lifestyle, Lin Qingzhuo had refined tastes.
He crafted special inks, bottled with floral scents.
Once done, he’d eagerly show his son, asking him to guess the flowers behind each fragrance.
Lin Qin would look up at him, knowing a wrong guess was fine—just a nose tweak, a new botanical guide, and a stack of scented plant cards.
Surrounded by ever-present, season-defying aromas, he felt those good days would never end.
But at fourteen, cracks appeared in his peaceful life.
One day, his father came home with a split lip and a bruised eye.
Lin Qin hurriedly prepared an ice pack, asking what happened.
Lin Qingzhuo, knowing his son was mature, shared openly: “This? No big deal. I was at a lecture today, and halfway through, a gang of mercenary thugs broke it up. I took a couple of slaps.”
Lin Qin asked, “What lecture?”
Lin Qingzhuo replied, “A data company called Pike’s been getting too invasive with citizens’ privacy. I urged everyone to protect themselves.”
Lin Qin felt uneasy. “A lecture like that shouldn’t get forcibly stopped, right?”
“I’ve been investigating this, got some data from reliable sources, and wrote an editorial. But Interest Company rejected it,” Lin Qingzhuo shrugged, unbothered. “Guess Pike’s got me in their sights.”
Lin Qin hadn’t heard of Pike, but if they could deploy mercenaries, they weren’t to be trifled with.
He wanted to urge his father to avoid direct confrontation.
But that was Lin Qingzhuo’s nature.
In life, he was carefree, unrestrained.
In his beloved writing, he was unyielding, unbreakable.
Lin Qin’s lips moved, offering only a restrained warning: “Be careful.”
Lin Qingzhuo found his fourteen-year-old son’s solemnity amusing, ruffling his hair. “Ha, a little punk lecturing his dad!”
Lin Qin smiled shyly, quietly slipping a sharp pair of scissors into his father’s bag.
Not a controlled weapon.
Handy for defense, and justifiable if used.
With his father’s safety secured, Lin Qin relaxed.
A week later, after a late-night tutoring class, it was deep into the night.
A stretch of mid-city streetlights had been flickering for days and finally gave out.
Lin Qin walked home under dim stars, planning dinner.
His father had been busy lately.
He was deep in thought about recipes when a black sack was yanked over his head from behind.
He had no chance to resist before a knee slammed into his stomach.
A silent, prolonged beating followed.
One held his arms behind him; another pummeled his body.
Choking on the metallic taste of blood, Lin Qin was dragged into a reeking alley.
The sack loosened slightly, exposing the lower half of his face.
His eyes remained in darkness.
Amid the alley’s sewage stench, he caught a whiff of fountain pen ink, laced with a faint floral scent.
…Osmanthus.
But the next second, excruciating pain seared his cheek.
A pen nib, soaked in ink, pierced his skin, carving a smile-shaped arc at his mouth!
A fountain pen wasn’t a practical weapon.
After a few strokes, the nib bent.
But the two didn’t let up.
With patient precision, they used the small, blunt tool to etch jagged cuts across the lower half of his face.
In agony and terror, Lin Qin passed out.
A torrential downpour in the latter half of the night woke him.
His attackers were gone.
Only nightmare-like pain and a raging fever confirmed it was real.
His hands were still bound behind him, unyielding.
The sack, with its elastic band, was knotted around his neck, impossible to remove.
Rubbing against a wall, Lin Qin struggled to his feet, vision black, stumbling forward.
Amid the deluge, he retained a shred of clarity.
Using the sound of sewer water, he distinguished the road from the sidewalk, avoiding traffic and staggering along the path.
He threw himself against shop and home doors, mustering all his strength.
But his luck was poor.
In the dead of night, everyone slept through the storm.
His weak efforts made pitifully little noise.
As his shoulders ached from collisions, he faintly heard a motorcycle’s roar.
Panic surged instinctively.
So late, with no one on the street—why a motorcycle?
Had they realized he wasn’t dead and come to finish him off?
His hands were bound, his eyes blindfolded—he couldn’t run even if he wanted to.
All he could do was curl up, trying to make himself less noticeable.
But it was too late; they’d found him.
The motorcycle’s engine stopped nearby.
A clear, cold teenage voice cut through: “…Hey, what’s wrong with you?”
At the time, Ning Zhuo had just recovered from an injury. He’d been running errands for Boss Fu, taking a small delivery job, and got caught in the rain on his way back.
He hadn’t expected to pick up a kid his age along the way.
As soon as Lin Qin woke, he clearly stated his name and background, asking Ning Zhuo to take him home.
“You’re Lin Jiayun?”
Ning Zhuo’s expression turned odd at the name. “…Your father’s Lin Qingzhuo?”
Lin Qin nodded, confused. “Yes.”
When Ning Zhuo showed him that day’s Silver Hammer Daily, Lin Qin understood why he’d looked at him that way.
