Most schools in Silver Hammer City are located in Mid-City.
The area has convenient transportation, relatively cheap land, and security that’s adequate—better than Lower City, though not as tight as Upper City.
Lenzburg University, in the southeast, was among the city’s first schools.
It began with a few tents.
Now, they’re preparing for their 120th anniversary celebration.
One event involves inviting “Columbus” survivors—now Xiao Lin, external relations manager, and Jansen, operations manager at the “Columbus” Memorial Concert Hall—to give a short speech encouraging youth to embrace ambition and explore the unknown.
Xiao Lin and Jansen handle the hall’s external communications.
Eloquent Leighton, the hospitality manager, caters to big corporate guests.
Hardan, tall and burly, is the deputy hospitality manager but slacks off, practically a freeloader.
Sanjay, overseeing the island, wears a constant smile, playing mascot publicly while living like an ascetic privately.
On the morning of the event, Jansen drove, with Xiao Lin in the passenger seat, rehearsing a freshly received speech.
“Xiao Lin” is his surname; his given name is forgotten by others and himself.
Everyone just calls him Xiao Lin.
In his thirties, he has a long face, large eyes, and a decent appearance, but his oversized eyes dominate. Smiling, he’s fine; unsmiling, he’s eerie.
Jansen chuckled as Xiao Lin recited the speech with cadence.
Xiao Lin shot him a glance. “What’s funny?”
Jansen grinned. “Thirty-five went out, five came back. Ambition, my ass. Total loss.”
Jansen, also presentable, has a raspy crow-like voice, unfit for speeches.
Xiao Lin, more approachable, can muster charming, harmless smiles when needed.
But with Jansen, his face was wooden. “If they want to go, let them. It’s their life. If they don’t want to live, no one can stop them.”
Jansen glanced at his cold, pale face, losing his appetite, switched the car to autopilot, crossed his arms, and looked out.
Silver Hammer City was waking. Light rail trains sped below, packed full.
People’s eyes were tired, numb, barely shifting unless sparked by something striking.
“Hope” and “dreams” were luxuries once held, now buried with the “Columbus.”
Listening to Xiao Lin’s listless recitation, Jansen yawned, nearly dozing off.
Unlike paranoid Sanjay, Jansen’s heart, beneath his hero facade, itched for thrills.
He pulled out his communicator, scrolling through entertainment news, then let out an “Oh.”
Startled, Xiao Lin glanced over. “What?”
Jansen, intrigued, said, “That bomber struck again last night.”
Xiao Lin’s large eyes rolled dramatically. “You’re so boring.”
Ignoring the jab, Jansen mused approvingly, “He’s getting better. Heard this time it wasn’t remote-detonated—used a timer!”
Xiao Lin, flat-toned: “Oh. Progress.”
Jansen, curious: “How’s he not caught yet?”
Xiao Lin, pinpointing: “Because he doesn’t bomb people.”
Jansen slapped his thigh, disappointed. “More explosives could kill! Or stick it in a public toilet, on the light rail—”
He mimicked an explosion, rasping, “—Boom—”
Xiao Lin, picturing it, gave a reserved smile at Jansen’s eagerness to join the chaos.
Despite years of playing good guys, they still relished violence, blood, and disorder.
…
The speech went well.
Onstage, Xiao Lin was impassioned, eyes even teary.
But the students below were unmoved.
Silver Hammer’s kids matured fast.
To them, a stable job was paramount.
How else could their families live well?
The outside world was too distant, a vague symbol.
For commoner students, raised on their family’s sacrifices, their lives were precious. Any conscience forbade reckless adventure.
For rich kids, born privileged, they could rule Silver Hammer without lifting a finger. Why trade worthless curiosity for a watery grave?
The speaker knew it was an act; the audience did too.
They played along, and it was enough.
The speech ended hastily, the scene upheld, a win-win.
Staff presented them with a bouquet per protocol.
Jansen accepted with a smile, enduring the overpowering fragrance, posing chest-high with Xiao Lin and school officials for a photo.
They’d have tossed the cumbersome flowers immediately if not for appearances.
As respectable men, they kept beaming, placing the bouquet in the car to deal with later.
They’d received many flowers, all inevitably shredded in the garbage processor.
Oddly, all five enjoyed watching.
Seeing beauty ground to dust was a secret pleasure.
Back in the car, leaving the campus, their stiff smiles collapsed.
Jansen rubbed his face, grimacing. “Ugh.”
Xiao Lin’s face turned icy, his gaze darkly fixed outside, as if resenting the world.
Jansen, restless, was already planning what game to play back home.
Task done, he drove steadily and fast.
They soon left the crowded streets behind.
By day, the area near the concert hall in Dragon Bay was nearly deserted.
