Black Robe: In Vought, Starting by Going Head-to-head with Homelander
Chapter 66: Butcher's Wrath
"Are you fucking crazy?"
When Butcher slammed the bottle onto the table, the whiskey inside splashed out, spreading into an amber puddle on the tabletop. The liquor dripped down the edge of the table, making quiet, pattering sounds as it hit the floor.
Friday night. The Boys' base—the second floor of an abandoned printing factory. The windows were boarded up with plywood, and only a single bare bulb swayed overhead, its dim, yellow light making the entire space look like a cellar. In the corner lay a few stacked crates stamped with military logos, and a folding table held surveillance equipment and a few guns.
Butcher sat by the table, wearing his seemingly permanent leather jacket. His eyes were bloodshot, and his face was covered in several days of stubble. On the table sat three empty beer bottles and a nearly empty whiskey bottle.
Chen Mo had barely stepped inside when Butcher stood up before he could even stop walking.
"Why didn't you tell me you were moving Park Soon-ja?"
"I did tell you."
"What you told me was—'I need a safehouse'." Butcherstood up, the legs of his chair scraping harshly against the floor and echoing through the empty factory. "You didn't tell me Homelander already had his eyes on her!"
"I told you—"
"You told me he knew! You didn't tell me he stood at her door for ten seconds! You didn't tell me he smiled!" Butcherslammed the table, making the bottles jump. "A smile! Do you have any idea how important that information is? Do you know what that represents?"
"I know."
"You don't know shit!"
Butcher rounded the table and walked up to Chen Mo. He was a few centimeters shorter than Chen Mo, but the step he took forward carried an intimidating pressure that would make most people back away.
"Do you have any idea—if Homelander actually made a move, Park Soon-ja would be a pile of ash by now?"
"I know."
"You don't know shit!" Butcher's voice suddenly rose, shaking the lightbulb in the empty factory. "You think you're invincible just because you have those fancy abilities? You swap them every week. What is it this week? Portals? Time reversal?"
"Spatial teleportation."
"Fine. Then let me ask you—Homelander can burn down a building with his Heat Vision in a tenth of a second. Can your Portal be faster than Heat Vision?"
Chen Mo looked at him. Silence stretched for two seconds.
"No."
"Then when you swap to a new ability every week, is there a single fucking one of them that can make you faster than Heat Vision?"
"...No."
"Then stop fucking acting on your own!"
Butcher was breathing heavily. He turned around and poured himself another drink—more than half a cup, no ice. He tilted his head back and gulped it down. The alcohol dribbled down the corner of his mouth, dripping onto his leather jacket, which he messily wiped away with his sleeve.
Chen Mo didn't move. He stood there, waiting for Butcherto finish venting his anger. He knew Butcher's rage wasn't directed at him—it was directed at the situation itself. What Butcher feared most wasn't Homelander; it was a situation he couldn't control.
"Are you done?"
Holding his glass, Butcher turned to look at him. The light from the bulb cast sharp shadows across his face.
"I'm done."
"Then let me speak."
Chen Mo took two steps forward and stopped on the opposite side of the table.
"Homelander targeting Park Soon-ja wasn't to investigate her. He was testing me."
"Testing you for what?"
"Testing my boundaries. To see who is around me and how I would react. It was a probe."
Butcher held his glass and said nothing, narrowing his eyes as he listened.
"If I didn't move, he would have assumed Park Soon-jadidn't matter to me. His next step would have been to take her away directly to confirm my reaction—to see if I truly have no weaknesses."
"So you sent her away?"
"Not sent away. Relocated."
"What's the difference between those two words?"
"Sending her away means making her disappear. Relocating means changing her position."
Butcher tilted his head, signaling him to continue.
"I chose to relocate her—not because I'm afraid Homelander will make a move on her. It's because I want him to know that I have the ability to protect the people I care about. He can't touch my chess pieces."
"Then he'll come after you."
"He won't. Because in his eyes, I'm not worthy. He just wanted to confirm if I have the value to make him act. Now he knows I do, but not to the extent that warrants him taking action personally. He will wait."
Butcher stared at Chen Mo for a long moment. He raised his glass and took another sip. He didn't gulp it down so violently this time; he drank slowly, set the glass on the table, and tapped his fingers twice against the rim.
"Did you fucking plan this step all along?"
"Yes."
Butcher didn't say anything. The silence lasted for about three seconds.
"Then he smiled."
