Seeing that Chu Cheng didn't respond, Chen Meiyue chuckled, "Relax. Our amnestic technology is fully matured. It can precisely erase memory fragments based on keyword matching. In most cases, there's no danger of deleting essential data."
Chu Cheng immediately caught the phrasing—"in most cases." His instincts tightened.
"What about… the unusual cases?"
"Well…" Chen Meiyue scratched her head as if tugging at a distant memory. "There's no such thing as absolute safety. Even the most advanced tech can fail under edge conditions." She paused, her brow furrowing slightly. "I think… there was one irregularity I read about."
She tilted her head and spoke slowly. "A few boys were administered the treatment—and afterward, they forgot they were even boys. It triggered… a gender identity collapse."
Chu Cheng: "..."
"Ah, don't be so stiff!" Chen Meiyue said breezily. "It's a statistical outlier. Rare. The standard success rate is exceptionally high."
She smiled and added nonchalantly, "Besides, being a girl's not a big deal. These days, boys who can dress cute often outshine the girls."
Not a big deal? Chu Cheng's face sank. He had no intention of risking his sense of identity for the sake of a technology bug. Thankfully, he'd already chosen to align himself with this organization—this absurd lottery of side effects could be someone else's destiny.
He turned his attention to the group that had exited the vehicle. "So… are you all mutants or something?"
"Basically," Chen Meiyue nodded without hesitation.
"You all have supernatural abilities?"
"Pfft, it's not that simple," she said. "The influence of the extraordinary doesn't spread like a virus. It doesn't 'infect' randomly. But that said, the average infection coefficient among compatible hosts is much lower than among common carriers."
She elaborated, "Individuals who manifest a coefficient over 90% are incredibly rare. I'm at around 52%. Xiaotang's sitting at 30%. Junpei…"
She trailed off and glanced at the silent driver.
"27%," the driver said quietly without turning.
"Ah, yes. Twenty-seven percent. That's right."
That confirmed Chu Cheng's earlier impression: the driver really did blend into the background.
"Our top-ranking member is Detective Luo—87%," Meiyue continued.
Chu Cheng glanced at the bald man humming a tune ahead of them. Luo Yajun had been humming the same indistinct melody the entire ride. It was unfamiliar, but sounded like an old wartime ballad, grim and repetitive.
"This coefficient reflects the depth of an individual's infection. The deeper the saturation, the more pronounced their traits. Of course," she added, "that only defines your hardware. Combat strength depends on training, weapon proficiency, tactical awareness… and willpower."
She glanced at Chu Cheng. "A well-trained fighter with a lower coefficient can absolutely defeat someone with a higher one."
Chu Cheng nodded. In his mind, this was classic leapfrogging. Like challenging the second grade while still in first. Sure, second graders had learned multiplication while first graders still snapped their fingers to count—but some prodigy could still fight back using superior mental math and the occasional plug-in calculator from the heavens—a common trope.
Soon, the vehicle slowed to a stop. Ahead stood a modest two-story building, half-swallowed by dense greenery.
Chu Cheng followed the others out.
"You look a little disappointed?" Chen Meiyue raised an eyebrow. "Were you expecting… Wayne Tower?"
Chu Cheng didn't respond, but his silence spoke volumes.
From what they'd discussed, he'd imagined something monumental. A fortress. A last line of defense for humanity. This? This was barely a countryside village office.
Chen Meiyue only smiled and motioned them inside.
The group passed a sleepy guard in the duty room, who barely looked up from his newspaper. They moved through a plain corridor to an old elevator. Chu Cheng noted with mild concern that the control panel had only two buttons: 1 and 2.
Chen Meiyue didn't press either. Instead, she tapped a hidden sequence on a panel, revealing a concealed dial coded in a 3x3 grid. With practiced ease, she entered a password, and the elevator began to descend—beyond any numbered floor.
Chu Cheng felt it: they were heading down. Deep underground.
He smirked. Of course. It was the Kingsman tailor shop trick. The Batcave beneath Wayne Manor. Low-key exteriors, secret high-tech depths.
Then, unexpectedly, the sensation changed.
The elevator stopped moving vertically and began gliding forward.
Chu Cheng blinked. Wait. Was this still an elevator? Or a horizontal rail car?
Before he could settle the thought, the doors hissed open. They stepped into a long corridor of brushed steel. The walls gleamed with cold metal; LED-style lighting traced the path like veins of energy.
It screamed sci-fi. The real headquarters.
A second set of sliding doors opened. Inside, a busy control center buzzed with activity—transparent screens floated mid-air, technicians in dark uniforms moved between data terminals. The whole room pulsed like a living machine.
Chu Cheng's disbelief deepened.
"This your base?" he asked quietly.
Chen Meiyue gave a sly smile. "Not entirely."
---
Several minutes later, across a lake miles away, ripples broke the surface as birds scattered into the air.
Then—a tower of water erupted like a breached dam. The surface convulsed. From within, a steel beast emerged like a leviathan from the deep.
It resembled an aircraft carrier. But not quite.
In name, cherries have no cars, and pancakes have no wives—and in theory, aircraft carriers can't fly. This one did.
Six turbine engines roared to life, spinning faster than the eye could track. Steam hissed from the lakeside. Invisible propulsion flames lifted the fortress skyward—levitating it like a steel continent wrapped in thunderclouds.
Inside, Chu Cheng stared out a porthole as tons of water rained past.
His jaw tightened.
"What do you think?" Chen Meiyue's voice carried a rare note of pride. "This is our mobile fortress. One of only five airborne carriers in the world."
Chu Cheng: "..."
No way. This thing is just one redesign away from being S.H.I.E.L.D.'s helicarrier.
To be fair, the resemblance was uncanny. And with that came a troubling memory—Maria Hill once joked that S.H.I.E.L.D.'s own carrier averaged three crashes a week.
Realistically, Chu Cheng couldn't blame them. Based on all known laws of fiction, anything that grand flying above the clouds was destined to fall. It was like a narrative curse—if it flies, it crashes. Every time.
So, though the technological marvel under his feet inspired awe, Chu Cheng couldn't shake the unease.
To him, it wasn't a floating stronghold.
It was a high-tech flying coffin.
And it was only a matter of time before gravity came to collect its debt.