Chapter 28: Rescuing Zero
Chen Mo did not barge in directly.
He used The Flash's speed to reach the Vought Tower fire control room.
2:15 AM. There was only one security guard on duty in the fire control room, and he was dozing off. The guard was leaning against the back of his chair, his head tilted to one side, his mouth slightly open. The surveillance screens displayed real-time footage of every floor in the building—empty corridors, closed offices, and flickering emergency lights.
Chen Mo used The Flash's speed to circle behind him—the guard didn't even feel anyone enter. His breathing was steady, his snoring soft.
He triggered the fire alarm for the entire building.
The piercing alarm resounded throughout the building. Red warning lights began to The Flash. Using The Flash's speed, Chen Mo completed three things in fifteen seconds:
First, cut off the independent power supply for Basement Level 4. The power room was on Basement Level 3; he dashed through the corridor, pulled open the breaker box, found the red switch labeled "Basement Level 4 - Main Power," and pulled it down with force. The lights in the corridor went out, and the emergency lights turned on, emitting a faint green glow.
Second, destroy the door lock using his vibration ability. Without power, the electronic lock was disabled. But there was still a mechanical lock—he used The Flash's vibration ability to make the metal molecules resonate, causing the lock cylinder to shatter within seconds with a faint click.
Third, pick up Zero and rush out of the building.
Zero lay on his back, very light. So light that she didn't feel like an adult. She had been imprisoned for ten years—her muscles had atrophied, and she weighed less than forty kilograms. Her arms were wrapped around his neck, her fingers ice-cold. Her breathing was very faint, so faint it was almost imperceptible.
Carrying her on his back, Chen Mo used The Flash's speed to dash through corridors, stairwells, and the lobby. The surrounding scenery blurred into patches of color—gray walls, white lights, red emergency lights, and black shadows. The wind whistled in his ears.
The entire building was being evacuated. Employees ran out of the dormitory area in their pajamas, and security guards were directing the crowd. Some people were shouting, some were crying, and some were on their phones. No one noticed a blurry shadow The Flash past them.
When Chen Mo rushed out of the main entrance, he looked back.
The top floor of Vought Tower—Homelander's room—the lights were on. That light looked like an open eye in the night.
Homelander already knew.
But Chen Mo was already outside the building. He used The Flash's speed to cross three streets, turned into an alley, and then slowed down. His heart was racing, his breathing ragged. The Flash's ability was very draining—his legs were slightly trembling.
Zero lay on his back, seeing the outside sky for the first time.
New York in the early morning. It wasn't dawn yet, but the eastern horizon was already turning a pale white. The streetlights were still on, emitting a dim yellow light. The streets were empty, save for a stray cat crouching next to a trash can, watching them with green eyes.
Zero raised her head.
"That is... the sky?"
"Hmm."
"I haven't seen the sky in ten years."
Chen Mo didn't speak. He continued walking with her on his back. His pace slowed—there was no need to use The Flash's speed anymore. They were safe now.
He went to Park Soon-ja's convenience store.
The lights in the convenience store were still on. Through the glass door, one could see Park Soon-ja sitting behind the counter, wearing reading glasses, reading a Korean book. Hearing the doorbell ring, she looked up.
Seeing Chen Mo standing at the door with a thin, frail woman on his back, she didn't ask anything. She took off her reading glasses, stood up, and walked into the back room.
Chen Mo heard the sound of a bed being made—the sound of sheets being shaken out and pillows being fluffed.
After a while, Park Soon-ja walked out and nodded at Chen Mo.
Chen Mo carried Zero into the back room. The room was small, with only a single bed and a small wardrobe. But the sheets were clean, and the pillows were soft.
Zero sat on the edge of the bed and touched the sheets.
Cotton.
Soft.
She lowered her head, her fingers gently stroking the sheets. Then, she cried.
It wasn't a loud wail—it was silent tears, falling drop by drop onto the sheets, leaving dark watermarks. Her shoulders were trembling, but she made no sound.
Park Soon-ja stood at the door, watching Zero. She didn't say anything. She just walked over, sat down next to Zero, and reached out to hold Zero's hand. Those calloused hands held Zero's ice-cold fingers.
Zero looked up at Park Soon-ja.
"Thank you," she said.
Park Soon-ja patted her hand: "Sleep. It's safe here."
Zero lay down. She buried her face into the pillow—the pillow was cotton, soft, and smelled of laundry detergent. She closed her eyes. Teardrops still hung on her eyelashes.
Chen Mo stood at the doorway, watching Zero's curled-up figure on the bed. Her body was curled into a ball, like an injured little animal.
Ten years.
She had been imprisoned for ten years.
He turned and walked out of the room, gently closing the door.
Park Soon-ja followed him out and stood behind the counter. She picked up her reading glasses but didn't put them on.
"Who is she?" she asked.
"Someone who was imprisoned by Vought for ten years."
Park Soon-ja was silent for a moment. Her gaze fell into the void, as if she were thinking about something.
"Like you?"
Chen Mo looked at her.
"No. She had it worse than me."
Park Soon-ja didn't speak. She turned and took a bottle of water from the shelf, handing it to Chen Mo. The bottle still carried the chill of the refrigerator.
"What do you plan to do next?"
Chen Mo took the water, twisted off the cap, and took a sip. The water was cold, flowing down his throat, making him feel a bit more alert.
"Keep investigating."
"Until when?"
"Until Vought falls."
Park Soon-ja looked at him. There was worry in those eyes, but even more—trust. That trust warmed Chen Mo's heart.
"Be careful."
"Hmm."
Chen Mo walked out of the convenience store. It was already starting to get light. There were people jogging on the street. Bicycles delivering newspapers. The scent of breakfast stalls—the smell of pancakes, coffee, and toasted bread mixed together.
He stood on the side of the road, watching this city that had just awakened. Sunlight filtered through the buildings in the east, casting long golden rays. A pigeon landed on a streetlight, cooing and shaking its wings.
He thought of Zero's curled-up figure on the bed. He thought of her trembling fingers as she touched the sheets. He thought of her voice when she said "I haven't seen the sky in ten years"—there was no anger in that voice, no resentment, only a simple, childlike wonder.
Ten years.
What would he become if he were imprisoned for ten years?
He didn't dare to think about it.
His phone vibrated.
Butcher's message: "Heard Vought Tower caught fire this morning?"
Chen Mo replied: "It wasn't a fire. It was me."
Butcher replied instantly: "You fucking went to Basement Level 4?"
"Yeah."
"Rescued S-017?"
"Yeah."
Butcher was silent for a few seconds. Then he replied with a message: "You're a fucking lunatic."
Chen Mo smiled.
"Thanks."
He turned off his phone and put it back in his pocket.
Then he turned around and glanced at the convenience store. Through the glass door, he could see Park Soon-jasitting behind the counter, having put her reading glasses back on, continuing to read that Korean book. She looked as if nothing had happened—except that there was one more person who needed caring for.
Chen Mo looked away and walked forward along the street.