“Famed Columnist Lin Qingzhuo Suffers Sudden Mental Breakdown!”
“Interest Company’s renowned columnist Lin Qingzhuo, for unknown reasons, used his personal fountain pen to mutilate the face of his adopted child, taking photos as a memento. The scene is chilling!”
“Alerted by strange noises from Lin Qingzhuo’s home, a concerned neighbor investigated, then fled in fear, contacting ‘White Shield.’”
“After the report, ‘White Shield’ swiftly detained Lin Qingzhuo, committing him to a mental institution. His son, Lin Jiayun, remains missing. Only the bloodied fountain pen and gruesome photos were recovered.”
“Viewer discretion advised for those under 18, the faint-hearted, pregnant women, and the elderly—”
Accompanying the article were two images.
A blood-stained fountain pen, its nib bent and split—his father’s favorite.
A close-up of Lin Qin’s bloodied face.
Byline: Kenan.
Lin Qingzhuo wasn’t a “famed columnist” before!
Slapping that title on him was just to roast him publicly.
Lin Qin’s hands shook, realizing they’d been ensnared in a massive web.
What could his testimony alone prove if he went back?
Tell the truth?
That he was walking home late at night, only to be ambushed and have his face slashed?
That they cut him but didn’t kill him, letting him live?
Who’d believe such a bizarre story?
Everyone knew he and his father were close.
So, covering for his father’s “crime” would seem reasonable.
Their goal was singular.
To lock his father in a mental institution!
Ning Zhuo took the Silver Hammer Daily from his hands, studying his expression, and saw this peer’s insight far exceeded his expectations.
He asked calmly, “Still going back?”
Lin Qin steadied himself, cutting to the core: “…I want to go to the mental institution and get my father out.”
…
But Lin Qin never saw Lin Qingzhuo again.
Despite rushing, despite pulling strings through Ning Zhuo and Boss Fu, spending a fortune to hire mercenaries to break his father out.
What he retrieved was a corpse, dragged to the crematorium, riddled with torture marks and electric burns.
Lin Qin didn’t understand.
He truly didn’t grasp why this had happened.
Only half a year later, when Pike Company was “acquired” by Interest Company, merging into one, did Lin Qin see the truth.
They just wanted to discredit his father’s words as the ravings of a madman.
That was all.
Just—
Entering the dimly lit underground parking garage, Lin Qin couldn’t suppress the roiling emotions and slammed his fist into the wall.
The blow was forceful, sending plaster crumbling.
After venting, he regained his calm, gentle demeanor and walked toward a car parked in a distant corner.
The window slowly rolled down.
Inside sat Kenan.
He hadn’t seen the outburst.
With a formulaic smile, he appraised the media darling poised to replace Charlemagne: “Jiayun, good to see you.”
Though Lin Qin had changed his name as an adult, the scars on his face were unmistakable.
Kenan only investigated his past after dealing with him.
Lin Qin hadn’t hidden his history.
His father didn’t affect his police academy application.
First, he was adopted, so no worry of “mental illness” being hereditary.
Second, as a crafted victim, who could stop him from joining to fight crime?
Kenan didn’t care about his background.
To him, Lin Qin was just a 14-year-old back then, likely clueless.
Even if he understood, so what?
Lin Qingzhuo was just his foster father, providing modest means.
Kenan could elevate him, be his benefactor, a better “parent” than Lin Qingzhuo, offering more.
Kids care about right and wrong; adults care about profit.
As expected, Lin Qin greeted him warmly, without a hint of grudge: “Uncle Kenan, hello.”
Kenan opened the car door: “Come, let’s discuss how to ‘wrap up’ this case nicely.”
…
Back in his cell, Lin Qin’s fruit had arrived.
With all contraband confiscated, unable to peel them, Shan Feibai washed two shiny apples and set them out for Ning Zhuo.
Ning Zhuo was always restrained with food.
But seeing Shan Feibai, picky as he was, savor something he liked brought a strange comfort.
He pushed both apples to Shan Feibai: “I don’t eat. Bad stomach.”
Shan Feibai didn’t argue, grabbing one and biting into it with a crunch.
Ning Zhuo watched him, paused, then asked, “What do you think of revenge?”
Shan Feibai, mid-bite: “Huh?”
Ning Zhuo: “If someone’s loved one is killed and they can’t let go, revenge never ends. Is it better to let go or hold on?”
Shan Feibai answered without hesitation: “Why’s that my problem? I’d kill my enemy’s loved one, then let them decide to let go. If they can’t, what’s there to talk about?”
Ning Zhuo nodded, satisfied, thinking the apple was well spent.
“Apples are good.”
Shan Feibai demolished one quickly, wiped his mouth, and gave his verdict.
Then, with apple-scented lips, he planted a quick, clean kiss on Ning Zhuo’s cheek: “Thanks, Ning-ge!”
