Shan Feibai fell into a long silence.
He realized he was beginning to understand the source of Ning Zhuo’s loneliness and detachment.
In this wretched era, on this bustling yet isolated island, Ning Zhuo knew too much and had too soft a heart, making it impossible for him to live happily.
Breaking the silence, Shan Feibai pinpointed the core issue: “How many infiltrators were on that ship?”
Ning Zhuo studied Shan Feibai in return.
He noticed Shan Feibai’s remarkable tolerance for negativity.
Contrary to his carefree and optimistic demeanor, Shan Feibai wasn’t overly hopeful. Instead, he had no expectations of human nature or relationships. To him, life was neither good nor bad, which allowed him to live with zest.
What could possibly matter to someone like that?
Curious, Ning Zhuo answered calmly: “Min Qiu said at least seven.”
…
The voyagers weren’t desperados but a group of young dreamers yearning for a new world, none older than 25, the youngest just 21 or 22.
They were prepared to die, but their deaths were supposed to be filled with hope, not this sinister, filthy, inexplicable end.
Three people had vanished, leaving 32 on board.
After witnessing the short crew member commit murder on the deck, Min Qiu suppressed her panic and tailed him, watching until he returned to his cabin. She stayed, silently observing him all night.
That night, he stayed put, behaving impeccably.
This meant at least two other killers were on board.
Over time, they’d blended in, built rapport, and struck on the same day, unnoticed by all.
This made it impossible for Min Qiu to reveal what she’d seen.
First, she had no evidence.
Second, she was alone, friendless, while the enemy had numbers.
Min Qiu checked the communication equipment, unsurprisingly finding it “broken, under repair.”
Back in her cabin, she spoke her thoughts aloud to the wall, both to organize her ideas and to leave a record for her sister in Silver Hammer City.
Min Qiu’s strength was her aloofness. Despite her striking appearance, which drew many would-be friends, her cold demeanor repelled them.
This ensured she wouldn’t die at the hands of someone close.
Her weakness was also her aloofness—she had no allies to help investigate.
Before she could make progress, chaos erupted.
Some believed the three missing people, overwhelmed by the long deep-sea journey, had succumbed to depression and jumped overboard.
This theory was quickly debunked.
Why would three people choose to die on the same day?
Though friendly, they weren’t close enough to plan a group suicide.
Suspicion bred paranoia.
The once-harmonious crew developed a deadly rift, their eyes filled with unspoken accusations.
The rational ones suggested turning back.
Their mission was to reach a land of hope and ideals.
Now, consumed by distrust, they were no longer fit crew members.
Returning to Silver Hammer City would save most and make it easier to find the culprits.
But someone wanted these idealists to die in the filthiest of suspicions.
On the third day after deciding to return, their water purifier was sabotaged.
Several barrels of stored freshwater were punctured, drained completely.
Min Qiu and two other mechanics worked frantically to repair it and replenish the supply.
But a massive, invisible anxiety, like a storm cloud, rapidly engulfed the ship.
The ship had surveillance, but it was sparse, with many blind spots.
Naively, they’d believed everyone was on the same side.
Those willing to undertake this doomed mission carried a touch of innocence. Mostly recent graduates, they focused on strengthening the ship and sailing farther, not on catching traitors.
They identified three or four people on surveillance near the water storage.
Each had an excuse, vehemently denying guilt and bristling at questioning.
As tensions escalated, Min Qiu, observing coldly, proposed a solution: everyone should sit together and calmly share their backgrounds.
The perpetrators couldn’t act without motive; they must have planned this.
The more detailed the stories, the likelier a slip-up.
But human hearts, once stirred, are hard to calm.
The group sat, talking until their throats were dry, growing irritable. Even reasonable questions sparked arguments.
After all, the innocent could only vouch for themselves.
A hotheaded university student clashed with a logistics crew member who accused him of lying because he used the old name of his high school, which had since changed, suggesting he hadn’t done his homework.
The argument escalated to a shouting match, then a brawl.
