The war in Europe had reached a brutal balance—one that leaned heavily toward the Nazis.
Most of the continent was already under Hitler's control. The Allied forces had been unable to break through the German defensive line, and the sudden appearance of Hydra's troops had only worsened their losses.
Even though Chen Mo had forbidden them from using energy weapons, Hydra's remaining divisions still possessed advanced mechanical forces—massive tanks, armored carriers, and other heavy vehicles decades ahead of Allied designs. Combined with the fanatical loyalty and suicidal courage of Hydra's soldiers, they dominated every local battlefield they appeared in.
Thankfully, these elite units were few. Each rebel base loyal to Hitler commanded fewer than five hundred troops—far too small to alter the grand strategy of war, but still deadly in any direct clash.
And now, Chen Mo had come to erase them.
When Captain America led the Howling Commandos in the movies, his near-superhuman strength was the key to Hydra's destruction. But Chen Mo's power surpassed even Rogers's—these rebel bases, with no access to energy weapons, were like sandcastles before the tide.
When he finally joined battle, something primal awakened inside him.
For the first time, Chen Mo unleashed everything. Every constraint, every reservation—gone.
Bullets struck his shield like drums, each impact sending a pulse of exhilaration through him. The rhythm of war quickened his heart, not with fear, but with something dangerously close to joy.
His mind sharpened with each kill, his aura hardening like tempered steel. The killing intent grew heavier, colder—but it did not consume him. He remained utterly lucid, each strike precise, each movement deliberate.
War was refining him. His spirit, his will, even his mental strength continued to evolve—pushing him beyond his previous limits.
Only in the crucible of life and death, he realized, could true power grow.
Peace nurtured mediocrity; chaos forged gods.
Chen Mo's thirst for combat deepened. Whenever intelligence spotted a Hydra unit, he would personally lead his strike team. One by one, the rebel outposts vanished—wiped clean from the map.
Through months of missions, his combat experience exploded. His fighting style evolved—every unnecessary motion stripped away, every technique honed to lethal efficiency. He moved like a storm: fast, direct, devastating.
But Chen Mo was never reckless. He preferred infiltration, sabotage, and assassination before striking openly. A frontal assault was only a last resort—because his men, no matter how elite, were still human.
He was not.
When needed, he would break through defenses alone, carving open a path for his team to finish the job.
—
By October 1943, nearly two years since his arrival in this world, Europe burned.
Deep in a forest of towering pines, a Hydra base stood hidden behind tall concrete walls. The only way in was through a heavily guarded gate.
And through that gate, a shadow in black came running.
Chen Mo burst from the trees—black combat suit, gun in one hand, shield in the other—and charged the base head-on.
His pistol barked twice, three times—every shot a kill. The Hydra guards at the gate dropped before they even knew what hit them.
The others scrambled to return fire, but Chen Mo had already raised his shield. Bullets sparked harmlessly against its surface. He holstered his sidearm, pulled a grenade from his belt, yanked the pin, and hurled it a hundred meters into the crowd.
Boom!
The explosion tore open the entrance, blasting bodies and debris across the gate. Smoke rolled outward, the gunfire stuttered.
Howard hadn't exaggerated—his new grenades packed a punch.
Chen Mo didn't waste the opening. He lowered his shield and sprinted, his full speed turning him into a blur. In mere seconds, he closed the hundred-meter gap and stormed through the shattered gates.
Hydra soldiers barely had time to form ranks before he was upon them.
With a roar, he slammed into the crowd like a human tank. Every man in his path was hurled into the air, ribs shattered, organs crushed. None survived long enough to hit the ground.
He'd wanted to infiltrate quietly as usual, but the base's heightened defenses made stealth impossible. No matter—raw power would do.
He dropped the empty pistol and drew his blade—the Sword of Kings, claimed long ago in the Norwegian church.
With the shield in his left hand and the gleaming blade in his right, he became a blur of silver and blood. The sword swept in wide arcs, slicing through soldiers, armor, and rifles alike. Limbs flew; blood misted the air; and the ground beneath him turned crimson.
The legendary blade, forged for royalty, was unstoppable in his grasp. It sheared through metal as if through silk.
Bullets rained down, but most were deflected by his shield. Those that struck his body simply ricocheted off, leaving nothing but scorched holes in his uniform.
Beneath it, layers of armored plating—cut from the same steel used in tanks—covered his frame. Heavy for anyone else, but to Chen Mo, it was weightless.
He only needed to guard his head and avoid heavy artillery. Everything else he could ignore.
His speed and reflexes were so inhuman that he could dodge bullets entirely if he wished—but why bother, when he could simply walk through them?
The battlefield became a slaughterhouse.
Each swing of his sword brought a spray of red. Each step crushed another foe. When the last soldier fell, the air was thick with smoke and the stench of iron.
Chen Mo stood in the center of the carnage, silent, his expression carved in stone.
The ground around him was littered with broken bodies and shattered weapons, the earth itself dyed scarlet.
Then suddenly—his eyes flicked toward the treeline.
Something—someone—was coming.