It was a complex smile. There was anger in it—the kind that hadn't been fully vented. There was exhaustion—the kind from constantly drinking, investigating, and fighting. There was resentment—the kind from seeing a twenty-something kid accomplish what he himself hadn't been able to do for so many years. But there was also something else. Something Chen Mo rarely saw on Butcher's face.
Approval.
"You really are a fucking lunatic."
Chen Mo said, "Thank you."
Butcher shook his head. "I wasn't praising you."
He picked up the bottle from the table, poured another glass, and slid it in front of Chen Mo.
"Drink."
"I don't drink."
"Fuck. Then watch me drink."
Butcher picked up his own glass, threw his head back, and drained it. He slammed the glass heavily onto the table, the bottom spinning two and a half times before coming to a stop.
"What do you plan to do next?"
"Keep investigating."
"Investigating what?"
"Frederick Vought."
Butcher paused in his movements. He set the bottle down and looked at Chen Mo.
"That old bastard has been dead for twenty years."
"I know. But his things are still around."
"What things?"
"Research notes. The research notes on Compound V. They're in an abandoned military base in upstate New York."
Butcher tilted his head, sizing Chen Mo up. He looked as if he was meeting him for the first time.
"Where did you get all this intel?"
"Nighthawk left it behind."
Butcher's expression changed. When he heard the name "Nighthawk," the muscle at the corner of his eye twitched. He set the bottle in his hand down on the table, very gently.
"He left something for you?"
"A message. Saying Vought's secrets are in that base. Frederick Vought—he wasn't The Creator. He was just a regretful old man. He kept a diary."
Butcher fell silent for a long time. He picked up the bottle, but didn't pour any. He just held it by the neck, watching the amber liquid slosh under the light. His lips parted slightly, but he didn't speak.
"When are you going?"
"Sunday morning, before dawn. With Stormfront."
Butcher looked up. The name Stormfront clearly made him uncomfortable—his expression shifted subtly.
"Stormfront?"
"Yeah."
"Are you fucking putting together a team? A German Nazi test subject and a super-powered rookie—"
"She's not a Nazi."
"Close enough."
"She also wants to know about Frederick Vought. She was taken from South Korea by him when she was twelve. She has a right to know the truth."
Butcher stared at him for a while longer. Then he set the bottle on the table and stood up. He walked over to Chen Mo and patted him on the shoulder—it was a heavy pat, carrying a very Butcher-esque weight of "I see it, but I won't say it."
"Don't die. You still owe me a drink."
"I don't drink."
"Then keep owing me."
Chen Mo turned to leave. Just as his hand touched the doorknob, Butcher spoke again from behind him:
"About that base—don't tell anyone. Not even your Starlight."
Chen Mo paused at the door, not turning back.
"I know."
"I'm serious. It's not that you can't trust her—it's that you can't trust the people around her. Vought has eyes everywhere."
"I know."
He pushed open the door and stepped into the night. The moment the door closed behind him, he heard the sound of Butcher pouring another drink, along with a muttered grumble—
"Dammit. What a little lunatic."
Chapter 67: Starlight's Second Heartbeat
Saturday morning. When Chen Mo came downstairs, Starlight was standing right at the entrance of the apartment building.
She was wearing a white tracksuit, her hair tied in a high ponytail, with a few stray strands of hair on her forehead blowing in the wind. She held two cups of coffee in her hands, and when she saw him walk out of the building, she handed one over.
"Guessed you hadn't had breakfast yet."
Chen Mo took the coffee. The paper cup was warm, the heat transferring through the cup wall to his palm. He looked down—an Americano, no sugar, no milk.
Just the way he usually drank it.
"How did you know I drink this?"
"Last time at the company. You got it from the coffee machine. An Americano, with nothing added."
"You have a really good memory."
"Because your taste is too boring. Anyone else would at least add some milk."
Chen Mo held the coffee and said nothing. The Saturday morning sunlight was beautiful, and there weren't many people on the street. In the distance, a woman pushing a stroller passed by, the baby inside babbling and humming. This was probably Manhattan's quietest moment.
"What brings you here?"
"I was worried about you."
Starlight spoke very directly. No beating around the bush, no "just passing by" excuses.
"I heard you relocated Park Soon-ja last night."
"You're very well-informed."
"I told you, I have informants in Vought."
Starlight smiled. There was pride in that smile—like a child who had done something adults found remarkable.
"Since when did you have informants?"
"Take a guess."
"I can't."
