Chapter 36: Battle Armor Upgrade
At 6:00 AM on Sunday, Chen Mo was woken up by his alarm clock.
The sky outside hadn't fully brightened yet, and the gray-blue morning light shone in through the gaps in the curtains.
Today was the day Old Ma was delivering the goods.
He washed up quickly, put on his coat, and went out.
He walked to the repair shop in Queens and knocked on the iron door three times.
The iron door made a dull sound that carried far through the early morning street.
Old Ma opened the door and yawned. Inside the workshop, there was a pile of silver-gray titanium alloy plates, shimmering with a cold metallic luster in the morning light.
"Fifty kilograms of military-grade titanium alloy. Five millimeters thick. Heat resistant up to 1,200 degrees Celsius." Old Ma patted the metal plates.
Chen Mo checked the materials—titanium alloy, 500 grams of palladium, one kilogram of beryllium, and five kilograms of tungsten alloy.
Beryllium was a controlled material, and Old Ma had only managed to get one kilogram, but Chen Mo couldn't wait a week—Ivan Petrov might find him today.
"One kilogram is fine. Give it to me."
He transferred the payment and packed all the materials into a duffel bag.
The sixty-kilogram duffel bag was stuffed into the trunk of the taxi, which barely closed.
Returning to the safe house, he carried all the materials upstairs.
Titanium alloy, palladium, beryllium, tungsten alloy—everything was ready.
The materials were piled in the center of the room, shimmering with different lusters under the light—the silver-gray of the titanium alloy, the silver-white of the palladium, the light gray of the beryllium, and the dark black of the tungsten alloy.
He drew the curtains, locked the door, and confirmed that the windows were tightly shut.
He took a deep breath. Start.
Following the technical blueprints of Iron Man, he began to build the arc reactor.
Step one—machine the reaction chamber with tungsten alloy, a ring with a diameter of fifteen centimeters, with an inner diameter tolerance of no more than 0.01 millimeters.
Step two—fill the catalyst layer with palladium particles.
Step three—wrap the neutron reflector layer with beryllium sheets.
He didn't have professional machining equipment—only a small lathe and welding machine bought from a second-hand market. The lathe's spindle was a bit loose, and the welding machine's cables were wrapped in several layers of electrical tape.
But Iron Man's blueprints in his mind were precise to the millimeter level; the dimensions of every part, the angles of every interface, and the pathways of every circuit were as clear as if printed on paper.
He worked from 7:00 AM to 7:00 PM, twelve hours, drinking only two glasses of water.
Sweat streamed down his forehead, dripping onto the metal plates with a hissing sound.
His hand was cut by the tungsten alloy, and blood flowed down his fingers. He wiped it with a tissue and continued working.
The room was filled with the smell of metal cutting and the acrid scent of solder.
The arc reactor was finished.
He held it in the palm of his hand—a silver disc fifteen centimeters in diameter, with traces of welding still on the surface and a shallow scratch on the edge.
But the core in the center was emitting a faint blue light; the palladium element in the reaction chamber glowed dimly, like a miniature star.
He could feel the warmth in his palm—the nuclear fusion reaction was generating heat, a temperature like holding a cup of freshly brewed coffee, warm but not scalding.
The blue light shone through his fingers, casting mottled shadows in the dim room.
He installed it into the chest position of the Battle Armorand connected the power cable.
The moment the power was connected, the entire Battle Armor lit up, and all the circuits powered on simultaneously.
The display screen lit up—battery at 100%.
The energy provided by the arc reactor was enough for the Battle Armor to run continuously for forty-eight hours.
He put on the Battle Armor.
The titanium alloy shell fit his body, twenty kilograms lighter than the original Iron Skin Battle Armor.
The servo motors at the joints were responsive, and every movement was smooth and natural.
He stood in front of the mirror.
The silver-gray titanium alloy Battle Armor encased his body, with the glowing arc reactor embedded in the chest, reflecting blue light off the mirror surface.
It wasn't the streamlined Battle Armor from the movies—it was one he had built himself, rough, practical, a real Battle Armor.
The surface had welding marks, screw heads were exposed, the cables at the joints were secured with zip ties, and the left shoulder armor was two millimeters higher than the right.
But it was his.
It was something he had built with twelve hours, a pair of hands, and an old lathe.
He raised his arm; the joints of the Battle Armor made a slight mechanical sound, and the servo motors responded sensitively, making every movement smooth and natural.
He walked to the window, pushed it open, and activated the thrusters.
The blue flames under his feet were brighter and more stable than before—the energy provided by the arc reactormade the thrust three times stronger.
He flew out. Flying steadily and quickly.
The Battle Armor streaked a blue light across the night sky.
Flying from Manhattan to Long Island and back, the whole trip took six minutes, and the battery only dropped by two percent.
He landed on the roof of the apartment building, standing on the edge and looking down at New York.
Thousands of lights twinkled, and the traffic flowed like a river.
In the distance, the top floor of Vought Tower was lit—Homelander was still up there.
He had the Battle Armor. He had the ability.
But he still didn't know what that sentence Zero said meant—"You were created."
He raised his right hand, aiming his palm at an abandoned building in the distance.
The palm repulsor emitter opened in the center of his palm—three metal plates rotated and opened.
He aimed at a window on the sixth floor.
Fire.
A blue beam shot from his palm and hit that window.
The sound of shattering glass echoed in the night sky.
The Impact left a half-meter diameter dent on the wall, with charred edges.
Palm repulsor. He had built it.
He also tested the micro-missile launcher on his shoulder—the armor plate on the shoulder flipped open, revealing six small launch tubes. They opened and closed smoothly, and the locking mechanism was normal.
The weapon systems were all normal.
He stood on the edge of the roof, the night wind blowing against the Battle Armor with a slight whistling sound.
Thousands of lights spread out beneath his feet, and the traffic looked like flowing rivers of light.
In the distance, the top floor of Vought Tower was lit—Homelander was still up there.
Ivan Petrov's people might already be nearby.
But now, he had the Battle Armor.
He had the ability to fight back.
He clenched his fist, and the fingers of the Battle Armormade a slight metallic friction sound.
The blue light shone from the arc reactor on his chest, casting a faint halo on his face.
His phone vibrated. It was a message from Starlight: "Heard you got yourself a Battle Armor?"