The morning breeze blew on his face, carrying the warmth of early summer and the scent of breakfast stalls. The bakery across the street was already open; orange light shone through the windows, warm and bright. A clerk wearing an apron was placing freshly baked bread on the shelves—croissants, baguettes, cinnamon rolls, steaming hot.
He stopped, thought for a moment, and walked into the bakery.
"Two croissants," he said.
The clerk packed the croissants in a paper bag and handed it to him. The paper bag was warm, and he could feel the residual heat of the bread through it.
He took the paper bag and walked back to the convenience store. He pushed the door open, and the doorbell rang.
Park Soon-ja looked up.
Chen Mo placed the paper bag on the counter.
"Bought this for her."
Park Soon-ja glanced at the paper bag, then looked at Chen Mo. Then she smiled—that smile was light, but very warm.
"You are a good kid," she said.
Chen Mo didn't speak. He turned and walked out of the convenience store.
The sun had fully risen. Golden light spilled onto the street, casting long shadows. A new day had begun.
But he knew—the real storm hadn't come yet.
Chapter 29: Stormfront
The next day, Chen Mo was stopped at the entrance of Vought Tower by someone.
A woman.
Blonde, wearing a leather jacket, with an aura of lightning about her—not metaphorically. There were actual, faint electric currents jumping around her, making a crackling sound in the air. Her hair floated slightly from the static electricity, as if blown by an invisible wind.
She was leaning against a pillar at the entrance, as if waiting for him. Seeing Chen Mo approach, she smiled.
"You're the one who broke into Red River last night."
Chen Mo stopped. He sized up the woman in front of him—she looked to be about thirty, with delicate features, but a dangerous sharpness in her eyes. Under her leather jacket was a black bodysuit that outlined her sturdy muscle lines.
"Who are you?"
"You can call me Stormfront."
"I don't know you."
"But you know of me." Stormfront smiled. "I bought half of the Compound V from the Red River Institute."
Chen Mo's gaze turned cold. His fingers tightened slightly.
Stormfront raised her hands in a gesture of surrender: "Don't be nervous. I'm not here to cause you trouble. I'm here to discuss a partnership."
"What kind of partnership?"
"I have all the channels for the Compound V black market. You have internal access to Vought. We each get what we need."
Chen Mo looked at her. Stormfront had a "I know what you're thinking" smile on her face. That kind of smile wasn't friendly—it was the confidence of "I know your cards."
"Why should I trust you?"
"It doesn't matter if you don't trust me." Stormfront took a business card out of her pocket and handed it to him. "But you'll need me soon."
Chen Mo took the card. There was no name on it, only a phone number. The card was white, the paper quality was good, and it felt smooth to the touch.
"Why?"
"Because Homelander already knows it was you who rescued Zero. He's going to start cleaning house soon. The people around you—Park Soon-ja, Starlight, Butcher—will all become targets."
Stormfront turned and left. Her leather jacket stirred up a breeze as she turned, leaving a faint smell of ozone in the air—the scent of lightning.
After walking a few steps, she stopped and looked back at him.
"You have three days to consider. After three days—this number will be invalid."
Then she left. Her back disappeared around the street corner, her leather jacket reflecting a ray of light in the morning sun.
Chen Mo stood in place, watching her back disappear around the corner. He looked down at the business card in his hand. No name. Just a phone number. He put the card in his pocket.
Then he walked into Vought Tower.
The lobby was quieter than usual. The two receptionists at the front desk were whispering, their voices very low. Several security guards stood next to the elevator, their expressions tenser than usual. When Chen Mo passed by, one security guard glanced at him—that look wasn't just a casual glance, it was the look of "I know who you are."
Chen Mo didn't stop.
He walked into the elevator and pressed the button for the 48th floor.
The moment the elevator doors closed, he leaned against the elevator wall. The metal wall was cold, seeping through his shirt onto his skin. The Flash's power was still there—he could feel the residual warmth of that speed lingering in his veins. But Sunday was coming soon, and the power would fade away quickly.
Stormfront was right—Homelander already knew.
He had rescued Zero. Homelander would not let him go.
He took out his phone and sent a message to Starlight: "Don't look for me today. Safety first."
After a while, Starlight replied with one word: "You too."
Chen Mo turned off his phone.
The elevator reached the 48th floor. The doors opened.
The corridor was empty. The fluorescent lights hummed, casting a cold light on the white walls.
He walked to his workstation, sat down, and opened his computer. The screen lit up.
There was an extra file on the desktop.
Filename—"To Chen Mo.txt".
Chen Mo's heart skipped a beat. He opened the file.
There was only one line of text in the file:
"You rescued my toy. Next—I will take yours. — H"
Chen Mo stared at that line of text.
H.
Homelander.
He slowly closed the file. The mouse cursor moved across the screen, and he clicked the close button. The file disappeared, and the desktop returned to normal.
Then he leaned back in his chair and looked at the city outside the window.
The sky over New York was very blue. Sunlight shone on the glass curtain wall of the building opposite, reflecting a dazzling white light. In the distance, an airplane left a white contrail in the sky.
The image of Zero curled up on the bed surfaced in his mind—her fingers trembling as she touched the sheets, the sound of her voice when she said, "I haven't seen the sky in ten years."
Park Soon-ja's hunched back when making the bed, her calloused hands when handing him water, the worry in her eyes when she said "Be careful"—every scene was as clear as if it had just happened.
The sound of Starlight's voice when she said, "You are the first person to make me feel safe," was still in his ears. The way she shed tears in the cafe, the weak tone of her voice when she said, "Don't leave me alone tonight."
Stormfront's words were like a thorn in his heart—"The people around you will all become targets."
He picked up his phone.
He opened his contact list and found Stormfront's card—the card with only a phone number.
He stared at the number for a long time.
Then he turned off his phone and put it back in his pocket.
It wasn't time yet.
Chen Mo put his phone back in his pocket. Stormfront's card was in his pocket, made of paper, its edges a bit sharp. He could feel the presence of that card—like a ticking time bomb, ready to go off at any moment.
He leaned back in his chair, looking at the city outside the window. The sky over New York was very blue, and the sunlight shone on the glass curtain wall of the building opposite, reflecting a dazzling white light. In the distance, an airplane left a white contrail in the sky. A helicopter flew over the roof, the sound of its rotors coming from afar and then fading away.
The file left by Homelander played repeatedly in his mind—"You rescued my toy. Next—I will take yours."
Toy.
Homelander called Zero a "toy."
Not an "experimental subject," not a "prisoner," not a "person"—but a "toy."
Chen Mo's fingers tightened on the desk. The wooden desk made a slight sound under his fingernails.
The image of Zero curled up on the bed surfaced again—the sound of her voice when she said, "I haven't seen the sky in ten years," and her trembling fingers as she touched the sheets.
Ten years.
She had been locked up for ten years.
In Homelander's eyes, she was just a toy.
Chen Mo stood up and walked to the window. The view from the 48th floor was excellent—he could see the entire Manhattan skyline. The Empire State Building shimmered with silver light in the sun. The Statue of Liberty was on the distant sea, looking as small as a toy.
