Chapter 50: Stormfront's Choice
Stormfront stood before the gates of White Oak. Three days ago, Chen Mo had asked her if she could obtain the inhibitors. She had agreed. Now, she stood here—the place she wanted to come to the least. The night wind blew past, carrying the scent of the woods—pine, earth, and a hint of decay. The white exterior walls of White Oak shimmered coldly in the moonlight, like a silent behemoth crouching there, overlooking the entire forest.
She took a deep breath and pushed open the door.
The hallway was still quiet. White walls, white floors, white lights. The smell of disinfectant crept into her nostrils, reminding her of those nights many years ago—those nights spent locked in a laboratory, nights spent writhing in pain on a bed after being injected with Compound V. Her footsteps echoed in the corridor, like the rhythm of a heartbeat. She walked along the hallway, her steps light. She knew where she was going—the medical room, where the inhibitors were stored in a refrigerated cabinet.
She walked to the door of the medical room and pushed it open. The medical room was not large—an examination bed, a desk, a medicine cabinet. The cabinet was locked. She pulled a hairpin from her pocket, inserted it into the keyhole, and turned it gently a few times. Her fingers were steady—this was one of the skills she had learned at White Oak. In those years, she had learned how to pick locks, how to avoid surveillance, and how to move silently in the dark.
Click. The cabinet door opened. Inside the refrigerated unit, rows of small bottles were neatly stacked—the inhibitors. The pale blue liquid glowed in the dim light like tiny gemstones. She picked up a few bottles and put them in her pocket; the cold glass bottles pressed against her thigh, bringing a touch of chill.
Then she heard footsteps—the sound of military boots hitting the floor, heavy and powerful.
Stormfront turned around, blue electric arcs already gathering in her palms. The arcs crackled in the dim medical room, illuminating her face. A person stood at the doorway—not a security guard, but a woman in a black uniform. Blonde, short hair, wearing a black combat suit, with a gun holstered at her waist. Her expression was cold, like a soldier on a mission, her eyes like two glass beads—no emotion, only the mission.
"Stormfront," the woman's voice was calm. "I knew you would come back."
Stormfront looked at her, her pupils contracting. "Margaret Shaw."
Margaret Shaw walked into the medical room, hands in her pockets, watching Stormfront. Her expression was calm—calm enough that it seemed like she was chatting with an old friend. But Stormfront knew this woman was not her friend. Margaret Shaw was the security director of White Oak—a machine without emotions.
"From the day you stole the access card, I knew you would come back. People from the Legacy Project always come back. Because they cannot live without the inhibitors."
Stormfront said, "I didn't come back to get the inhibitors. I came to tell you—the Legacy Project is over."
Margaret Shaw looked at her, quiet for a few seconds, then laughed—not a happy laugh, but the kind of laugh that said, "You are too naive." "Stormfront. You have been in this project for five years. You should know—the Legacy Projectwill not end. As long as Vought exists for one more day, the Legacy Project will continue."
"And what if Vought no longer exists?"
Margaret Shaw's smile froze.
Stormfront watched her, the electric arcs in her palms growing brighter, the blue light dancing in the room, illuminating the medicine cabinet on the wall, the examination bed on the table, and every wrinkle on Margaret Shaw's face. "You heard me."
"Are you crazy?"
"Maybe. But after spending five years at White Oak, I realized one thing—the line between madness and sanity is razor-thin."
Margaret Shaw stared at her, her eyes changing. It was no longer that condescending calmness—it was a trace of fear. That fear was very subtle, like ripples on the surface of water—but Stormfront saw it. She saw Margaret Shaw's fingers slightly curl—that was the movement to draw her gun.
"You won't succeed."
"Maybe not. But I will try." Stormfront turned and walked toward the door; when she reached it, she stopped and looked back at Margaret Shaw. Moonlight shone in from the window, casting a silver light on Margaret Shaw's face. "Tell Homelander—I decline his invitation."
Then she walked out of the medical room.
In the hallway, the alarm suddenly sounded. Red lights flashed overhead, like red eyes. A voice came over the loudspeaker: "Alert. There is an intruder. All security personnel, take your positions immediately."
Stormfront stood in the hallway, looking ahead. At the end of the corridor, three security personnel in black combat suits were running toward her. They held stun guns in their hands, the muzzles glinting coldly under the red alarm lights.
Stormfront raised her hand. Blue electric arcs shot from her palms, striking the first security guard. The man screamed and fell to the ground, convulsing, the current dancing over his body like blue snakes. The second security guard fired—the stun gun's probe hit Stormfront's shoulder. The current surged through her body, but she did not fall.
She absorbed the current.
Blue electric arcs danced around her body, growing brighter. She reached up and pulled the probe from her shoulder, then released the current. She could feel the current flowing through her veins—that power, that warmth, like a roaring river. Boom—the blue electric arcs exploded from her, striking the remaining two security guards. They fell to the ground, losing consciousness. The air was filled with a burnt smell—singed fabric and skin.
Stormfront stood in the hallway, surrounded by fallen security guards and flashing alarm lights. Her hair fluttered in the electric arcs, and there was blue light in her eyes. She looked down at her hands—lingering arcs still danced on her fingertips. She looked at the inhibitors in her pocket again—they were still there. Then she turned and walked toward the exit.
—
An hour later, Stormfront appeared at the safe house in Brooklyn.
When Chen Mo opened the door, he saw her standing at the entrance. There were scorched marks on her clothes, her hair was a bit messy, but her expression was calm. She was holding a few bottles of inhibitors in her hand.
"I got them," she said.
Chen Mo took the inhibitors. "Are you okay?"
"I'm fine." Stormfront walked into the room, sat on the sofa, leaned back, and closed her eyes. "Just a little tired."
Chen Mo sat down opposite her. Her face was a bit pale, with faint shadows under her eyelids. She looked exhausted—not physically, but mentally.
"Margaret Shaw is at White Oak."
Stormfront opened her eyes. "How did you know?"
"The injury on you wasn't caused by the security guards." Chen Mo pointed to a scorched mark on her clothes—the shape of the mark looked like one left by a stun gun. "Margaret Shaw hit you with a stun gun."
Stormfront looked at him, paused, then smiled—that "you can't hide anything from you" smile. "You are very observant."
"I told Margaret Shaw—the Legacy Project is over. I also told her to tell Homelander that I decline his invitation."
Chen Mo paused. "Do you know what this means?"
"I do." Stormfront's voice was calm. "From today on, I am an enemy of Vought. They will hunt me down. Homelanderwill come for me personally. I might not live through the month."
"Then why did you do it?"
Stormfront looked at him, an indefinable emotion in her eyes. "Because I don't want to be a pawn anymore. I spent five years at Vought, playing the role they needed—smiling, shaking hands, posing for photos, saying the things they told me to say. I'm tired of it."
Chen Mo was silent.
Stormfront stood up, walked to the window, and looked at the night view outside. Her silhouette looked somewhat thin in the moonlight. Manhattan outside the window was brightly lit, those lights like stars scattered across the black sky. She watched those lights, thinking of many things—her childhood, her training, those nights she spent at White Oak.
"Chen Mo. If one day, I have to face Homelander head-on—will you stand by my side?"
Chen Mo stood up, walked to her side, and stood beside her. He looked at the city outside the window. "I will."
Stormfront turned to look at him. Moonlight shone on her face, her expression complex—there was gratitude, hesitation, and a hint of an indescribable emotion. Her eyes were bright in the moonlight.
"Why?"
Chen Mo looked at her and said, "Because you said—you also want to know what you really are. I also want to know what I really am. We are both looking for the same answer."
Stormfront did not respond. She looked at him for a long time. Moonlight shone in from the window, casting a silver light between them. She could hear her own heartbeat—thump-thump, thump-thump—extraordinarily clear in the quiet room.
Then she smiled. That smile looked beautiful in the moonlight—not the kind of smile Vought's PR taught, but her own smile. A real, heartfelt smile.
"Thank you."