Chen Mo smiled. "How did you know?"
Starlight replied: "It's all over the Vought internal group chat. They say an 'Iron Man' was flying in the sky last night. Someone took a video and posted it in the group."
He replied with a message: "Then are you free tonight? I'll take you for a ride."
Starlight replied instantly: "Really?"
"Where are you?"
"The apartment roof. You know which one."
"Wait for me."
Chen Mo put away his phone, stood on the roof, and looked at the night sky.
The stars were very bright tonight.
He looked down at the arc reactor on his chest.
The blue light pulsed slightly in the night.
He waited for her.
Chapter 37: A Second Heartbeat
Chen Mo waited on the rooftop for fifteen minutes. The night wind, carrying the chill of autumn, ruffled his hair. The arc reactor on his chest emitted a rhythmic blue light, like a beating heart. Occasionally, cars drove by on the streets below, their headlights dragging trails of light through the night. He looked up at the night sky; the stars were bright tonight, and the moon hung on the horizon like a polished silver coin.
The door opened. Starlight appeared on the rooftop wearing a gray hoodie and jeans, her hair tied in a ponytail, wearing no makeup. Under the moonlight, her eyes were bright, like two pieces of obsidian soaked in water. She paused when she saw Chen Mo wearing the Battle Armor. The Battle Armor shimmered with a silver-gray light under the moonlight, and the arc reactor on his chest emitted a soft blue glow.
"Your Battle Armor… looks much cooler than in the videos." There was a hint of wonder in her voice.
Chen Mo chuckled. The Battle Armor's speakers made his laughter sound somewhat mechanical. "Come up."
Starlight walked over to him and stood at the edge of the rooftop. The night wind blew through her ponytail, and her hoodie fluttered gently in the breeze. "Are you really going to take me flying?"
"Otherwise what? Did I call you out for a midnight stroll?"
Chen Mo reached out his hand. Starlight took it—her hand was very cold, her fingertips trembling slightly. She wrapped her other arm around his waist, her face pressed against the arc reactor on his chest. He could feel her heartbeat, through the Battle Armor and her hoodie, thump-thump-thump, very fast.
The thrusters ignited, casting a halo of blue light onto the ground below. The two of them rose steadily. Starlight looked down—the ground shrank rapidly, and the lights on the rooftops turned into tiny dots. She gripped Chen Mo's arm tightly, her nails almost digging into the gaps of the Battle Armor.
"Fuck."
"I told you not to look down."
"You didn't fucking say so earlier."
Chen Mo chuckled and accelerated. The Battle Armorcarved a blue arc through the night sky, like a shooting star flying in reverse. The wind whistled in their ears, and Starlight's long hair danced in the breeze. He adjusted his direction and flew toward Manhattan. The city beneath them unfolded in the night—streets like glowing veins, buildings like giant luminous crystals. He hovered next to the Empire State Building at an altitude of about three hundred meters. The night view of New York spread out beneath them—the neon lights of Times Square looked like a glowing circuit board, with various colors of light flickering in the darkness; the traffic on the Brooklyn Bridge was like a flowing ribbon of light, with red taillights and white headlights intertwined; in the distance, the Statue of Liberty held up her torch, appearing very small in the night.
"You can open your eyes now."
Starlight slowly raised her head and saw New Yorkbeneath her feet. She was stunned. Her eyes widened, and her lips parted slightly. The night wind blew through her hair, and she stared at the scene before her, motionless.
"I've lived here for twenty-three years, and I've never seen New York from this angle." Her voice was very soft. "After I joined Vought, I never felt like a hero. I was just a prop—a prop for Vought to make money, a prop for Homelander to show off."
She smiled, a bitter smile. "But just now, when we were flying, for the first time, I felt like a hero. Not the kind packaged by Vought—but what I felt myself."
Chen Mo said: "You were always a hero."
Starlight looked at him, and the expression in her eyes changed. The moonlight shimmered in her eyes, like stars falling into water. She stood on her tiptoes and kissed him—not the tentative kiss from before, but a passionate, proactive kiss. Her lips were soft, carrying the chill of the night wind. Chen Mo responded, one hand wrapping around her waist, the other gently supporting the back of her head. They hovered one hundred meters above Times Square, kissing for a long time. Below, the neon lights flickered and traffic flowed endlessly, but no one noticed them—two people kissing in mid-air. Starlight's fingers gripped the shoulders of his Battle Armor, her knuckles turning white.
— —
The two landed on the lawn of Central Park. During the landing, Chen Mo deliberately slowed down, letting Starlight stand steadily on the grass. Starlight lay on the ground, looking at the stars, her arms spread out, her whole body sprawled on the grass in a star shape. The grass blades were a bit damp, and night dew clung to her clothes. Chen Mo lay beside her, lifting his helmet and setting it aside. The helmet rolled half a turn on the grass and stopped next to a clump of grass. The night wind blew through the treetops, making a rustling sound. In the distance came the sound of carriage bells, ding-a-ling, ding-a-ling, like a lullaby.
"Do you know?" Starlight said. "You are the first person to make me feel that being alive is still interesting."
Chen Mo didn't speak, but took her hand. Starlight's fingers tightened.
"Chen Mo. Will you always be here?"
Chen Mo was silent for a few seconds. "I will try my best."
Starlight smiled. "Trying your best is enough. I don't need you to promise anything. Promises—after staying at Vought for so long, I've seen too many of them."
"Then what do you believe in?"
"I believe in actions. You said you'd try your best, so I believe you'll try your best."
The two lay on the lawn, neither speaking again. The night wind blew through Central Park, the rustling of leaves intertwining with the distant carriage bells. The stars above shone one by one, some flickering, some very quiet. Starlight's fingers were still holding his hand, her fingertips gently drawing circles in his palm.
After a long time, Starlight said, "I should go back." Her voice was very soft, with a hint of reluctance.
"I'll take you."
"No need. Where I live isn't far from here." Starlight sat up, the grass leaving a few damp marks on her hoodie. She looked at him, the moonlight shimmering in her eyes. "Tonight… thank you."
She turned and walked two steps, then stopped again. "Next time… can we do this again?"
"Anytime."
Starlight smiled—not the kind of smile taught by Vought PR, but her own smile. She turned and left, her ponytail swaying in the night wind, her figure disappearing into the shadows of the trees.
