Hardan furrowed his thick brows, silent.
He wasn’t one for words, his temperament the wildest among the five, avoiding social niceties whenever possible.
He was seething, and being called out didn’t fluster him but fueled his rage with nowhere to vent.
He hadn’t seen the bomber’s physical form.
They were like a specter, hovering above, orchestrating them from on high, leaving no chance to strike back.
His strength was useless.
Seeing Hardan’s silence, the bomber hadn’t yet spoken when other guests grew impatient.
“…Speak,” someone urged softly. “Mr. Hardan, just talk.”
In such times, Hardan had no patience for polite formalities.
With deep-set eyes, he looked fine straight-on, but a sidelong glance made his sockets seem hollow, like voids.
The guest who spoke recoiled, silencing but glowering.
…They’re after you, so why glare?
Hardan reined in his ferocity, saying coldly, “What do you want me to say? Why not tell me upfront so I don’t have to make it up?”
The broadcaster chuckled lightly.
“Fine, if Mr. Hardan won’t talk, I’ll tell everyone a story.”
Unlike Silver Hammer’s heroic tales of the past decade, this was a story of betrayal, pain, and slaughter.
Using the voices of the fallen, the bomber recounted the truth, silencing the city.
Few knew the details.
Over the years, many involved had died.
Even some corporate higher-ups were hearing it for the first time.
Silver Hammer Daily hosted the stream.
When approving it, the editor thought it was a unique hostage case, a rare chance to grab attention.
Even when “White Shield” urgently contacted him, vaguely but firmly demanding restrictions, he brushed it off.
Silver Hammer’s companies looked out for their own interests.
“White Shield’s” mess wasn’t Interest Corporation’s to clean.
But the situation spiraled beyond expectations.
The editor, stunned by the broadcast, realized they’d grabbed a red-hot potato.
He tried to limit the stream, but after paying a price, he backed down.
…The price was a mock-chicken canning line under Weiwei Corporation.
Sanjay listened expressionlessly as their crimes were laid bare, noting the bomber didn’t mention their instigator.
Of course—the dead didn’t know who’d spurred them.
But Sanjay didn’t buy the “ghost” story.
His mind raced, guessing who was posing as the bomber.
The story ended with the former captain, a gentle, hopeful young man.
He said calmly, “This is a personal grudge, unrelated to those present.”
“But only this way will you listen.”
“My apologies.”
The guests exchanged glances, not overly tense.
They trusted the hall’s robust security, unaware they were in danger or that “White Shield” was frantic over a bomb found in the memorial hall.
Zhang Xingshu caught his breath, cautiously approaching his brother, tugging his gemmed cufflink, “…Feibai.”
Shan Feibai: “Hm?”
He turned to talk, but Ning Zhuo yanked him back.
Zhang Xingshu’s face fell.
Now, Ning Zhuo scared him more than the elusive bomber.
Seeing Shan Feibai couldn’t move, Zhang Xingshu braved standing near Ning Zhuo, whispering, “Do you think they’re telling the truth?”
Shan Feibai: “Old Mr. Zhang sent you to ask? Thinks I’m some seasoned mercenary or what?”
Zhang Xingshu scratched his head awkwardly, “You… it’s not… just…”
Seeing him flounder, Shan Feibai stopped teasing.
As the mastermind, he said gravely, “It’s not about us; we’re fine. Why not ask Old Zhang if he was involved back then?”
Zhang Xingshu, reassured, froze at the second half, then realized his brother was joking.
He cracked a quick smile, warmth flooding him, finding his brother adorable.
But guilt surged, and he said earnestly, “Sorry. If I hadn’t invited you, you… you two wouldn’t be in this.”
Shan Feibai drawled, “No—biggie.”
Ning Zhuo overheard, marveling at Shan Feibai’s thick skin, tempted to pinch his face but settling for squeezing his warm palm.
Shan Feibai, pinched, quieted, head bowed, secretly delighted.
The guests relaxed, but the accused trio paled.
Hardan growled, “Evidence?”
They knew the ship sank, the dead were gone, no proof remained.
“Oh, right, evidence.”
The captain chuckled softly, “We don’t have much.”
“We thought we’d be witnesses, but dead men don’t count, right?”
Unsure if bombs were real, a few guests smiled at the kidnapper’s quip.
The captain pivoted, “But if the three gentlemen could strip before the camera.”
Sanjay, Hardan, and Litton’s faces darkened.
After forming their assassination team, they’d been tattooed with indelible mushrooms.
