Ye Mo's palms were still braced on the rubble, his knuckles white, a bloody gash between his thumb and forefinger, blood dripping down the cracks in the rocks, one drop, two drops, hitting the scorched ground with a soft "sizzle". He was kneeling, his body leaning forward, like a wild dog pushed to its limit but refusing to give in, panting as if he had just been pulled out of the water. The tightness in his chest hadn't dissipated, his ribs felt like they had been sawed back and forth several times, each breath carrying a rusty smell—a sign that his lungs were bleeding.
He didn't move, nor did he dare to.
It's not that I don't want to stand, it's that I'm afraid if I let my guard down, I'll collapse. That Force Field just now was too intense, draining my energy like a well being drained dry. Now my body feels empty, without a sound. The system is also unusually quiet; none of the notification sounds that should usually pop up at this time have appeared. It's probably exhausted too.
"Fine... so you've finally met your match?" He sneered inwardly, not expecting a response.
Smoke and dust still lingered, and the firelight reflected off the ground, casting his distorted shadow, which clung to the ground like that of a drunkard. In the distance, black smoke billowed from the wreckage of the spaceship, and Groot's severed roots were still slowly writhing. Gamora's location was mostly obscured by a collapsed slab of rock, making it impossible to see anything clearly. A crackling electrical noise came from Star-Lord's direction, likely the self-checking sound of the navigation system restarting.
He knew all of this.
But he can't care about anyone else right now.
He needs to rebuild himself first.
" Regeneration... Regeneration..." He gritted his teeth, repeating those three words over and over in his mind, as if chanting a spell, "Third layer, third layer... activate the Wade- type Self-Healing fragment."
His consciousness sank, diving into the " Gene Spiral Tower " that only he could see.
The tower remained unchanged, twenty stories high, dusty and drab, resembling construction scaffolding. A faint blue light shone from the third floor, bearing a label: [ Self-Healing) - Wade Wilson Ability Fragment - Unnamed Combination]. He'd acquired this thing from an abandoned lab some time ago. He'd only casually touched a bloodstain on the wall, and the system had beeped, saying "High concentration of Regeneration factor residue detected," before automatically adding it. He'd tried it once; the effect was mediocre, at best a high-grade bandage—it made wounds scab over faster and prevented scarring, but relying on it to turn the tide? Forget about it.
But things are different now.
He doesn't need to form a scab.
He wants to come back to life.
"Come on," he whispered, his voice hoarse like sandpaper grinding iron, "Stop playing dead, get moving."
In an instant, it felt like an old engine inside my body was forcibly ignited.
"Click... click..."
First, his stomach tightened, then a surge of heat shot up from his spine to his head. His vision went black, and he almost fell, only managing to steady himself by digging his fingers into a crack in the rock. Immediately afterward, his skin began to burn, as if someone were blowing a torch onto it. His capillaries burst open and then quickly closed, the broken ones reconnecting, and the bleeding ones automatically sealing themselves.
The area around the ribs hurts the most.
The cracks looked like they were crawling with countless tiny insects, gnawing and burrowing into the bone, breaking apart and reforming at the same time. Veins bulged on his forehead, and cold sweat trickled down his temples, dripping into his eyes and stinging them. But he didn't raise his hand to wipe them, afraid that any movement would disrupt the entire rhythm.
"Keep going... keep going..." he muttered unconsciously, "Don't stop, I'm not dead yet."
Muscle fibers begin to contract, stretch, and re-weave. The torn scapular muscles are as if being pulled and stitched together little by little by an invisible hand. The bruise on the back that hit the rock pillar when it was thrown by the shockwave turned from purple to red, then slowly faded to pale yellow, and finally disappeared. The cracks on the palms closed up, the scabs fell off, revealing the tender new skin underneath.
He could feel himself growing.
It's not the slow, death-waiting recovery kind of healing; it's a real, visible recovery. It's like rewinding a video, undoing the damage it caused.
One minute.
Two minutes.
He finally raised his head.
He heard a soft "click" from his neck, like a rusty bearing finally being lubricated. He slowly released his hands from the ground, opened and closed his fingers, and moved his wrist joints. There was no stiffness or pain; his strength had returned to about 70%.
"Not bad." He grinned, dried scabs still clinging to the corner of his mouth, his smile somewhat menacing. "Looks like this 'screen protector-level' Self-Healing can be upgraded to a 'factory overhaul'."