"Martha from the cleaning department. Her husband runs a gas station in New Jersey, and he saw your Portal last night. He said a ball of golden light fell from the sky, looking like a glowing donut. Her husband thought it was a UFO."
Chen Mo was taken aback for a moment, then let out a chuckle. A glowing golden donut—he had to remember this description.
"I should change my landing spot next time."
"You should also wear an extra jacket. The temperature dropped today; it's twelve degrees."
Chen Mo looked down at himself—a thin hoodie. He had been in a hurry when he came downstairs just now, not expecting it to be so cold outside.
"Since when did you start managing what I wear?"
"Since the day you dragged me into this."
When Starlight said this, her tone was very light. But Chen Mo knew these words carried weight—she was laying out her connection with Martha, which meant she was telling Chen Mo that she had already begun preparing a way out for herself. The people in Vought's cleaning department, the corners no one paid attention to—every company had these "invisible people." Starlight had found her eyes.
"I thought about it all night."
Her tone suddenly changed. From the light, joking tone just now, it became much more serious. She looked down at the coffee cup in her hand, her fingers rubbing against the paper wall, her fingertips sliding back and forth along the rim.
"About what?"
"About you."
Chen Mo didn't say anything. The autumn wind blew, making the hood of his hoodie gently pat against his back.
"About what exactly you are doing. About how dangerous you really are. About whether I should keep getting close to you. I thought of every single possibility I could find."
She looked up.
"Do you know what the scariest part is? What I fear most isn't you lying to me, nor is it you dying. What I fear most is—I realize I can't find a single reason why I'should leave you.' Every reason is blocked by another question: 'Then who will investigate?'"
She looked at Chen Mo's chest, avoiding his eyes.
"No one. Except you. So I have no way back."
She looked up, gazing at the street opposite them. A yellow cab was parked by the curb, the driver looking at his phone inside.
"I thought all night. From two in the morning until dawn, I just lay in bed, tossing and turning. Every time I came up with a reason why I'should stay away from you,' a 'but' would immediately pop up right after."
"But what?"
"'But except for you, no one is willing to dig up the truth.'"
She withdrew her gaze from across the street and turned to Chen Mo.
"'But you are the only one who makes me feel that Vought isn't completely beyond saving.'"
Her voice trembled slightly. Not the tremble of fear, but the kind when speaking the truth—the kind where once said, it can never be taken back.
"'But if I don't get close to you, I will regret it for the rest of my life.'"
As she said the last "but," she looked into Chen Mo's eyes.
"So don't think I'm just being impulsive."
"And the conclusion?"
"The conclusion is—I don't care."
She spoke with great resolve. Not the resolve of an impulsive decision, but the resolve of someone who, after thinking all night, realized that no amount of logic could convince her to leave, and thus chose to be willful just this once.
"I don't care what you're doing. I don't care how dangerous you really are. I don't care what happens tomorrow, or what Homelander will do if he finds out."
She took a step forward. The distance between them shrank to less than a meter.
"I know what you're doing is dangerous. I know you might die."
She paused.
"But I also know—if I don't get close to you, I will regret it for the rest of my life."
As she said this, her nose was slightly red—not because she was going to cry, but because she had been standing outside in the wind for too long. But the earnestness in her eyes was even firmer than it had been downstairs last night.
Then she stood on her tiptoes and kissed him.
It wasn't a tentative kiss like the first time—the kind where lips just touch and quickly pull back.
It was firm. It was the kind of kiss that said, "I've made up my mind." Her lips were cold, but very soft. The kiss lasted for about three seconds.
Chen Mo froze.
He was still holding two cups of coffee, one in each hand, like a statue that had been paused. Standing there, all the timelines in his mind ground to a halt—he saw countless possibilities, but not a single one dictated how he should react to being kissed by Starlight on this Saturday morning while holding a cup of Americano and a cup of latte.
Starlight stepped back.
She smiled.
The corners of her mouth curled up slightly, but she controlled it. It was that kind of expression where one tries to hold back a smile but can't—her lips were twitching.
"Don't be nervous. I didn't come here to pressure you. I know you have a ton of things to do right now."
She tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear.
"I just wanted you to know—no matter what you're going to do, I'm on your side."
She turned and walked away. Her pace was neither fast nor slow, like someone who had said what she wanted to say, accomplished what she wanted to do, and could now leave with a peace of mind.
After a few steps, she looked back.
"By the way. Are you free tomorrow night?"
"Huh?"
"I'm buying you dinner. No refusing."