Chapter 51: Homelander's Invitation
The news of Stormfront rejecting Homelander caused quite a stir within Vought, but no one dared to mention it in front of Homelander.
Homelander stood in his office on the top floor of Vought Tower, looking out at New York. Sunlight shone in, reflecting blindingly off his white uniform. He held a glass of milk in his hand—it had already gone cold. He had been holding it for a long time, never taking a sip.
The door opened.
Dr. Vogelbaum walked in, holding a tablet computer. His expression was nervous—beads of sweat stood on his forehead. He stood at the doorway, not daring to move forward.
"Speak." Homelander's voice was calm, unnaturally calm.
"Stormfront... went to White Oak last night. She had a conflict with Margaret Shaw. She took a few bottles of inhibitors, and then—"
"And then what?"
"Then she said—she has rejected your invitation."
Homelander did not respond. He looked at the city outside the window, his fingers gently stroking the glass. The glass made a faint sound, which could be heard clearly in the quiet office.
"Did she say anything else?"
Vogelbaum hesitated for a moment. "She also said—the Legacy Project is over."
Homelander paused for a moment. Then he smiled.
The smile was short, lasting only a second. But in that second, Vogelbaum's legs trembled.
"The Legacy Project is over." Homelander repeated the sentence, as if savoring a joke. "Who does she think she is?"
Vogelbaum lowered his gaze.
Homelander turned around and looked at him. His blue eyes were bright in the sunlight, bright like two polished sapphires—but there was no temperature in those eyes, only a cold, scrutinizing gaze.
"Where is she?"
"I don't know. We lost her signal. She hasn't returned to Vought since last night."
Homelander placed the milk glass on the table. The glass hit the table with a crisp sound.
"Find her."
Vogelbaum nodded, turned, and walked quickly out of the office.
Homelander stood in the office, looking at the city outside the window. Sunlight shone on his face, and his expression was calm—calm as a pool of stagnant water. But his hands were trembling slightly—not from anger, but from excitement.
"Stormfront." He whispered. "You have disappointed me."
— —
That afternoon, Chen Mo received a message in his safe house in Brooklyn.
It wasn't sent by Stormfront—it was from an unknown number.
"Eight o'clock tonight. Manhattan, Vought Tower. Homelander wants to see you."
Chen Mo stared at the message, not moving for a long time.
He called Stormfront.
"Homelander wants to meet me."
It was quiet on the other end of the line for a few seconds. Then Stormfront said: "I know."
"You know?"
"He had Dr. Vogelbaum try to find me. I didn't answer the phone. So he went to find you."
Chen Mo leaned against the wall, looking at the cracks on the ceiling. "What do you think he wants to do?"
"I don't know." There was a trace of fatigue in Stormfront's voice. "But I know one thing—he won't hurt you."
"Why?"
"Because he is interested in you. Homelander is only interested in two types of people—the ones he likes, and the ones he wants to kill. You belong to the former now."
Chen Mo paused. "How do you know?"
"Because I once belonged to the former as well." There was a trace of bitterness in Stormfront's voice. "Until I rejected him."
Chen Mo looked at his phone screen, not speaking for a long time.
"I'll go."
"Are you sure?"
"Sure." Chen Mo said. "If I don't go, he will keep looking for me. When that happens, he will find you, and he will also find Zero."
Stormfront was silent for a moment. Then she said: "Be careful."
"I will."
The call ended. Chen Mo put down his phone and put on his Battle Armor. The silver-gray titanium alloy shell fit his body, and the arc reactor on his chest emitted a rhythmic blue light. He put on his helmet, and the gold mask covered his face.
He stood in front of the mirror, looking at himself in the reflection.
Battle Armor. arc reactor. Blue light.
He looked like a real Iron Man now.
But he knew—in this World, even Iron Man might not be able to beat Homelander.
He pushed open the window and activated the thrusters. Blue flames spewed from the soles of his feet, and he flew into the night sky.
— —
At eight o'clock in the evening, Chen Mo landed on the roof of Vought Tower.
There was a helicopter pad on the roof, and in the center of the pad stood a person wearing a white uniform—Homelander. His golden hair fluttered slightly in the night wind, and his blue eyes were bright in the moonlight. His hands were in his pockets, and he looked like someone waiting for a friend.
Chen Mo landed on the pad, and the thrusters shut down. He stood opposite Homelander, with a distance of about ten meters between them.
Homelander looked at him, sizing him up. His gaze lingered on the Battle Armor for a long time—from the shoulders to the chest, from the arms to the legs. Finally, his gaze stopped on the arc reactor on his chest.
"New Battle Armor?" Homelander's voice was relaxed, as if chatting about the weather. "It looks much better than the last one."
Chen Mo lifted his helmet and looked at him. "You wanted to see me for something?"
Homelander smiled. The smile was warm and sincere—like an old friend saying hello. "Can't I just want to chat with you without a reason?"
Chen Mo did not answer.
Homelander walked to the edge of the roof, looking at Manhattan below his feet. Neon lights flickered in the night, and traffic flowed on the streets, like a massive glowing creature.
"Do you know?" Homelander's voice was very soft, almost drowned out by the wind. "When I stand here, I often think about a question."
"What question?"
"If I weren't a superhero—what would I be?"
Chen Mo walked to his side and stood next to him. The night wind blew by, carrying the scent of the city.
"You asked Stormfront the same question." Chen Mo said.
Homelander turned his head to look at him, a trace of surprise flashing in his eyes—very quickly, but Chen Mosaw it.
"She told you?"
"Yes."
Homelander smiled. There was a complex emotion in that smile—not anger, but regret. "She is always like this. She tells everyone everything."
He turned around and looked at Chen Mo. His blue eyes were bright in the moonlight, bright like two stars.
"Do you know, Chen Mo?" Homelander's voice became serious. "I appreciate you."
Chen Mo was silent.
"You come from another World. You have your own technology. You don't belong to Vought, nor to any system in this country. You are a true—free man."
Homelander reached out and pointed at the city below his feet. "This World—this country—needs to change. And I think you can help me."
Chen Mo looked at him, silent for a moment. "Help you do what?"
"Change the World."
Chen Mo did not respond. He looked into Homelander's eyes—those blue eyes were bright in the moonlight, bright like two burning stars. There was something in those eyes—not madness, but a conviction. A twisted, dangerous conviction.
"Stormfront rejected your invitation." Chen Mo said. "Do you think I will accept?"
Homelander smiled. There was something in that smile—not anger, but confidence. "You will accept. Because you are not like Stormfront."
"How am I different?"
"Stormfront wants to destroy this World." Homelander's voice was soft, but every word was clear. "And you want to protect this World."
Chen Mo looked at him, not speaking for a long time.
Then he said: "You are right. I want to protect this World."
Homelander's smile grew wider.
"So—" Chen Mo looked at him. "I won't help you change this World. Because your change will only destroy it."
Homelander's smile froze.
He stared at Chen Mo for a long time. The night wind blew by, ruffling his golden hair. His blue eyes were bright in the moonlight—but that brightness was no longer warm; it was cold.
"Are you sure?"
"Sure."
Homelander was quiet for a few seconds. Then he smiled—not the warm smile from before, but another kind of smile. That smile reminded Chen Mo of the Homelander he had seen on posters—a perfect, fake, plastic-like smile.
"Fine." Homelander's voice was relaxed, as if talking about something trivial. "Never mind then."
He turned and walked toward the roof entrance.
"Chen Mo." He stopped, without looking back.
"Yeah."
"You had better pray—that you will never become my enemy."
Then he pushed open the door and walked in. The door closed behind him with a muffled sound.
Chen Mo stood on the roof, looking at the closed door. The night wind blew by, carrying the scent of the city. He looked down at the arc reactor on his chest—the blue light pulsed slightly in the night.
He activated the thrusters and flew into the night sky.
But he knew—from this day on, there was no turning back between him and Homelander.
Chapter 52: Three Punches, Three Chins
Vought Tower's basement garage, on the third underground level.
The cement pillars were ridiculously thick, lined up one after another into the distance. The fluorescent tubes overhead were all shining brightly, casting a pale light onto the gray floor, making even the tire tracks clearly visible.
