Ning Zhuo considered “learning to dance” part of his job scope and agreed readily.
However, by his own reasoning, he shouldn’t attend the banquet a week from now.
In the past, “Haina” had taken on bodyguard gigs for mid-city district bosses, and Ning Zhuo had stepped into that glitzy world.
He’d posed as a waiter, a security guard, observing the elegance and clinking glasses with a clear mind, knowing it had nothing to do with him.
He never belonged there.
But Shan Feibai insisted he go, his reason simple: “I’m supposed to be under your control right now. I got an invitation—how could you let me go alone?”
He emphasized, “You need to keep an eye on me, keep me in line!”
Shan Feibai wasn’t wrong.
To outsiders, and even to Ning Zhuo, they were long-time rivals, mortal enemies, only tolerating each other for mutual gain.
Having fallen into Ning Zhuo’s hands, Shan Feibai should be crushed in his grip, bleeding if need be.
…But Shan Feibai’s tone was odd, tinged with a comical pride and righteousness.
As if he liked being controlled by Ning Zhuo.
Ning Zhuo said, “You went out today, and I didn’t stop you.”
“I snuck out,” Shan Feibai replied. “So you need to discipline me.”
With that, he casually grabbed Ning Zhuo’s hand and slapped it against his own cheek, mimicking a “smack” sound.
Lowering his eyes, he looked at Ning Zhuo sincerely. “Use the whip. You used that on me when we were kids.”
Ning Zhuo didn’t smile.
He knew Shan Feibai wasn’t joking.
Logically, a mercenary like Shan Feibai attending his alma mater’s anniversary wasn’t natural.
Fortunately, the former Dan family—now the Zhang family—had been thrown into chaos by a contract left by Shan Yunhua. They were desperate to track down Shan Feibai and “talk.”
Shan Feibai had stayed obediently by Ning Zhuo’s side, sitting quietly in jail for three months.
During that time, they’d nearly lost their minds searching for him.
Since they were pressing hard, Shan Feibai smoothly agreed. “My school’s 120th anniversary is coming up. Find me there. But I have little free time, so I’ll have to sneak out. We can’t talk deeply or long. Pick a ‘good time.’”
The Zhang family, frantic, took his word as gospel, oblivious to the sinister intent behind his words.
Last time, Zhang Rong’en had faced Ning Zhuo’s ferocity firsthand and wanted no private meeting with him ever again.
Zhang Hangshu was even more spineless, barely braver than a chicken, trembling at the sight of his brother, let alone Ning Zhuo.
After a family meeting, they decided the Columbus 12th anniversary memorial banquet would be their stage for a reunion.
This played perfectly into Shan Feibai’s hands.
He’d calculated that his family of cowards, having burned bridges with Ning Zhuo, wouldn’t agree to a private meet.
The most high-profile, grand event where they could talk face-to-face was the memorial banquet.
Sure enough, without Shan Feibai mentioning the Columbus event, his eager elder brother delivered the invitation.
Since he’d “escaped” on his own, a whip from Ning Zhuo upon return would make the story even more convincing.
Ning Zhuo’s gaze lingered on Shan Feibai’s face briefly before shifting away calmly.
He saw the logic but didn’t rush to grab a whip.
Ning Zhuo said, “We’ll talk after the dance.”
Shan Feibai let out an “oh,” turning to check his outfit in the mirror again.
While adjusting his brooch, he paused subtly, a thought dawning:
…Is he reluctant to hit me?
This realization sent a tremor of wild joy through Shan Feibai’s hands, usually steady from years of wielding a sniper rifle.
When he turned back, the trembling had stopped, but he couldn’t suppress his grin, so he let it be.
Over the years, Ning Zhuo had been busy—time for killing, none for dancing.
But he clearly had a knack for physical coordination.
After a brief fumble, he matched Shan Feibai’s rhythm in the lively dance tune.
His naturally flexible frame was perfect for the follower’s steps, so Shan Feibai guided him that way.
Ning Zhuo, unaware, learned earnestly.
Shan Feibai seized the chance to brazenly study Ning Zhuo up close.
As a kid, he’d fixated on Ning Zhuo’s waist.
Back then, it wasn’t romantic—just curiosity.
In his mind, fight outcomes hinged on size and bulk.
Ning Zhuo should’ve been a burly, bear-like figure to match his strength.
Yet his waist was so slim—just a few more years, and Shan Feibai could’ve pulled Ning-ge into his arms with one tug, right?
Later, when he ambushed Ning Zhuo in an abandoned parking lot, Shan Feibai had grabbed him from behind.
The memory confirmed his childhood musings weren’t far off.
As Shan Feibai’s heart raced with these heated recollections, the song ended.
He couldn’t resist, giving Ning Zhuo’s waist a quick pinch before letting go.
In truth, Shan Feibai’s teeth itched to bite Ning Zhuo—hard enough to draw blood, to leave a scar.
Ning Zhuo, lightly sweaty from dancing, didn’t know what was swirling in Shan Feibai’s head. The touch drew a low gasp from him.
His waist was sensitive—fine with blows, not with caresses.
Especially since he sensed Shan Feibai’s hand had ulterior motives; that touch was anything but innocent.
Suspicious, he asked, “…What are you doing?”
Shan Feibai hid his hands behind his back, subtly rubbing his fingers.
“Ning-ge’s waist is so slim, I’m jealous,” he said, his good looks lending natural charm to his coyness. “A fine young guy like me isn’t scared of being taken advantage of dancing so close, but Ning-ge is?”
