Ning Zhuo felt the tremors from the ground, piecing together what had happened.
The “Columbus” Concert Hall’s power system had been remotely rigged to trigger an explosion at a drilling platform kilometers away.
Few in Silver Hammer City had such skill.
Tang Kaichang was one.
It was the only gift his nearly useless, possibly dead-or-alive father had left him.
How could he…
Litton, ashen-faced, returned to the banquet hall but didn’t dare step inside.
He glanced at Sanjay, knowing that with the right explanation, there was still a chance to salvage this.
But no one knew the true motives of those using the “Columbus” victims’ banner.
He feared the drilling platform was just the start.
Sanjay was stunned.
They’d agreed the “bomber” was a front, likely fabricated by the big company to eliminate them.
But with hostages and now the platform explosion, Sanjay’s certainty wavered.
Even to remove them, was such a grand gesture necessary?
Could another company be targeting Ruiteng?
A single platform explosion wouldn’t topple Ruiteng, but it’d enrage them!
Who was behind this? What were they plotting?
The situation spiraled beyond their expectations. Sanjay’s suit was soaked with sweat, streaming down his back.
Before they could devise a plan, that familiar, terrifying voice spoke again: “Litton, you’re back?”
“I wanted you to fetch the broadcast equipment. Just do it properly.”
“Why make things complicated?”
The hostages shared this sentiment.
In their panic, the bomber’s calm demeanor didn’t seem entirely unhinged, and they cast accusatory glares at Litton.
Not long ago, these people had chatted warmly with him, like old friends.
Now, the popular hospitality manager stood opposed to the elite hostages.
Litton, anguished, bowed deeply and headed back to the west gate.
This time, he dared not play tricks, shedding clothes as he went, stripping to near-nakedness in the elegant, fragrant setting, humiliated.
…At least he had a scrap of cloth for modesty.
At the open west gate, before he could steady himself, winter winds hit him like a slap, making him shiver violently.
But he remembered the instructions and didn’t step outside.
In this era, money trumped lives.
After bombing Ruiteng’s platform, no one doubted the bomber’s willingness to kill.
The platform explosion not only terrified Litton but triggered a horrifying chain reaction.
Its impact rivaled the chaos of the day Shan Feibai was left to die in a fire months ago.
Half of Silver Hammer City felt the blast.
A citywide curfew was reissued, urging residents to return home.
“White Shield’s” phones were overwhelmed.
Not by citizens—long accustomed to chaos, they’d quickly find safe spots and gather intel—but by companies, demands uniform:
—Heard Ruiteng’s platform was bombed?
—We’ve “cooperated” plenty with you; “White Shield,” send people to check our offices, factories, and basements for bombs!
“White Shield’s” task forces were deployed, maintaining order and answering companies’ inspection demands—having taken bribes, they couldn’t shrink from duty now.
“White Shield” was swept into a maelstrom, like the storm the “Columbus” survivors described years ago.
The headquarters, once focused on guarding the “Columbus” Concert Hall, was stretched thin, unable to cope.
The most awkward, practical issue: they were short on manpower.
Ning Zhuo, in the hall, could imagine “White Shield’s” chaos.
His gaze calmly pierced the void.
He knew Lin Qin was helpless now.
Officer Lin couldn’t conjure a thousand clones or keep eyes on him.
Shan Feibai was ruthless.
His plan was to set fires everywhere, leaving “White Shield” too distracted to care.
Ning Zhuo looked down again at Shan Feibai, nestled against his chest.
Ning Zhuo knew every expression Shan Feibai wore was an act.
Confusion, bewilderment, a hint of tension—but as a seasoned mercenary, he wouldn’t truly panic.
He flawlessly played the innocent attendee, his demeanor betraying nothing of his role as the mastermind.
He’d gone this far not just for Min Qiu and Minmin, but for himself.
Ning Zhuo recalled Shan Feibai saying his spine was broken because he’d crossed nearly every major company in Silver Hammer City.
Ning Zhuo pressed a hand to his back, feeling the steel vertebrae protruding.
He’d settle scores with him later.
As Ning Zhuo expected, “White Shield” was in chaos, inside and out.
All the elusive higher-ups gathered at once.
This was beyond a single task force’s scope.
Everyone shouted their opinions, yelling “Listen to me!”—the meeting room a mess.
“I say we comply with the bomber’s demands. They haven’t been extreme yet. The more we act, the more we risk provoking them!”
“No! What if their demands escalate? Comply then? We can’t set that precedent!”
“Who’s responsible if people die?”
“It’s just deaths now? You’ll handle Ruiteng?”
Both sides had points, arguing endlessly with no resolution.
In frustration, they found a common target: “Are the investigators useless? No bomber caught after all this time? Explosives source, motive, surveillance—can’t they find something?!”
As the case’s consultant, Lin Qin sat quietly at the table’s end.
The lowest-ranking person there, he remained calm.
Standing, he stated evenly, “My view is to keep the focus on the ‘Columbus’ Concert Hall. From Xiao Lin, Jensen, to now Litton, their targets are the five hall operators.”
“Motive?”
“They’re uncooperative, but we’ve checked their networks. Over the years, they’ve formed no significant ties or grudges.”
This offered little value.
Someone cut in, “Any suspects?”
Lin Qin’s eyes, hidden by bandages, concealed his expression.