Maeve stepped out of the elevator, her high heels clicking twice in the empty garage. The echoes bounced off the walls and back again. She paused.
Then she saw them.
Three pillars away, Anvil was leaning against her SUV's door. Two goons stood beside him. One had a buzzcut, with the W logo of Vought tattooed on his forearm in a dark blue-black. The other had a cigarette hanging from his mouth, the red glow of the ember flickering in the pale light.
Maeve didn't take a detour. She walked straight over.
"Move."
Anvil laughed. The guy was over two meters tall, with absurdly broad shoulders; standing there, he was like a wall. A reserve for The Seven, ranked third internally. He crossed his arms over his chest, leaning against the car, his chin tilted slightly.
"Maeve, out this late?"
"None of your business."
"How is it not?" Anvil tilted his head. "I've been waiting here for twenty minutes."
The buzzcut goon moved a step to the left. The smoker moved a step to the right. The three of them silently pulled into a semi-circle.
Anvil spat on the ground.
"I heard—" he dragged out the long note, his eyes sweeping over her, "—that you've been getting very close to that intern lately."
Maeve looked at him. She didn't speak.
"You know," Anvil pressed forward a step, his chin bearing down on her, his voice dropping a few degrees, "you've been in The Seven for five years—you've had your glory days long enough."
The corners of his mouth curled to one side.
"But what are you now?"
He paused for a beat. The garage was quiet, save for the humming of the fluorescent lights overhead.
"Homelander's leftovers."
Those three words crashed onto the cement floor, creating a wave of echoes.
"You're just what he's done playing with."
Anvil's voice wasn't loud, but the empty garage carried every word far. Between the lines was that kind of 'What are you going to do about it?' contempt, bright and clear, not even bothering to hide.
"You can't even handle V anymore. I saw the last evaluation data; your physical performance dropped by twenty-three percent. You think the company doesn't know?"
The buzzcut goon let out a laugh. The smoker threw his cigarette butt on the ground, crushed it under his sole, and slowly ground it out.
Anvil raised his hand, pointing a finger at Maeve's face.
"You're just a vase now. A broken one, at that."
Maeve's breathing didn't change. But her fingers moved—her little finger curled into her palm for half a second, then relaxed.
"Are you done?" she said.
"Not yet."
Anvil pressed forward another step. The distance between the two shrank to within a meter. He looked down at Maeve, looking down from a position of superiority.
"What I mean is—be smart, step down from your seat yourself. Don't wait for me to come and take it."
The buzzcut goon immediately followed up.
"Exactly, Maeve, you should be grateful that Anvil is still willing to negotiate with you."
The smoker replaced his cigarette with a new one and lit it. He took a deep drag.
The air was quiet for two seconds.
Then—
A hand.
Reached out from behind Anvil's shoulder.
Not too heavy, not too light, it rested on his shoulder.
Five fingers. Very steady. The force wasn't great—just like an old friend walking over to say hello, casually resting their hand there.
Anvil's body stiffened.
He turned his head.
Chen Mo was standing behind him.
The gray-white fluorescent light hit that face, showing no expression. He was wearing a black hoodie, the hood down. He just stood there, his hand resting on Anvil's shoulder, like he was leaning on an old classmate's shoulder.
"Buddy," Chen Mo said, "you're blocking my way."
Anvil's pupils constricted. He hadn't heard footsteps at all. Not even a sound. This person seemed to have crawled out of a crack in the cement.
"Who are you?"
"An intern."
Anvil was stunned for a second. Then he laughed out loud. He laughed loudly, the echoes colliding back and forth in the garage.
"Ha—haha—you? That pretty boy Stormfront keeps?"
He pointed at Chen Mo with his finger, turning back to look at the buzzcut goon.
"Did you hear that? An intern."
The buzzcut goon was also laughing.
Anvil turned back and swiped Chen Mo's hand away with a slap. But as Chen Mo's hand fell, he took a step forward. He stood exactly between Maeve and Anvil.
"You just said—she can't handle you?"
Anvil was stunned for a moment.
"What?"
"I'm asking you." Chen Mo looked at him, his voice neither high nor low, "Did you say she can't handle you?"
Anvil's face darkened.
"Kid, I advise you don't—"
"No." Chen Mo said.
Anvil's mouth opened slightly.
"It's that you aren't even qualified to be played with by her."
Anvil's face stiffened. His mouth was still open—not knowing how to respond. He was completely blocked by that sentence.
He didn't give him time to react.
Chen Mo's fist arrived.
Anvil saw the fist.
But he couldn't dodge.
The punch came too fast—not just fast, it didn't leave any room for reaction at all. He didn't even feel pain. His chin heard a sound first.
Click.
It wasn't the sound of a bone breaking. It was the sound of a jaw dislocating.
Anvil's head was violently whipped to the right, and his whole body staggered sideways, slamming into the cement pillar nearby. A flash of white appeared before his eyes, and his ears were ringing. The taste of blood rose in his mouth—he had bitten his tongue.
He reached out to touch his chin.
It was crooked.
His chin had been knocked crooked.
"Fuck—"
The buzzcut goon had just reacted, his hand reaching behind his waist.
Chen Mo's second punch had already arrived.
The fist hit the bridge of the nose dead center. It wasn't any kind of fancy straight punch—it was just a punch, crisp and clean, smashing right into the middle of the nasal bone. The sound of the nasal bone shattering echoed off the garage ceiling.
Crack.
The buzzcut goon didn't even have a chance to scream. His body tilted backward, the back of his head hitting the cement floor with a dull thud. The cigarette flew out of his mouth and bounced twice on the ground.
The smoker still had a cigarette in his mouth. He subconsciously wanted to spit it out. Too late.
The third punch.
Hit the side of his jaw. The force wasn't held back. The smoker spun half a circle—he really spun half a circle—his feet left the ground for a tenth of a second, and then his whole body slammed onto the ground.
The cigarette fell from his mouth. The ember was still glowing.
Three seconds.
Three punches.
Three people.
Anvil leaned against the pillar, his chin crooked, a trail of blood hanging from the corner of his mouth. He mumbled something, his mouth leaking air.
He knelt down.
He didn't want to kneel—his legs had gone weak.
His knees hit the cement floor with a thud.
"Big... Big Brother..." His mouth couldn't open, and he spat out words indistinctly, "Big Brother, I... I was wrong..."
Chen Mo stood in front of him. He looked down at him.
The basement garage was very quiet. The fluorescent lights hummed. In the distance, a car alarm was blaring—he didn't know which punch had triggered it.
Chen Mo put his hand into his pocket.
He pulled out a tissue. He handed it over.
Anvil was stunned and didn't take it. The blood from the corner of his mouth dripped onto the floor, drop by drop.
"Wipe your nosebleed," Chen Mo said, "don't drip it on her car."
Anvil mechanically reached out and took the tissue. His hands were shaking.
Chen Mo didn't look at him again. He turned around.
Maeve stood where she was.
She hadn't moved the whole time. She didn't step back, didn't intervene. She just stood there, watching from beginning to end.
Chen Mo walked up to her.
"Get in. I'll take you."
Maeve didn't speak. She looked at him, walked around the front of the car, opened the passenger door, and sat inside.
Chen Mo walked around to the driver's seat, opened the door, sat down, and started the ignition.
The sound of the engine roared in the empty garage.
Before shifting gears, he suddenly paused.
Through the car window, he glanced at Anvil—the guy was still kneeling by the pillar, covering his nose with the tissue, which was already soaked red.
Chen Mo withdrew his gaze.
He pulled the handbrake and stepped on the gas.
Just as the car started moving, Maeve spoke.
"Did you see clearly?"
Her voice wasn't loud. But the car window was open, and those words drifted out with the wind.
"He is my person."
When the car drove past Anvil, Maeve turned her head and looked at him through the car window.
Anvil was looking up, his nose still bleeding. Blood seeped from between his fingers and flowed down his chin.
He lowered his head.