Stormfront's words echoed in his ears—"You have three days to consider."
Three days.
Within three days, he had to make a choice—cooperate, or don't cooperate.
If he cooperated—he could gain access to all of the Compound V black market channels. That meant he could use Compound V to deal with Vought. He could create his own army of super-powered individuals. He could dismantle Vought's supply chain from the inside.
But cooperation also meant—he had to deal with someone like Stormfront. Someone who bought half of the Compound V from the Red River Institute. Someone who sold superpowers on the black market. Someone—as filthy as Vought.
If he didn't cooperate—Stormfront might become his enemy. An enemy who knew his identity, knew his powers, and knew his weaknesses.
Chen Mo looked at the city outside the window.
New York. Every inch of this city was polluted by Vought. From the ground to the sky, from the streets to the skyscrapers—Vought's shadow was everywhere. Vought's billboards. Vought's heroes. Vought's Compound V. Vought's lies.
Butcher's words echoed in his mind—"Leave no survivors."
Maeve's words were also there—"Don't touch the Basement Level 4 business."
Starlight's words—"You are the first person to make me feel safe."
Zero's words—"Your soul is transparent."
He closed his eyes.
Then he opened his eyes.
He took out his phone and opened his contacts. The number on Stormfront's card—he stared at it for a long time.
Then he dialed it.
The phone rang three times.
"You're faster than I thought." Stormfront's voice came through the receiver, with a hint of a smile.
"I haven't decided yet," Chen Mo said.
"But you called. That's a good start."
Chen Mo was silent for a while. Then he said:
"I need to know one thing."
"Speak."
"Why do you want to help me?"
There was silence on the other end of the phone for a few seconds. Then Stormfront said:
"Because I hate Vought too."
Chapter 30 Iron Man
Sunday night, The Flash's ability began to fade.
Chen Mo sat on the folding bed in his apartment, looking at the cracks on the wall. It was quiet in the room. The cat wasn't there. Starlight wasn't there either—after he said "Safety first," she didn't contact him again. Occasionally, cars passed by outside the window, their lights sweeping across the ceiling and then disappearing. He reached out and touched under his pillow—the folding knife he bought from the convenience store was still there. When he had Wolverine's ability, he used bone claws; when he had The Flash's, he used speed; now, he had to go back to the most primitive way.
The Flash's ability was slipping away bit by bit—that light, wind-like feeling was fading. His reaction speed was slowing down, and the World was returning to its normal speed. He looked down at his hands, his fingers twitching slightly. No electricity. No speed. Just the hands of an ordinary person.
11:59 PM.
The wheel spun deep in his consciousness.
Red, blue, gold, silver.
Click.
Stop.
The moment the ability was injected, it was like a door had been opened in his brain.
It wasn't Spider-Man's agility. It wasn't Batman's wisdom. It wasn't Captain America's strength. It wasn't Wolverine's killing instinct. It wasn't The Flash's speed.
It was knowledge.
Countless technological blueprints flooded into his mind—from principles to structure to materials to energy sources, all as clear as if they were printed in his brain. The design principle of the arc reactor. The joint structure of the Battle Armor. The energy conversion of the weapon system. The aerodynamic formulas for flight thrusters. All the knowledge poured down like a waterfall, filling every corner of his brain.
Iron Man.
Chen Mo opened his eyes.
He sat on the bed, his mind full of various mechanical structures rotating, combining, and breaking down. He could see the meshing of every gear, the path of every wire, the flow direction of every energy circuit. Those structures operated automatically in his mind, as if they were alive.
He stood up, walked to the table, and picked up a pen and a piece of paper.
His hand started drawing automatically—it wasn't him drawing, it was the blueprints flowing out through his hand. The cross-section of the arc reactor—circular, with an energy core in the center, surrounded by multi-layered coils. The arm structure of the Battle Armor—hydraulic rods, servo motors, the connection method of the armor plates. The energy formulas for the flight thrusters—calculations for thrust, fuel consumption, and flight time.
He drew for the entire night.
When dawn broke, the table was piled with drawings. There were at least twenty sheets, each filled with lines and numbers. He put down the pen and looked at the drawings. Each one was accurate to the millimeter level—as if he had measured them with a ruler. His hand was sore, and his fingers were stained with ink.
He needed materials.
He thought for a moment—the scrap pile at Vought Tower.
Vought's technical department cleaned out a batch of "obsolete" equipment every quarter. Those devices were thrown into the scrap warehouse on the second basement level of the tower, waiting to be recycled. To others, it was garbage. To him—it was spare parts.
On Monday morning, Chen Mo arrived an hour earlier than usual. The tower was still quiet, with only the cleaning lady mopping the floor. He used his employee card to swipe open the door to the second basement level. The scrap warehouse was at the end of the corridor, with a chain lock on the door. He used his memory from The Flash to find the security patrol schedule—there were forty-five minutes until the next patrol.
He opened the chain lock—Iron Man's knowledge told him how to open this kind of lock with two paperclips. He straightened the paperclips, inserted them into the keyhole, and turned them gently a few times—click, the lock opened.
The scrap warehouse was filled with all kinds of equipment. Scrapped surveillance cameras, old servers, broken cables, broken motors. There was a smell of dust and metal in the air.
Chen Mo rummaged through it for an hour. He found a scrapped server—the copper coils inside could be used. He found three broken motors—the rotors could still be used. He found a pile of cables—copper-cored. He found an abandoned firefighter's respirator—the mask could be modified into a helmet. He packed everything into a black trash bag and carried it back to his apartment.
For the next three days, he assembled the Battle Armorevery night. There was no arc reactor—that kind of thing required palladium and micro-nuclear fusion technology, which he couldn't get. He used high-capacity battery packs instead—dismantled from the power supplies of scrapped servers, with twelve connected in parallel. The Battle Armor was very crude. It wasn't the streamlined red and gold Battle Armor from the movies. It was cobbled together from scrap iron and copper wire—it looked like a robot made from parts in a junkyard. But it could fly.
On Wednesday night, Chen Mo stood on the roof of his apartment building, wearing the Battle Armor he had built himself. The Battle Armor weighed about forty kilograms. An Iron Skin shell, copper wire connections, and a helmet made from the modified firefighter's respirator mask embedded in the chest. Inside the helmet was a display screen taken from a scrapped surveillance camera, showing battery levels and simple flight data. The night wind blew, causing the copper wires on the edge of the Battle Armor to make a slight sound.
He took a deep breath. He activated the flight thrusters. The thrusters under his feet sprayed a wave of heat—he flew up. Not flying steadily—he rushed out violently. He hit the wall of the opposite building. "Fuck." He slid down from the wall and fell onto the roof. The Battle Armormade a clanging sound. He climbed up and adjusted the angle of the thrusters. Try again. This time he flew five meters before hitting the wall. Try again. Ten meters. Try again. Twenty meters.