In a fit of rage, the student stabbed the logistics worker through the heart with a defensive screwdriver.
The student, charged with impulsive murder, was quickly restrained and dragged to the deck.
Blasted by the bone-chilling sea wind, his boiling anger froze, and clarity returned.
Kneeling, drenched in cold sweat, he banged his head on the deck, pleading that it was a moment of lost control, begging for belief.
But everyone’s gazes had changed—filled with scorn and disgust.
In those contemptuous looks, the student realized that even if he returned to land, only judgment and condemnation awaited.
His bright future, his grand ideals, burst like soap bubbles.
In overwhelming panic and despair, he broke free from two escorts on the way to the lower deck and jumped into the sea.
Thirty remained.
A ship-wide search began.
Some believed collecting and confiscating all weapons would reduce risks.
After all, a weapon in hand breeds intent to kill.
To prove their innocence, many reluctantly allowed paired searchers to ransack their quarters.
Min Qiu’s confiscated weapon was unusual: a chainsaw.
She handed it over without hesitation.
Another weapon, a heavy sword, still in its sheath, leaned openly against the wall.
The searcher couldn’t even lift it in one go.
Pointing at the sword, he asked, “What’s this?”
Min Qiu replied, “For warding off evil. To dispel petty people and the five harms.”
…It sounded like some feng shui artifact.
Sizing up Min Qiu’s frame, the searcher doubted even a burly man could wield it effectively.
If this counted as a weapon, they’d need to confiscate every stool, cabinet, and table.
So, the heavy sword was left behind.
Confiscating weapons was utterly useless.
Anyone bold and determined could kill.
That night, the young first mate died at his post, throat slit with a shattered glass cup.
…Twenty-nine remained.
Blood was found on the collar of clothes left in the laundry room.
Despite the owner’s frantic claims of innocence, he was beaten half to death and locked up.
When everyone trusted only themselves, chaos began.
When the water purifier was sabotaged again, and all the screws vanished along with the guard, extreme unease drove everyone to madness.
For self-preservation, some demanded their weapons back.
If they had to die, they wouldn’t go down unarmed!
But many opposed this.
In their volatile state, a single disagreement could spark a deadly brawl, spiraling out of control.
The captain decided, in front of everyone, to throw the key to the weapon room into the sea, forcing them to abandon the idea.
Two days passed.
The tense, suffocating atmosphere lasted just as long.
On the third night, three patrolling crew members saw someone dragging a corpse, intending to dump it into the sea under cover of darkness.
A piercing whistle jolted everyone from bed, gathering in panic.
The caught man, pale with fear, pointed at the body, insisting, “He sneaked into my room to kill me!”
The crowd’s gazes were skeptical and cold.
The captain, eyes bloodshot and voice hoarse, rasped, “Why didn’t you sound the alarm? Why sneak to dispose of the body?”
The man collapsed, nails digging into the deck’s seams, his voice barely a whisper: “I… I was afraid you’d suspect me—”
Such an excuse was flimsy.
The mentally broken man, unable to walk, was dragged away by his arms.
His weapon—a sturdy bedside cup—was confiscated.
Someone shivered in the cold wind, asking the captain, “What about the body?”
The captain, pained, searched the corpse himself, finding no weapons.
The two had been friends; this was likely a tragic misunderstanding.
He muttered, “Throw it into the water.”
A body left unburied would rot and stink before reaching Silver Hammer City.
But Min Qiu stepped forward.
With a flashlight in her mouth, she silently stopped those about to move the body, swiftly tearing off its clothes.
The captain, exhausted and overwhelmed by the murders, wasn’t thinking clearly.
Fortunately, Min Qiu was.
Sneaking into a friend’s room unannounced at midnight was highly suspicious.
Sure enough, the man’s shoulder bore a strange mushroom tattoo.
The sea winds were strong, and it was winter at departure. Everyone was bundled up, their exposed skin chapped. Private bathrooms meant no one would strip another to inspect their skin.
