Death Canyon

At four thirty in the morning, on the outskirts of London, the cold could freeze a man's bones solid.

Chu Hang wrapped his military coat tighter and cursed Colonel Phillips ten thousand times in his heart. Again at this hour. These old fossils simply had no idea what sleep was.

At the end of the runway, a C-47 transport plane gave off a dull roar. Dim yellow lights shone on the members of the Howling Commandos, each of them standing there like stone.

The atmosphere was oppressive. There were no farewells, only the biting wind.

Chu Hang curled his lip and swept his gaze over this group of temporary teammates.

At the front stood Steve Rogers, the future Captain America. He was carefully checking the clasps on his shield. His face was sharply defined, and there was nothing in his eyes but the mission.

What a stubborn idealist, Chu Hang thought.

Not far away, a hot-tempered man sat atop an ammunition crate, using one Bone Claw to sharpen the other.

Logan.

The shrill scraping sound made everyone's teeth ache.

Chu Hang's gaze lingered on Logan's hands for an extra second. Fortunately, he had copied the Healing Factor back then.

It was precisely this ability that had kept him alive in this godforsaken place.

As for the others—Dugan, the demolitions expert, and Falsworth, the British gentleman—in his eyes, they were just background props providing firepower.

He slipped his hands into his pockets and touched the M1911 pistol at his waist.

Beneath the barrel hung a palm-sized silver metal box engraved with circuitry Howard Stark had drawn. At its center was a blue crystal.

"Portable Energy Condenser." That was the name Stark had given it.

"A piece of junk." That was Stark's final assessment of it.

According to him, its only use