Having said her piece, she turned around and kept walking without waiting for his answer. Her ponytail swayed behind her head, falling back onto her shoulders.
Chen Mo stood below the apartment building, watching her receding figure. White tracksuit, high ponytail, walking briskly. The sunlight filtered through the edges of her body, casting a golden outline around her. When she reached the street corner, an old man walking his dog glanced at her; she waved at him, then turned the corner and disappeared.
He looked down at the coffee in his hand.
The paper cup was warm.
His heart—was also warm.
He stood there for about ten seconds. He took a sip of the coffee. It was hot. He took another sip—feeling the warmth spread from his mouth all the way down to his stomach.
He glanced once more in the direction where Starlight had disappeared. There was a mailbox at the corner, with a pigeon perched on top, tilting its head to look at him.
He recalled what she had just said. "I don't care." Three words. Three very simple words. But coming from her mouth, they carried even more weight than Butcher's "I'll be there in twenty minutes."
He walked into the building. When the elevator doors opened, he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror—the corners of his mouth were slightly curved upward.
He tried to pull it back.
But failed to completely suppress it.
He muttered to his reflection in the mirror, "Damn it."
Chapter 68: Stormfront's Past
Saturday afternoon. Chen Mo went to Stormfront's Villa.
He needed to confirm the operation plan for tomorrow—departure time, route, and contingency plans. Stormfrontlived in a seaside Villa on Long Island. Usually, no one came by. She had chosen it herself—far from Vought, far from New York, far from everyone.
Chen Mo used the Portal to arrive directly at the entrance of the Villa. When he pushed open the front door, the Villawas as quiet as if no one were there.
"Stormfront?"
There was no response.
There was no one in the living room. On the coffee table sat a half-drunk cup of black coffee that had already gone cold. A coat was tossed on the sofa. He called out again, but there was still no response.
He went upstairs.
The bedroom door was ajar, and the lights were off inside. The curtains were half-drawn, and sunlight sliced through the gap, painting a strip of light on the floor. He pushed the door open—
Stormfront was sitting on the edge of the bed.
She wasn't wearing that iconic black and red uniform. She was wearing a loose gray sweater, her hair was let down, she wore no makeup, and her lips were a little dry. She held a yellowed photograph in her hand, looking down at it. Sunlight shone in through the gap in the curtains, landing on her lowered eyelashes and casting a shadow across half her face.
She didn't look like that Superhuman touted on the official Vought website as having "top three destructive power." She didn't look like the top-tier hero standing shoulder-to-shoulder with Homelander on the promotional posters. She looked like an ordinary middle-aged woman who had dug out a photo she shouldn't have while going through old things.
"Who is that?"
Stormfront looked up. She was stunned for a moment—she hadn't expected Chen Mo to come at this time. Her movements were quick—she wiped her eyes with the back of her hand.
But Chen Mo saw it.
Her eyes were red. There was a ring of redness around them that hadn't completely faded.
"My mother."
She handed the photo over.
Chen Mo took the yellowed old photo. The edges of the paper were worn, and the surface of the photo had some fine scratches—indicating that this photo had been taken out and looked at repeatedly. In the photo was a young woman in a Hanbok, holding a three or four-year-old little girl. The woman had long hair, styled in a low bun at the back of her head, and was smiling very gently. The little girl was wearing a white Hanbok dress and was also smiling, missing a front tooth, her eyes crinkled into two slits.
Chen Mo looked at the photo for a long while.
"Is this you?"
"Mm. When I was three. In Seoul."
Stormfront's voice was very calm. It was the kind of calm that was maintained with effort.
"Back then, I wasn't called Stormfront. I was called—" She paused. As if she had made a decision, "Called Lee Ji-eun."
Chen Mo looked at the little girl with the missing front tooth in the photo. She was smiling, smiling very happily, completely unaware that thirty years later she would become a Superhuman hero standing on posters, nor that she would be sitting in a Villa in the United States on Long Island, holding an old photo she had dug out an hour ago.
No one would connect this three-year-old little girl with the woman who could whip up a storm in Manhattan with a wave of her hand. Except for herself.
"What's her name?"
"Kim Sun-ja."
Stormfront's voice softened slightly when she said the name.
"Is she still alive?"
"I don't know."
Stormfront shifted her gaze to the window. Outside the Villa was a neatly trimmed lawn, and further out was a stretch of blue Water. The sea was very calm, with a few seagulls circling at a low altitude.
"Vought told my parents that I had died."
