During this time, Chen Mo had been using Hydra's testing equipment to assess his own abilities. After the surge of potential he experienced during the plane crash, his body had evolved again—now standing right at the edge of human limits.
Strength: 500 kilograms.
Speed: 100 meters in 9.1 seconds, and he could maintain that pace for long distances.
In short bursts, his top speed could reach 19 meters per second.
Without a running start, he could leap three meters high and six meters long.
His bones were four times stronger than average, and his recovery rate was just as fast.
His reflexes had become so sharp that he could see the path of a bullet. Though his body wasn't quite fast enough to dodge one entirely, avoiding vital hits was well within reach.
Individually, none of these stats exceeded the human limit, but together, their synergy created terrifying power. Strength, speed, and endurance combined with a body tough enough to handle his own output—Chen Mo's combat potential had reached monstrous levels.
He was only slightly weaker than Captain America after serum enhancement. By that measure, he should be able to survive an average plane crash.
But Chen Mo wasn't satisfied.
In the movie, Captain America's crash landing had been on snow and ice; the aircraft had remained largely intact. Chen Mo's situation had been much worse—the plane disintegrated midair, torn apart over open sea, tumbling at deadly speed. To survive that, he needed to become stronger still.
The Super Soldier Serum had now become his top priority.
According to the original story, Hydra's mole within the U.S. military had tried to steal the serum but was stopped by the newly transformed Captain America. The mission failed.
The serum's creator, Dr. Abraham Erskine, was killed, and the formula lost forever—making Steve Rogers the only Super Soldier in existence.
Now that Hydra was fully under Chen Mo's control, its reorganization complete, he decided to take action himself.
However, this trip would not be short. To prevent any internal rebellion, Chen Mo spent several additional months tightening his grip.
The disloyal were quietly eliminated.
The uncertain were "transferred" to Hydra bases across Europe—sites that Chen Mo secretly planned to abandon.
Only the most fanatically loyal remained in Norway, those who worshipped the "Red Skull" as a god. When they witnessed Chen Mo's inhuman power firsthand, their fanaticism intensified to near religious fervor. Even Chen Mo sometimes found it absurd—how easy it was to become a god in the eyes of men.
After this purge and restructuring, Hydra was his—completely and irrevocably.
He didn't neglect his own training either. Hydra's base housed a vast arsenal of firearms, and Chen Mo made good use of it. He practiced relentlessly—pistols, assault rifles, sniper rifles—mastering them all in record time.
His accuracy quickly rivaled that of elite military marksmen.
Of all weapons, Chen Mo preferred the pistol—compact, flexible, perfect for close-quarters combat and stealth missions.
With his spatial ability, reloading was instantaneous; his firepower, virtually infinite.
The M1911 pistol he had taken from the New York gangs was powerful, stable, and ideal for his needs. Within fifty meters, he could hit moving targets dead center every time.
Before long, his personal space was filled with guns and ammunition alongside his throwing knives.
But he never gave up the blades. For silent kills, throwing knives were still the best—silent, precise, and deadly.
And in Chen Mo's hands, anything could become a weapon: chopsticks, pens, coins, even tree branches.
As his strength grew, the old knives felt too light. Space wasn't an issue anymore, so he had a new set forged from special alloy—25 centimeters long, 3 centimeters wide, 5 millimeters thick, weighing 200 grams each. Balanced perfectly for both throwing and close combat.
Pleased with the results, he ordered over a hundred of them—stored neatly in his space alongside his guns.
As for the long sword taken from the Norwegian tomb, Hydra's intelligence department had completed its research. After comparing numerous historical records, they concluded that the blade might in fact be the legendary Excalibur, the Sword of Kings—the same weapon wielded by King Arthur himself.
Its blade could "cut through steel like butter," hence its ancient nickname, the Sword of Broken Steel.
Legend said Arthur's original sword shattered in battle, and with Merlin's help, he received this sacred weapon from the Lady of the Lake.
Before his death, Arthur commanded Sir Bedivere to return it to the lake. Bedivere couldn't bear to part with it and lied twice, only casting it into the water on Arthur's third order—after which the king finally closed his eyes.
This sword's design, carvings, and unique alloy all matched historical descriptions. It seemed likely that Bedivere had never truly thrown it away—or that it had later been recovered and eventually found its way into the Norwegian royal collection.
And now, it was in Chen Mo's hands.
One test swing proved its legend true: a steel column as thick as a man's thigh was cleaved cleanly in half. The blade remained flawless—its sharpness beyond belief.
Dr. Zola's research revealed that its composition didn't match any known element on Earth. He theorized it was forged from extraterrestrial meteorite metal, perhaps one that Merlin himself had retrieved for the forging.
Its hardness, flexibility, and sharpness surpassed even the strongest modern alloys. Chen Mo suspected it might be something akin to Vibranium or Adamantium—perhaps even stronger.
Whatever its origin, Chen Mo loved the weapon. It felt natural in his grip—smooth, balanced, deadly. Now, alongside his throwing knives, he had a true sword of kings in his arsenal.
September 1942 — Brooklyn, New York
Early that morning, pedestrians on a busy street noticed something new: a Chinese martial arts school had appeared seemingly overnight.
New York's Chinatown was in Manhattan; nearly all Chinese schools were there. A new dojo opening in Brooklyn, of all places, drew immediate attention—curiosity from some, hostility and greed from others.
The building was a spacious three-story structure facing the street, clearly expensive. Turning it entirely into a martial arts hall meant its owner was no ordinary immigrant.
And in Brooklyn, a wealthy Chinese man was a tempting target.
After all, why did most Chinese stay in Chinatown? Because beyond its borders lay discrimination, hostility, and exploitation. And in Brooklyn—one of New York's roughest neighborhoods—such prejudice was even worse.
Many eyes were already watching.
Inside the training hall, Chen Mo was sparring with several burly men dressed in worn cotton martial robes.
Their technique was excellent—better than his in pure form—but Chen Mo's overwhelming strength gave them no chance.
He blocked a punch aimed at his abdomen and countered instantly, knocking the man to the floor before he could retreat.
When the dust settled, no one but Chen Mo was still standing.