—
The car drove out of the basement garage. The night wind of New York poured in through the windows, blowing away the metallic smell.
Maeve leaned back against the seat, turning her head to look out the window. Street lamps receded one after another.
There was a long silence in the car.
"I've been in The Seven for five years."
Maeve's voice was very soft, as if she were talking to herself.
"No one has ever stood up for me."
She didn't turn her head. Her face was reflected in the car window glass. It was impossible to tell what emotion was in those eyes—it wasn't fragility, nor was it being moved. It was more like something she herself hadn't sorted out yet.
Chen Mo didn't speak.
He watched the road ahead. The New York night. Red lights, green lights, then red lights again.
Then he spoke.
"Now you have."
Maeve didn't respond.
But her posture against the seat relaxed a little. Just a tiny bit. Like the stone that had been pressing on her chest for five years had been moved away by a centimeter.
The car continued to drive forward.
Street lamps receded one by one.
Maeve's fingers rested on her knees for a while. Then she lowered her head, took out her phone, typed a line of text, and sent it to a number without a contact name.
After sending it, she flipped the phone over and placed it on her knees.
The screen lit up for a moment.
Sent successfully.
Chen Mo glanced at her phone, not seeing the content clearly.
He also took out his phone and unlocked it.
A text message.
Sender: Maeve.
"Thanks for tonight. I'm fine. Don't worry."
Chen Mo took a look and put his phone back in his pocket.
"You too," he said.
Maeve didn't speak. She looked ahead, the corners of her mouth twitching slightly.
Outside the car window, New York was still lit up.
Inside the car, the sound of the air conditioning drowned out the low hum of the engine.
Chapter 53: Three-Day Countdown
Stormfront brought the original sample of Compound V back to the Underground Room. Her footsteps were somewhat heavy, as if she had walked a very, very long way.
She placed the test tube on the table, the pale blue liquid glowing slightly under the light. She sat before the table, staring at the test tube for a long time. Chen Mo sat opposite her, also watching the test tube. The Underground Room was very quiet, with only the buzzing sound from the lightbulb overhead. The test tube was like a tiny lighthouse, emitting a faint light in the dim environment.
"Three days," Stormfront said. Her voice sounded somewhat hollow in the quiet Underground Room. "Three days from now, Homelander will come looking for me."
Chen Mo said, "Then we find his weakness within these three days."
Stormfront raised her head and looked at him. "How?" There was a trace of exhaustion in her eyes—not physical exhaustion, but mental exhaustion. Three days was too short a time.
Chen Mo picked up the test tube and turned it under the light. The pale blue liquid flowed inside the glass tube like a miniature river. He could see tiny particles floating in the liquid—the active ingredients of Compound V. "The weakness of Compound V—it's not in Compound V itself. It's in the person who injected Compound V."
Stormfront looked at him, waiting for him to continue. She leaned back in her chair, her hands folded on the table.
"Iron Fist said—Compound V will spiral out of control inside the human body. It needs an inhibitor to suppress it. If the inhibitor isn't injected, the body will begin to decompose." Chen Mo put down the test tube and looked at her. "Homelander has been injecting Compound V since he was an infant. He has been injecting it for thirty-five years. The concentration of Compound V in his body—it must be very high."
Stormfront's eyes brightened. In that instant, the exhaustion in her eyes vanished, replaced by a glint of vigilance. "You mean—"
"If the dosage of the inhibitor is large enough—" Chen Mosaid. "It could temporarily disable Homelander's abilities."
Stormfront was quiet for a moment, then said, "But the formula for the inhibitor is at White Oak. What we have is just the finished product." Her fingers tapped lightly on the table, as if calculating something.
"Then we go get the formula."
Stormfront looked at him. "Are you crazy? White Oak must be heavily guarded right now. Margaret Shaw is waiting for us there." There was a hint of tension in her voice—not fear, but worry.
"I know." Chen Mo stood up and walked to the window, looking at the night outside. The street outside was empty, and the streetlights cast circles of dim yellow light into the darkness. Occasionally, the sound of a car passing by came from the distance. "But this is our only chance."
Stormfront remained silent for a long time. She could hear her own heartbeat, which sounded exceptionally clear in the quiet room. Then she stood up and walked over to his side. Her footsteps on the concrete floor were very light, but when she walked up to him, he could feel her presence—the scent on her, the sound of her breathing.
"Fine. I'll go."
Chen Mo turned his head to look at her. "Alone?"
"Yes." Stormfront's voice was firm. Her gaze looked straight ahead, without dodging. "White Oak is my territory. I know every corridor, every room, every ventilation duct. It's safer for me to go alone than for two of us to go."
Chen Mo looked at her, pausing for a moment. "When?"
"Now."
After Stormfront left, Chen Mo stayed in the Underground Room alone.
He looked at the photos on the wall—photos of Vought executives, floor plans of White Oak, the list for the Legacy Project. His gaze fell on Zero's photo—that photo was from Zero's file at White Oak. She was about ten years old, wearing a white lab coat, with a very serious expression. Her eyes were large and bright—but there was none of the innocence that a child should have in those eyes, only a vigilant, scrutinizing gaze.
He remembered what Zero said—"You were created."
He remembered the images he saw in the memory scanner—himself submerged in pale blue liquid.
He remembered the words The Creator said—"This is your future."
Chen Mo closed his eyes and leaned back against the chair. The back of the chair was hard, pressing against his back. He took a deep breath, then slowly exhaled. He was thinking about a question—what exactly did The Creatorwant?
The Creator created him. The Creator stuffed the blueprints of the arc reactor into his brain. The Creatorbrought him into this World—a World filled with superheroes and supervillains.
But The Creator did not appear. The Creator was waiting.
Waiting for what?
Chen Mo opened his eyes and looked at the ceiling. There were cracks on the ceiling, very similar to the cracks in the Brooklyn rental apartment. Those cracks were like a web, extending from the corner of the wall to the middle.
He did not know the answer. But he knew—he had to find The Creator. Because only The Creator could tell him why he existed in the first place.
At 3 a.m., Stormfront returned.
There were bloodstains on her clothes—not hers. The bloodstains had already dried on her clothes, turning into dark brown spots. In her hand, she held a document—the formula for the inhibitor. Her hair was somewhat messy, and there was a shallow scratch on her face, as if something had grazed her.
"I got it." She placed the document on the table, then sat in the chair and let out a long breath. She leaned back against the chair, closed her eyes, and rested for a few seconds. "Margaret Shaw is not at White Oak. She went to headquarters. Security was half of what it was last time."
Chen Mo picked up the document and quickly flipped through it. The formula was complex—the ratios of dozens of chemical substances, as well as a neutralizer for Compound V. Behind every line of chemical formula were detailed annotations, the handwriting very neat, like the work of a rigorous scientist.
"With this—" Chen Mo said. "We can create an inhibitor potent enough to disable Homelander's abilities."
Stormfront nodded. Then her expression became serious. She sat up straight, placed her hands on the table, and looked at Chen Mo.
"But there is one problem."
"What problem?"
"The method of injecting the inhibitor." Stormfront pointed to a line of text on the formula. That line was circled in red ink, with an exclamation mark drawn next to it. "It must be injected directly into the bloodstream. It cannot be taken orally, it cannot be inhaled. It must be—injected at close range."
Chen Mo was silent for a moment.
Close-range injection. This meant—someone had to hold the syringe, get close to Homelander, and inject the inhibitor into his body.
And Homelander—would not let anyone get close to him.
"I'll do it," Chen Mo said.
Stormfront looked at him. "Are you sure?" Her voice was very soft, but every word was very clear.
"Sure." Chen Mo's voice was calm. "I have the Battle Armor. The arc reactor can withstand Homelander's Heat Vision for a short time. Just give me three seconds—and I can inject the inhibitor."
Stormfront looked at him for a long time. Her gaze lingered on his face, as if searching for something—searching for fear, searching for hesitation. But she didn't find any. Then she said, "Three seconds. Are you sure you can hold out for three seconds?"