Chen Mo stood where he was, watching the direction she disappeared. The tree shadows closed behind her like a curtain being drawn. The night wind blew by, bringing the lingering scent of her shampoo—faint, like some kind of floral fragrance. He looked down at the arc reactor on his chest, its blue light pulsing slightly in the night. He smiled—he didn't even realize he was smiling—then activated the thrusters and flew into the night sky. The blue light carved an arc over Central Park and then disappeared into the Manhattan skyline.
The night wind was still blowing, and two indentations remained on the Central Park lawn—the place where they had lain.
The grass blades slowly returned to their original state, as if nothing had happened.
But Chen Mo knew that some things were already different. They would never be the same again.
Chapter 38: Undercurrents
Chen Mo did not go straight home.
He flew a circle over New York, from Manhattan to Queens, and then circled around Long Island.
The night wind brushed across the surface of his Battle Armor, emitting a low whistling sound.
Finally, he landed on the roof of an abandoned apartment building in Queens.
The roof surface was covered in cracks, with several rusted steel bars protruding from the concrete.
Hidden behind the water tower was an iron box—rusty and covered with a tarp.
Inside was an offline laptop, a burner phone, and some cash.
This was his "emergency backup."
He opened the computer and pulled up an encrypted file—compiled information about Vought and The Seven.
Homelander—power ceiling unknown.
Known abilities: flight, Heat Vision, super strength, super speed, super senses.
Weakness—unknown.
Psychological weakness—needs to be loved, needs to be worshipped.
Queen Maeve—super strength, super durability; disappointed in Vought but hasn't reached the point of betrayal yet.
A-Train—super speed, heart condition, potentially a breakthrough point.
Black Noir—mysterious, almost never speaks, abilities unknown.
Stormfront—flight, electrokinesis, super strength.
Age likely much older than she looks.
Motives unclear.
Starlight—light energy absorption and release.
Stance clear—on his side.
Chen Mo stared at the screen.
The light from the screen cast a pale hue on his face.
If one day he had to face off against Homelander, what were his odds of winning?
The answer was cruel—zero.
He turned this number over in his mind several times, thinking about it from every angle—zero.
There was no possibility whatsoever.
The arc reactor could provide powerful energy output, but Homelander's Heat Vision was equally lethal.
The Battle Armor could stop ordinary bullets, but he had no certainty it could stop Homelander's Heat Vision.
He had seen Homelander punch through bulletproof glass—that wasn't strength, that was a monster.
He needed more trump cards.
The next morning, Chen Mo ate breakfast at a diner in Brooklyn that had been open for forty years.
The owner, Mike, an old Italian man, placed a coffee in front of him.
"Morning, kid. Any news today?"
Chen Mo took a sip of coffee, his peripheral vision sweeping over the building across the street—the Vought International Media New York branch.
He had chosen this diner specifically to observe Vought's people, and had been watching for three days.
Every morning at 8:45, a black business car would stop at the office entrance, and security personnel would check it first.
At 9:00 sharp, a white stretch Lincoln would appear, and the head of the Vought New York branch, Margaret Shaw, would get out—short blonde hair, dark professional suit, expression always serious.
She was one of the executors of the "Legacy Project."
But today, there was another person sitting in the Lincoln.
When Margaret Shaw got out of the car, Chen Mo saw a hand—wearing a black glove, long, slender fingers, nails painted with red polish.
A woman's hand.
The Lincoln didn't drive away; it stayed where it was.
That person was waiting for Margaret Shaw.
Chen Mo put down his fork, placed money on the table, and walked out of the diner.
He turned into an alley, leaned against the wall, closed his eyes, and focused.
The Battle Armor's sensors could enhance his hearing—he filtered out the noise on the street and heard the sound inside the Lincoln.
A low, continuous, electric-like sound.
That sound reminded him of one person—Stormfront.
Chen Mo opened his eyes.
He walked back to the street corner, but the Lincoln had already merged into traffic and was heading towards Manhattan.
He took out his phone and texted Stormfront: "Are you in New York?"
Three minutes later, Stormfront replied: "No. What's up?"
Chen Mo looked at the reply and was silent for a few seconds.
He didn't reply, turned, walked into the alley, and disappeared into the shadows.
Meanwhile, on the top floor of the Vought Tower in Manhattan.
Homelander stood in front of the floor-to-ceiling window, holding a glass of Vought-exclusive organic milk.
The entirety of Manhattan was beneath his feet.
Sunlight reflected blindingly off his white uniform.
"Are you sure?" he said to the air.
A holographic projection lit up, and the face of Vought's chief scientist, Dr. Vogelbaum, appeared in the projection.
"I am very sure. The energy output level of that Chinese Battle Armor has already exceeded the initial data of all the Compound V heroes we have on record."
"Exceeded everyone?"
"Exceeded everyone. Including... you."
Homelander's fingers paused.
Then he smiled—that smile was light, short, lasting only a second.
But in that second, the temperature in the office seemed to drop a few degrees.
"Interesting. What was his name again?"
"Chen Mo."
"Chen Mo." Homelander repeated the name.
"A Chinese. Do you know, Vogelbaum? I've always felt that this country needs a little outside stimulation. Otherwise, it's too boring."
Vogelbaum didn't speak, sweat beading on his forehead.
"What has Stormfront been doing lately?"
"She... has rarely appeared at headquarters recently. She said she was working on her own project."
"Her own project." Homelander put the photo frame back on the table.
"She always has her own projects. Help me set up a meeting with her. Tonight."
The holographic projection disappeared.
Homelander stood in front of the window, looking at New York outside.
His hand was trembling slightly—not from fear, but from excitement.
"Chen Mo," he whispered, his voice carrying a hint of dangerous pleasure.
"Let me see how long you can last."
At 3:00 PM, Chen Mo returned to his rental apartment in Brooklyn.
Park Soon-ja and Zero had gone to church.
He sat alone in the living room, looking at the cracks in the ceiling.
He thought about the electric sound he had heard in the Lincoln this morning.
He was certain that it was Stormfront's ability—when she released electricity, the air would emit that low, humming sound.
But Stormfront said she wasn't in New York.
He took out his phone and looked at the text message again.
"No. What's up?"
He stared at those three words for a long time.
Stormfront was in New York, but she wasn't saying so.
