Hearing Min Qiu’s voice, Ning Zhuo was genuinely taken aback.
He glanced at Shan Feibai, raising a brow in confusion.
…Why was Min Qiu involved?
Shan Feibai returned a bewildered look, frowning slightly, then turned to the stage where Sanjay stood frozen like a clay statue.
At the same time, Lin Qin gained control of the concert hall’s “Swarm” cameras.
Since spotting the pair entering the banquet hall, his gaze had silently followed them through the myriad lenses.
Unfortunately, he was at “White Shield” headquarters, not at the concert hall.
—As a consultant, Lin Qin didn’t need to command on-site, only provide technical support from the rear.
That was what Raif, the deputy chief overseeing Midtown’s “White Shield,” had said.
Upon arriving, Lin Qin swiftly cracked the mystery of Xiao Lin and Jensen’s car bombing, outshining the two regional “White Shield” heads who rarely appeared on-site, reducing them to mere foils.
If Lin Qin were allowed to fully take charge on-site, his two subordinates would lose even their “hard-earned” credit, becoming stepping stones for his rising fame.
To Raif, the concert hall was an impregnable fortress, impossible to breach.
The bomber was brazen, but would he really dare strike the island?
The “Swarm” wasn’t to be trifled with!
Raif wasn’t wrong—the “Swarm’s” image quality was exceptional.
—Even the glint of handcuffs peeking from their sleeves was effortlessly captured by Lin Qin’s eyes.
Noticing this, Lin Qin, across the screen, blushed slightly, “…Sigh.”
Was it because he’d never been in love?
Was this… what young couples did in public?
Now, hearing the voice claiming to be “Min Qiu” and seeing Ning Zhuo’s unguarded expression shift through the “Swarm,” Lin Qin quietly exhaled in relief.
He didn’t know Shan Feibai well, but he knew Ning Zhuo.
Lin Qin could tell his surprise wasn’t feigned.
If he was unaware, that was ideal.
…It wasn’t him, then.
After all, Lin Qin had never imagined arresting Ning Zhuo himself.
…
However, the elite guests noticed nothing amiss.
They assumed this was a novel opening act.
They knew Min Qiu’s name—one of the thirty-plus victims.
Using a voice synthesizer to mimic her, letting a young life cut short deliver a speech, was a creative touch.
Only the trio knew they’d never planned such a ghostly program.
Under the focused gazes, Sanjay’s scalp burned, but his skin turned icy.
Before boarding the “Columbus,” he’d spilled plenty of blood, a honed blade and gun.
But Sanjay never had to coexist with those he killed.
He’d strike at the right moment, draw blood, and walk away, forever severed from his victims, man and ghost apart.
The “Columbus” was different.
Those thirty-odd lives were fused to his own.
For over a decade, he’d lived in the shadow of the “Columbus’s” glory, forced to share space with the souls of those he killed, harboring a shameful secret, trapped in this hero’s graveyard.
And that voice—the reclusive yet ferocious female mechanic’s—he remembered clearer than anyone.
…
Back then, at sea, they wielded weapons in a one-sided purge and slaughter.
Sanjay and a partner strolled the deck.
They’d just taken a life, in high spirits.
Especially Sanjay, who’d found thrill in killing, his blood racing. The woman he’d just toyed to death was proof.
Sanjay thought he stood atop the ship’s food chain, life and death his to command.
Until Min Qiu appeared.
As they laughed, she emerged from the shadows, heavy sword in hand, like a medieval knight from a book. Against the grim sea-sky backdrop, she cleaved his laughing partner in two before Sanjay’s eyes!
A spray of dark blood splattered his face.
The sword didn’t touch him, but the visual shock left Sanjay stunned, forgetting to fight back.
A strand of hair clung to Min Qiu’s lips, blood dripping slowly down her blade.
She said softly, “Wishing your whole family wealth and glory.”
Then, dragging her sword, she vanished into the cabins like a wraith, under Sanjay’s dazed gaze.
It took days to finally hunt down and kill Min Qiu.
…
In the warm, fragrant banquet hall, surrounded by impeccably dressed elites, Sanjay’s face tightened under the salty, cold sea breeze, his ears ringing with that cryptic “wealth and glory.”
The broadcast voice matched Min Qiu’s tone and cadence perfectly.
Sanjay knew things were about to go south.
The bomber had already taken out Xiao Lin and Jensen—now, it was likely their turn.
Sanjay had long suspected the one who’d incited their actions back then was now, as their influence waned, aiming to eliminate them entirely.
But they were at a charity banquet, under the “Swarm’s” protection, surrounded by countless elites.
These factors built a fragile safety fortress for Sanjay’s psyche.
Clinging to a sliver of hope, Sanjay pretended all was well, reaching to adjust the mic.
But just as his fingers neared it, a deafening explosion from outside shattered the concert hall’s newly repaired windows!
Amid screams, Sanjay’s mic hit the floor, emitting a piercing screech!
…
The explosion came from a swarm of black balloons riding the wind.
On such a memorial day, even if spotted, balloons would be assumed part of a ceremony.
Moreover, they were black.
Mourning and easily cloaked by night.
Earlier, “White Shield” had imposed air control, restricting registered aircraft to prevent high-altitude bombings.
Bell had even deployed three airships to patrol.
But their focus was on precisely controlled devices like drones.
The balloons were made of plastic, their slow movement and lack of heat radiation rendering them invisible to airship radar.