She said this sentence very lightly. As if she had said it many times and it no longer hurt.
But in reality, it still hurt. It could be heard in her voice.
"It's been thirty years. I don't know if they are still alive. I don't know if my mother is still living in that old house in Seoul. I don't know if she is still waiting for me to come home every day. I don't know if she has already—"
She stopped. She didn't finish. But Chen Mo knew what the unfinished half of the sentence was.
Chen Mo sat down beside her. The mattress dipped slightly under his weight.
They had been intimate many times. But never once had it been this quiet. He had seen many sides of her—cold, angry, calculating. At Vought's receptions, she would hold a wine glass and maneuver among the board members; on missions, she would kick robbers three meters away with one foot; in the depths of the night at the Villa, she would pin him against the wall—those times, she was always Stormfront.
The one sitting here now was Lee Ji-eun.
She looked down at the photo, her fingers tracing the edges back and forth. The corners of the yellowed photo had white creases, clearly having been taken out and looked at many times.
"Do you know why I want to investigate Frederick Vought?"
Chen Mo thought he knew the answer. She had given some reasons—to learn the origin of Compound V, to gain leverage against Edgar, to uncover the truth about Vought.
"It's not for any truth."
She turned the photo over. On the back, there was a line of small text written in Korean. Chen Mo couldn't read Korean, but he could guess what it was—perhaps a date, perhaps a sentence, perhaps something Kim Sun-ja had written on the back of the photo.
"And it's not for some damn justice."
She looked up, gazing out the window.
"It's to ask him one question."
"What question?"
"When he took me away from Korea, I was twelve years old. He told my parents that his company was selecting gifted children to train in the United States. For three years. To return after three years."
She paused, and the corners of her mouth twitched—not a smile, but a mocking self-deprecation.
"Three years. Later, I saw the original contract in Vought's archives. It wasn't the one my parents signed. That one had been replaced. The original contract stated—'Guardian permanently relinquishes custody.'"
She looked at Chen Mo.
"He deceived my parents. Tricked them into signing a Korean contract. They couldn't read English."
"So I've always wanted to ask him—when he stood there, watching me cry in front of him, calling for my mother—did he ever think that my mother would spend the next thirty years thinking her daughter was dead."
Stormfront pressed the photo to her chest. Her movements were very light, as if afraid of breaking it.
Chen Mo reached out and took her hand. Her hand was very cold.
He didn't say "it's okay"—because he knew this couldn't be okay.
Stormfront didn't pull away. She let him hold it.
Then she rested her head on his shoulder. Not the kind where she just leaned in—it was slowly, bit by bit, placing her head there. Like someone who hadn't done this action in a long time was practicing it again.
She closed her eyes.
"Tomorrow. No matter what Frederick Vought says—I won't cry."
Chen Mo didn't speak. Outside the window, a seagull cried out, the sound drifting in from afar.
"Because in these thirty years, I have cried enough."
The room was quiet for a few seconds. The sunlight shifted, the strip of light moving from the floor to the foot of the bed. Stormfront kept her eyes closed, her breathing very light.
Chen Mo said one sentence.
"You can cry."
Stormfront didn't move.
"In front of me, you can do anything."
Stormfront didn't speak. But her fingers tightened slightly in his palm. Not the tight kind of force—it was the kind of response that meant "I heard you."
She kept her eyes closed. The corners of her mouth twitched—this time it wasn't mockery, but something more complex. Like the thing that made that three-year-old little girl with the missing front tooth smile in the photo.
A long time passed. She opened her eyes, not looking at him, but at the sea outside the window.
"Four o'clock tomorrow morning. I'll wait for you downstairs."
"Mm."
"Don't forget to bring your Portal."
"I won't forget."
Chapter 69: Preparations Before Departure
Saturday night. Chen Mo stood in front of his apartment window, looking at the night view of New York.
Looking down from the seventy-third floor, the lights of Manhattan looked like a glowing circuit board. The people moving on the streets were like ants in a microscopic World—unaware that they lived on a chessboard much larger than they could imagine. He had never felt small looking at New York from this angle before, but tonight was different.
The power of Doctor Strange surged within him like an invisible river. He could feel time flowing around him—not'seeing' it, but 'feeling' it. It was like standing by a river, where he could feel the direction and speed of the current even with his eyes closed. Those parallel Universes spun in his mind like a constantly rotating Planet globe, turning rapidly, yet he could see every single side.
He closed his eyes.
