The only thing Chen Mo hadn't accounted for was that the smaller gangs—secretly provoked by the two major families—would suddenly target Wang Kun's family. It had been a spur-of-the-moment decision on their part. By the time Hydra's intelligence team caught wind of it, Chen Mo was already on a plane back to New York, completely out of reach. When he landed, he'd gone straight to the dojo with Howard in tow, leaving the agents no chance to report in.
The Hydra operatives stationed around the martial hall had strict orders: protect the dojo, eliminate intruders, but never act without Chen Mo's direct command.
So the timing had simply lined up by chance. Had he still been in Europe, Chen Mo could've coordinated a rescue and wiped out the threat remotely—but fate had placed him exactly where he needed to be.
And since he'd returned just in time, he'd chosen to do it personally—no masks, no shadows. A clean, decisive strike. Best to keep Hydra unseen unless absolutely necessary.
⸻
Downstairs, the gunfire had finally stopped. Yet no one came to report in. The silence stretched too long.
A creeping sense of dread filled Floyd Lucian, the patriarch of one of Brooklyn's two great crime families.
His hand trembled slightly as he reached for the cigar cutter. The snip was uneven. He lifted the cigar, struck a match—but the faint sound of footsteps echoed in the hallway outside, drawing closer, steady and deliberate.
Floyd froze, his pulse pounding. Slowly, his eyes lifted toward the door.
The footsteps halted. The latch clicked. The office door swung open.
Seven figures stepped inside, clad in identical black tactical gear, their presence sharp and cold as a drawn blade.
The man leading them stepped into the light.
"You… it really is you!"
Floyd's face went pale. The cigar slipped from his fingers, rolling across the polished desk as he slumped heavily into his chair.
He knew instantly—his empire was finished. He was finished.
Chen Mo's gaze was calm and merciless as he raised his pistol. He wasn't one for speeches, and tonight required none.
Floyd closed his eyes. Regret twisted deep in his gut. He'd known what kind of monster Chen Mo was. Why, then, had he still dared to make a move against the dojo?
It didn't matter anymore.
His hand hovered near the hidden pistol beneath the desk—but he knew better. Chen Mo wouldn't give him even a breath of opportunity.
The muzzle leveled at his forehead.
There was no pity in Chen Mo's eyes. A man chooses his own road, he thought coldly. If you choose death, then walk it to the end.
Bang!
⸻
That night, the headquarters of both Brooklyn crime families burned under gunfire.
By dawn, their core members were dead or vanished.
The entire underworld of Brooklyn trembled—the balance of power shattered, awaiting a new order.
⸻
Back at the dojo, Howard swaggered in behind Chen Mo, a cigar clenched between his teeth, grinning ear to ear.
"Now that was exhilarating! Ha! We're rich, my friend—filthy rich!"
His gaze darted toward Huang Quan and the others. They were carrying several heavy leather cases upstairs, their expressions a mix of fatigue and disbelief.
Inside those cases lay the combined fortune of two empires—decades of blood-soaked wealth now stuffed into neat rows of cash and gold bars.
Chen Mo, seated calmly on the sofa, spoke without turning his head.
"No, I'm rich."
Howard blinked, hurrying over and plopping himself down beside him with a sycophantic grin.
"Oh, come on! I pulled my weight tonight too, didn't I?"
Chen Mo nodded. Howard's face brightened—until Chen Mo added evenly,
"Yes. You took the most bullets. Every time they aimed at your head, I shot them first."
Howard's smile froze. He coughed awkwardly and sank back into the sofa, realizing just how close he'd been to death all night.
Then Chen Mo asked, "What's this? Short on money?"
Howard hesitated. For a man of his stature—the wealthiest weapons manufacturer in America—the question was absurd. The Stark Group was worth hundreds of millions. Yet his tone was almost sheepish.
"Anti-gravity research," he muttered. "It's bleeding me dry. The company's cash flow's nearly gone." He sighed dramatically, giving Chen Mo a pitiful look. "Honestly, I'm poorer than you right now."
Howard wasn't lying. He was no businessman—he was a scientist to the core, obsessed with innovation, reckless with spending. When he got inspired, he could go days without food or sleep—and weeks without checking his balance sheet. This time, he'd gone too far. The experiments had drained the Stark Group to the brink of collapse.
"I know you're sitting on a fortune," he said, squinting at Chen Mo. "Why else would those gangsters be after you? Even the Doctor told me—you've been funding his research. So come on, are you helping me out or not?"
He puffed the stolen cigar and exhaled dramatically. "If you don't, I'll have to sell shares. Then I'll be surrounded by investors yapping in my ear all day. You want that? Because I sure don't."
Chen Mo leaned back, studying him. Howard Stark, the great visionary—utterly blind to the fact that he was digging a hole his own son would someday fall into.
He smirked faintly.
"Then sell the shares."
Howard's face fell. But before he could protest, Chen Mo continued,
"I'll take fifty percent."
Howard froze. Then, slowly, a grin spread across his face.
Selling shares had always been inevitable, and honestly—selling them to Chen Mo was the best possible outcome. Unlike corporate vultures, Chen Mo didn't care about profits or control. He'd be a silent partner—and a generous one at that.
With Chen Mo's resources and scientific genius backing him, the Stark Group could become unstoppable. And if funding ran short… well, Chen Mo would never let a project fail for lack of cash.
Howard laughed, clapping his new partner on the shoulder. "Deal!"
Chen Mo just smiled faintly, thinking to himself,
And thus, the foundation of Stark Industries—and Tony's future headaches—was quietly laid tonight.