The balloons’ ropes were tied in small clusters, each with a tiny sonic navigator attached below—radar could detect electromagnetic waves, but not sound waves.
Once released, the balloons would automatically track sound waves, drifting toward the noisiest, most crowded spot within a five-kilometer radius—the “Columbus” Memorial Concert Hall.
Moreover, they rode the wind.
Thanks to an accurate weather forecast predicting strong northwest winds, most balloons, save a few that burst and fell into the sea, sailed through waves of light as bright as day, gliding straight toward the concert hall!
By the time Bell noticed something amiss, the surviving balloons had lost some air.
Their black exteriors absorbed heat, and under neon lights, some began to burst in small groups.
Tied together, with objects dangling below, the damaged balloons slowed, drifting downward, ready for a relentless descent.
Bell and Hardy had no time to unravel the intricate layers of this setup.
Bell’s cry of “Alert!” snapped the scattered “White Shield” officers into high tension.
The tiny balloons sparked infinite dread.
Shoot them down, or let them land?
What would happen if they did?
As the balloons drew closer, unavoidable, Bell saw three or four nearest ones trailing capsule-shaped objects!
Hardy’s heart leapt to his throat.
Bombs?
But if they were, at this distance, who knew if they were remote-triggered, impact-detonated, or something else?
Many “White Shield” officers noticed the anomaly, stirring restlessly.
To them, the balloons were charging with unstoppable momentum.
If they were bombs, the officers were the first in line!
In panic, someone fired at a balloon!
Fear was contagious.
Gunshots rang out like popping beans, mingling with bursting balloons.
But the gunfire and explosions combined to produce unexpected heat.
When a shot grazed a balloon, a spark ignited, racing to the capsule.
A golden-red flash blinded onlookers.
The next moment, a blast wave threw Bell and Hardy against a wall, tumbling them to the ground.
The bomb’s power was terrifying—capsule-sized, yet it shook the entire island.
Bell, clutching his ringing ears, staggered up, blood surging, and saw capsules landing on the walkway outside the hall.
—The grounded bombs didn’t detonate.
Bell froze, wiping blood from his nose, face purpling with rage.
The bomber was screwing with them again!
Armed officers, seeing objects hurtling toward them, would instinctively shoot if they couldn’t assess the threat!
He’d tricked them into triggering the bombs themselves!
As Bell reeled, fuming, Hardy struggled up, wiping dust from his face, leaning on the wall, and ordered coldly, “Everyone, stay put!”
These “White Shield” officers were handpicked, reliable.
They couldn’t lose control.
If chaos broke out, someone could exploit it, making things worse!
…
The gunfire was initially blocked by the hall’s soundproof walls.
But the explosion shattered their opulent dream.
Chaos erupted; some elites screamed but didn’t flee—the earth-shaking blast had come from outside.
Outside was less safe.
Meanwhile, Min Qiu spoke again.
Her voice, calm and refined, came from another speaker in the hall’s northwest corner, “Is there live broadcast equipment here?”
Litton snapped back first.
Bracing himself, he said coldly, “Whoever you are, stop joking! Min Qiu was our partner, our dear friend! Show some respect for the dead!”
“…‘Friend’?”
Min Qiu paused.
She hadn’t expected such shamelessness.
After a moment, she composed herself, her voice now from the southeast corner.
“Fine. Your ‘friend’ has a gift for you.”
…
Lin Qin asked a “White Shield” technician gravely, “Can you trace the signal?”
The technician, sweating profusely, replied, “No! She switches virtual channels with every sentence. Tracing takes five seconds, and it cuts off before we can!”
“Can we cut the audio system?”
“No! A hacker’s hijacked it—only physical disconnection works! But they—”
Lin Qin gritted his teeth, recalling Min Qiu’s sparse personal file from the “Columbus” crew.
Min Qiu, born in the dark, damp, sunless Tofu stronghold—a giant ant nest under a boulder, teeming with humble lives.
Officially, she was undocumented, her family untraceable.
With her background, her strength earned her a spot on the “Columbus.”
She mentioned a younger sister, also undocumented, without a credit card.
If she died en route to the new world, Min Qiu wanted her pension paid in cash to her sister.
After her death, someone delivered the pension but found her sister had moved, taking everything, whereabouts unknown.
Tofu寨 residents, mostly illiterate, shared oral accounts of Min Qiu’s sister.
Thus, officially, mechanic Min Qiu’s family was a girl named “Minmin.”
…
As Lin Qin sifted through this, Min Qiu’s voice echoed from all corners of the hall:
“Please remain calm.”
“That was just a small greeting.”
“The concert hall is now under my control.”
“If anyone leaves without my instructions, I’ll detonate a bomb.”
“We’ve prepared a gift… an undismantlable bomb.”
“You’re welcome to search for it, but don’t move it.”
“Any attempt to alter its physical state will trigger it instantly.”
“Please take this seriously.”
“Now… we need live broadcast equipment.”
“Within 15 minutes, one ‘White Shield’ officer, male, under 25, with less than one year’s service, must deliver it to the west gate.”
“He must be fully stripped, allowed only tight underwear.”
“Since Mr. Litton claims to be my friend, please strip and meet him at the west gate.”
“Understood?”
Ning Zhuo lowered his gaze, expression icy.
…What had Shan Feibai offered Min Qiu to make her boldly say, “allowed only tight underwear”?
Author’s Note:
Min Qiu: Here’s your whole family’s wealth and glory.jpg
