Chen Mo's sharp senses caught a flicker of danger before it struck.
Far ahead, a Hydra tank was swiveling its turret toward him, cannon barrel gleaming as it locked onto its target.
But before the crew could finish aiming, Chen Mo was already moving—his body a black blur racing straight at the steel beast.
He sprinted the last dozen meters, then leapt high into the air, his body tracing a perfect arc through the smoke and chaos.
The gunner blinked—his target had vanished.
A heartbeat later, something landed hard on the tank's turret.
With one swift swing of his sword, Chen Mo sheared off the barrel. Then he raised his shield and slammed it down—metal screamed, and the hatch burst open like tin foil.
He dropped a grenade inside and vaulted away. The explosion tore the tank apart from within.
Before the smoke even cleared, he was already on another armored vehicle. The same routine—one blow, one explosion, one wreck left behind.
Within moments, every heavy weapon that posed a threat had been silenced.
The Hydra soldiers still alive fired desperately, but it no longer mattered. Their bullets ricocheted off his armor; their formation collapsed.
The base had been thinly defended from the start—barely five hundred men, most of whom were already deployed elsewhere. The ones remaining inside were no match.
And outside the walls, every other Hydra unit in the region had already been wiped out by Chen Mo's previous raids.
This was the last nest.
Once the tanks were gone, he raised a flare gun and fired a signal into the night sky.
Moments later, the black-clad special forces of the Strategic Scientific Reserve stormed in. Hundreds of elite soldiers in matching combat suits charged through the gates, rifles blazing. Their lightweight armor—designed after Chen Mo's—was heavy by normal standards but still let them move freely.
With Chen Mo having cleared the heavy fire, they no longer needed to dodge every bullet. Their survival rate skyrocketed.
The battle was decided almost instantly.
Holstering his pistol, Chen Mo drew it again and joined the firefight, this time holding back slightly—using the chance to hone his bullet-dodging reflexes.
He no longer needed to rely on brute defense alone. His reaction speed was fast enough to weave through gunfire, to move like a shadow between shots.
But even as he practiced restraint, the Hydra base was collapsing.
By the time he emptied his third magazine, it was over.
"Commander!" The captain of the first squad ran up, saluting crisply. "All hostiles neutralized, sir! The base is under full control!"
Another Hydra fortress had fallen—the second Chen Mo personally destroyed.
As Hydra's true hidden master, he felt no guilt about annihilating his own forces.
Destruction was part of the plan.
Every ruined base tightened his control, purged disloyal elements, and made Hydra's disappearance seem complete.
By erasing its public face, he could build something new in the shadows—an organization no one would ever suspect him of leading.
Who could imagine that the man destroying Hydra was the one commanding it from the dark?
—
Brooklyn, New York.
Evening had fallen, the streets glowing with warm lights. Families gathered around dinner tables, laughter echoing through open windows.
But inside Chen Mo's dojo, the air was tense.
Moments earlier, the heavy front doors had slammed open.
Wang Kun, one of the martial artists, rushed in, face pale and eyes wild. He didn't stop to speak—just sprinted upstairs, rummaged for something, and came back down gripping a handgun at his side.
Everyone froze.
"Wang Kun, what's wrong?" asked the old butler, Albert, stepping forward quickly.
The others—Huang Quan, Han Qing, and the rest—moved to block his path.
"Where are you going with that gun?"
Wang Kun's fists clenched; his voice trembled. "They're gone."
"Who's gone?"
"My wife and son!" he shouted, eyes red. "They're gone!"
He took a shaky breath. "When I got home, the place was a mess. They took them. There was a note on the table—it said to come alone to Pier Six tonight if I want them back."
The room fell silent.
Albert's expression hardened. "It's been more than half a year since the young master left. Looks like someone's daring enough to come after us again."
Of the four martial artists Chen Mo had taken under his wing, only Wang Kun had family nearby. The others were alone—either widowed by war or orphaned long ago.
After settling in at the dojo, Wang Kun had finally known peace. His wife cooked dinner every night, waiting for him to come home.
Until tonight.
Now the only thing left in that house was a single note—and a threat.
"Meet us alone," it said, "or collect their bodies."
Han Qing, the youngest of them, swallowed hard. "What do we do now?"
The dojo fell into uneasy silence.