Hearing Shan Feibai’s self-description, Ning Zhuo nearly laughed.
But at the last moment, he reined in his expression.
Instinctively, he didn’t want to let himself be so “uninhibited” in front of Shan Feibai.
Ning Zhuo’s instincts were animalistic, keenly attuned to “danger.”
Yet he was curious: Shan Feibai’s escape routes were cut off, forced into being his accomplice. The merger of “Panqiao” and “Haina” was complete, their awkward union gradually forming flesh-and-blood ties, hard to untangle.
So where exactly was the “danger” Shan Feibai posed?
No matter how heavy or complex Ning Zhuo’s thoughts, they never showed on his face.
He remarked, “Shameless.”
For some reason, Shan Feibai loved hearing Ning Zhuo curse him.
Not only did he not take it seriously or get mad, he found it amusing, ticklish, itching to tease Ning Zhuo again, to touch him once more, to provoke a few more scoldings.
Shan Feibai knew it was cheap of him, but he couldn’t help it—he just wanted to wag his tail in front of Ning Zhuo.
He’d figured out that Ning Zhuo preferred this version of him—the clingy, sweet-talking “Xiao Bai” from their childhood.
Since Ning Zhuo liked him docile, Shan Feibai had molded a part of himself into that persona.
From age thirteen, a “Xiao Bai” had lived inside him, growing alongside him.
But Shan Feibai knew that alone wasn’t enough.
A spoiled, charming young master couldn’t hold Ning Zhuo’s gaze.
Only pain could make Ning Zhuo remember him, see him.
With that fearless recklessness, at eighteen, Shan Feibai had barged back into Ning Zhuo’s life, unreasonable and unyielding.
Who’d have thought he’d be the first to fall?
Meanwhile, Ning Zhuo opened an old wicker chest and pulled out a visibly worn whip.
Since falling out with thirteen-year-old Shan Feibai, when he’d lashed his suspenders to shreds, Ning Zhuo hadn’t used the whip again.
He couldn’t name the feeling, but every time he held it, Xiao Bai’s tearful eyes flickered in his mind.
It was as if a ghost named Xiao Bai haunted him—downright eerie.
As he rinsed the aged whip in clear water, Ning Zhuo noticed a small, dark bloodstain on the tip.
His hand paused, rubbing the spot with his fingertip.
…The blood had seeped into the texture, impossible to clean.
A sudden irritation gripped him. Whip in hand, he stepped out, meeting a grinning, grown-up Shan Feibai.
Feeling awkward, he pressed the whip’s tip to Shan Feibai’s face, signaling him to turn. “Face away. I won’t hit your face.”
Shan Feibai obediently turned, whispering, “Makeұ
System: Hit harder, okay?”
Ning Zhuo: “Clothes on or off?” Without clothes, wounds could stick to fabric.
Shan Feibai didn’t hesitate, his tone a playful pout. “On! How many lashes are you planning to give me?!”
They always planned meticulously, never asking pointless questions like, “Will someone strip you to check the wounds?”
Whipping was a science, steeped in logic.
Clothes on likely meant a single, impulsive lash in anger.
Demanding clothes off signaled more than one strike.
…
Afterward, they lay on the same bed.
Hearing Shan Feibai’s soft gasps of pain, Ning Zhuo’s mind drifted to the word “cohabitation.”
Snapping back, realizing what he was thinking, he expressionlessly pinched his own thigh.
The force was enough to leave a hand-sized bruise.
Ning Zhuo chastised himself—his thoughts had been wandering too often lately.
Not a good sign.
The plan was in motion; there was no room for error.
He needed to stay sharp, no slack allowed.
In the pain, he glanced at Shan Feibai, amazed that the kid, despite the sting, was fast asleep.
Ning Zhuo closed his eyes, following suit.
Soon after, he sensed a faint flicker in a corner of the room.
It was fleeting, like a ghost light.
Like a beast sensing an intruder, Ning Zhuo shot upright, scanning the room.
The light vanished after a flash, untraceable.
Barefoot, he stood, warily surveying, then silently moved to Shan Feibai’s side.
After searching, he found no source for the light.
Ning Zhuo knew his mind was plagued with bloody phantoms—likely just his nerves acting up.
With a lingering shadow of doubt, he returned to bed.
Two hours later, Shan Feibai stirred, pressing half his face into the pillow, slinging a heavy leg across Ning Zhuo’s waist.
Even after Ning Zhuo kicked him awake, he slept soundly.
A strange digital pattern flickered briefly in his eyes, its faint glow absorbed by the pillow, unnoticed.
…
A hundred miles away, the “Tuner” flashed a polite, enthusiastic smile at his client. “Connection successful. Here’s the one-time controller. Take it, and come back anytime—”
Days later, Motobu Ryo was a broken man, inside and out.
His family fallen, with no chance of return, “come back anytime” was a hollow promise.
Motobu Ryo gripped the controller tightly.
He didn’t know who had harmed Motobu Takeshi.
All he knew was that Ning Zhuo was the closest to him before his inexplicable disappearance from prison.
Motobu Ryo knew it was misdirected rage, but so what?
His son’s fate was unknown—likely dead.
Wu had been fond of this “Ning Zhuo,” hadn’t he?
So, using a borrowed knife to kill Ning Zhuo, sending him to join his son, didn’t seem like a bad deal.