He replied, “None.”
He knew naming anyone now, even without evidence, would make them a target, with “White Shield” capable of fabricating proof.
Ning Zhuo’s image flashed in his mind.
Lin Qin dismissed it.
He only suspected, with no evidence.
And the escalating situation didn’t feel like Ning Zhuo’s work.
To Lin Qin, Ning Zhuo was a lone wolf.
…Though he couldn’t rule out him partnering with another.
But this bombing wasn’t the work of one or two people.
Lin Qin believed Ning Zhuo would risk his own life, but not “Haina’s” or its members’.
Was someone hiring them?
Was “Haina” that desperate for money?
Lin Qin’s thinking wasn’t surprising.
He knew most of “Haina.”
But the two key figures in this case, he’d never met.
Tang Kaichang was “Haina’s” hidden ace, buried deep, rarely seen.
Often, unless he spoke via broadcast, even “Haina” members forgot he existed at the base’s core.
Lin Qin had only stayed briefly at “Haina.” Minmin arrived later, an internal staffer, with no overlap.
Here, Lin Qin’s intel was limited.
As a consultant, he’d escape post-incident blame, so he only briefed on behalf of Bell and Hardy, still on-site.
Bell and Hardy were truly overwhelmed.
They’d reached the west hall entrance, staring at Litton, stripped to his underwear, lips purple from cold.
One dared not exit, the other dared not enter, stuck in a standoff.
The guests, ignorant, blamed Litton for acting rashly, but the bomber’s broadcasted words hit “White Shield” like thunder.
The “Swarm” had been hacked!
How else did the bomber know Litton returned to the hall instead of going to the gate?
They alerted headquarters to check for compromised “Swarm” cameras.
So far, nothing.
The reason? Too many cameras!
If the hacker was skilled, they could switch feeds at will, making a “clean” sweep impossible.
Shutting down the “Swarm” would blind “White Shield.”
Reluctantly, they ordered a search for possible bomb locations in the hall—though no one believed a bomb was there.
They also contacted headquarters to send broadcast equipment to stall the bomber.
They’d planned to tamper with the “live feed.”
But the bomber, anticipating this, added via broadcast:
“I want a citywide synchronized live stream.”
“No localized or delayed broadcasts.”
“We’re everywhere, watching you.”
Hearing this, Bell and Hardy wanted to spit in frustration.
But with the bomber invisible, they were powerless.
Under the deadline, “White Shield” headquarters didn’t dare delay, delivering a full set of professional broadcast equipment on wheels.
Like Litton, the young officer who volunteered stripped down to nothing, shivering in the cold, pushed the equipment to the door, and slid it inside, completing the handover.
Such a simple task, yet it cost a mining platform to achieve.
Litton redressed, regaining some dignity, and, with frozen legs, pushed the crate forward, his eyes burning with anger and urgency.
Broadcast equipment didn’t sound like good news.
Anxiously, he returned the gear to the banquet hall.
As he stood still, the broadcast switched to a male voice.
It was a college student from Min Qiu’s memory, one who chose to jump into the sea.
He announced:
“Here’s the deal. We set a 15-minute deadline.”
“But Mr. Litton wasted time on tricks and dressing, causing a delay…”
A pause: “One minute, thirty seconds.”
Litton’s heart sank.
The next second, a distant explosion roared.
“United Health’s raw material warehouse, a gift for dawdling Mr. Litton.”
“Hope you’re quick and assemble the equipment in ten minutes. Thank you all.”
This time, without Litton’s help, several tech-savvy guests sprang into action, assembling the setup in seven minutes.
Three minutes later, a live stream dominating Silver Hammer Daily’s headlines was born.
Its name was blunt: “Secrets of the Columbus.”
With two explosions and time pressing, “White Shield” had no room for tricks.
At “White Shield” headquarters, everyone in the meeting room stared at the stream.
Silver Hammer citizens, idle and eager for news, flooded in.
Within a minute, hundreds of thousands joined.
The steady camera captured the hall’s lavish decor and the ghostly pale faces of the guests.
The opening was steeped in eerie mystique, shocking all.
“Hello, everyone. We are the crew of the ‘Columbus.’”
Each introduced themselves in distinct voices.
“White Shield” brass remained unmoved.
Such voices could be synthesized, clearly a ploy.
In the tense silence, someone snapped, “Where’s the bomber? Still not caught? Human or ghost, inside or out? Can anyone give me a straight answer?”
“No way it’s a guest! We’ve analyzed the hall’s security—nothing explosive could get in!”
As if jinxed, the meeting room door was flung open.
A panting technician burst in, too frantic for protocol, gasping illogically, “There’s… there’s!”
The room fell silent.
The “White Shield” chief asked coldly, “What? Speak clearly.”
The technician caught his breath: “A bomb—in the memorial hall!”
Dead quiet.
“Fuck!” Deputy Chief Eller cursed sharply, voicing everyone’s question, “How’d it get in?”
…
Unanswered, the bomber’s ghostly voice echoed in the stream.
“Now, I need… our second mate, Mr. Hardan, to do something.”
“Mr. Hardan, care to share what really happened on the ‘Columbus’ back then?”
Author’s Note:
[Silver Hammer Daily]
Headline:
Secrets of the Columbus, the Source of Silver Hammer’s Mysterious Explosions?
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