The memory Baron Strucker held of Chen Mo was far too vivid to ever fade.
Last time, the man had been impervious — bullets, blades, even explosions had failed to harm him. Ever since fleeing back to the Polish base, Strucker had obsessed over finding a way to defeat that invincible monster. He had designed a trap within the Valkyrie's cockpit — his last, desperate countermeasure.
He'd thought, if by some miracle Chen Mo makes it here, he would lure him onto the hidden mechanism. Never in his wildest dreams had he imagined that Chen Mo would walk straight into it on his own.
Everything had gone almost too smoothly — too perfectly.
Now, the cage of reinforced alloy stood solid and unyielding. Its floor and ceiling had been specially reinforced, able to withstand hundreds of tons of pressure without bending. The steel pillars — each as thick as a man's arm — locked together with mechanical precision.
To Strucker, Chen Mo's death was certain.
Years of humiliation and failure were about to end here. His old nemesis would finally die by his hand. Satisfaction flooded his chest as he watched the heavy top plate descend toward the man trapped within.
Chen Mo merely looked up at the descending mass of steel, a faint, dismissive smile curving his lips. Under Strucker's gleeful stare, he slowly reached behind his back — and drew the Sword of Kings.
The blade gleamed coldly under the red lights.
Meeting Strucker's eyes with calm indifference, Chen Mo swung twice — two effortless horizontal arcs.
The thick steel pillars parted like tofu.
Strucker froze. His breath caught, his skin went pale. He stared, wide-eyed, as Chen Mo stepped through the gap and out of the cage, utterly unharmed.
"You—!"
The word died on his lips. A chill raced down his spine.
Chen Mo said nothing. He walked forward — slow, steady, unstoppable.
Back in their first duel at the Klausburg base, Strucker had relied on technique over strength, avoiding head-on clashes with the Sword of Kings. He'd never realized that the blade could cut through anything.
If he had known, he would never have trusted this trap.
Now, it was too late.
Chen Mo raised his sword again — this time not to test him, but to finish him. He wanted to see for himself just how far his swordsmanship had evolved.
Since that battle, he had trained relentlessly. The flaws in his style — once exposed by Strucker's deft technique — had driven him to spend months studying, refining, mastering.
He had learned from Huang Quan and the others, absorbing their combat principles, but that wasn't all. Through Hydra's archives, he had discovered something far greater:
The Holy Cross Swordsmanship — a secret martial tradition that had once belonged to the Templar Knights during the Crusades.
It was a style born on the battlefield, sharpened by centuries of war. Swift, ruthless, and brutally efficient — its every move aimed at killing.
Fluid transitions, sudden reversals, lightning-fast parries and lethal counters — this was no art for show. It was the distilled essence of a thousand years of bloodshed.
Before, Chen Mo's swordsmanship had been driven by instinct, strength, and speed — refined, but still rough. No matter how gifted he was, genius alone couldn't replace centuries of experience.
But now, armed with the wisdom of countless warriors, he stood upon the shoulders of giants.
His sword became an extension of will — smooth, deliberate, alive.
When their blades met again, Strucker immediately felt the difference.
Gone was the brute force of their last encounter. Every swing Chen Mo made flowed seamlessly into the next — each attack perfectly timed, each motion impossible to predict.
The tempo was unrelenting. The rhythm, flawless.
For the first time, Baron Strucker — master swordsman, veteran duelist — found himself driven backward, overwhelmed.
And Chen Mo still wasn't fighting at full strength.
Even while restraining his power to match Strucker's level, the sheer refinement of his technique was enough to dominate the duel.
Satisfied that he had measured his progress, Chen Mo decided to end it.
With a sudden shift of motion, he brought his sword down in a heavy vertical slash.
Strucker, thinking to repeat his old trick, lunged to deflect the blow — but Chen Mo twisted his grip at the last instant. The blade's trajectory curved, slipping past the rapier's guard and slicing cleanly across Strucker's chest.
A sharp whisper of steel. A flash of red.
Blood sprayed through the air.
Strucker staggered back, disbelief frozen on his face. His mouth opened, but no words came. Strength drained from his limbs.
He looked down — at the crimson gash spreading across his chest — then up, one last time, at the calm figure before him.
And then he fell.
Chen Mo didn't even blink. He slid the Sword of Kings back into its sheath and stepped forward to stand over the fallen baron.
His chosen pawn had played his part to perfection.
Spotting the ornate rapier that had clattered to the floor, Chen Mo picked it up and examined it thoughtfully.
The blade was narrow and elegant, the hilt adorned with intricate filigree — a noble weapon, steeped in history.
He unclipped the jeweled scabbard from Strucker's belt, slid the rapier home, and stored it neatly into his dimensional space.
A fine trophy — one worthy of his collection.
As for the body…
Without hesitation, Chen Mo dragged Strucker's corpse to the rear hatch of the Valkyrie and threw it into the endless sea below.
The body tumbled through the night sky and vanished into the dark waves, swallowed whole by the ocean's silence.
Now, aboard the vast and empty Valkyrie Goddess, only Chen Mo remained.
One man, one sword, and the hum of engines carrying him toward the final dawn.