The power of the Time Stone was helping him deduce tomorrow's actions. It wasn't that he was actively 'looking'—the power was running automatically like an unstoppable computer, inputting all variables and outputting possibilities.
He saw three.
The first: they arrived at the underground bunker and found Frederick Vought's grave. He had died long ago. The research notes were destroyed or transferred to an unknown location. The archives room was empty. They stood in an Underground Room with nothing in it, Stormfront standing there in silence, no answers, no tears, nothing at all. It was all for nothing.
The second: the underground bunker was a trap. Not set by Frederick Vought—but because someone knew they were coming. Edgar's people, or Vought Security, were waiting for them there. As soon as he stepped through the hallway, forty guns would be pointed at him.
The third: Frederick Vought was indeed alive. And he knew Chen Mo would come.
Among the three possibilities deduced by the Time Stone, the third had the highest probability.
Not because he could calculate the exact numbers—but because he traced back the old man's words. 'You're here.' The tone of those words—not surprise, but 'you're finally here.' Like something a person had waited a long time for had finally happened.
Chen Mo opened his eyes.
He picked up his phone and dialed Stormfront's number.
It rang once, and Stormfront picked up.
"What time do we leave tomorrow?" Her voice was very clear, not sounding at all like someone who should be sleeping.
"Four in the morning. I'll wait for you downstairs."
"Are you ready?"
Stormfront was silent for a few seconds. The sound of rustling fabric came through the phone—she had probably sat up from her bed.
"I was twelve when he took me away from Seoul. I sat on a private plane and flew for fourteen hours. There were only me and two White men in black suits on the plane. They didn't speak Korean, and I didn't speak English. Guess how we communicated on the plane?"
Chen Mo did not answer.
"No one spoke to me. Fourteen hours. I just looked at the clouds outside the window, thinking I could go home in three years. It's been thirty years, and I've been waiting for today."
Her voice began to tremble. Not the shaking of fear—but something suppressed for thirty years pounding on the door, on the verge of bursting out.
"Every night I thought—will tomorrow bring the news of his death? Will tomorrow someone tell me the truth? Will tomorrow I be able to fly back to Seoul to see my mother? Every tomorrow came. Every tomorrow, nothing happened."
She took a deep breath.
"Tomorrow. It's finally my turn."
"After tomorrow, you might not get the answers you want." Chen Mo didn't want to raise her expectations too high. He had seen too many people set off with hope and return with disappointment.
"I know."
"He might already be dead. He might not remember anything. He might have forgotten about it long ago."
"I know."
"Then you—"
"But I must go."
Stormfront interrupted him. Her tone was firm. It wasn't the impulsiveness of a moment—it was the resolve of someone who, after thirty years of thinking, realized the answers no longer mattered; the process itself was where the meaning lay.
"Even if he's dead, I still want to look at his tombstone. Even if he doesn't remember anything, I still want to ask that question—even if he can't hear it. Not for an answer. But so that I—can finally move on."
Holding the phone, Chen Mo looked out the window. The lights of Manhattan spread out before him, with dense lights shining from the windows of those skyscrapers. Behind every light was a story, but none of those stories weighed heavier than what he was about to do. The wind blew through the crack in the window, making a faint sound.
"Alright. See you tomorrow."
"See you tomorrow."
He hung up the phone and placed it on the table. The screen lit up briefly and then went dark, displaying the call log.
Then he walked over to the coffee table. In the drawer of the coffee table lay that old phone—he hadn't taken it out in days. As he pulled the drawer open, the metal slides made a soft click, exceptionally clear in the quiet apartment.
The old phone lay in the corner of the drawer. Next to it was a pen and a key—he didn't even know what it opened. He picked up the old phone; the screen was black, so he pressed the power button.
It was a relic left behind by Nighthawk. The phone was a very old model—the screen had a crack running from the top left to the bottom right, and most of the paint on the casing had worn off, revealing the silver metal shell underneath. When Park Soon-ja gave it to him, the battery was still half-charged. He had never turned it off, leaving it on standby in the drawer.
He unlocked the phone and went to the inbox.
The last message—sent by Nighthawk two days before his accident.
"Mom, if anything happens to me—tell the person helping me find the truth: Vought's secret is in upstate New York, in that abandoned military base. Inside are Frederick Vought's research notes. He is not The Creator. He is just a regretful old man."
Chen Mo stared at that message for a long time.
The light from the screen illuminated his face. In the dim apartment, that small amount of light outlined his features—his tensed jaw, his tightly pursed lips. The lights of Manhattan shone in from outside the window, blending with the blue-white light of the phone screen.
