The spaceship was still gliding in the warp drive, the starry sky stretched into horizontal bands of light, like the image of an old television with a poor signal. Ye Mo leaned back in the co-pilot's seat, not moving. He had eaten the heated canned food earlier and felt quite satisfied; his stomach was full, and he was too lazy to get up.
He closed his eyes, not to sleep, but to regulate his breathing. There was a dull ache in his ribs, like someone was rubbing them with sandpaper. He ignored it, focusing his attention inward. Right after the battle, his mind was blank, his ears were ringing, and he couldn't even make out the lyrics to Star-Lord's humming. Now it was different; the world had quieted down, but something inside him was starting to surface.
First, my palms felt a little warm.
It wasn't the warmth of a wound healing, nor the electric sensation of Self-Healing ability activating; it was more like... something inside me had awakened and was gently knocking on the door.
He didn't open his eyes, his consciousness sinking in, touching the " Gene Spiral Tower." This thing was in his mind, neither emitting light nor making a sound, just a structure stacked layer upon layer, each layer sealing a set of ability fragments. He had previously activated up to the 13th layer at most, relying on combinations of techniques he had pieced together, such as Wall Phasing, Force Field, and Flame Manipulation. Now, looking at it again, those previously choppy connecting lines seemed to have been lubricated, becoming incredibly slippery.
Especially the parts " Shadowcat's Wall Phasing " and " Wade's Self-Healing," which used to require gritting your teeth and concentrating to barely get them working together, are now spinning on their own, like a mini perpetual motion machine.
He thought to himself, "Damn, did I get leveled up after beating Ronan?"
The system didn't reply—of course it wouldn't; this damn system never speaks, he had to guess. But he could sense that the change was real. Not only were the modules smoother, but the entire range of perception had expanded significantly.
He tried to de-emphasize his Spatial Perception.
Previously, this method was laborious; one had to focus intently on a specific point to "taste" the ripples in space. Now, it's unnecessary. With a moment's relaxation, the entire structure of the spacecraft automatically appears in one's mind—the thickness of the steel plates, the routing of pipelines, the engine vibration frequency—all are crystal clear. Even the sound of Rocket biting into a can lid while munching on food in the adjacent living quarters can be located near the third load-bearing beam in the right rear compartment.
Even more outrageous is what you see outside the porthole.
Cosmic background radiation, dark matter microflows, and energy disturbances at the edge of warp bubbles—things he couldn't perceive before—are now as clear as dust under a streetlamp in a night market. He can even distinguish which stream of particles is sweeping past the bottom of the ship and which is debris bounced back after being deflected by the shield.
He opened his eyes and glanced at the radar screen on the control panel.
Normally, the display only shows a few green dots indicating the location of teammates. But what he saw in his perception was an entire dynamic network, densely packed with data streams, as if someone had directly stuffed the Wi-Fi password of the universe into his brain.
"Am I... starting to get used to this godforsaken place?" he whispered.
The sound wasn't loud, and no one heard it. Nor should anyone have heard it. He was used to being alone all along, and from the first day of his transmigration, he hadn't expected anyone to take the blame for him. At that time, he just wanted to survive, not die too quickly, and not cause trouble. As a result, he ran into the Avengers and the Guardians of the Galaxy, and was forced into becoming a main damage dealer.
But things are different now.
It wasn't because he had more teammates, or because his equipment was better. It was because he changed. His body, his nerves, his genes—all of them—were forcibly straightened out in those life-or-death battles. Like a rusty wrench, constantly tightening screws, it eventually became shiny from wear.
He sat up straighter, his fingers resting on his knees, trying to activate the "high-temperature manipulation" module. This ability was originally a temporary setup, powered by fragments of Hela's embers and a bit of Self-Healing energy. Before, it required half a day of rest after each use, with a cooldown time that made one question their existence. Now, when he tried it again, the heat surged up his spine, and as soon as flames appeared in his palms, the Self-Healing system caught them and recycled them without damaging any tissue.