By three in the morning, he was already able to fly between the buildings. Although the posture was very ugly—like a bird that had just learned to fly, its wings not yet coordinated—but he could fly. He stood on the roof of his apartment building, overlooking the night view of New York. The skyline of Manhattan shimmered in the night. The spire of the Empire State Building was lit up. In the distance, the top floor of Vought Tower was lit—Homelander was still up there.
Chen Mo stood on the roof edge, the night wind blowing his jacket. His phone vibrated. A message from Butcher: "Got a job. Need you to make a flight."
Chen Mo looked at that message. He activated the Battle Armor. The thrusters under his feet sprayed blue flames. He flew up. The night view of New York spread out beneath his feet—ten thousand lights, traffic like a river. He flew over the skyline of Manhattan, over the East River, over the Brooklyn Bridge. The wind whistled in his ears. The metal shell of the Battle Armor made a humming sound in the night wind.
He looked down at his feet, at those lights, at those streets.
Those windows that were still lit late at night. He remembered the image of Park Soon-ja making the bed. He remembered the figure of Zero curled up on the bed.
He remembered the sound of Starlight saying "You are the first person to make me feel safe" when she spoke. He remembered the line Homelander left on the table—"You saved my toy. Next—I will take yours."
He accelerated. The Battle Armor drew a blue light in the night sky. Not enough. Still not enough. He needed a stronger Battle Armor. Better weapons. More abilities. He needed to—be prepared before Homelander made a move.
Chen Mo flew over Manhattan. He looked down at the battery display on his chest—sixty-three percent left.
Enough to fly for ten minutes. After ten minutes, he would have to find a place to land and change the battery.
This Battle Armor was too crude, it couldn't even guarantee basic range.
But he wasn't in a hurry; Rome wasn't built in a day.
Iron Man's Battle Armor wasn't built in a day either.
He needed time. And time—was the thing he lacked the most right now.
He remembered what Stormfront said—"You have three days to consider."
Three days. He didn't know what would happen after three days.
But he knew one thing—within three days, he had to make this Battle Armor stronger.
Chapter 31: Butcher's Mission
Chen Mo landed at the abandoned pier in Brooklyn. The blue light from his thrusters illuminated the water, startling a flock of water birds resting under the bridge piers. Butcher stood in the shadows, smoking. The red glow of the cigarette tip flickered in the darkness, and a black van was parked nearby.
When Chen Mo landed, the iron shell of his Battle Armorclattered. On the helmet's display—battery at 57 percent. It took three minutes to fly here from the apartment.
Butcher watched him, and the cigarette dropped from the corner of his mouth. "Where the fuck did you get that?"
"Made it myself."
Butcher knocked on the iron shell. "Did you make this out of a fucking trash can?"
"Vought's scrap heap."
Butcher laughed and flicked the cigarette butt into the river. "Fine. At least you can fly now."
"What's the mission?"
Butcher pulled out a photo—a silver metal case stamped with the Vought logo. "A shipment of Compound V is being transported out of the Vought lab tonight. The destination—a Russian black market transfer station."
"Location?"
"Newark Port. Pier 37."
Chen Mo looked at the photo. Twelve metal cases. "How much is it worth?"
"Twenty million U.S. dollars. Intercept it, and we'll have the funds."
"You want me to commit robbery?"
"Not robbery, requisition. Justified requisition."
Chen Mo was silent for three seconds. He needed a stronger Battle Armor. "Fine. But I need to leave someone alive for questioning."
Butcher flicked away his cigarette butt. "The cargo ship arrives at 2:00 AM. You have three hours."
Chen Mo put on his helmet. The navigation displayed—Newark Port, four minutes of flight time.
"Wait." Butcher leaned out. "Do you know how to find that shipment?"
"Thermal imaging and a metal detector."
Butcher looked at him, his eyes filled with both trust and worry. "Don't screw it up."
Chen Mo activated his thrusters and flew toward Newark Port. The East River flowed beneath his feet, and the Brooklyn Bridge receded behind him. Battery at 55 percent—enough to fly four minutes to the port, with three minutes left to carry out the mission.
Not enough time. But he had no other choice.
He flew skimming the surface of the water. Waves rolled beneath him, and the spray splashed against the soles of his Battle Armor, hissing.
Pier 37. He landed on a shipping container two hundred meters away and activated the scanning system. Six heat sources were distributed across three locations—two at the gangway, two patrolling the pier, and two at the cargo hold entrance. The patrol routes intersected every five minutes.
He had less than three minutes.
Chen Mo took a deep breath. The speed of the The Flashflashed through his mind—if he were still the The Flash, he could have done it in 0.3 seconds. But now he was Iron Man, relying on technology.
He checked the weapon system—no weapons. Only flight function and basic strength enhancement.
Damn. He would have to rely on his fists.
He jumped down from the shipping container and moved along the shadows. The first guard was leaning against a shipping container smoking—Chen Mo covered his mouth and locked his neck. The guard went limp. Five left.
The second guard was squatting on the ground tying his shoelaces—Chen Mo stepped forward quickly and struck the back of his neck with an elbow. Four left.
The two guards at the gangway were chatting. Chen Mocircled around from the side, and both turned their heads at the same time—Chen Mo punched the first one in the chin and chopped the neck of the second one. Two left.
The guards at the cargo hold entrance drew their guns. "Who's there?"
Chen Mo picked up a steel pipe and threw it at the iron door with a clang. The two guards ran toward the sound—Chen Mo struck from behind, one punch each. All six men were taken down, all alive.
He pushed open the iron door of the cargo hold. Twelve silver metal cases were neatly stacked in the center. He opened the lid—inside were neatly arranged Compound V injectors, marked "Experimental Grade". Twenty per case, twelve cases totaling two hundred and forty.
Butcher's voice came over the headset: "Did you get the goods?"
"Yes. But there's a problem—this shipment isn't being sold to the Russian black market." He pointed to the double-headed eagle emblem on the lid. "The stamp of the Russian Department of Defense. Vought sold it directly to the Russian Military."
There was a two-second silence in the headset. "Fuck."
Chen Mo moved the twelve cases out of the cargo hold. Butcher's van pulled out of the shadows, and looking at the cases, he cursed again: "My van can't fit all this."
"Transport them in two trips."
"Do you have any fucking idea how dangerous it is here?"
"Then do you have a better idea?"
They started moving them. Chen Mo moved six cases, and Butcher moved two. The back of the van was packed full. Butcher patted the roof of the van: "I'll take this batch back first. You stay here and guard the rest."
"How long?"
"Forty minutes."
Butcher disappeared into the night. Chen Mo sat next to the remaining four cases of Compound V, the night wind blowing the copper wires at the edge of his Battle Armor. Battery at 33 percent—less than two minutes of flight time left.
He remembered the image of Park Soon-ja making the bed. He remembered the sight of Zero curled up on the bed. He remembered the sound of Starlight saying, "You are the first person who has made me feel safe."
The line Homelander left on the table came to mind— "You saved my toy. Next—I will take yours."
He clenched his fists. Not enough. Still not enough. He needed to be prepared before Homelander made a move.