"I am not The Creator. I am just a regretful old man."
He repeated these words in his mind.
Frederick Vought—the man who created Compound V, the founder of Vought, and the source of all Superhumans in the World—had written such a line on the last page of his diary.
Chen Mo put the phone back into the drawer. As he closed the drawer, his fingers lingered on its edge for a second.
Tomorrow. He would step through a door to meet the person who ensured Nighthawk would never return. He would go twenty meters underground to open Frederick Vought's private archives room.
He stood up and walked to the window. His silhouette was reflected in the glass—bare-chested, the old scar on his shoulder left from his time as Wolverine still there, faintly gleaming under the lights outside.
The power of Doctor Strange surged within him. Timelines flashed before his eyes. The good, the bad, the gray.
One timeline caught his attention. In the vision, he walked into the entrance of the underground bunker—a dark corridor, mold on the walls, the smell of disinfectant mixed with decay in the air. He walked out of the edge of the frame. And then the vision cut off. Not dead, not killed, just cut off. Like a movie paused at its climax. No continuation, no ending.
He opened his eyes.
He didn't know what that meant. The Time Stone didn't give him answers—it only gave him a direction. But he knew that direction was not a dead end.
At least not the worst kind of dead end.
He lowered his hand and looked out the window. The lights of Manhattan spread out beneath his feet, extending beyond the horizon. He saw his own reflection in the glass—in less than twenty-four hours, he would step through a door and go twenty meters underground. He didn't know if he could return. But he knew he had to go. Not for Nighthawk, not for Stormfront. For himself—the self who had been looking for answers since his very first day at Vought.
Tomorrow, everything would change.
Chapter 70: Underground Bunker
"The entrance is twenty meters underground."
Sunday, 4:00 AM. Upstate New York.
Chen Mo and Stormfront stood before the entrance of the abandoned military base. The surrounding forest resembled a pair of dead lungs—the trees grew crookedly, their branches intertwining like swollen veins, and the ground was covered with a thick layer of dead leaves and broken twigs. In the early autumn morning, the air was as cold as a blade. A barbed-wire fence stretched for hundreds of meters along the boundary of the base, its rust resembling dried blood, with several sections already overgrown with wild vines.
Stormfront was wearing casual black clothes, not her uniform. She stood next to the barbed wire and touched it—flakes of rusted metal fell off, making a soft sound as they hit the ground.
"There's no elevator. Only a ventilation duct."
Chen Mo glanced at her. She wore no makeup, and her hair was tied up, making her look very plain. She didn't look like Stormfront. She looked like someone prepared to dig a grave.
"No need to use the ventilation duct."
He raised his hand and drew a circle in the air. Golden sparks lit up the darkness of the early morning—against the backdrop of the dead woods and rusted barbed wire, it looked like something that shouldn't belong there. As the ring of sparks expanded, stray embers fell onto the dead leaves, burning a few small black holes into them.
He stepped through first. His feet touched the ground—it was a corridor. Only half of the overhead fluorescent lights were still working, emitting a low-frequency hum and a deathly pale, cold light that sounded like a dying appliance in the empty underground space.
Stormfront followed him through. She stood in the corridor and looked around. The corridor was very long, about two to three hundred meters, its end fading into the darkness. The walls were grey concrete, their surfaces covered with patches of black mold that looked like a spreading skin disease. The air was musty—there was a strange smell, a mixture of disinfectant and decay, along with a sweet, cloying scent that Chen Mo couldn't quite place.
"Are you sure he's here?"
"Nighthawk says so."
Chen Mo walked forward. His footsteps echoed in the corridor—on the concrete floor, the footsteps didn't sound like they were on solid ground, carrying a hollow echo that suggested there was more space below. There was a light every few meters in the corridor, but not all of them were lit. The lit and unlit lamps alternated, resembling a broken band of light.
He walked for about five minutes. Every step echoed in the empty underground space. At the end of the corridor, there was a door.
The door appeared.
A metal door. It was a heavy grey steel plate, coated with a layer of rust-resistant paint, but the edges had already begun to peel, revealing the dark rust beneath. The door was about two meters high and one and a half meters wide, similar to the grade of a bank vault. A line of words was carved onto the door—not printed, but etched stroke by stroke with an electric engraving pen, the edges of the characters showing scorch marks.
"Frederick Vought - Private Archives."