She was in the Lincoln at the Vought New York branch, with Margaret Shaw.
Stormfront and Margaret Shaw were plotting something.
Chen Mo stood up and walked to the window.
Sunlight shone through the glass, casting a warm yellow patch of light on the floor.
The afternoon in Brooklyn was quiet—a few children were playing soccer on the street, the sound of the ball bouncing on the ground faintly audible; an old man was walking his dog, the dog sniffing under a utility pole before lifting its leg; a couple was kissing at the street corner, the girl's laughter drifting through the air.
Everything was normal.
Too normal.
But Chen Mo knew that the calm was just a facade.
Beneath the surface, undercurrents were surging.
And he was standing on the water, not knowing when the ice beneath his feet would break.
Chapter 39: Stormfront's Invitation
7:50 PM, Chen Mo stood under the Brooklyn Bridge. The night wind blew from the East River, carrying the fishy smell of Water and the heat of the city. He wore a black hoodie, the hood pulled low, covering most of his face. He leaned against the bridge pier, watching the lights of Manhattan across the river dancing on the water, like countless broken moons.
His phone vibrated. Stormfront: "Arrived."
Chen Mo looked up. On the roof of a red-brick apartment building in Brooklyn Heights across the river stood a figure — Stormfront. She wore a dark trench coat, its hem fluttering slightly in the night wind. Even across the entire river, he could recognize that silhouette. She hadn't chosen a hidden place to meet, but rather one with a wide view — from there, one could see the entire East River and the Manhattan skyline. She stood there like someone waiting for a friend.
Chen Mo activated his thrusters and flew across the river, keeping close to the surface. The blue light carved a trail on the water, startling a flock of waterbirds resting under the bridge pier. He landed on the roof, the thrusters died down, and his metal boots struck the concrete floor with a crisp sound. Stormfront turned around. She wore a dark gray trench coat over a black turtleneck sweater, her hair loose. Under the moonlight, there was a light of her own in her eyes, not reflected light, but light of her own.
"The three-day deadline is up," Stormfront said. "What is your answer?"
"Cooperation is possible," Chen Mo said. "But I have conditions. First, you cannot hide any information from me. Why do you want the arc reactor, and what do you intend to use it for — I must know."
Stormfront didn't answer immediately. She looked at the city across the river, quiet for a moment. "Agreed."
"Second, you cannot use me to deal with Vought's people. Unless they make a move on me first."
"Agreed."
"Third—" Chen Mo looked at her, his expression serious. "If one day you must choose between me and Vought, I hope you choose me."
Stormfront laughed, a complex smile — not a happy one, but the kind that says 'Do you know what you're asking for?' "Do you know what you're asking for? You're asking a Vought superhero to betray Vought."
"Yes."
Stormfront looked at him for a long time, the night wind blowing her hair, her eyes bright in the moonlight. Then she said: "I promise you."
Chen Mo watched her, trying to find traces of lies in her expression, but he couldn't. Her expression was calm, so calm it was as if she were talking about something she had long since decided.
"Why? Why are you willing to betray Vought for me?"
Stormfront didn't answer. She turned to look at the city across the river, and after a long time, she said: "Because I also need allies."
"Why do you think I'm in The Seven?" Stormfront's voice was soft, but every word was clear. "It's not because I want to be a hero. It's because I want to know Vought's secrets. It took me five years to slowly figure out the bottom line of this company."
Chen Mo watched her, waiting for her to continue.
"Vought is running a project — called the 'Legacy Project.' They start injecting Compound V from infancy to cultivate superheroes. This project has been running for over thirty years."
"Over thirty years?"
"Yes." Stormfront turned to look at him. "Do you know what that means?"
Chen Mo thought for a moment, then his expression changed. "Vought has a batch of superheroes raised from childhood."
"Not a batch," Stormfront corrected him. "An army. They are distributed in different bases, receiving training, waiting to be awakened."
The night wind blew across the roof, carrying the fishy smell of the river. Chen Mo didn't speak. He was digesting this news. Vought had an army of superheroes raised from childhood — this meant that Homelander was not Vought's strongest weapon; he was just Vought's most conspicuous weapon. In front of this army, Homelanderwas just a pawn.
"The person in charge of the Legacy Project is Margaret Shaw, the head of Vought's New York branch. She has the complete list."
Chen Mo remembered the woman in black gloves he saw in the Lincoln this morning. "You met her this morning."
A flash of surprise crossed Stormfront's eyes. "How did you know?"
"I was having breakfast at a restaurant in Brooklyn. I saw your Lincoln parked under Vought's New York branch building."
Stormfront stared at him for a few seconds, then smiled, and in that smile was appreciation. "You are smarter than I thought."
"You said you were in New York."
"I said I wasn't in New York. I lied. Because I wasn't sure if you were worth trusting. But now I know, you are."
"So what do you want me to do?"
"Help me get the list for the Legacy Project. There is a complete list in Margaret Shaw's safe. I need you to infiltrate that building."
"Why don't you go yourself?"
"Because I am one of Vought's people. If I appear in that building, I will be caught on surveillance, and I will leave traces. But you don't belong to Vought, no one knows you, no one will notice you."
Stormfront took a USB drive out of her pocket. "This USB drive has a program that can hack into that building's security system. You just need to plug it into the computer in Margaret Shaw's office."
Chen Mo took the USB drive, an ordinary black one with no markings. "When?"
"The night after tomorrow. Margaret Shaw has a charity banquet to attend, and she will be out until the early morning. You have one night."
Chen Mo put the USB drive into his pocket. "Okay."
Stormfront looked at him, her eyes softening a little. That was the first time he had seen that kind of softness in her eyes — not the softness of a superhero, but the softness of a woman. "Be careful. There is more than just a security system in that building. Vought keeps a watchdog at the New York branch — a superhero codenamed 'Sentinel.' His ability is super senses; he can hear any sound within five hundred meters and smell any scent from a kilometer away. If you enter that building, he will find you within thirty seconds."
Chen Mo frowned. "Then how do I get in?"
"Sentinel has a weakness. His ability has a blind spot — high-intensity noise. If you can create enough noise, his senses will overload and temporarily fail."
"For example?"
"For example — set off some fireworks in Times Square."
Chen Mo looked at Stormfront, silent for a moment, then laughed. "Are you fucking serious?"