The sound of a helicopter came from the distance. A Military Black Hawk. The searchlight illuminated the pier brightly.
Butcher's voice came over the headset: "Go!"
Chen Mo grabbed two cases and activated the thrusters. The weight of the two cases made flying extremely difficult, and the battery level dropped rapidly—30 percent, 25, 20. He flew wobbly through the night sky, with the Black Hawk helicopter in hot pursuit.
"Fly east! You can hide in the woods!"
He flew above the woods, skimming the treetops. The searchlight swept between the tree trunks.
10 percent. He saw an abandoned warehouse and landed behind it. The thrusters cut out, and the display flashed "Low Battery".
He lifted his helmet and leaned against the wall. He had saved two cases. Plus the six cases Butcher took away—a total of eight cases. Four were lost. But at least he wasn't caught.
He took out his phone: "Safe. Two cases. Where are you?"
Butcher replied instantly: "Safe house. As long as you're still alive, that's good."
Chen Mo smiled. He hid the cases and took off the Battle Armor, leaning it against the wall. Moonlight shone down through the broken roof.
Not enough. Still far from enough. He needed stronger Battle Armor, more trump cards. Homelander wouldn't give him much time.
He put the Battle Armor back on, leaned against the wall, and closed his eyes. Tomorrow—he would go see Old Ma to order materials. Then find Stormfront. Then go find out what exactly he was.
He closed his eyes and fell asleep under the moonlight.
Chapter 32: The Flash Mission
It was 2:00 AM when Chen Mo woke up in the abandoned warehouse.
Moonlight shone through the broken roof, casting a silver-white patch of light on the floor.
Butcher had sent three messages—the first was "Where the fuck are you," the second was "Are you still alive," and the third was a set of coordinates.
He replied with his coordinates, and Butcher said he would be there in twenty minutes.
The Battle Armor was out of power, and wearing forty kilograms of Iron Skin made it difficult to even walk.
Chen Mo climbed into the backseat, the Iron Skin scraping against the car door with a harsh sound.
Butcher glanced at him in the rearview mirror: "You're wearing that shit in my car?"
"It's out of power. I can't take it off."
Butcher cursed and stepped on the gas.
"What are you planning to do with that shipment?"
"Sell some of it. Keep some for myself."
"For yourself? You're planning on using Compound V? That stuff will kill you."
"I know." Butcher's voice was calm. "But sometimes, life isn't important. How long do you think I want to live? In this World, you just live one day at a time."
Chen Mo watched Butcher's eyes in the rearview mirror. There was exhaustion in those eyes, anger, and something indescribable—perhaps despair.
A man who would sacrifice everything to take down Vought.
The car stopped in front of a dilapidated apartment building. "We're here. The new safe house."
Room 302—a two-bedroom apartment with old furniture and two cases of Compound V sitting on the table.
Butcher threw the keys on the table: "There's food in the fridge. Don't you dare go out. I'm going to contact a buyer."
"Is the buyer reliable?"
"Not really. But in this line of work, there are no reliable buyers. There are only the highest bidders."
Butcher left. Chen Mo stood alone in the empty living room, looking at the two cases of Compound V.
He picked up a syringe, the pale blue liquid shimmering slightly under the light.
Zero's words echoed in his mind— "You were manufactured."
He put the syringe back.
—
The next afternoon, Chen Mo went to the woods north of Newark and retrieved the other two cases.
It was much more dangerous during the day than at night; he crouched by the roadside for twenty minutes, waiting for a patrol car to pass before he dared to come out.
All four cases were stacked in the corner of the bedroom, covered with an old bedsheet.
At 9:30 PM, Butcher brought a middleman over.
The man wore gold-rimmed glasses, a $100,000 watch on his wrist, and a crisp, well-pressed suit.
He glanced at the four cases, opened one to inspect it, and his expression didn't change at all. "Two million per case."
"Market price is three million a case," Butcher said.
"That's the black market price. This is stolen goods. Two million a case, take it or leave it. There aren't more than three people in all of New York who would dare take this stuff. I'm one of them."
Butcher looked at Chen Mo. Chen Mo nodded.
Deal. Eight million U.S. dollars transferred.
Butcher said: "I know a guy who has an underground factory in Queens and can get military-grade materials."
"Is he reliable?"
"Not really. But he's better than what you can piece together from scrap heaps. The guy used to do equipment maintenance for the Marines, then opened a factory that specializes in shady jobs."
Chen Mo went to Queens. The taxi drove past Times Square, where a massive poster of The Seven shimmered under the lights.
Homelander stood in the center, smiling brightly. Chen Mostared at the poster—no matter what angle you looked from, Homelander's eyes seemed to be staring right at you.
The repair shop door was half-open, with a sign hanging that read "Old Ma's Auto Repair."
Inside, it wasn't an auto repair shop—lathes, welding machines, and cutters were all there.
A bald man was welding, his face covered in tattoos that extended from his neck to his forehead.
"Butcher sent you?"
"Yes."
"I'm Old Ma. I deal with materials." He looked Chen Mo up and down. "You don't look like you're from the street."
"I'm a technician."
"A technician? Butcher said you were a superhero."
"Sort of."
"Sort of? You either are or you aren't."
Chen Mo didn't answer. "I need military-grade titanium alloy. High strength, heat resistant."
Old Ma's expression changed. "Are you fucking serious?"
"Serious."
"Five hundred U.S. dollars per kilogram. How much do you need?"
"Fifty kilograms."
Old Ma raised an eyebrow. "Fifty kilograms? Are you fucking building a tank?"
"Something like that."
"Delivery in three days. Pay half the deposit first."
Chen Mo transferred 7,500 U.S. dollars. Walking out of the repair shop, he took out his phone and messaged Butcher: "Materials secured. Picking them up in three days."
Butcher replied instantly: "Good. There's a new mission tomorrow."
Back at the safe house, the hallway light was broken.
He climbed to the third floor in the dark, and just as he was about to turn on the light, his phone vibrated.
It wasn't Butcher—it was Stormfront.
"The three-day deadline is up. Have you decided?"
Chen Mo stared at the screen. Three days—it had been exactly three days since Chapter 29.
Stormfront had said, "You have three days to consider" whether to work with her.
Work with her? She was a Vought person and could betray him at any moment. But not work with her? She had the technical data for the arc reactor.
He replied with two words: "Meet."
Stormfront replied instantly: "Same place. Tomorrow at 8:00 PM."
Chen Mo put down his phone and walked to the window. The neon lights of Manhattan were shining on the skyline, like a city that never sleeps.
He thought of Homelander's smile, Zero's curled-up figure, and the scene of Park Soon-ja making the bed.
He clenched his fists.
New mission. Stormfront. Battle Armor upgrade.
There were more and more things to do. But he could only do them one by one.
Chapter 33: The Appearance of Stormfront
Thursday night, Pier 14, Brooklyn.
Chen Mo arrived twenty minutes early. The night wind was cold, so he pulled up his hoodie to cover half his face.
