Ye Mo appeared, sparking speculation about his identity

By the time Ye Mo stuffed his phone into his pocket, it was already broad daylight. He stood by the apartment window, his fingers resting on the glass. Outside, he could hear the sound of brooms sweeping the ground and people talking in hushed tones. A volunteer in an orange vest was handing out water to people in line, and next to him was a makeshift medical tent. A child sat on a small stool eating bread.

He didn't sleep much last night, but he didn't feel sleepy. The images kept replaying in his mind: the old man selling coffee, the child hugging a teddy bear, and the words "We're still here" on the wall. These are small things, but it's these small things that bring the city to life.

He glanced down at his black hoodie, the cuffs slightly worn. He'd worn this shirt for a long time, never changing it since his first awakening of the system. But not now. He opened the wardrobe, took out a dark gray trench coat; the fabric wasn't new, but it was crisp. He then pulled out his silver half-rimmed glasses, twirled them in his hand, and put them on.

The person in the mirror looks different. Not because of the clothes, not because of the glasses. It's because his eyes have changed. He used to always try to hide, but now he knows he can't hide anymore.

As he walked out of the apartment building, the sunlight shone directly on the steps. The roads in the eastern district were not yet fully repaired, and some places were still littered with rubble and broken steel bars. But he walked steadily. As he passed a supply point, someone looked up at him, and the box in their hand stopped in mid-air.

"Um... is it Mr. X?"

Which one?

"He's the one who rescued people from the rubble last night, the one with glasses."

The sound wasn't loud, but it carried quickly. He didn't turn around, nor did he quicken his pace. A few volunteers ahead were moving cardboard boxes, and one of the girls suddenly stopped and stared at him. Her lips moved, but she didn't speak. However, the boy next to her followed her gaze and froze as well.

He continued walking forward.

An old man was pushing a food cart on the street corner, with a sign that read "Free Hot Drinks." He walked over, took a cup, and took a sip. The temperature was just right. The old man looked at him and nodded. "You're here to help out, right?"

"I guess so," he said.

"Then you should drink more," the old man said, handing her another cup. "It's getting chilly, don't catch a cold."

He took it and put it in his trench coat pocket. As he walked further, the crowd gradually grew. Some people started pointing at him, and others took out their phones to take pictures. More and more cameras were on him, but he neither covered his face nor lowered his head.

The entrance to the square was just ahead. A considerable number of people were already gathered there—some were evacuees, some were volunteers, and some uniformed police officers were maintaining order. Reporters were kept outside, holding microphones and cameras, constantly shouting questions.

"Mr. X! Can you say something?"

"Are you one of Stark's new recruits?"

Are you Mutants?

No one told him to stop, and no one dared to come up and stop him. He walked to the bottom of the steps at the main entrance of the square and stopped. The crowd was silent for a few seconds, then burst into applause. Some people called his name, some waved, and a middle-aged woman burst into tears.

He neither laughed nor responded. He simply stood there, his gaze sweeping over everyone. Supporters clapped excitedly in the front row; skeptics whispered among themselves in the back. He heard a voice drift over. "Where was he before? Where was he when the nuclear bombs came flying?"

Before he could finish speaking, someone next to him interrupted, "Shut up, he carried your wife out of the collapsed building yesterday."

He remained calm. He had anticipated this kind of discussion. Not just anyone can be a hero, especially one who suddenly appears. People need time to accept it, and they need a reason to believe.

Just then, a little girl ran out of the crowd. She was about seven or eight years old, with two pigtails, and clutching a piece of paper tightly in her hand. Her mother chased after her, but couldn't stop her.

The little girl ran up to him, looked up, and said softly, "Uncle... thank you for saving my dad."

She handed her the paper. It was a drawing, done with crayons; the colors were a bit messy, but you could make out a man wearing glasses standing between tall buildings, with a burning city below and many tiny figures reaching out their hands. In the lower right corner of the drawing, a line of words was written in crooked handwriting, "Mr. X, we are not afraid anymore."

He crouched down to be at her eye level.

"You drew very well," he said.

"Dad said you're a hero." The little girl bit her lip. "Are you really?"

He thought for a moment and said, "I'm not a hero. You are."

"Ah?"

"This city was able to return because you never gave up. I just helped out as a sideline."

After he finished speaking, he took the drawing, carefully folded it, and put it into the inside pocket of his trench coat. His movements were slow, as if he were receiving something very important. The little girl smiled, turned, and ran back to her mother. Her mother nodded to him, tears welling in her eyes.

This scene was captured on several cameras. Someone started recording and uploading it, and the headline immediately went viral. "Mr. X shows up! Receives a hand-drawn thank-you card from a little girl!"

The comment section exploded.

Holy crap, he really exists!

"That painting made me cry."

Who exactly is he? Is he registered with S.H.I.E.L.D..?

"He doesn't seem like Stark at all; his demeanor is completely different."

The atmosphere in the square changed. The previous skepticism remained, but more people began to believe he was genuinely doing things. Someone shouted, "Mr. X! Say a few words!"

Immediately, someone joined in the shouting, and the voices grew louder and louder.

He didn't move.

Until a reporter broke through the police cordon, approaching with a microphone. "Are you a member of the Avengers? What is the source of your abilities? Do you have a registration number?"

The police officers immediately moved in to stop the man. As he was being dragged away, he continued to shout, "The public has the right to know the truth!"

He watched this scene without saying a word. He would encounter this kind of question many times. He had already thought of the answer—neither explain nor deny. Maintaining a bit of mystery would actually deter certain people from making any rash moves.

He slowly raised his hand and wiped his glasses. The lenses were a little dusty, so he gently wiped them away with his sleeve. When he put them back on, he paused for a moment. This detail was captured by countless cameras and later became a popular internet meme. "Mr. X wiping his glasses = getting ready to unleash a powerful attack."

He straightened up and stepped onto the first step.

The concrete steps were a bit high, and his shoes made a soft thud as he stepped on them. The morning light shone from the side, casting a long shadow that stretched all the way to the center of the crowd.

Everyone fell silent.

Phone cameras were pointed at him, flashes going off one after another. Some people held their breath, while others quietly tightened their grip on their companions' hands.

He stood there, the hem of his trench coat swaying slightly. One hand was in his pocket, the other hung at his side. He didn't speak, but everyone knew—he was about to speak.

Just then, out of the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of a black SUV slowly driving past at the edge of the square. The windows were heavily tinted, obscuring the interior. But it slowed down at the entrance, paused for three seconds, and then drove away.

He remained expressionless.

But his fingers tapped lightly on the inside pocket of his trench coat—where, besides the painting, lay a fragment of Vibranium, which was slightly warm.

The sound of the wheels rolling over the gravel was very faint.

He lifted his foot, preparing to step onto the second step.