Stormfront laughed too, and that smile looked good in the moonlight — not the kind of smile taught by Vought PR, but her own smile. "I never joke."
The two stood on the roof, looking at Manhattan across the river. The night wind blew, carrying the chill of autumn. The distant city was ablaze with lights.
"One more thing," Stormfront said. "Homelander asked to meet me tonight."
Chen Mo turned to look at her. Stormfront's expression was calm, but there was a hint of vigilance in her eyes.
"Does he know something?"
"I don't know. But he has started to pay attention to you. Vogelbaum — Vought's chief scientist — reported your data to him. Your Battle Armor energy output level exceeds the initial data of all Compound V heroes, including Homelander."
Chen Mo was silent for a while. "So he knows."
"Yes. So tonight's meeting is important. I'm going to see what he actually wants to do."
Chen Mo looked at her and said: "Be careful."
Stormfront smiled, a very short smile, only one second long. But in that second, her eyes changed — no longer the calm, calculating superhero, but an ordinary woman. "You too."
She turned and walked to the edge of the roof, the hem of her trench coat fluttering in the night wind. She looked back at him. "The night after tomorrow at eight o'clock. Times Square. Set off some fireworks."
Then she jumped off. Chen Mo rushed to the edge of the roof to look down — Stormfront spread her arms during the fall, and blue arcs of electricity appeared around her body. The arcs exploded in the air like a huge blue flower, and then she disappeared into the night sky.
Chen Mo stood on the edge of the roof, the night wind blowing his hoodie. He took the USB drive out of his pocket and examined it in the moonlight. An ordinary black USB drive containing a program that could change everything.
Legacy Project. Superhero army. Sentinel. Fireworks.
Things were getting more and more complicated. He originally just wanted to survive in this World and find his own identity. But now, he had been drawn into Vought's core secret — a superhero cultivation project that had been running for over thirty years, an army hidden in the dark, and that mysterious figure known as The Creator.
He gripped the USB drive tightly. These clues were like threads that would eventually converge at the same point. That point was The Creator. He had to find that person.
He had no choice but to move forward.
He activated his thrusters and flew into the night sky.
Chapter 40: Homelander's Dinner
9:00 PM, Manhattan's Upper East Side.
Stormfront stood in front of a townhouse. This Villa was Homelander's private residence in Manhattan—red brick exterior, white door, with two vintage gas lamps at the entrance. From the outside, it looked no different from the surrounding houses—low-key, elegant, and inconspicuous.
But Stormfront knew that the security system for this Villawas even tighter than Vought Tower. Standing at the door, she could sense the hidden cameras—at least three different angles. She took a deep breath. This wasn't her first time here, but every time she came, she felt an inexplicable tension—like walking into a trap, knowing the danger, yet having to keep moving forward.
She rang the doorbell.
The door opened.
Homelander stood in the doorway. He wasn't wearing his uniform—just a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing his sturdy forearms. His golden hair glistened under the gaslight, and his blue eyes shone brightly in the night, like two gemstones.
"You're here." Homelander smiled. The smile was warm and sincere.
Stormfront smiled back. "You invited me, so of course I had to come."
Homelander stepped aside. "Come in."
Stormfront walked into the Villa. The foyer was spacious with dark marble floors, and a huge landscape oil painting hung on the wall. The living room was on the right, featuring a dark blue sofa, and on the coffee table sat a bottle of red wine with two glasses. Stormfront noticed a bouquet of white lilies on the coffee table, the scent of flowers mingling with the aroma of the red wine.
"Sit." Homelander picked up the wine bottle and poured two glasses. "Cabernet Sauvignon, 2010. I opened it especially for you."
Stormfront sat on the sofa and took the glass. The red wine shimmered with a deep crimson light under the lamp. She took a sip—the wine was excellent. But her attention wasn't on the wine. She was observing the room—the position of every piece of furniture, every possible exit.
Homelander sat on the sofa opposite her, crossed his legs, and watched her while holding his glass. His gaze was tender—tender like a man looking at his lover.
"How have you been lately?" Homelander asked.
"Not bad. How about you?"
"Same old." Homelander took a sip of wine, set the glass down, and gently rubbed his fingers along the rim. "You know—saving the World, attending events, filming promotional clips. Day after day."
"That sounds boring."
"It is very boring." Homelander leaned back on the sofa, looking at the ceiling. "You know? Sometimes I wonder, if I weren't a superhero, what would I be doing?"
"What would you do?"
Homelander thought for a moment and smiled. "Maybe an actor."
Stormfront smiled too. "You're already an actor."
Homelander looked at her, and his expression shifted slightly. The change was subtle—only for a second. Then he smiled again. "You're right. I am an actor."
The two were quiet for a moment. Only the ticking of the wall clock filled the living room. Stormfront took a sip of wine, waiting for Homelander to state his true purpose. She knew he wouldn't have invited her over just to catch up.
Homelander set down his glass, stood up, and walked to the window. He stood with his back to Stormfront, the gaslight casting a long shadow across his face. The shadow twisted and distorted on the wall, like a clawing monster.
"Stormfront." His voice was very soft. "What do you think of this city?"
Stormfront didn't know why he asked that. "What do you mean, 'what do I think'?"
"This city." Homelander turned around and looked at her. His blue eyes were bright in the light, unnaturally so. "New York. The United States. This World. What do you think of it?"
Stormfront set down her glass and looked at him. "What are you trying to say?"
Homelander walked up to her, crouched down, and looked her in the eyes. They were very close—close enough for Stormfront to smell him—cologne, milk, and a faint trace of blood. Her heart skipped a beat.
"I want to say—" Homelander's voice was soft and gentle. "This World needs to change. And I want to change it."
Stormfront didn't answer. She looked into Homelander's eyes, trying to find madness within—but she couldn't. His eyes were clear and calm, like an ordinary person making a major decision.
"Do you know why I invited you here?" Homelander asked.
"I don't."
"Because you are the only one who can understand me." Homelander stood up and walked to the window. "Maeve doesn't understand me. A-Train doesn't understand me. The Deep doesn't understand me. Black Noir—Black Noirnever speaks. But you're different. You are like me."
Stormfront said, "How am I like you?"
Homelander turned to look at her. The gaslight shone on his face, and his expression was serious. "We have both seen the truth of this World. We have both seen the truth of Vought. We don't belong here."