At eight o'clock sharp, the sound of boots stepping on concrete came from behind him. Stormfront stood five meters away, wearing a black leather jacket, holding a cup of coffee.
"You're early."
"You're on time too."
Stormfront handed him the coffee. "I bought this for you. Americano, no sugar."
Chen Mo took a sip—it was warm. She had timed her arrival perfectly. This woman calculated everything she did.
"It's been three days. Have you thought it over?"
Chen Mo didn't answer directly. "Answer me one question first—why are you helping me?"
Stormfront turned her head to look at him, the dim, yellow light of the pier casting a warm glow on her blonde hair. "I already told you. I think you're useful."
"That's not enough. You're one of Vought's people; you could sell me to Edgar at any time. Not only did you not sell me out, you even gave me the technical data for the arc reactor—that kind of thing isn't downloaded from the internet. How much did that cost you?"
Stormfront was silent for a few seconds, then laughed. "It cost quite a bit. I owe a favor to a Russian scientist."
"Then what's in it for you?"
"I'm interested in you."
Chen Mo frowned.
"Don't misunderstand." Stormfront raised a hand, tiny electric arcs dancing at her fingertips. "I want to see how far you can go. I've been at Vought for ten years and have seen countless people try to rebel—they all died. Either they were silenced, crushed by Homelander, or they broke down themselves."
She turned to look at him. "But you're different. You're not afraid of death."
"I am."
"You're not." Stormfront's tone was certain. "It's not death you fear. You fear not being able to do what you want to do. People who fear death will retreat. People who fear failure—will fight with everything they have."
Chen Mo didn't answer.
Stormfront walked up to him. "Do you know why Edgarhasn't moved against you yet?"
"Because I'm useful."
"Right. But do you know why you're useful? Because you have no weaknesses. No family, no friends, nothing you care about. Edgar can't find any leverage to threaten you with."
"I do have things I care about."
"Who?"
Chen Mo didn't answer.
Stormfront's eyes softened for a moment. "That old woman. Park Soon-ja. And Zero."
Chen Mo's fingers tightened involuntarily.
"Don't be nervous." Stormfront stepped back. "I'm not here to threaten you. If I wanted to use them to threaten you, I would have gone straight to Edgar. I'm here to tell you—the more you care about someone, the greater your weakness. Edgar will find them sooner or later. So you need an ally—someone who can truly help you protect them."
"Like you?"
"Like me."
Stormfront held out her hand. "The technical data for the arc reactor, I've already prepared it. When do you want it?"
Chen Mo took her hand. "I want it now."
Stormfront pulled a flash drive from the inner pocket of her leather jacket and placed it in his palm. The flash drive still held her body heat. "It contains the complete technical data for the arc reactor. It's internal data from the Russian Academy of Sciences, scanned from the original."
"What do you want in return?"
"Nothing for now. Just consider it an investment in you."
Stormfront leaned against the railing, taking a sip of the now-cold coffee. "You know? I've been in this business for ten years. I've seen countless so-called 'rebels.' They all died halfway there."
She turned her head to look at him. "But you're different. You don't seem to care whether you live or die. You care about something else."
Chen Mo was silent for a long time. He thought of the image of Park Soon-ja making the bed—that ordinary, warm, home-like action. How long had it been since he felt that kind of warmth?
"You wouldn't understand what I care about."
Stormfront looked at him for a long time. "Maybe I don't. But I can try to understand."
Hearing this from Stormfront surprised Chen Mo more than any threat.
Stormfront brushed the dust off her leather jacket, turned and took two steps, then stopped. "Edgar has been investigating you lately. He pulled all your records since you joined Vought."
"What did he find?"
"Nothing at all. Your background is too clean—so clean it looks fake. But Edgar isn't stupid. The cleaner something is, the more suspicious he gets."
"I understand."
"Also," Stormfront lowered her voice. "Homelander has been in a bad mood lately. You'd better not appear in front of him. Because you rescued his toy. And he's been investigating the Red River incident—he knows someone broke in."
Chen Mo's fingertips went cold.
"Don't worry. He can't trace it to you—at least not for now." Stormfront stepped back. "But remember—Homelanderisn't stupid. He's just crazy. Crazy and stupid are two different things."
She turned and left. Her boots stepped on the concrete, and her back disappeared into the shadows of the pier.
Chen Mo stood in place, clutching the flash drive. He took out his phone and messaged Butcher: "Stormfront gave me the technical data for the arc reactor."
Butcher replied instantly: "Are you fucking crazy? You trust her?"
"I don't. But the technical data is real."
"How do you know it's real?"
"Because Iron Man's blueprints tell me this data is correct."
Butcher was silent for a few seconds. "You really are a fucking lunatic."
Returning to the safe house, Chen Mo plugged the flash drive into the computer. Dozens of PDF files spread across the screen—schematics, parts lists, assembly procedures, everything was there. He opened the core schematic—a circular energy core appeared on the screen, with a reaction chamber in the center surrounded by multi-layered coils.
Iron Man's technological blueprints unfolded in his mind. The data on the screen corresponded one-to-one with the blueprints in his mind. Every piece of data matched. Every formula was correct.
Stormfront hadn't lied to him. This data was real.
He leaned back in his chair and let out a long breath. He needed palladium for the reaction chamber, high-purity beryllium for the neutron reflector, and tungsten alloy for radiation shielding. These things were hard to get, but fortunately, there was still plenty left of the eight million.
He picked up his phone and looked at Stormfront's profile picture—a lightning bolt symbol. Her social media feed had only one post: a photo of a thunderstorm, with the caption "Waiting for the wind."
What did this woman really want? He didn't know.
But at least for now, he had the key to upgrading his Battle Armor.
He walked to the window and looked at the street outside. He remembered what Stormfront said—"Homelander has been in a bad mood lately. You'd better not appear in front of him."
He clenched his fists.
Not enough. Still not enough. He needed to become stronger. Strong enough that Homelander wouldn't dare touch him, strong enough that Edgar couldn't move against him, strong enough to protect everyone he cared about.
In three days, Old Ma's titanium alloy would arrive. In three days, he would be able to build a real steel Battle Armor.
But he also knew—the Battle Armor was just a tool. Real battles were never won by equipment alone.
Chapter 34: Ambush from Three Sides · Three Waves Completely Annihilated
At the abandoned pier in the evening, the sea breeze, thick with a salty, fishy smell, poured into his nose.
By the time Chen Mo arrived, the sky was already mostly dark. The setting sun was stuck on the horizon, burning the pier a rusty red. Piles of rusted shipping containers formed a maze, and cranes stood askew.
Underfoot, gravel and iron filings were mixed together, crunching loudly with every step.
He walked to the bottom of the No. 3 crane bridge and stopped to look around.
It was too quiet. Only the sound of waves hitting the bridge piers remained.
"A pier in New Jersey can be this quiet?" Chen Momuttered, "Who are you trying to fool?"
No sooner had he finished speaking than people emerged from the gaps between the shipping containers.
