"Of course we're saving them!"
Hot-tempered Luo Zhen slammed a fist against the wall. "They dare lay hands on one of ours? Those bastards must have a death wish!"
"And how exactly do you plan to save them?" the eldest, Huang Quan, asked in a low, steady voice. "Just storm the docks? What if they panic and kill the hostages first? You even know where they're keeping them?"
"I—well—" Luo Zhen clenched his teeth. "We can't just sit here doing nothing! Who knows what they're doing to them right now? By the time we wait, it might be too late! What, we just send Wang Kun alone to die?"
Wang Kun's fists were already trembling, veins standing out across his arms. His reddened eyes burned like coals. "It doesn't matter. I'll go by myself. No matter what it takes—I'll bring them back!"
"No."
The voice was calm but firm. Albert, the old butler, stepped in front of him.
"That's suicide," he said sharply. "Whoever did this isn't after your family—they're after us. They're trying to pick us off one by one. The docks will be crawling with men waiting for you to show up."
"Then what should we do?" Wang Kun's voice cracked. He knew Albert was right, but the image of his wife and child bound and terrified left him shaking.
"If only the Master were here," muttered Han Qing, the youngest. "He'd know what to do."
Everyone's eyes lit up for an instant—then dimmed again. Chen Mo was half a world away, somewhere in war-torn Europe. Even if he knew, he couldn't help them in time.
The room fell into silence.
And then—
"I could've sworn I just heard someone talking about me behind my back."
The familiar voice froze them all.
They turned as one.
At the doorway stood a tall, imposing figure—his face sharp, his eyes cutting, a faint aura of killing intent rolling off him like heat. And yet, for the men of the dojo, it felt like the storm had finally passed.
"Master!"
"Young sir!"
"You're back!"
Chen Mo blinked, momentarily confused by their reaction. "What's with all the excitement? I've only been gone a few months."
"What happened?" he asked, stepping inside. Behind him came Howard Stark, looking around curiously at the dojo's simple interior before taking a seat on the couch.
With their leader finally home, everyone began to calm down. Albert quickly laid out the situation from beginning to end. When he finished, all eyes turned to Chen Mo, waiting for his command.
As the old butler's words sank in, cold fury flickered through Chen Mo's gaze. The air itself seemed to drop several degrees.
Even from Europe, he had kept close watch on Brooklyn through his Hydra network. He knew the local mafia had been stirring again—two of the biggest families had been making moves. They'd learned their lesson after the "Mad Dog Johnny" incident, and hadn't dared attack openly, but they'd started whispering to smaller gangs, testing the dojo's defenses.
This kidnapping was a probe—and an opportunity to strike a blow.
Chen Mo clenched his jaw. He should've seen it coming. He'd assumed they would come directly at the dojo, not go after a student's family. That miscalculation was on him.
The dojo itself was heavily protected. Four trained fighters, a cautious butler, hidden weapons, and even Hydra operatives watching from the shadows. If anyone attacked, they would've been obliterated.
But this—taking a wife and child—was a move without honor or limits.
It was a mistake he would never allow again.
He looked up at Albert. "Eddie, tell me—if I hadn't come back tonight, what would you have done?"
Albert said nothing at first. Then he calmly unbuttoned his jacket and reached beneath his arms—drawing two handguns from concealed holsters.
"I'd wait for dark," he said evenly. "Slip into the docks. Get the hostages out…"
He checked both pistols, eyes glinting. "Then wipe every last one of them off the map."
Chen Mo raised an eyebrow. The once-gentle old artist had changed. The years spent at his side had transformed Albert from a polite gentleman into a refined, lethal agent—a man of elegance and fire.
"Good," Chen Mo said with a faint smile. "Very good."
He rose to his feet. "Then what are we waiting for? Gear up."
The martial artists needed no further encouragement. They bolted upstairs to grab their weapons—grumbling as they went about how they'd rather be using their fists than guns.
When they returned, loaded and ready, Chen Mo was already at the door, his presence steady and cold.
Then a hesitant voice spoke up.
"Uh… mind if I come too?"
Everyone turned. It was Howard, half-smiling, half-nervous. "My shooting's not bad, you know!"
He'd spent years behind a lab table, but the idea of a small-scale rescue operation—under Chen Mo's protection—sparked something reckless in him.
Chen Mo considered, then nodded. "Fine. But wait here a moment."
He turned and went upstairs.
A few minutes later, heavy footsteps echoed down.
Thunk.
The floor shuddered as he dropped a pile of equipment onto it.
Everyone leaned in to look.
Howard bent down, lifting a black metal vest from the heap. His eyes widened.
"Isn't this the bulletproof armor you designed?" he asked, astonished.