Stormfront's heart skipped a beat. But she didn't let it show. She picked up her wine glass, took a sip, and kept her voice steady. "And so?"
"And so—" Homelander walked up to her, reached out, and gently lifted her chin. His fingers were cold, like ice. "I want you to join me."
"Join you?"
"Yes." Homelander let go, took a step back, and spread his arms. "We will change this World together. You and me. Not the kind of change Vought packages—this is real change."
Stormfront looked at him, not speaking for a long time. She could hear her own heartbeat, exceptionally clear in the quiet living room. She thought of Chen Mo's face, and remembered what he said— "Watch out for Homelander."
Then she said, "Why me?"
Homelander smiled. The smile was complex—it held tenderness, loneliness, and a trace of something she couldn't decipher. "Because you are the only person who makes me feel not lonely."
Stormfront didn't respond. She picked up her glass and finished the rest of the wine in one gulp. The astringency of the red wine dissolved on her tongue. She set down the glass and looked at Homelander. His eyes were bright in the light, like a child waiting for an answer.
"I need time to consider it," she said.
Homelander nodded. A flash of disappointment crossed his eyes—only for a second, then it vanished. "Of course. You can tell me your answer whenever you're ready."
Stormfront stood up and placed the empty glass on the coffee table. "Then I'll be going."
"I'll see you out."
"No need."
Stormfront walked to the door, her hand on the doorknob. She looked back at Homelander one last time. He stood in the center of the living room, the gaslight shining on him, casting a huge shadow on the wall—not like a man, but like a monster.
"Homelander," Stormfront said.
"Hm."
"Have you ever thought—if you weren't a superhero, what would you be?"
Homelander looked at her, silent for a moment. "A monster."
Stormfront didn't respond. She pushed the door open and stepped into the night. The door closed behind her with a dull thud.
She stood on the street outside, the night breeze blowing on her face, cool. She took a deep breath, then exhaled. Her hands were trembling slightly. She took out her phone and sent a message to Chen Mo.
"Homelander wants me to join him."
After thirty seconds, Chen Mo replied.
"Join him for what?"
Stormfront stared at the message, pausing for a few seconds. Then she typed four words.
"Change the World."
Chen Mo didn't reply again. Stormfront put her phone away and walked into the night. The light of the gas lamp faded behind her. She walked along the quiet street, the sound of her high heels clicking on the pavement echoing in the night. She knew that from this moment on, her choice would determine the fate of many.
She quickened her pace.
Chapter 41: Fireworks Plan
The next morning, Chen Mo woke up in the safe house.
Sunlight shone through the gap in the curtains, casting a golden beam of light on the wall.
He sat up and rubbed his eyes.
He had barely slept last night—the news from Stormfronthad kept him awake for a long time.
Homelander wanted to change the World.
Stormfront wanted to steal the Legacy Project list.
He was going to set off fireworks in Times Square.
He picked up his phone and checked the time—7:30 AM.
There was an unread message from Stormfront: "8:00 PM tonight, Times Square. Don't forget."
Chen Mo put the phone down and walked into the bathroom.
He splashed his face and looked at himself in the mirror.
His eyes were bloodshot, and stubble had sprouted on his chin.
He looked like someone who hadn't slept well for several days.
He turned on the faucet and splashed his face with cold water.
The cold water made him a bit more alert.
He walked out of the bathroom and put on his clothes—a black T-shirt, a pair of dark jeans, and old sneakers.
He put the USB drive in his pocket and then went out.
He needed to do some preparation work first.
— —
At 9:00 AM, Chen Mo appeared at a fireworks wholesale market in Queens.
The market was on a secluded street in Queens.
The storefront wasn't big, and the sign read "Happy Fireworks" in large characters, the edges of the sign already faded.
The owner was a Chinese man in his forties, surnamed Wang, wearing gold-rimmed glasses, looking like a middle school teacher—if he weren't selling fireworks.
Chen Mo walked in, and the shop was filled with the smell of sulfur and gunpowder.
The shelves were packed with various fireworks—from small fireworks costing a few dollars to large aerial shells costing hundreds, everything was available.
"What do you want?" Old Wang raised his head from behind the counter and glanced at him.
"Large aerial shells," Chen Mo said.
"The kind that can light up all of Times Square."
Old Wang took off his glasses, wiped them, put them back on, and sized him up.
"Are you fucking serious?"
"Serious."
Old Wang was silent for a few seconds, then stood up and walked to the warehouse in the back.
"Follow me."
The warehouse was piled with various firework boxes.
Old Wang walked to the very back and pointed at an Iron Skin box half a person high.
"This one. Thirty-two aerial shells. Each one can reach an altitude of three hundred meters, with an explosion diameter of one hundred meters. Enough to light up half of Manhattan."
"How much?"
"Three thousand."
"I want two boxes."
Old Wang raised an eyebrow.
"Six thousand."
Chen Mo took a stack of cash out of his pocket—withdrawn from an ATM last night—counted out six thousand, and placed it on the table.
The bills had a greenish glow under the light, the edges slightly worn, emitting the unique scent of old paper money.
Old Wang counted it and nodded.
"When do you want them?"
"Now."
Old Wang called two workers to move the two boxes of aerial shells onto the van Chen Mo had rented.
The two workers were panting, the Iron Skin box making dull clanking sounds in the van, the vehicle's springs creaking under the weight.
Chen Mo drove the van, circling the streets of Queens a few times to ensure no one was following him, then parked the van in an abandoned parking lot.
He got out of the car, opened the trunk, and looked at the two boxes of aerial shells.
Thirty-two aerial shells, each capable of reaching three hundred meters.
Enough to light up half of Manhattan.
Also enough to overload the Sentinel's senses.
— —
At 2:00 PM, Chen Mo arrived at Times Square.
Times Square was always crowded—tourists from all over the World squeezed onto the streets, holding up phones to take pictures.
Huge billboards flickered overhead, playing various advertisements—Coca-Cola, Samsung, Chanel, and promotional videos for The Seven.
Chen Mo stood in the crowd, looking up at those billboards.
He was looking for a suitable location.
The aerial shells needed to be launched from a high place—at least a building tall enough to let him shoot the fireworks to an altitude of three hundred meters.
His gaze fell on a building next to Times Square—the Marriott Hotel.
Forty-eight floors.