With the museum closed today, it was even bleaker, no cars in sight.
As the familiar hall’s outline appeared, Xiao Lin, in the passenger seat, wrinkled his brow in disgust.
He hated the “Columbus.”
Every glimpse of the concert hall’s silhouette inevitably dragged Xiao Lin back to those agonizing months at sea.
—He’d smiled through months of dealing with those people.
So, when he could finally unleash, his cruelty was unmatched, his methods tantamount to torture.
No one who fell to him died easily.
Yet now, with his gentle looks and pleasant voice, he was periodically sent out to play the good guy.
—Disgusting.
As Xiao Lin sank into his dark mood, his communicator buzzed.
Glancing at the screen, he saw an unknown number.
He hung up without a second thought.
Xiao Lin never answered unknown callers.
But almost seamlessly, Jansen’s communicator rang.
Another unknown number, different from the last.
In today’s world, secrets were scarce, and as public figures, the five often got prank calls meant to harass or provoke.
Callers tried every trick to spark anger, hoping to record a curse or two for online clout.
Xiao Lin, hating trouble, frowned at Jansen. “Hang up.”
But Jansen, the opposite, thrived on chaos.
He answered eagerly, winking at Xiao Lin, who shuddered in disgust and looked away.
After a brief silence, a young, lively voice came through the communicator: “Jansen, hey there.”
Jansen matched the tone. “Hey! Who’s this?”
The caller sounded struck. “Forgot me already? It’s Feng Xueyuan.”
Xiao Lin’s heart lurched, his slouched body snapping upright.
The name felt familiar, viscerally so.
It wasn’t just auditory—it was visual. Without hearing the characters, Xiao Lin saw “Feng Xueyuan” clearly in his mind.
That alone was ominous.
Jansen froze.
The car, on autopilot, sped toward the “Columbus” Memorial Concert Hall.
One kilometer from the “Columbus” Bridge to the island.
Jansen repeated numbly, “…Feng Xueyuan?”
“Yup, it’s me!”
The voice, as if reconnecting with an old friend after great hardship, was overly warm, eerily intimate: “You threw me overboard, didn’t you? How could you forget?”
The car’s AC hummed, pumping comfortable heat.
Yet Xiao Lin and Jansen broke into cold sweats in the warmth.
They’d thought they’d forgotten much over the years.
But now, they realized they remembered more clearly than anyone.
—The voice was uncannily like young Feng Xueyuan’s.
Xiao Lin reacted fast, shaking his head sharply at Jansen.
Jansen, suppressing rising panic, spoke gravely: “Please don’t joke like this! Feng Xueyuan was my best friend! Whoever you are, show some respect for the dead!”
Back then, Feng Xueyuan was Jansen’s “best friend,” and one of the first three they killed on the “Columbus.”
They’d chosen carefully before acting.
Feng Xueyuan was clever, quick-witted, a natural at everything.
He could fix anything, transforming limited resources with ease.
He’d once cobbled together a radio from scrap parts.
In front of everyone, he boasted that with a box of heart medication, he could make a bomb.
For such a versatile, resourceful tech genius, early elimination was logical.
…
Invoking Feng Xueyuan’s name meant trouble if they hung up coldly and it leaked.
But continuing with this unknown caller seemed worse.
As Xiao Lin and Jansen hesitated, the voice laughed lightly, sidestepping the “friend” issue: “Took me ages to come back. Haven’t practiced my skills in years, got rusty. Prepped a few times, finally got my groove back.”
What “skills”? What “prep”?
Xiao Lin’s heart jolted, pulling up the car’s digital map with one hand and news about the recent amateur bomber with the other.
His fingers shook, but he didn’t care.
The first explosion was at the old dock where the “Columbus” departed.
The second at an old residential building.
The third in a park.
The fourth at an abandoned light rail station.
…
Marking last night’s blast, Xiao Lin realized in horror that the six explosion sites formed a jagged line snaking across Silver Hammer City’s map.
It pointed, twisted and crooked, straight at the “Columbus” Memorial Concert Hall.
…As if a vengeful sea ghost, dripping wet, had crawled from the ocean, trailing fiery explosions, step by step, toward them.
The voice on the communicator said softly: “—Everyone’s coming back soon. You two, take the first step.”
Xiao Lin’s eyes were wide.
As the words landed, his peripheral vision caught a piercing red flash from the neatly placed bouquet on the back seat.
A scream surged to his throat.
Wait!
They weren’t done living!
But he couldn’t even unleash that final cry. The car exploded just before the bridge to the hall.
In a deafening blast, the vehicle and its occupants became a roaring orange-red fireball, blazing like the sun, radiant and fierce.