In Silver Hammer’s underworld, “mushroom” meant “killer”—they thrived in the damp shadows.
After their mission, these killers needed a place to go.
Ordering them to die after completing the mission would’ve backfired.
Who knew if they’d turn traitor?
So, before departure, the true planners unanimously told them to “return” after the job, secretly hoping they’d perish at sea.
If they survived, no matter.
They’d return, tattooed, unable to hold normal jobs, forced to stay grouped for easy control.
…But how did the bomber know about the tattoos?!
Over the years, only the dead or the planners had seen them.
Had someone escaped back then? Or…
The tense situation left no time to ponder.
Tonight’s blasts had pulverized their painstakingly built networks; they couldn’t delay.
Sanjay forced his clogged throat to move, opening his mouth to explain, but the bomber, politely, shifted demands:
“I know what Mr. Sanjay wants to say.”
“We understand tattoos aren’t hard proof.”
“Maybe you’re close and got matching ones.”
“So we won’t insist on stripping—there are children here.”
The bomber paused subtly, issuing the next order:
“Now, guests under 18, proceed to the memorial hall.”
“White Shield” officers felt a thunderbolt.
They can’t go!
The memorial hall had—
A technical report was rushed out, copies distributed at headquarters.
The brass, reading, grew grimmer.
A delicate box sat on the “Columbus” ship model, blending seamlessly unless closely inspected.
The “Swarm’s” infrared analysis showed the box’s circuits were fully encased, ruling out cutting wires like in crime films.
The box had 15 trigger mechanisms.
Any movement would detonate it instantly.
The bomber lined the inner walls with advanced insulation, thwarting cutting or drilling—any breach would trigger the explosive.
Injecting liquid or gas to neutralize it was impossible.
A float inside would activate one-fifteenth of the triggers if liquid reached a threshold.
Temperature sensors would detonate if readings shifted.
Other triggers sealed “White Shield’s” hopes of disarming it.
The core explosive was hidden in a box-within-a-box.
The “Swarm’s” infrared could only detect so much.
They couldn’t confirm the explosive’s quantity.
But if it was CL-30, it could level the island’s structures.
—The bomber wasn’t lying.
This was an “undismantlable” bomb.
Such sophisticated tech left “White Shield” helpless.
As the young guests obediently left the relatively safe banquet hall, they could only fret.
Who knew if the bomber would snap?
Once only adults remained, the bomber spoke again.
All voices, calm and detached, said:
“I want Sanjay to use the cake knife on the left table to slit Hardan’s throat within five minutes.”
“After five minutes, the memorial hall’s bomb will detonate.”
“Mr. Sanjay, mind the time—don’t be late.”
The next second, the “Swarm” inside the memorial hall detected a “beep” from the bomb’s activation.
—Its core trigger was a timer.
“White Shield” scrambled to trace the signal’s source.
But, like a ghost, it vanished.
Nearby, at the bridge, Interest’s reporters swarmed.
A lead journalist argued loudly with “White Shield” guarding the bridge, while others whispered, none noticing a news van among them.
Driver Boss Fu sat steady, hat low, bundled tightly, revealing no features.
Wearing a covert earpiece, sucking a mint, he asked softly, “Xiao Tang, how’s it going?”
Tang Kaichang, milk straw in mouth, sat calmly in the basement, unhurried.
His fingers danced over the keyboard, producing a fluid clatter, then he cradled his hot milk, secretly smug about his work.
Like a mole in his burrow, he was unaware of his true skill, only thinking “White Shield’s” techs couldn’t match him.
Tang Kaichang puffed out his chest proudly.
…
Chaos erupted in the banquet hall.
Moments ago, children had been sent to the memorial hall!
The bomber shed their veneer of warmth, revealing cruel bloodlust.
Guests cursed the bomber loudly.
Ning Zhuo gripped Shan Feibai’s wrist tightly.
Shan Feibai’s shoulder twitched in pain but stayed composed, patting Ning Zhuo’s hand, then boldly interlacing their fingers, squeezing hard.
Bro, trust me.
Sanjay’s eyes blazed red, his composure gone: “You fucking—threatening me with lives?”
He knew if he killed Hardan, Litton was next, then himself.
The bomber bared their fangs lightly: “Yes, I’m threatening you with the lives of Silver Hammer’s most elite.”
“I’ll bury you with the whole city.”
The synthesized chorus of voices carried a faint laugh.
The tone no longer echoed anyone from the “Columbus,” only the bomber, Shan Feibai: “‘Hero,’ will you die or not?”