There was a helipad on the roof.
He walked into the hotel lobby and went to the front desk.
The receptionist was a young girl, blonde, with a professional smile.
"Hello, I'd like to book a room on the top floor."
"How many nights will you be staying?"
"One night."
"Alright, please wait a moment."
The girl operated the computer for a few moments.
"Top floor suite, eight hundred U.S. dollars per night."
Chen Mo took out a credit card—the one Butcher had gotten for him, using a fake identity.
"That's fine."
The girl swiped the card and handed him the key card.
"Enjoy your stay."
Chen Mo took the key card and walked into the elevator.
The elevator doors closed, and he pressed the button for the top floor.
The elevator rose slowly, the floor numbers ticking up.
He leaned against the elevator wall, looking at his reflection—a black T-shirt, dark jeans, an ordinary Chinese tourist.
The elevator stopped at the forty-eighth floor.
He walked out, followed the corridor to the end, and swiped the key card to open the door.
The room was large—a big bed, a floor-to-ceiling window, with a view of the entire Times Square.
He walked to the window and looked at the square below.
The crowds were surging, the billboards flickering, everything was normal.
He opened the window, poked his head out, and looked at the roof.
The helipad was right above—climbing out the window and up the exterior wall would get him to the roof.
He closed the window, drew the curtains, and sat on the bed.
There was only one thing left to do—wait for dark.
— —
At 7:30 PM, Chen Mo stood on the roof of the Marriott Hotel.
The night wind blew by, carrying the scent of the city.
He stood at the edge of the helipad, looking at Times Square beneath his feet.
The crowd was larger than in the daytime—the neon lights were more brilliant in the night, the light from the billboards more piercing in the darkness.
In the center of Times Square, on a huge LED screen, a promotional video for The Seven was playing—Homelander stood in the C-position, smiling brightly.
Chen Mo took his phone out of his pocket and sent a message to Stormfront: "Ready."
Stormfront replied instantly: "Received. I'm ready on my end too. After you set off the fireworks, you have thirty seconds to enter the building. The Sentinel's senses need thirty seconds to recover."
Chen Mo looked at that message and took a deep breath.
Thirty seconds.
He needed to fly from Times Square to the Vought New York branch—a straight-line distance of about two kilometers.
With his flight speed, it would only take fifteen seconds.
Fifteen seconds to enter the building, fifteen seconds to find Margaret Shaw's office and insert the USB drive.
Time was tight, but not impossible.
He put his phone away and walked over to the two boxes of aerial shells.
He opened the boxes and checked the fuses.
The fuses were very short—only a ten-second delay after lighting.
He needed to light the fuses and then fly away immediately.
He picked up a lighter—an ordinary plastic lighter, bought from a convenience store.
He squatted down, the lighter's flame flickering in the night wind, illuminating his face.
He glanced at his watch—7:50 PM.
Ten minutes left.
He stood up, walked to the edge of the roof, and looked at the city beneath his feet.
The lights of Times Square flickered in the night, like a huge luminous body.
In the distance, the office building of the Vought New Yorkbranch loomed in the Brooklyn night.
He remembered what Stormfront had said—"Legacy Project. Injecting Compound V since infancy to cultivate superheroes."
He remembered what Homelander had said—"Change the World."
He remembered Zero's figure curled up on the bed.
He gripped the lighter tightly.
8:00 PM sharp.
He squatted down and lit the fuses.
The fuses hissed, sparks dancing in the night wind.
He stood up and activated his thrusters.
Blue flames erupted from his feet, and he rose into the air.
Then he turned and flew toward the Vought New Yorkbranch.
Behind him, the first aerial shell shot into the sky.
Bang—
A huge red firework exploded over Times Square, lighting up the entire square.
The crowd let out exclamations, everyone looking up at the sky.
Bang—Bang—Bang—
More aerial shells shot into the sky and exploded—red, blue, gold, green—like huge flowers blooming in the night sky.
Times Square was lit up as if it were daytime, and everyone's gaze was drawn to the sky.
Chen Mo flew through the night sky, with fireworks constantly exploding behind him.
The light of the fireworks flickered on him, like a layer of flowing color.
He looked down—the Vought New York branch office building was right ahead, getting closer and closer.
Thirty seconds.
He accelerated.
Chapter 42: Infiltration
Fifteen seconds.
Chen Mo landed on the roof of the Vought New Yorkbranch office building. His metal boots hit the concrete, making a faint sound. He immediately crouched down, pressed himself against the ground, and pricked up his ears to listen—no footsteps. No alarms. The Sentinel's senses were overloaded by the fireworks and were in the process of recovering.
He had fifteen seconds left.
There was an iron door on the roof leading to the stairwell. He walked up to it and tried it—it was locked. He pulled a piece of wire from his pocket—a lock-picking trick Butcherhad taught him. He inserted the wire into the keyhole, gave it a few gentle turns, and the lock cylinder made a faint click.
The door opened.
He pushed the door open and stepped into the stairwell. It was dark inside, with only the faint green light of emergency lamps on the walls. He closed the door, stood still, and listened for a few seconds—there was no sound.
He ran down the stairs. Margaret Shaw's office was on the sixth floor. He needed to get from the roof to the sixth floor—six stories, about sixty steps.
He ran quickly and lightly. His Battle Armor boots made almost no sound on the concrete steps. His breathing was steady—the arc reactor in his chest emitted a rhythmic blue light, like a heartbeat.
He reached the sixth floor.
The stairwell door was locked as well. He opened it using the same method. The door opened a crack, and he poked his head out to look at the hallway—it was empty. The corridor was long, covered in dark gray carpet, and decorated with Vought promotional posters on the walls—group photos of The Seven, pictures of Vought Tower, and solo posters of various superheroes. The lights on the ceiling emitted white light, illuminating the hallway brightly.
Margaret Shaw's office was at the end of the corridor.
Chen Mo walked out of the stairwell and hurried down the corridor. His footsteps on the carpet made almost no sound. He passed several doors—conference room, break room, archive room. Every door was closed, and the signs on them glinted under the lights.
He reached the end of the corridor and stopped in front of the last door. The sign on the door read— "Margaret Shaw, Regional Director".
He tried the doorknob—it was locked.
He pulled out the wire again, but this time, the lock was more complex—it wasn't a standard pin tumbler lock, but an electronic one. It required a password or a key card.