Chen Mo thought for a moment, then said, "Not sure."
Stormfront did not speak. She lowered her head and looked at the formula document on the table. Her fingers brushed lightly over the surface of the paper, as if stroking a precious object. A corner of the document was creased by her grip.
"Chen Mo," she said.
"Yeah."
"If—if we fail—"
"We won't fail."
Stormfront raised her head and looked at him. There was light in her eyes—not tears, but a kind of firm light. That light was very bright, like a lamp burning in the darkness.
"How do you know?"
Chen Mo looked at her and said, "Because I cannot fail."
Stormfront did not respond. She looked at him for a long time. The Underground Room was very quiet, with only the buzzing sound from the lightbulb overhead. She could hear her own heartbeat, which sounded exceptionally clear in the quiet room.
Then she smiled. That smile looked beautiful in the dim light—not the kind of smile taught by Vought PR, but her own smile.
"Fine. Then we won't fail."
Chapter 54: Echo
While waiting for Stormfront to prepare the inhibitor, Chen Mo went to Miami.
He was looking for the third missing superhero on the list—Echo. CV-0234. Codename: Echo. Ability: Sound Wave Manipulation. Last seen in Miami.
The address Butcher gave him was an apartment near Miami Beach.
Chen Mo stood below the apartment building, looking up at it—twelve stories, white exterior walls, potted palm trees on the balconies. Sunlight hit the white exterior walls, reflecting a blinding glare. There was a swimming pool downstairs; the water shimmered with a blue light in the sun, and a few children were playing in it, their laughter echoing in the air. The building looked quite normal—unlike the dilapidated apartment where Iron Fist lived.
He walked into the building and took the elevator to the eighth floor. The elevator was clean, with white marble floors and a mirror hanging on the wall. It reflected his face—bloodshot eyes and stubble on his chin. He hadn't slept well these past few days. The elevator reached the eighth floor, and the doors opened to a hallway carpeted in dark colors, with landscape paintings hanging on the walls. It was a completely different World from the hallway in Iron Fist's building.
He walked to door 804 and knocked. There was a peephole on the door, and the light behind it dimmed for a moment—someone was watching him.
There was no response.
He knocked again. "Echo?"
The door opened a crack. An eye watched him through the gap—a brown eye, filled with vigilance. The eye scanned quickly through the gap—first looking at his face, then behind him, confirming there was no one else in the hallway.
"Who are you?"
"My name is Chen Mo. I'm from New York. Iron Fist sent me to find you."
The door opened a bit wider. A face appeared in the gap—a Latino male, around forty years old, with a scar on his face extending from his forehead down to his chin, like a gully carved by a knife. The edges of the scar had healed, but the color was much lighter than the surrounding skin, making it particularly striking in the sunlight. He was on the thin side, wearing a floral shirt and shorts, with flip-flops on his feet, looking like a tourist on vacation.
"Iron Fist? He's still alive?"
"Alive. But he needs an inhibitor."
Echo was silent for a few seconds, then opened the door. He stepped aside, gesturing for Chen Mo to enter.
The apartment was tidy—white sofa, glass coffee table, an abstract painting on the wall. It was completely different from Iron Fist's room, which was piled high with empty wine bottles. Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows was Miami Beach, the blue seawater sparkling in the sun like it had been sprinkled with crushed gold. The sea breeze blew in through the window, carrying a salty, fishy scent and the rustling sound of palm trees.
Echo walked over to the sofa, sat down, picked up a coconut from the table, and took a sip. Coconut juice trickled down the corner of his mouth, and he wiped it away with his finger. "The inhibitor—you found it?"
"I found it." Chen Mo sat down opposite him. The sofa was very soft, and he sank into it a little when he sat down. He adjusted his posture and looked at Echo. "But I need your help."
Echo looked at him, his gaze appraising. His eyes lingered on Chen Mo's face for a few seconds, then moved down—sweeping over his shoulders, his arms, and finally resting on the arc reactor on his chest. The blue glowing object pulsed slightly in the sunlight, like a living gemstone.
"What kind of help?"
"I need to know who it is."
Echo's expression changed slightly. He put down the coconut, leaned back on the sofa, and looked at the ceiling. There was a ceiling fan above, its blades rotating slowly with a faint buzzing sound. He stared for a long time, as if recalling something from a long time ago.
"Red River Institute." Echo repeated the term, as if savoring a long-lost memory. "I haven't heard that name in many years."
"Do you know what kind of place that is?"
Echo was silent for a long time. The ceiling fan rotated above their heads, making a rhythmic sound. The sea breeze blew in from outside, stirring the curtains. Then he said, "I know. I spent a year there."
Chen Mo looked at him. The scar on Echo's face was clear in the sunlight—extending from his forehead to his chin, like a gully carved by a knife. "Red River Institute—Vought's child Compound V experimental base. Inside Vought, they call it the 'Factory'—those people in white coats process children like they're processing parts."
Chen Mo clenched his hands. "You came from there?"
Echo shook his head. "I was in the first batch. But you weren't created—you were stolen into it. Just like us."
He rummaged through a cabinet, pulled out an old suitcase, and extracted a photo from the lining. The edges of the photo had yellowed. In it was a group of children—about a dozen or so, wearing identical white hospital gowns, standing in three rows. The youngest looked only four or five years old, and the oldest was maybe eleven or twelve. Their expressions were all hollow; they dared not laugh, nor did they dare cry.
Echo pointed to a seven or eight-year-old boy in the corner of the back row. "Do you recognize this person?"
Chen Mo looked closely at the boy—thin, black hair, large eyes, but there was no light in those eyes. He shook his head.
"This is you."
Chen Mo froze. He stared at the child in the photo—gaunt shoulders, sunken cheekbones, and those hollow eyes.
"This was taken in 2012 at Red River." Echo's voice was calm. "The back of the photo has your number from back then—TH-00. After the fire in 2018, some people said you were dead. But I knew you were still alive—because I saw that video of you flying in the sky in that Battle Armor."
Chen Mo's fingers tightened on the edge of the photo. "That fire—"
"Someone set the fire. Three escaped in the chaos—you, Zero, and one who is already dead."
Chen Mo looked at the photo, at the faces of those children—they had all spent time in the same hell.
"The person in charge of Red River Institute—do you know what he's called?"
Echo thought for a moment, then said, "Marcus Weber. Chief researcher at Red River. Some test subjects called him 'Dr.'. He was framed by Edgar and imprisoned fifteen years ago, but escaped two years ago. He might be looking for the test subjects from back then."
Chen Mo's fingers stopped on the edge of the photo. Weber. The man who had appeared in the memory scanner.
"Where is he?"
Echo shook his head. "I don't know. After the project was terminated in 2015, he disappeared. Some say he died. Others say he's still conducting experiments somewhere."
Chen Mo put the photo into his pocket. He stood up and looked at Echo.
"Thanks."
Echo nodded. "After you find Weber—let me know."
"Why?"
Echo smiled. It was a bitter smile, like tasting a bitter medicine. "Because I also want to ask him—why he turned us into this."
Chen Mo didn't answer. He turned and walked toward the door.
"Chen Mo." Echo called him from behind.
Chen Mo stopped and looked back at him.
Echo's expression was serious—not the "I'm joking" kind of serious, but the "I mean it" kind of serious. "Be careful with Weber. He's not a good man."
Chen Mo nodded, pushed open the door, and walked out.
He stood in the Miami sunshine, holding the photo in his hand. In the photo, he was—submerged in light blue liquid, like an unborn baby. Sunlight shone on the photo, reflecting a halo on the light blue liquid.
CV-0000.
He was the first.
He gripped the photo tightly. The edges of the photo made a faint sound under his fingers.
He would find Dr. He would get a clear answer—why exactly he existed.
Chapter 55: A Three-Way Game
The last day of the three-day deadline.
The weather in New York was gloomy, with dark clouds hanging low, pressing down on the city like a giant grey blanket.
The air was stuffy, filled with the oppressive feeling before a storm.
There were far fewer pedestrians on the streets than usual, and occasionally a few cars drove by, their tires making a rustling sound on the asphalt.
