Before Howard could finish his question about how the dojo ended up with such equipment, Chen Mo waved his hand and cut him off.
"Enough talk. Suit up — we move out immediately."
Albert, Huang Quan, and the others exchanged puzzled looks. None of them had ever seen these strange black outfits before, but they didn't waste time asking. Each grabbed a set and began putting it on.
The armor was a lightweight, downgraded version of the tactical suits used by Chen Mo's special operations troops — something he'd quietly brought back from Europe and kept in his dimensional storage space, intending to arm his people in case of emergencies like this.
Originally, Chen Mo had planned to hand them out closer to the docks so the sudden appearance of such gear wouldn't raise questions. But since Howard insisted on tagging along, he had no choice but to bring them out now.
The suits weighed several dozen kilograms — nothing to the martial artists. Even the sixty-year-old Albert, hardened from years of training under Chen Mo's regime, managed to handle it without issue. The only one struggling was Howard, who quickly realized the armor was heavier than it looked.
"Do I have to wear this? It's ridiculously heavy! I can't even move properly!" he complained, holding up the bulky suit with both hands.
"Sure," Chen Mo said evenly while helping Albert strap on his armor. "You can stay home, then. We'll be back soon."
Howard froze. "Wait, wait—fine! I'll wear it! Satisfied?"
Ten minutes later, they were all geared up. The black bulletproof armor fit like a second skin, the layered plates covering vital areas — chest, abdomen, shoulders, knees, elbows — giving them both protection and a menacing, militarized look. The flexible joints allowed smooth movement despite the heavy protection.
They looked less like martial artists and more like a covert strike team.
Chen Mo then pulled out a pile of matte-black combat uniforms from nowhere — no one questioned how — and ordered them to wear them over the armor.
"Keep it low-profile," he said simply.
Once everyone was suited up, Chen Mo himself donned a similar outfit. Two M1911 pistols sat in thigh holsters, and several throwing knives gleamed at his belt.
After one last inspection, he tossed a pistol to Howard. "Let's move."
—
Pier Six.
Night had already fallen. The docks were empty — workers long gone, cranes silent against the dim glow of scattered lamps.
Chen Mo's team of seven crouched in the shadows across the street, eyes fixed on the quiet waterfront.
With a sweep of his heightened senses, Chen Mo quickly located a figure hiding near the entrance — one of the gang's lookouts. No others nearby.
He gestured sharply. "Stay here."
Then, in silence, he slipped away.
Moving low and fast, Chen Mo crept along the side of the wall until he was just beneath the sentry's position. After confirming the man's heartbeat and breathing, Chen Mo vaulted over the wall in one smooth motion.
A muffled sound later, the lookout was gone.
Moments after, Chen Mo appeared at the gate, beckoning his men forward.
The group hurried over quietly and regrouped.
Pier Six was small, its warehouses clustered close together. Other than a few flickering lights, the area was dead silent.
Chen Mo tilted his head, listening. Somewhere deeper inside — faint footsteps, the muffled clatter of metal.
He led the team toward the sound.
Along the way, he spotted two more lookouts. Each time, a flash of silver sliced through the darkness — the men dropped without a sound.
Finally, at a corner, Chen Mo halted.
He peered around the edge. Ahead stood an old warehouse. A few men with guns loitered outside.
They'd found it.
After another quick survey, Chen Mo returned to the group and spoke in a whisper.
"That's the place. Only one exit. You stay here. When you hear gunfire — open up. No one gets out alive. Understood?"
"Understood!"
They all nodded sharply.
Howard's eyes were wide with excitement. "What about you?"
"I'm going in," Chen Mo replied simply.
Without another word, he vanished into the shadows.
Circling around, he climbed silently up the side of the warehouse, his boots finding purchase on the old bricks. Moving carefully to avoid loose tiles, he reached the roof and crouched.
Gently lifting one panel aside, he peered inside.
At the center of the warehouse, bound to a steel pillar, were a woman and a child — Wang Kun's wife and son. Their mouths were gagged, faces streaked with tears, but alive and unharmed. Relief washed through Chen Mo.
Good. Still in time.
Then his gaze hardened.
Dozens of armed men were hidden around the shadows of the warehouse. Two stood openly near the hostages — bait. The rest waited in ambush.
A perfect trap.
If Wang Kun had truly come alone, he and his family would have died the moment he walked in.
Chen Mo's eyes narrowed. He'd underestimated his enemies once; he wouldn't do it again.
These scum would serve as the first lesson.
A flash of steel — two throwing knives flew from his hands. The men beside the hostages didn't even have time to scream before collapsing, blades buried in their skulls.
Before their bodies hit the ground, the roof exploded open.
Crash!
Chen Mo dropped through the hole like a thunderbolt.
In a blink, he tore through the ropes binding the woman and child, scooped them up, and sprinted toward the nearest corner. A gunman hiding there raised his weapon, but Chen Mo's boot met his chest first.
The man's ribs caved in; his body slammed into the wall and slid to the floor, lifeless.
The terrified mother stared up — and recognized the face of her savior.
"Master Chen!" she gasped, her voice breaking with relief.
"Stay here," Chen Mo ordered, setting them down behind cover. "Don't move, no matter what."
Then he turned back toward the open warehouse floor.
By now, the rest of the gangsters had realized what was happening. Guns clicked; shouts echoed.
A burly man, clearly their leader, stepped forward, his pistol raised.
"Who the hell are you?!" he bellowed.
Chen Mo looked up slowly, eyes cold and dangerous.