His palm hovered in the air, facing upwards, and a small ball of orange-red flame slowly formed, burning steadily without spreading or going out.
"Tsk." He looked at the ball of fire. "Before, setting off a fireball required chanting a spell for three seconds, but now it's like a kettle boiling over, dripping and dripping away."
He blew on the flame, and it flickered but didn't go out. He added a little more force, compressing the flame into a small core, causing the temperature to soar and even the air to distort slightly.
Alright, looks like I don't need to panic too much about vacuum combat anymore. At least I can heat myself up and avoid freezing into an icicle.
He lowered his hand, and the fire went out naturally. He didn't have much energy left in his body, but it wasn't depleted. The key was that he knew how to replenish it—not through the system, not through luck, but through fighting. Fighting match after match, pushing himself to the limit until his body remembered that rhythm.
He suddenly remembered something Tony had said, "No matter how advanced the armor is, it's still just a tool. What truly keeps you alive is the nerve in your head, always keeping it on high alert."
Back then, he thought it was just feel-good platitudes. Now he understands: Old Tor wasn't teaching him how to build armor, he was teaching him how to survive.
He raised his hand, took off his cracked glasses, and traced the diagonal line on the lens with his fingertip. Before, he relied on them to see the world, but the right side was always slightly skewed, which gave him a headache after a while. Now he didn't need them anymore. His eyes might not see any more clearly, but his brain's ability to process information was stronger, so even if the image was slightly distorted, it could automatically correct itself.
He folded his glasses and stuffed them into his sweatshirt pocket. The movement was small, but he knew in his heart: this was a symbol. From then on, he would no longer rely on that shell of "pretending to be refined".
He stood up and stretched his shoulders. The holes in his work pants were still there, and the sleeves were almost worn through, but he didn't care to change them. These external things were no longer important. What mattered was where he was now and how far he could go.
He walked to the cabin window and looked out.
The starry sky during warp drive didn't resemble a still painting, but rather a flowing river. The band of light slowly rotated, Nebula appeared and disappeared in the distance, and the occasional dark shadow of meteorite debris flashed by nearby. Before, when he looked at these things, he only felt cold, distant, and dangerous. Now, looking at them again, he felt a strange sense of familiarity, as if this void was not a foreign land, but some kind of... stage that should have belonged to him.
He stared at one of the streams of light and suddenly realized something: he was no longer afraid of the universe.
It wasn't that he wasn't afraid of death, nor that he wasn't afraid of enemies. Rather, he finally understood that he was no longer an ordinary college student on Earth. His blood, his nerves, his genes had been reshaped by battle after battle, constantly honed by the X-Gene System, until he could stand firm in this cruel yet magnificent sea of stars.
He can get hurt, he can bleed, he can be so tired that he wants to lie down and never get up again. But he will not back down.
He turned, his back to the porthole, and walked towards the living quarters. His steps were slow but steady. Each step seemed to be a silent declaration: I'm still here, and I'm getting stronger.
As he passed the control panel, he casually pressed the communication button, said nothing, and simply confirmed that the channel was open. The next second, he released the button and continued walking forward.
The base is almost here.
He knew that once the ship came to a stop, Star-Lord would definitely yell, "Come on, let's have a meeting!", Rocket would complain, "Can't you fix the air conditioning first?", Groot would stand quietly in the corner, Gamora would be the first to ask about the follow-up arrangements. They would discuss tactics, assign tasks, and plan the next steps.
But he knew he wouldn't hide behind the "system notification sound" like before.
He now has the ability and the awareness.
It wasn't to be a hero, nor to show off. It was simply so that when the next crisis came, he could hold out for one more second, save one more person, and hold onto a little more hope.
He walked to the entrance of the living area and stopped. The lights were on, the tables and chairs were neatly arranged, and the heating cabinets were steaming. Everything seemed normal.
He took a deep breath and stepped inside.
The spaceship was still sailing, its destination clear. He didn't look back, nor did he pause; he seemed to have undergone an invisible tempering, reshaped anew.