He slowly stood up, his legs still a little weak, but he could stand steadily. He glanced down at his clothes—his black hoodie had several holes, his cargo pants had a scorched patch at the knee, and the soles of his sneakers were cracked, revealing the blackened foam inside. He was far from looking presentable, but at least he could still fight.
He stretched his shoulders, twisted his waist left and right, and kicked his legs a couple of times to make sure there were no remaining strains. Then he raised his right hand, palm up, and tried to gather a wisp of energy.
The fingertips glowed faintly, then went out.
"Not full of energy, still on cooldown," he muttered. "But... it's enough."
He didn't expect to recover to his peak condition immediately. This level of exhaustion would have put anyone else in the ICU on a ventilator. The fact that he could still stand was already a miracle. The most important thing now was to not let that burst of energy go to waste.
He remembered why he hadn't fallen.
It's not because of stubbornness, it's because we can't fall.
If the spaceship exploded, Star-Lord and his gang of lunatics would all be buried here; if Gamora was blasted away, no one would keep Ronan in check; if the power went out at Raccoon, who would light the next wave of bombs? At that moment, he had only one thought in his mind: Hold on, even if I'm just a breath away, I have to get through this.
And now, he has survived.
The injury has healed.
My strength has returned.
Then let's continue.
He took a deep breath, the air still carrying the smell of burnt gas and ozone, making his throat itch. He didn't cough, but instead focused the breath into his lower abdomen and then slowly exhaled. His heart rate dropped from 180 to 120, his breathing went from rapid to steady, and his gaze shifted from unfocused to sharp.
Ahead, amidst the dust and smoke, Ronan remained motionless.
The man was kneeling on one knee, his warhammer planted in front of him, his head bowed as if adjusting something. Sparks were still flashing on his armor, and blood seeped from the crack on his right shoulder, but the purple flames were already re-condensing on the Hammerhead, growing stronger and stronger.
Ye Mo stared at the ball of fire, neither retreating nor charging forward.
He stood there, feet shoulder-width apart, arms hanging naturally at his sides, like a stake driven into the ground. The wind blew across the gravel belt, stirring up a cloud of dust that brushed past his face, but he didn't even blink.
"You yell your way, I'll live my life," he said in a low voice. "You want to destroy the universe, I want to survive—we have different goals, but neither of us is someone to mess with."
He raised his left hand and gently pressed his temple.
His head was buzzing, like the aftereffects of running a marathon and being mentally exhausted. The Telepathy communication he had just used up too much energy, and now his temples were throbbing. But he ignored it and forced himself to concentrate, scanning his surroundings.
No abnormal vibrations were observed within a 40-meter radius.
There are no new signal sources underground.
No flying objects approached from the air.
Only Ronan, one man, one hammer, and one flame.
"Okay." He nodded. "One-on-one, I like that."
He stretched his neck, making a crisp "crack" sound, then slowly raised his right hand, clenched it into a fist, opened it, and clenched it again. His fingertips glowed faintly again, a little brighter than before.
"One more Force Field should last eight seconds," he estimated. "What can you do in eight seconds? Star-Lord can turn around, Gamora her sword, and Raccoon can set things on fire—as long as I don't fall, they have a chance."
He didn't want to win.
He just wants to stall.
Drag it out until your teammates are ready, drag it out until the enemy shows a weakness, drag it out until the situation turns around.
This is his playing style.
It's not about recklessly charging into battle; it's about patiently developing your strength and waiting for an opportunity to turn the tables.
"System, if you can hear me..." he thought to himself, "Next time, could you give me a 'mana regeneration while fighting' buff? Relying on potions to Self-Healing every day will eventually lead to kidney deficiency."
Of course, no one answered.
He didn't need to answer.
All he needed to know was that he could still stand, move, and fight.
That's enough.
He slowly crouched down, lowering his center of gravity, and assumed a standard ready stance. Left foot forward, right foot back, knees slightly bent, back straight, eyes locked on the dark figure in the dust ahead.
The wind has stopped.
The firelight died down.
The entire gravel belt seemed to have been paused.
He didn't speak, didn't provoke, and didn't make any unnecessary movements.
He squatted there, like a hunter lurking in the shadows, waiting for his prey to rise.
Ronan finally made a move.
He slowly raised his head, his eyes beneath his helmet gleaming with a ghostly purple light, fixed intently on Ye Mo's direction.
Ye Mo did not dodge.
He raised only one hand, palm facing forward, and made a "come on" gesture.
The movements were crisp and clean, like a shot cut with a single stroke.