To prove her innocence, Min Qiu stripped down to her underwear and a white tank top, revealing wheat-colored skin scarred with old electrical burns.
Under stunned gazes, she strode toward the short man she’d seen kill, ordering, “Strip.”
His eyes flickered, lips tightening. “Why me?”
Min Qiu replied bluntly, “I saw you kill someone.”
His Adam’s apple bobbed, letting out a strained “Ha,” feigning disdain for her accusation.
He reached to unbutton his coat, but as it came off, he flung it over Min Qiu’s head.
In a flash, he drew a knife and lunged at the captain, who was dazed with a migraine.
A slash to the throat!
As blood sprayed, everyone froze in shock.
In his dying moments, the captain grabbed the short man’s shoulders, yanking his sweater to reveal a vivid mushroom tattoo!
Snapping awake, the crew scattered like lambs, screaming and fleeing.
They needed weapons!
With pretenses gone, there was no need to hide.
Confiscating weapons had been cautious, but those determined to kill could hide them anywhere.
Someone pried up a loose deck board, pulling out a gun and shattering the ship’s brightest light.
The ship plunged into despairing darkness.
The short man, hands bloodied, sneered and turned to find Min Qiu, who’d exposed him, but she had vanished.
Cries of despair echoed across the floating island.
Some died by gunfire, their only defense a sharpened toothbrush handle.
Some fell by the lifeboats, their hope of escaping this hell dashed.
Some, in utter despair, unwilling to face once-familiar, now unrecognizable comrades, jumped into the sea.
Two hours later, only 17 survived.
After two slaughters, the short man, knife in hand, reached Min Qiu’s room.
Most had retreated to familiar spaces; he assumed she’d be no different.
But as he pushed the door open with malice, a cup of unknown liquid splashed over him.
Searing pain and blurred vision made him scream.
The next second, he could scream no more.
His neck was cleanly severed by something hard and cold.
The force was so great his head spun like a golf ball, flying lightly and far into the sea.
In his fading vision, he saw his body collapse and Min Qiu holding a black heavy sword.
She rested the sword’s tip on the ground, catching her breath, placed another cup of corrosive liquid by the door, gently closed it, and, sword in arms, vanished silently into the dark night.
A lonely, hazy moon hung on the horizon, obscured by clouds, desolate and blurred.
That night, she released her personality box, cutting her memories off there.
She knew the enemy had guns.
Her body would never return home.
She refused to die in a cramped room.
In Min Qiu’s memories, two people with mushroom tattoos died in the ship’s carnage.
In the end, five escaped on a lifeboat, returning to Silver Hammer City.
This was the vital intelligence Min Qiu brought back with her life:
A kill squad of at least seven had infiltrated the ship, marked by mushroom tattoos on their shoulders.
A month after the “Columbus” survivors returned, construction began on the “Columbus” Memorial Concert Hall, led by those five “survivors.”
It was a lucrative project, a gesture of care for those who’d endured great tragedy and “rose from the ashes.”
With her sister’s installed memory backup, Min Min, through a “tuner’s” introduction, sought out “Haina” and demanded to join.
At 22, Min Min stood before Ning Zhuo, calm but shocking: “Give me and my sister a living. You’ll get two useful people.”
After hearing Min Min’s brief account, Ning Zhuo, silent for a long time, understood why she didn’t seek the “White Shield.”
The memory backup was just that—memories, not tangible surveillance footage.
Such ethically fraught memory boxes were strictly contraband. Handing them to authorities would only lead to immediate destruction.
Ning Zhuo asked, “Why come to me?”
Min Min replied, “Haina is new. You’ll need me.”
She was right.
“Yes, I need a doctor and a mechanic,” Ning Zhuo countered. “What do you need from me?”
Min Min pursed her lips.
An optimist, she knew wallowing in grief was useless.
When problems arose, solve them. If unsolvable, find a place to lie low and wait for the right moment.
After deep thought, Min Min made a surprising request: “I hate that concert hall, memorial, whatever it’s called. It’s disgusting.”
“I want it blown up one day. Can you do that?”