One, two, four, eight—finally, fifteen of them stood there. All wearing identical black tactical gear, submachine guns hanging across their chests, their muzzles aimed uniformly at him. Their movements were perfectly synchronized; it was clear they had been trained.
Chen Mo stood still.
He scanned the people surrounding him, then looked up at the highest shipping container directly in front of him.
Stormfront was sitting on top of it.
She had her legs crossed, elbows resting on her knees, and her chin propped on the back of her hand. Her blonde hair fluttered in the evening breeze, and her expression was neutral—neither disgusted nor friendly, just like someone watching an exam that hadn't yielded results yet.
Chen Mo locked eyes with her for three seconds; neither of them spoke.
At that moment, he heard footsteps.
They were heavy. Every step sounded like it was crushing Iron Skin. With that kind of mass, he couldn't walk lightly.
Chen Mo turned around.
A burly man walked out from behind the shipping container. He was over 1.9 meters tall, with arms thicker than Chen Mo's thighs, black sunglasses perched on the bridge of his nose, and a cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth. He walked up to Chen Mo, looked him up and down, and spat on the gravel.
"Stormfront, is this the guy you brought? A pretty boy in a hoodie?"
Ash drifted from the corner of his mouth.
The burly man in sunglasses took the cigarette out and crushed it against a shipping container a meter away.
"Is this the tough guy you mentioned on the phone? And you called it a big job—I think he's just a big softie."
Stormfront didn't respond.
She just tilted her head, shifting her gaze from the burly man to Chen Mo. There was a hint of playfulness in her eyes—How will you handle this?
Chen Mo understood.
Three waves of people.
The first wave—fifteen gunmen acting as the perimeter. The second wave—three sniper positions on top of the shipping containers; based on the angles, they were likely still positioned somewhere behind him. The third wave—the burly man in sunglasses in front of him, specifically sent out to challenge him.
Stormfront wanted to see if he was made of material or iron.
Seeing that Chen Mo didn't speak, the burly man thought he was scared and stepped forward. The distance between them shrank to less than a meter, and his muscles loomed over him, smelling of sweat and rust.
"What? Scared? That's fine—"
He pointed down at the ground.
"Kneel down and call me 'Grandpa' three times, and I might consider not killing you today."
The sea breeze stopped.
The surrounding air seemed to freeze.
Chen Mo pulled up his hoodie, covering half his face. He didn't speak. Then, he moved—
The burly man's vision blurred; he couldn't see anything clearly. He only felt his chest get hit by a rhinoceros. He lost his balance from the soles of his feet, his whole body tilted backward, and his field of vision flipped between the sky and the sea.
Splash—!
A splash erupted on the sea surface over a dozen meters away.
The few gunmen standing nearby instinctively turned to look; the burly man was already thrashing in the seawater, grabbing wildly, choking on saltwater, and screaming for help.
And Chen Mo was still standing where he was.
The hoodie slipped down halfway, revealing his face; he wasn't even out of breath.
He shouted toward the sea.
"Hey, the one who just fell into the sea—you haven't called me 'Grandpa' yet. Do you want to come back up and finish it?"
There was only the sound of splashing on the sea; no one answered.
The lead thug finally snapped back to reality, his face changing drastically, and he raised his muzzle sharply.
"Shoot him!"
Fifteen of them.
Fifteen submachine guns opened fire at once.
Rat-a-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat—!
A storm of bullets exploded in the clearing. Shell casings bounced out like spilled beans, clattering against the gravel. The muzzle flashes flickered in the dim light, and the smell of gunpowder mixed with the fishy scent of the sea, washing over them.
Chen Mo didn't dodge.
The bullets hit him.
Clang, clang, clang, clang—
No blood. No bullet holes.
The bullets sparked against his grey hoodie as if hitting a steel plate. The hoodie was shredded into rags, revealing the silver-grey metal layer underneath—a nanometer-scale Battle Armor skin that was spreading wildly.
Those bullets bounced off the metal surface; some got stuck halfway, others ricocheted off and smashed into the nearby concrete pillars. Chen Mo stood in the middle of the hail of bullets, motionless.
The fifteen men finished their first magazine.
The gunfire stopped abruptly—they had all run out of ammo.
The clearing was silent. Only the clinking of shell casings rolling on the gravel remained, piercingly loud in the dead silence.
The fifteen gunmen stared at Chen Mo, their eyes wide.
Chen Mo looked down at his hoodie, which had been torn to shreds, and clicked his tongue.
"That was a three-hundred-dollar hoodie... just bought it."
He raised his hand.
The silver-grey color crept from his fingertips, flowing like water over his knuckles, back of his hand, and wrists, spreading up his arms. In a few breaths, the tattered hoodie was completely engulfed—the Iron Man Lv2 Battle Armorfull-body suit was in place.
A pale blue light lit up where the armor's eyes were.
Chen Mo took a step forward.
The fifteen thugs retreated in unison.
"No, no, no—reload! Reload!" the lead thug's voice cracked.
No chance.
Chen Mo raised his right hand, palm open, and a white-gold light gathered inside.
Hum—
A beam of light grazed the lead thug's ear and hit the shipping container behind him. The iron sheet was melted through, leaving a fist-sized hole with red-hot edges, molten iron dripping down and hissing as it gave off white smoke.
The lead thug turned his head mechanically to look at the hole that had been melted through.
Then he turned back.
Thud.
He knelt down.
"Big Brother! Big Brother, I was wrong! I really didn't know who you were!"
Behind him, there was a chaotic clatter—a dozen submachine guns were thrown onto the ground.
Chen Mo didn't look at them.
He looked up at the roof of the warehouse in the distance.
Three snipers.
They had long since put down their sniper rifles. All six hands were raised above their heads. The one in the middle was frantically shaking his head—It wasn't me, it wasn't me, it wasn't me.
Chen Mo withdrew his gaze.
He looked back at the highest shipping container.
Stormfront was still there. Her posture hadn't changed much—legs crossed, chin propped up. But her eyes had changed. That glass shell of observation, scrutiny, and waiting for results had shattered.
There was a light in her eyes.
Not the light of calculation—it was the look of someone who had been stunned.
Chen Mo's Battle Armor retracted from his head, revealing his face. He took a step toward the shipping container and stood still.
"Finished testing?"
The evening breeze picked up again.
After about three or four seconds.
A soft laugh came from the shadows of the shipping container.
Stormfront walked out from inside. She had changed into a black bodysuit, her hair tied in a high ponytail, revealing her slender neck and collarbone. She walked up to Chen Mo, hands in her pants pockets, and tilted her head to look at him.
The sea breeze blew her hair onto her face.
"I was wrong. I'll make you noodles when we get home. With two eggs."
She took a step forward and naturally took his arm.
Chen Mo froze for a second, then looked down at her hand.
"That's it?"
"That's it," Stormfront looked up at him and blinked, "What else do you want? Want me to kneel down and call you 'Grandpa' three times?"
"That works too."
Stormfront laughed and pinched his arm.