The distant skyline was swallowed by dark clouds, and the spire of the Empire State Building disappeared into the grey cloud layer.
A crow landed on the utility pole outside the window, let out two calls, and then flew away.
Chen Mo stood by the window of the Brooklyn safe house, looking at the sky outside.
He was wearing his new Battle Armor, and the arc reactoron his chest emitted a rhythmic blue light, like a living creature breathing.
Stormfront sat on the sofa with three syringes in front of her—filled with a pale blue liquid. Inhibitors.
The pale blue liquid swayed slightly in the glass tubes of the syringes, like solidified light.
"Are you ready?" Stormfront asked. Her voice was calm, but Chen Mo could hear the tension beneath that calmness—like a taut string.
Chen Mo turned around and looked at her. "Ready."
Stormfront stood up, packed the three syringes into a metal box, and handed it to Chen Mo.
Her movements were steady, but her fingers lingered on the metal box for a second—hesitating for a second.
"Three. The dosage in each one is enough to disable Homelander's abilities for five minutes. Injecting all three together—can make him lose his abilities for at least fifteen minutes."
Chen Mo took the metal box and put it into the storage compartment of his Battle Armor. The metal box hit the inner wall of the Battle Armor, making a crisp sound.
He patted his chest to confirm the box was secured.
"Fifteen minutes." He said. "Is it enough?"
"It's enough." Stormfront said. "Fifteen minutes—is enough for you to do a lot of things."
Chen Mo looked at her. Her expression was calm—but there was something in her eyes, something he had never seen in her eyes before—unease.
That unease was subtle, like an undercurrent beneath the water, undetectable if one didn't look closely. But Chen Mosaw it.
"What are you worried about?"
Stormfront was quiet for a moment. Then she said: "I'm worried—that everything is going too smoothly."
"Isn't smooth a good thing?"
"Things that go too smoothly often have problems."
Stormfront stood up, walked to another window, and looked at the dark clouds outside. Her silhouette appeared somewhat frail in the dim light.
"Homelander is no fool. He knows what we are doing. But he hasn't stopped us. He is waiting."
"Waiting for what?"
"Waiting for us to make a mistake." Stormfront turned around and looked at him. Her eyes were bright in the dim light. "Or—waiting until he finds it amusing."
Chen Mo didn't respond. He walked to the window and looked at the city outside. The dark clouds were getting lower and lower, as if they were about to press down onto the ground.
On a distant street, a police car drove by, its siren lights flashing red and blue in the grey light.
He could hear the sound of the wind—not the ordinary sound of wind, but the kind of wind before a storm, low and urgent, like some giant creature breathing.
"Stormfront." He said.
"Hmm."
"No matter what happens—thank you."
Stormfront didn't answer. She walked to his side and stood next to him in front of the window. The sky outside was getting darker, as if evening had descended early.
She reached out and gently touched the Battle Armor on his arm. The metal was cold, but she didn't pull her hand away.
"Don't thank me." She said. "I'm doing this—not entirely for you."
"I know."
— — Meanwhile, Vought Tower.
Homelander stood in front of the floor-to-ceiling window in his office, looking at the dark clouds outside. He was holding a glass of milk in his hand—he hadn't drunk it today.
The milk swayed slightly in the glass, like a white mirror. He placed the milk glass on the table and turned to look at the door.
The door opened.
Dr. Vogelbaum walked in, holding a tablet computer. His expression was nervous—more nervous than usual.
Beads of sweat were on his forehead, glistening under the lights. He stood at the door, not daring to walk forward.
"Found her. Stormfront is in an Underground Room in Brooklyn. With her—is also that Chinese Battle Armor."
Homelander didn't turn back. He continued to watch the dark clouds outside the window. The dark clouds cast a layer of grey shadow on the glass, making his face appear somewhat blurred.
"How much longer?"
"What?"
"The storm."
Vogelbaum was stunned for a moment, then looked out the window. His gaze lingered on the dark clouds for a few seconds, as if estimating something. "The weather forecast says—about an hour from now."
Homelander nodded. He reached out and pressed his hand against the glass. The glass was very cold, as cold as ice. His fingers slid gently across the glass, leaving a blurred trail.
"An hour from now." He whispered. "Perfect."
The corners of his mouth turned up slightly—not a smile, but something more complex.
— — At 4:00 PM, Chen Mo's phone vibrated.
It wasn't Stormfront—it was an unknown number. He answered the phone.
A faint buzzing sound came from the other end of the line, followed by breathing—very light, very slow, as if deliberately controlled.
"Chen Mo."
That voice made all the muscles in his body tense up—Homelander. Even through the phone, he could feel that sense of oppression, like an invisible hand gripping his throat.
"I know you are with Stormfront. I know what you want to do."
Chen Mo didn't respond. He gripped the phone, his fingers tightening. The phone case made a faint sound under his fingers.
"I'll give you a chance." Homelander's voice was very relaxed, as if chatting about the weather. "Hand over Stormfront. Hand over the samples of Compound V. And then—I can let you leave this country. Go back to your China. Pretend nothing ever happened."
Chen Mo paused for a moment. Then he said: "And if I don't?"
There was a moment of silence on the other end of the line. Then Homelander laughed—that laughter sent a chill down Chen Mo's spine. It wasn't an angry laugh, not a threatening laugh—it was a joyful laugh, like a child playing an interesting game.
"Then you will know—why everyone fears me."
The call ended.
Chen Mo put down the phone and looked at Stormfront. Stormfront looked at him, her expression very calm—calm as if she had known this would happen all along.
She sat on the sofa, her hands folded on her lap, like an ordinary person waiting for a bus.
"Did he call?"
"Yes."
"What did he say?"
"He wants me to hand you over."
Stormfront smiled. That smile was bitter, as if tasting a bitter medicine. "What do you intend to do?"
Chen Mo looked at her and said: "What do you think?"
Stormfront didn't speak. She looked at him for a long time. The light outside the window grew darker, and the shadows in the room grew thicker.
She could hear her own heartbeat, which seemed exceptionally clear in the quiet room.
Then she said: "You don't need to, for me—"
"I'm not doing this for you." Chen Mo interrupted her. "I'm doing this for Zero. For Iron Fist. For Echo. For everyone ruined by Vought."
Stormfront looked at him, not speaking for a long time. Her gaze lingered on his face for a long time, as if searching for something—searching for regret, searching for hesitation. But she didn't find it.
Then she smiled. That smile looked very beautiful in the dim light—not the kind of smile taught by Vought PR, but her own smile.
"Okay. Then let's—face it together."
Chen Mo nodded.
He put on his helmet, the golden faceplate covering his face. The arc reactor on his chest emitted a blue light, illuminating the dim room.
He could hear the humming of the arc reactor, like a determined heart beating.
He pushed open the window, and the wind before the storm blew in, carrying the scent of damp earth and the low rumble of distant thunder.
The curtains fluttered in the wind like a white flag.
"Let's go."
Stormfront walked to his side, blue electric arcs gathering in her palms. The electric arcs danced in her palms, making a crackling sound and illuminating her face.
There was light in her eyes—not the light of the electric arcs, but a more determined light.
The two stood in front of the window, looking at the dark clouds outside. The wind grew stronger, blowing the window frame until it creaked, as if something was knocking on the outside.
The storm was coming.
Chapter 56: Before the Storm
It was 5:00 PM, and the storm had not yet arrived.
But dark clouds had already pressed down onto the tops of the Manhattan skyscrapers, like a layer of gray ceiling.
Chen Mo and Stormfront stood on the tower of the Brooklyn Bridge.
Looking down from the top of the bridge tower, the surface of the East River had turned a deep gray under the reflection of the dark clouds, like a gigantic mirror.
On the other side of the river, the skyscrapers of Manhattanappeared somewhat oppressive under the dark clouds, like a silent giant.
Stormfront looked at Vought Tower on the opposite bank.
The sixty-eight-story glass-walled building shimmered with a cold light under the dark clouds, like a massive tombstone.