Chen Mo stood before the door, his heart racing. It wasn't fear—it was the feeling of having searched all winter and finally finding the entrance. His fingers felt slightly numb, though he couldn't tell if it was from the cold or the adrenaline.
Stormfront stood behind him, silent. But he could feel her breathing—deep breaths, like an asthmatic trying to control their breathing rhythm.
Chen Mo gripped the doorknob. The metal was cold, so cold that he thought his fingers would freeze. He turned it with force.
It wasn't locked.
The door opened.
Inside was an archive room. It wasn't large, about thirty square meters. Lining the walls were two rows of iron filing cabinets that reached almost to the ceiling, their drawers labeled with years and numbers. 1971, 1972, 1973... all the way to twenty years ago. All the drawers were closed, except for one that was half-open, revealing a few yellowed pages inside.
In the center of the archive room was a desk. It was wooden, dark brown, and the varnish on its surface had cracked like a dried-up riverbed. An open diary lay on the desk. The diary was thick, with a black leather cover and rounded corners from wear. Next to it was a pen—its cap left off. It looked as if someone had been writing in the diary, stopped halfway, stood up, and walked away, never to return.
Chen Mo walked to the desk. He looked down at the diary. The pages had yellowed, but the ink was still clear.
The last page.
"I created Compound V."
Chen Mo's fingers hovered in mid-air.
"Not to rule the World. Not to build some superhero empire. It was to keep my son, Thomas, alive."
His gaze followed the words, line by line.
"He was sick from a young age. A blood disease. The Doctors said he wouldn't live past five. I didn't believe them. I am a scientist—I used science to save him. I succeeded. He survived. He is six years old this year. Every morning he knocks on my laboratory door, asking me what I'm researching today."
He paused, then flipped to the next page.
"But saving him meant harming millions of others. Compound V was used for the military. Used to manufacture weapons. Used to create those—I don't even know what to call them. Those people flying around in uniforms. It wasn't what I wanted."
He flipped to the very last line of the final page.
"I am a failed father."
Chen Mo stared at those words. He stood there, staring at the sentence for about ten seconds. He didn't move. He didn't make a sound.
The founder of the World's largest pharmaceutical company. The inventor of Compound V. The man Vought had fashioned into "The Creator." In his final diary entry, he had written those words.
He looked up. A photograph hung on the opposite wall. It had a black wooden frame, and the glass was covered in a layer of dust. In the photo was Frederick Vought—wearing a white lab coat, sitting in a chair, holding a young boy of about five or six. The boy was very thin and pale—the kind of paleness characteristic of leukemia patients. But he was smiling, smiling very happily. Frederick was also wearing black-rimmed glasses, his hair graying, with a smile playing at the corners of his mouth—the kind of middle-aged smile common in photographs. But there was something in his eyes; it wasn't happiness, but worry.
Stormfront stood at the doorway of the archive room. She didn't come in. She stood beneath the doorframe, with one foot inside and one foot outside. She looked at the desk, at the diary, and at the photo on the wall.
"He's dead."
Her voice was very quiet in the empty archive room, like a leaf falling to the floor.
"He is already dead."
Chen Mo flipped to the first page of the diary. March 14, 1971. Written in English. The handwriting was as neat as print—the handwriting of a scientist, with every letter trained and punctuation meticulous. He flipped through nearly half of it—by around 1983, the handwriting had changed. The neatness was gone, replaced by scribbles, and some sentences were left half-finished. The dates began to skip—sometimes there were no entries for a month, and sometimes he wrote four or five in a single week.
He flipped to the last page. The date—a spring twenty years ago.
He stood there, looking at the photograph. Frederick Vought. The man who created Compound V. The man who changed the World. The man who made it so Nighthawkcould never return home. He wasn't a mad scientist, nor a villain who wanted to rule the World. He was just an old man whose son fell ill, who wanted to save him, only to realize that in saving one, he had harmed millions.
Chen Mo closed the diary. He glanced at Stormfront. She was still standing at the doorway, looking at him—not at his face, but at the diary in his hand.
"Let's go."
He put the diary into his pocket.
Stormfront turned and walked deeper into the corridor.
Chen Mo followed behind her. He raised his hand again, and the golden ring of sparks lit up once more in the damp air. He glanced back at the archive room—the desk, the filing cabinets, the photograph on the wall. The pen on the desk was left uncapped, like an unfinished sentence.
He stepped through the Portal.
The sparks dissipated into the early morning air.
Silence returned to the archive room. The pen remained uncapped.
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