The two of them walked back along the pier. The sea breeze had picked up significantly, making the iron sheets of the shipping containers hum. The setting sun had completely sunk, the last trace of red burning out on the horizon. The streetlights on the pier turned on, casting a dim yellow light on the two of them.
After walking a dozen steps, Stormfront suddenly spoke.
"Tell me the truth—were you scared when you saw the shipping containers open earlier?"
Chen Mo thought about it.
"Scared."
"Really?"
"Really," Chen Mo said, "I was afraid that after the fight, the ground would be covered in loose change that would be hard to pick up."
Stormfront froze for a second.
Then she laughed out loud.
The laughter carried far across the empty pier, startling a few seagulls perched on top of the shipping containers into flight.
She tightened her grip on Chen Mo's arm.
"You really are a weirdo."
"Is this your first day knowing me?"
Stormfront's steps faltered. The smile on her face faded slightly, and her voice became serious.
"Let's talk about the Compound V matter in detail tomorrow. I'm taking you to meet someone this time."
Chen Mo glanced at her.
Under the streetlight, she looked up at him, her gaze clear and pure. That unfathomable quality from before was gone.
Chen Mo withdrew his gaze and nodded.
"Alright."
Under the streetlights at the end of the pier, their shadows stretched long, overlapping with each other.
Stormfront didn't speak again, but she didn't let go of his arm.
Chapter 35: Transaction
On Saturday morning, Chen Mo was woken up by his vibrating phone.
Outside the window, the sky was grey, and the Brooklynsky was pressed low by heavy clouds.
Stormfront sent a message: "Are you free today? I'll take you to see someone."
"Who?"
"My supplier. The Compound V channel for the Russian black market. Didn't you want to track the global flow of Compound V? He can tell you everything."
"What time?"
"Eight o'clock in the evening. Brooklyn, Pier 14."
He spent the daytime studying the manufacturing process of the arc reactor.
The laptop screen glowed in the dim room, displaying detailed structural diagrams.
The core of the arc reactor was a micro nuclear fusion chamber—only fifteen centimeters in diameter, yet it output enough energy to power an entire building.
It required palladium as a catalyst, high-purity beryllium as a neutron reflector, and tungsten alloy for radiation shielding.
Material list: 500 grams of palladium (about $100,000), 2 kilograms of beryllium (about $50,000), 5 kilograms of tungsten alloy (about $5,000), and 50 kilograms of titanium alloy (Old Ma will deliver in three days).
The total cost was about $155,000.
There was still plenty of the eight million left, but money wasn't the problem—the problem was time.
Ivan Petrov might find him as early as today.
——
Eight o'clock in the evening, Brooklyn, Pier 14.
The sea breeze blew in, carrying a salty, fishy scent and the smell of machine oil.
The pier was quiet, with only the sound of waves lapping against the concrete embankment and the occasional distant foghorn.
A few dim yellow lights shone in the night, casting shimmering reflections on the water.
Stormfront appeared on time, followed by a bald middle-aged man wearing a shiny, old suit.
His leather shoes were worn out, with obvious signs of repair on the heels.
"This is Victor, former KGB. Now a Compound V black market middleman."
Victor opened his tablet, and on the screen was a global map where red dots in thirty-seven countries were connected by lines, looking like a giant spiderweb.
"Vought produces two billion dollars' worth of Compound V every year. Only half of it is legal. The other half—flows to the Military, the black market, and terrorist organizations. Every year, about one billion dollars' worth of illegal Compound V flows globally through thirty-seven transshipment points."
"Who approves these illegal orders?"
"Stan Edgar." Victor's tone was very flat. "All illegal orders are signed by him personally. There is a separate approval process within Vought—only Edgar has the authority."
Chen Mo was silent for a while.
Edgar—that mild-mannered man who looked like a university Professor—was the one pulling the strings behind the illegal Compound V trade.
"I heard a rumor inside Vought—there is a place called Red River, and the children who come out of there have very special ability traits. Some say it is another variant of Compound V, and some say it is being secretly researched."
Chen Mo was silent for a while. "Thank you."
Victor thought for a moment, then added: "There is a recent rumor—the Russian Military is looking for a lost batch of Compound V worth twenty million dollars. They sent a man named Ivan Petrov to New York to investigate. He is former Russian special forces."
Chen Mo tried to keep his expression calm. "Thank you."
Victor nodded and turned to disappear into the night.
His footsteps gradually faded on the empty pier, eventually swallowed by the sound of the waves.
Only Chen Mo and Stormfront were left on the pier.
The sea breeze blew Stormfront's hair, and her strands shimmered with a silver light under the lamps.
In the distance, a cargo ship slowly sailed by, its lights looking like a string of moving stars.
"Do you know that Ivan?"
"I do. Ivan Petrov, former GRU special forces. He has been active in New York for two years, specifically responsible for the transshipment of Compound V between Vought and the Russian Military. He has killed at least ten people—all enemies of Vought."
Chen Mo paused.
The batch Ivan was looking for was the one he had hijacked.
That twenty-million-dollar batch of Compound V was still in the Underground Room of the safehouse.
He remembered the scene in the warehouse that night—those test tubes glowing with a pale blue light under the moonlight, like crates of sleeping poison.
"What are you going to do?"
"Find him first. Before he finds me."
Stormfront leaned against the railing, looking at the water. "The 'The Creator' that Victor mentioned matches the information I found. Frederick Vought was the first The Creator. Edgar is the current one. But there is someone behind Edgar—possibly Frederick Vought himself."
"So Frederick Vought is really still alive."
"High probability."
"When will your Battle Armor be finished?"
"In three days. I'll start once the materials arrive."
Stormfront turned and walked two steps, then stopped. "Ivan Petrov has been active in Brooklyn lately. Be careful."
Chen Mo took out his phone and sent a message to Butcher: "Do you know a man named Ivan Petrov?"
Butcher replied instantly: "Yeah. Former Russian special forces. Vought's muscle. Did you piss him off?"
"He might be looking for me."
Butcher was silent for a few seconds: "You really are a troublemaker."
Returning to the safehouse, Chen Mo opened his laptop to continue studying the manufacturing process of the arc reactor, but the name Ivan Petrov kept spinning in his mind.
He couldn't read a single word of the dense data and structural diagrams on the screen.
He closed the laptop and walked to the window.
The street was quiet, and the streetlights cast a circle of dim yellow light in the night.
Then he saw it—a black SUV drove by slowly and stopped across the street.
Chen Mo stared at the car, his breathing slowing down.
He could hear his own heartbeat, which was exceptionally clear in the quiet room—thump, thump, thump, like someone beating a drum.
Three seconds. Five seconds. Ten seconds.
The SUV's engine let out a low roar, then restarted and slowly drove away.
The taillights turned a corner and disappeared into the night.
Chen Mo let out a sigh of relief, his fingers loosening from the curtain.
There were a few creases left on the curtain fabric.
But he knew—this was just the beginning.
Ivan Petrov would find him sooner or later.
He had to build the Battle Armor before Ivan found him.
The day after tomorrow.
Old Ma's titanium alloy would arrive.
Then he could start building the real Battle Armor.