"Where will he come from?" Chen Mo asked.
"From the sky." Stormfront's voice was very calm. "Homelander always comes from the sky."
Chen Mo looked up at the sky.
The dark clouds rolled overhead, like a gray ocean.
He could feel the electric charge in the air—the storm was coming.
"Stormfront," he said.
"Hmm."
"If—if we lose—"
"We won't lose."
Chen Mo looked at her.
Her profile appeared somewhat pale under the dark clouds, but her gaze was resolute.
"How do you know?"
Stormfront turned her head to look at him.
There was light in her eyes—not the light of an electric arc, but another kind of light.
"Because you are CV-0000. You are The Creator's most important creation. You won't lose."
Chen Mo didn't speak.
Stormfront reached out and gently touched the arc reactoron his chest.
The blue light flickered on her fingertips.
"I believe in you."
—
At 5:30 PM, the first drop of rain fell.
The raindrops were large, striking the ground with a pattering sound.
Then more raindrops fell—faster and faster, denser and denser.
Within seconds, a torrential downpour began.
Chen Mo stood in the rain, the water flowing down the shell of the Battle Armor.
The blue light of the arc reactor appeared somewhat hazy through the curtain of rain.
Stormfront stood beside him; the rain soaked her hair and clothes, but she did not hide.
She looked up at the sky.
"He's here."
Chen Mo followed her gaze—in the dark clouds, a white speck of light was descending rapidly.
The light grew larger and brighter—and then he saw it.
Homelander.
He was wearing his white uniform, swooping down from the dark clouds.
The rain formed a curtain of water around him, and his golden hair danced in the rain.
His blue eyes were very bright under the dark clouds, bright as two bolts of lightning.
He landed on the deck of the Brooklyn Bridge, about fifty meters away from Chen Mo and Stormfront.
The rain flowed down his uniform, pooling into puddles at his feet.
He stood up straight, his hands in his pockets, watching them.
His expression was very relaxed—like someone encountering an old friend while out for a walk.
"The storm." Homelander looked up at the sky, the rain hitting his face, and he squinted slightly.
"I like storms."
Chen Mo and Stormfront jumped down from the bridge tower and landed on the bridge deck.
The three of them stood in the center of the Brooklyn Bridge as the torrential rain poured down, forming little streams on the bridge deck.
"The three-day deadline has arrived." Homelander looked at Stormfront, his voice very soft, yet it could be heard clearly even in the heavy rain.
"What is your answer?"
Stormfront said, "My answer—is the same as it was three days ago."
Homelander looked at her, silent for a few seconds.
The rain flowed down his face, and he blinked.
"Stormfront." His voice became somewhat low.
"You know I don't want to hurt you."
"I know." Stormfront's voice was very calm.
"But you also know—I won't go back."
Homelander looked at her for a long time.
Then he sighed—not a sigh of anger, but a sigh of disappointment.
"Fine."
He raised his hand.
A beam of red Heat Vision shot out from his eyes, heading straight for Stormfront.
Chen Mo moved.
He stepped in front of Stormfront and raised his arm.
The Heat Vision struck the arm of the Battle Armor—the metal emitted a harsh screeching sound, and sparks flew everywhere.
A deep scorch mark was left on the arm of the Battle Armor, but he had blocked it.
Homelander looked at him, a trace of surprise flashing in his eyes.
"New Battle Armor?"
Chen Mo did not answer.
He activated his thrusters and charged at Homelander.
Blue flames spewed from the soles of his feet, and he carved a blue trajectory through the rain.
Homelander did not dodge.
He reached out and caught Chen Mo's fist.
Bang—
The collision between the two produced a loud bang that echoed in the torrential rain.
The accumulated water on the bridge deck was blasted away by the shockwave, forming ripples.
Chen Mo's fist was held by Homelander.
Homelander's hand was very steady—like an iron clamp.
He looked at Chen Mo with a trace of interest in his eyes.
"Not bad. Much stronger than last time."
Chen Mo's other fist swung over.
Homelander tilted his head to dodge it, then kicked Chen Mo in the chest.
Chen Mo flew backward and slammed into the bridge tower.
The metal made a dull thud, and cracks appeared on the concrete surface of the bridge tower.
Chen Mo slid down from the bridge tower and knelt on one knee.
The arc reactor on his chest was still glowing—but the light was dimmer than before.
Stormfront rushed up.
Blue electric arcs danced around her body, and she raised her hand to release lightning.
The lightning struck Homelander—but he did not fall.
The electric arcs danced on the surface of his body for a few seconds and then dissipated.
Homelander looked down at the arc marks on his body, then raised his head to look at Stormfront.
His expression turned a bit colder.
"Is that all you've got?"
Stormfront did not answer.
She released lightning again—this time, she unleashed all her energy.
Blue electric arcs exploded from her, like a gigantic blue flower, wrapping Homelander inside.
The electric arcs danced in the torrential rain, emitting a harsh sound.
The rain was evaporated by the electric arcs, forming white steam.
The accumulated water on the bridge deck jumped in the electric arcs, like a pot of boiling water.
Homelander stood in the center of the electric arcs, motionless.
The electric arcs dissipated.
Homelander was still standing in place.
There were some scorch marks on his uniform, but his expression had not changed at all.
He looked at Stormfront, a trace of—disappointment—in his eyes.
"Stormfront." His voice was very soft.
"You have disappointed me."
He raised his hand.
A beam of Heat Vision shot out—not at Stormfront, but at the bridge deck.
Boom—
The Heat Vision pierced through the bridge deck; the concrete shattered, and the steel bars were exposed.
The bridge deck began to collapse.
The road surface beneath Stormfront's feet cracked open, and she lost her balance, falling toward the fissure.
Chen Mo rushed over.
He caught her hand before Stormfront fell into the fissure and pulled her up.
The two of them stood on the bridge deck, gasping for air.
The torrential rain washed over their faces, mixed with sweat.
Homelander stood opposite them, watching them.
His expression was very calm—as calm as someone watching ants fight.
"Chen Mo," he said.
"You have one more chance. Hand over Stormfront. Then leave."
Chen Mo clenched his fists.
He glanced at the arc reactor on his chest—the blue light flickered in the curtain of rain.
Then he let go of Stormfront's hand and walked toward Homelander.
"Chen Mo—" Stormfront called out to him from behind.
Chen Mo did not look back.
He walked to the opposite side of Homelander and stopped.
There was a distance of about five meters between the two.
The torrential rain formed a curtain of water between them.
"I will not hand her over to you," Chen Mo said.
Homelander looked at him, silent for a few seconds.
Then he smiled—not a warm smile, but the kind of smile that says, "You have made a wrong choice."
"Fine."
He raised both hands.
Two beams of Heat Vision shot out simultaneously—one at Chen Mo, one at Stormfront.
Chen Mo activated his thrusters and charged at Homelander.
The Heat Vision struck the chest of the Battle Armor—the arc reactor emitted a harsh warning sound.
The energy was dropping rapidly.
But he did not stop.
He slammed into Homelander.
The two grappled together in the torrential rain.
Chen Mo's fist struck Homelander's face—Homelander's head tilted, then turned back to look at him.
There was a trace of blood at the corner of his mouth—but he was smiling.
"You hurt me."
Homelander punched Chen Mo in the abdomen.
The shell of the Battle Armor caved in.
Chen Mo bent over, his stomach churning.
Homelander grabbed his helmet and yanked it off—the helmet was torn off and rolled onto the bridge deck.
Cold raindrops pelted Chen Mo's face, and he squinted slightly.
Homelander looked at him with a trace of curiosity in his eyes.
"Do you know?" Homelander's voice sounded somewhat blurred in the torrential rain.
"You are the first person who has dared to hit me like this."
Chen Mo raised his head and looked at him.
Rainwater flowed down from his forehead, into his eyes.
"I admire you," Homelander continued.
"So—I will give you one last chance."
He reached out and pointed at Stormfront.
"Kill her. Then—you can join me."
Chen Mo followed his gaze—Stormfront stood on the bridge deck, the rain soaking her entire body.
