The yellow light was still flashing, like the last beat of a heartbeat.
Ye Mo's palm was still pressed against the cooling valve, his fingertips still tinged with the chill he had just suppressed. He didn't move, nor dared to breathe heavily, afraid that a single breath would snap the taut string. Ronan stood a hundred meters away in the dust, his warhammer raised, purple flames rising, like a crouching behemoth slowly raising its head. The oppressive feeling didn't come from power, but from rhythm—a tremor with every step, so regular it sent chills down one's spine.
Star-Lord knelt on the high metal plate, his helmet visor closed, his fingers resting on the ship's control stick, his knuckles white. He didn't speak, but his shoulders were taut, clearly knowing this wasn't the time to show off.
"Not there yet," Ye Mo said in a low voice, almost inaudible.
"I know," Star-Lord replied crisply, "Waiting for your signal."
Raccoon crouched beside the bomb, his hand still resting on the control panel, his eyes fixed on the remote feedback light. Groot's roots were still wrapped around the tail of the spaceship, Gamora stood on the edge of the rocky ridge, her fist slightly clenched, her gaze locked on Ronan's right shoulder.
Everyone is waiting.
Waiting for the right opportunity.
Waiting for an opportunity that will never come again.
Ye Mo closed his eyes, a fine layer of sweat beading on his forehead. The recent cooling had drained a lot of his mental energy. The system hadn't activated, and his abilities were on the verge of cooling down, but he knew now wasn't the time to conserve his energy. He took a deep breath, calmed his mind, and followed the rhythm he had observed earlier to re-enter Ronan's action pattern—a 0.3-second delay when exerting force with his right shoulder, and a brief shift in his center of gravity upon landing, like a gear shifting.
The flaw is the window.
He mobilized fragments of his " Telepathy " ability, not to sweep across the entire area, nor to forcibly invade, but to construct an extremely narrow, low-frequency mental pathway, directly connecting to Star-Lord's brain region. There were no images, no words, only a series of rhythmic pulses: three short and one long, three short and one long.
This was their secret code.
Star-Lord's body jolted violently, and his pupils contracted sharply.
"Damn it..." he cursed under his breath, then realized what was going on, "Was this your doing?"
Ye Mo didn't open his eyes, but simply nodded slightly.
Star-Lord gritted his teeth, adjusting the angle of the joystick with his fingers. He knew this wasn't a hallucination or an illusion—the rhythm was too clear, like someone typing Morse code in his head. He began to understand Ye Mo's meaning: Don't look at Ronan as a whole, focus on his right shoulder, and wait for that delay to appear.
"I saw it," he murmured, "Right shoulder... always a beat too slow when raising the hammer."
Ye Mo continued to send signals, the mental link like a thin thread, teetering precariously amidst the spatial oscillations of the gravel belt. Every fluctuation of the purple flames interfered with the link, requiring him to constantly recalibrate it, like trying to light a fire in the wind.
Star-Lord piloted the spaceship slowly into the air, the engine noise reduced to a minimum. The spaceship slid out from behind the rocky hollow, its tail firmly supported by Groot's roots. Gamora stretched out his hand and gave it a push, calibrating the initial angle. No one spoke during the entire process; it was all done through coordinated movements.
"Descend another five meters," Ye Mo transmitted in his mind.
Star-Lord immediately pressed the lever, and the ship glided along the edge of the debris field, avoiding several floating rocks. Sweat began to bead on his forehead as he tried to control the ship while simultaneously receiving the intermittent rhythmic signals; his mind was practically turning to mush.
"Seven degrees to the left," Ye Mo relayed again.
Star-Lord swerved sharply, and the ship narrowly missed a protruding rock pillar. Raccoon glared back at him. "Can you two take it easy? This bomb can't withstand that kind of shaking!"
"Shut up," Gamora coldly. "They're doing things you can't do."
The Raccoon rolled its eyes but didn't say anything more, only pressing its paws even tighter.
Ronan remained standing, warhammer raised high, purple flames rising and falling like his breath. He didn't move, but everyone knew that the next second would bring a devastating attack.
Ye Mo's mental link began to heat up, as if an electric current was coursing through his brain. He knew he couldn't hold on for long; this high-intensity information synchronization was putting a tremendous strain on his body, especially since he had just used the "Molecular Deceleration" ability and his mental strength hadn't recovered yet.
"The last thirty meters," he gritted his teeth and sent the message.
Star-Lord nodded. The ship had glided to within thirty meters of the designated drop zone, its speed reduced to minimum. His right hand hovered over the bomb release button, his left hand steadyed the control stick, and his entire body was taut like iron.
"Wait until he takes a step," Ye Mo emphasized in his mind, "The moment his right shoulder exerts force is the window of opportunity."
Star-Lord held his breath.
Ronan moved.
With each step he took, the ground cracked open, and purple flames exploded in a shockwave. Just as he exerted force with his right shoulder, Ye Mo abruptly pushed the rhythm signal to its peak—three short notes followed by one long one—before abruptly stopping.
Star-Lord pressed down with his finger.
"I voted!"
The bomb detached from the capsule and slid along its pre-set trajectory, like a silent meteorite, precisely heading towards Ronan's landing point.
The whole process took less than two seconds.
No one cheered, no one breathed a sigh of relief. Raccoon stared intently at the remote feedback light, Groot's roots remained taut, Gamora's fists didn't loosen, and Star-Lord's ship didn't retreat but instead rapidly ascended, hovering thirty meters below the ground, its helmet visor closed, its eyes fixed on the trajectory of the falling bomb.
Ye Mo finally opened his eyes, his face pale, his left hand trembling slightly. He slowly withdrew his hand; the cooling valve was no longer hot, but his fingertips were icy cold, as if they had just been pulled out of ice water. He leaned against the rock wall, motionless and silent, simply staring at the gliding bomb.
Time seemed to stretch out.
Ronan seemed to sense something; his warhammer slowly turned towards the sky, purple flames surging as if to meet the attack.
But it was too late.
The bomb slid into the designated area, less than twenty meters from Ronan, with a stable trajectory and precise landing point.
Star-Lord's ship hovered steadily, Groot's roots remained firmly attached, Raccoon's hand was still on the panel, and Gamora stood on the edge of the rocky ridge, her gaze sharp as a knife.
Ye Mo sat there, his left hand supporting his forehead, his right hand hanging by his side, his fingertips still trembling.
The bomb was dropped, but it did not explode.
All personnel remain in their positions and have not evacuated.
The air was tense, like a bowstring stretched to its limit.
Star-Lord's lips moved, and his voice came through the comms. "Now... it's up to you."
Ye Mo didn't answer. His eyes were fixed on Ronan, on the ever-brightening purple flame, and on the bomb that was about to hit the ground.
One second.
Two seconds.
Three seconds.