Chen Mo frowned. Stormfront hadn't told him the lock was electronic. He crouched down to examine the lock—a black panel with a numeric keypad and a key card reader.
He thought for a moment, then took his phone out of his pocket, turned on the flashlight, and illuminated the lock. There were signs of wear on the numeric keypad—the paint on some of the numbers had been worn away by fingers.
He looked closely—the paint on the numbers "0", "3", "7", and "9" was visibly worn. Four digits. He tried different combinations—0379, 0793, 3079, 3790, 7039, 9037...
He tried the first one—0379.
The lock made a "beep," and the green indicator light turned on.
The door opened.
Chen Mo pushed the door open and entered the office. The office wasn't large—a desk, a chair, a filing cabinet, and a safe. There was a computer on the desk with a black screen. The filing cabinet was locked. The safe was embedded in the wall and looked very sturdy.
He walked to the desk and pressed the computer's power button. The computer started up, the screen lit up, and a login interface appeared—it required a password.
Chen Mo took the USB drive Stormfront had given him from his pocket and inserted it into the computer's USB port. The program on the USB drive ran automatically—the screen flickered, then the login interface disappeared, and the desktop appeared.
The program cracked the password.
He opened the file manager and began searching— "Legacy Project", "Compound V", "List"—he entered the keywords, and the system began to search. The progress bar pulsed on the screen, like a heartbeat.
Ten percent. Twenty percent. Fifty percent. Eighty percent. One hundred percent.
The search results popped up—an encrypted folder named "Legacy Project — Complete List".
Chen Mo clicked on the folder. The system prompted for a decryption key.
He frowned. Stormfront hadn't given him the decryption key. He took out his phone and sent a message to Stormfront: "Need decryption key."
Ten seconds later, Stormfront replied: "Margaret Shaw's birthday. March 9, 1978."
Chen Mo entered the password—03091978.
The folder opened.
A list appeared on the screen—a dense list of names, each followed by an ID number, age, power level, and current status. He scanned it quickly—there were over three hundred people on the list. Over three hundred superheroes who had been injected with Compound V since infancy.
His gaze stopped on one name.
"ID: CV-0047. Name: Zero. Age: 17. Power Level: A-Class. Current Status: At large."
Chen Mo stared at the name, stunned.
Zero.
Zero was part of the Legacy Project.
He quickly read down—Zero's power description: "Energy absorption and release. Can absorb various forms of energy from the surrounding environment—electrical, thermal, kinetic—and convert them into its own energy reserves. Absorption limit unknown. Release limit unknown."
Chen Mo's hand paused.
Zero's power was almost exactly the same as the principle of the arc reactor—absorbing energy, converting energy, releasing energy.
He remembered the image of Zero curled up on the bed. He remembered the words Zero had said— "You were created." He remembered the look in Zero's eyes—that look that said, "We are the same."
He took a deep breath and copied the list onto the USB drive. The progress bar pulsed—ten percent, twenty percent, fifty percent, eighty percent, one hundred percent.
Copy complete.
He pulled out the USB drive, shut down the computer, and restored everything to its original state. Then he stood up and walked over to the safe—it was open. Margaret Shawhad forgotten to lock the safe before leaving for the charity banquet today.
He opened the safe; inside were stacks of cash, several documents, and a black notebook. He picked up the notebook and opened it—it contained handwritten records in neat handwriting. The records detailed the Legacy Project—test subject IDs, injection dosages, power changes, and psychological evaluations.
He flipped through a few pages quickly, and his gaze stopped on one page.
"Test Subject CV-0001. Name: John. Age: 0 (3 days after birth). Injection dosage: Standard dosage. Initial reaction: Good. Remarks: First successful case. Extremely high potential for future development."
Chen Mo looked at the name—John.
He remembered Homelander's name—John.
He closed the notebook and tucked it into his pocket as well. Then he closed the safe, walked out of the office, and locked the door.
He walked back along the corridor, moving quickly. He reached the stairwell door and was just about to push it open—he heard a sound.
Footsteps.
Footsteps coming from downstairs. Very light, but steady—not the footsteps of an ordinary person, but the footsteps of someone well-trained.
Chen Mo stopped and held his breath.
The footsteps were getting closer. It wasn't one person—it was two. Their footsteps were very uniform, like soldiers.
Chen Mo stepped back and leaned against the wall. He glanced at the stairwell door—it was closed. If those two people came up to the sixth floor, they would see him.
He looked around quickly—there were offices on both sides of the corridor, and the doors were all locked. There was nowhere to hide.
The footsteps echoed in the stairwell, getting closer and closer.
Chen Mo clenched his fists.
He activated his thrusters—not the flight thrusters, but the hand thrusters. Blue flames erupted from his palms, and he flew up, sticking to the ceiling. His back was pressed against the ceiling, and his hands and feet were braced against the walls on either side, like a gecko.
The stairwell door opened.
Two men in black suits walked out. They were wearing earpieces, and their waists were bulging—they were carrying guns. They walked into the corridor, looked left and right, and then headed toward Margaret Shaw's office.
Chen Mo remained motionless, stuck to the ceiling. He could see the tops of the two men's heads—one bald, one blonde. They walked to the office door, stopped, and the blonde man took out a walkie-talkie.
"Report. Sixth floor is normal. No abnormalities."
A voice came from the walkie-talkie: "Copy that. Continue patrolling."
The two men turned around and walked toward the other side of the corridor. Their footsteps gradually faded on the carpet and finally disappeared at the end of the corridor.
Chen Mo dropped down from the ceiling, landing softly. He glanced at the end of the corridor—the two men's backs disappeared around the corner.
He turned around, pushed open the stairwell door, and walked inside.
He ran up the stairs, running all the way to the roof in one breath. He pushed open the iron door to the roof, and the night wind blew on his face, cool and refreshing. In the distance, fireworks were still blooming over Times Square—but it was nearing the end. The last firework shot into the sky, exploded, and made a loud bang.
Chen Mo stood on the roof, watching the fireworks in the distance.
He took out the USB drive and looked at it.
Legacy Project list. Zero. Homelander.
He needed to go back and take a good look at this list.
He activated his thrusters and flew into the night sky.
Behind him, the fireworks over Times Square slowly dissipated in the night sky, like a grand farewell.