Her face was very pale, but her gaze was resolute.
She looked at Chen Mo, not speaking.
Chen Mo turned his head back to look at Homelander.
"No."
Homelander's expression froze.
Then he smiled—not a warm smile, not a disappointed smile—but a cold, dangerous smile.
"Then let's die together."
Chapter 57: Iron and Starlight
Homelander's Heat Vision shot out once again.
This time, he was not aiming at Chen Mo—he was aiming at Stormfront.
The red beam carved a scorching trajectory through the pouring rain, and the rainwater evaporated around the beam, forming White steam.
The air was filled with a charred smell, like the pungent odor of red-hot iron plunged into Water.
Stormfront raised her hand and released an arc of electricity.
The arc and the Heat Vision collided in mid-air—emitting a thunderous boom, like a clap of thunder.
Energy exploded at the point of collision, forming a ring of Impact that blasted the standing water on the bridge deck away.
Stormfront was knocked back more than ten meters by the Impact, dropping to one knee.
A trace of blood seeped from the corner of her mouth—her energy was nearly depleted.
Homelander looked at her, his eyes devoid of pity.
"How much longer can you hold out?"
Stormfront raised her head and looked at him. There was a blue light in her eyes—not the light of an arc, but her power burning.
"Enough to kill you."
She stood up and spread her arms. Blue arcs of electricity gathered around her body—more and more, brighter and brighter.
She absorbed all the electrical energy around her—the electricity from streetlights, the cables under the bridge deck, and even the lightning in the pouring rain.
Her body was wrapped in blue arcs, like a person made of lightning.
Homelander's expression finally changed.
"Are you crazy? You'll burn yourself to death like this."
Stormfront did not answer. There was only blue light in her eyes—no pupils, no whites, just a sheet of blue radiance.
She released it.
A blue lightning bolt over a meter in diameter shot out from her, heading straight for Homelander.
The lightning exploded in the pouring rain, illuminating the entire sky. The Brooklyn Bridge turned into a Shadow in the lightning, like a black skeleton.
Homelander was hit.
He was pushed away by the lightning, smashing through the bridge tower, crashing through the bridge deck, and finally slamming into the Water of the East River.
The river Water exploded, sending up a water column more than ten meters high.
Stormfront stood where she was, her body trembling slightly. Blue arcs danced on the surface of her body, growing weaker and weaker. Her face was as White as paper.
She looked back at Chen Mo.
"Quick—"
Then she collapsed.
Chen Mo rushed over and caught her. She lay in Chen Mo's arms, her eyes half-closed, her breathing very weak. Her body was very hot—like a piece of red-hot iron.
"Stormfront!"
Stormfront opened her eyes and looked at him. There was light in her eyes—but it was very weak, like a lamp about to go out.
"Inhibitor... quick..."
Chen Mo took the metal box out of the Battle Armor's storage compartment and opened it. Three syringes were neatly arranged inside. He took one out and held it in his hand.
But Homelander had not appeared yet.
He had fallen into the East River—but he was not dead. Chen Mo knew this. Homelander would not die so easily.
On the river surface, the water began to churn.
Then—
Homelander rushed out of the river Water.
His uniform was torn, his hair was messy, and there was a streak of blood on his face. But his eyes—his eyes were burning. Red light shot from his eyes, illuminating the sky in the pouring rain.
He stood in the air, looking at Chen Mo and Stormfront on the bridge deck. The pouring rain washed over his body. His expression—no longer the previous ease and composure—was anger.
True anger.
"You—"
His voice echoed in the pouring rain, carrying a coldness that made one's scalp tingle.
"—have made me angry."
He swooped down.
The speed was too fast—so fast that Chen Mo could not react at all. Homelander appeared before him and punched him in the chest.
The arc reactor emitted a harsh alarm. The energy was dropping sharply—sixty percent, forty percent, twenty percent.
Chen Mo flew out, smashed through the railing on the bridge deck, flew off the bridge, and fell toward the river surface.
He adjusted his posture in the air and activated the thrusters. Blue Fire sprayed from the soles of his feet, and he hovered above the river. The pouring rain kicked up dense splashes on the river surface.
Homelander stood on the bridge deck, looking down at him. Rainwater flowed down from his forehead and into his eyes—but he did not blink.
"Chen Mo." His voice came from the bridge. "You still have the inhibitor. But you can't use it."
Chen Mo tightened his grip on the syringe in his hand.
Homelander was right. He needed to inject it at close range. But Homelander would not let him get close.
He needed an opportunity.
An opportunity.
He looked up at Homelander, and then—
He smiled.
"Homelander." He said. "Do you know why I am called Iron Man?"
Homelander frowned.
Chen Mo activated the overload mode of the arc reactor.
Blue light exploded from the reactor on his chest—not ordinary blue light, but a blinding blue light like the Sun.
Energy gathered in the reactor, and the shell of the Battle Armor began to turn red. Servomotors screamed, and hydraulic rods trembled.
He was burning all the energy of the arc reactor.
Homelander's expression changed.
"Are you crazy?"
Chen Mo did not answer. He rushed toward Homelander—not flying, but rushing over like a missile.
Blue Fire left a long trail behind him, like a meteor in the pouring rain.
Homelander raised his hand, and Heat Vision shot out.
The Heat Vision hit Chen Mo's chest—but this time, Chen Mo did not stop. The energy of the arc reactor was burning, and the energy of the Heat Vision was absorbed by the reactor. The shell of the Battle Armor was melting, but he did not stop.
He crashed into Homelander.
The two rolled in the pouring rain, smashed through the bridge deck, snapped steel cables, and finally crashed onto the bridge deck.
Chen Mo pinned Homelander down, holding the syringe in his hand.
He stabbed it down.
The needle of the syringe pierced through Homelander's uniform and into his skin. Light blue liquid was pushed into Homelander's veins.
Homelander's eyes widened.
His body began to tremble—not the trembling of anger, but the trembling of power. His Heat Vision went out. His strength was draining away. His body was softening.
"You—"
Chen Mo did not give him a chance to speak. He took out the second syringe and stabbed it down again.
The third one.
All three inhibitors were injected into Homelander's body.
Homelander lay on the bridge deck, his body convulsing. His blue eyes became dim—no longer the blue that shone like a gem, but an ordinary blue like glass beads.
His breathing was rapid, like a fish out of water.
Chen Mo knelt beside him, panting heavily. The light of the arc reactor was already very dim—the energy was almost exhausted.
The shell of the Battle Armor was covered with cracks, like a piece of broken porcelain.
The pouring rain was still falling. The curtain of rain shrouded the figures of the two, flowing along the bridge deck into the East River.
Chen Mo looked down at Homelander.
Homelander also looked at him.
Their gazes met in the pouring rain.
"You..." Homelander's voice was very weak, as weak as an ordinary person's. "You did it."
Chen Mo did not speak.
Homelander smiled. That smile was complex—there was anger, there was surprise, and there was a trace of—relief.
"Kill me." He said.
Chen Mo looked at him, silent for a few seconds. Then he shook his head.
"No."
Homelander's smile froze.
"Why?"
"Because—" Chen Mo stood up and looked down at him. "If I kill you, I will become you."
He turned and walked toward Stormfront.
Stormfront lay on the bridge deck, raindrops falling on her face. Her eyes were closed, and her breathing was very weak. Chen Mo squatted down and picked her up.
He looked back at Homelander.
Homelander lay on the bridge deck, looking at the sky. The pouring rain washed over his face, and he did not move.
Chen Mo activated the thrusters—but there was not enough energy. The thrusters sprayed a few wisps of blue Fire, and then went out.
He held Stormfront in his arms, standing in the pouring rain.
Then he heard a sound.
Not the sound of the pouring rain—it was footsteps.
He turned his head to look—
At the other end of the bridge, a figure was walking over.
That figure was not tall, wearing a White lab coat, with graying hair. He walked very slowly, like an old man out for a stroll.
Chen Mo's pupils constricted.
He knew that person.
Weber.