Battle at the airport

The black encrypted card was still lying on the coffee table; Ye Mo didn't touch it. He opened the door and stepped into the cold New York morning wind.

The air smelled of rust and burnt metal. In the distance, towards Long Island International Airport, the sky was tinged with an eerie orange-red by the exhaust plumes of the armor's thrusters. The roaring sound rolled across the sky like muffled thunder, shaking the puddles on the ground. Ye Mo pulled his hoodie down low, his sneakers making a slight, sticky sound as they stepped on the wet asphalt. He didn't fly or Teleportation; he simply moved quickly towards the airport, like an ordinary night runner, along the shadowy corners behind the buildings.

His consciousness sank deep into his mind. At this moment, the bottom layer of that gray "Gene Spiral Tower" was like an overloaded server, frantically consuming the information flow from the battlefield.

There are no visual effects, no sound effects, just pure data.

Tony Stark's armor engine frequency: 12,000 revolutions per minute, peak thrust locked.

Steve Rogers ' heart rate: 80, steady as a rock.

Clint Barton... and so on.

Ye Mo's mental senses detected an unusual fluctuation.

In the center of the tarmac, where the two sides were locked in a stalemate, the tall man carrying a quiver suddenly stopped. Hawkeye Clint Barton stood still, his gaze sweeping over the mercenaries in black suits and masks around him—former members of S.H.I.E.L.D.., and auxiliary forces for Tony's side.

Through Telepathy, Ye Mo captured a fleeting image in Clint's mind: not tactical analysis, not a weighing of interests, but a yellowed photograph. The photograph showed a young Steve Rogers, smiling at the camera. Immediately following was a short, powerful inner monologue. "I'm on this side."

Without any hesitation, and without any explanation.

Clint turned around, his back to Tony Stark, facing the area where Captain America was. He drew back his bowstring, and a specially made concussive arrow was nocked, its arrowhead pointing directly at the mercenaries trying to stop Captain America's team.

"Bang!"

The sound of the arrow leaving the bowstring was drowned out by the huge explosion, but Ye Mo clearly saw the chain reaction. The mercenary formation instantly fell into chaos; some fell, and some retreated. This action was like toppling the first Domino, and the seemingly balanced scales tilted completely.

Tony Stark slammed on the brakes mid-air, the reactor on his armor's chest blazing brightly, and a red laser sight instantly locked onto Clint's back. "Clint? Are you insane?" Tony's voice boomed across the arena through the public channels, filled with disbelief and rage.

Clint didn't turn around, but coldly replied, "Some scores are settled with old friends."

The situation collapsed even faster than Ye Mo had anticipated.

Ye Mo hovered on the edge of the top floor of a skyscraper, with the unfathomable city night view below. The wind was strong, making his clothes flutter. He did not feel relieved because of Hawkeye's defection; on the contrary, a deeper chill crept up his spine.

The battlefield is not just a battle between superheroes, but also an outlet for emotions.

Tony's armor began its accelerated dive, the high-temperature airflow from the thrusters instantly melting the snow on the ground into steam. Steve Rogers raised his Vibranium Shield, his eyes resolute as iron, while the Avengers Reserve Team members behind him assumed fighting stances. The shockwaves generated by the collision of the two energy fields slammed outwards like invisible fists.

Ye Mo closed his eyes, shutting out his physical senses and retaining only his Mind Stone perception. He saw countless lines of emotion intertwining in the air: Tony's arrogance and impatience, Steve's stubbornness and compassion, and the ordinary people around him caught up in it all...

An ordinary person.

Ye Mo's gaze passed over the dazzling beams of energy and landed on the evacuation area near the airport terminal. There, a large number of civilians who had not had time to evacuate were gathered. Their fear permeated the air like black oil, thick, heavy, and suffocating.

A mother huddled behind a pillar, clutching her child tightly; several uniformed staff members sat slumped on the ground, their faces pale; and a young girl, clutching her phone with a shattered screen, stared blankly ahead, tears streaming silently down her face.

These emotions were so real, so real, that they stung Ye Mo.

This is not a political game, nor a clash of ideologies; it is real people suffering. Regardless of who wins or loses, as long as this chaotic battle continues, these people will be the biggest victims.

"Neutral?" Ye Mo sneered inwardly.

At this distance, in the face of such intensely pure despair, "neutrality" is a joke. If you watch a fire burn and do nothing, what's the difference between you and an arsonist?

He opened his eyes, a barely perceptible glint of cold light flashing in his pupils.

The original plan had completely changed. He no longer needed to observe the situation; he needed to enter the battlefield. But not to fight for either side, but to rescue those innocent people from the area of fire.

Ye Mo adjusted his breathing, his fingers gently gripping the edge of his hoodie pocket. There lay the prototype of a recently successfully tested ability combination—though not yet fully stable, it was enough for him to use once.

He jumped from the rooftop.

The wind whistled past his ears as he plummeted downwards. He forcefully twisted his center of gravity mid-air, dodging a miniature missile fired from Tony's armor. The missile exploded behind him, the flash illuminating the night sky and the reflection of his silver half-rimmed glasses.

He didn't fly to Tony, nor did he fly to Steve.

His target was clear: the low-rise warehouse area on the west side of the airport terminal. It was close to the main civilian evacuation route, a blind spot for enemy fire, and the only way to survive.

Upon landing, Ye Mo rolled over to absorb the impact and stood steadily on the ruins. Shards of glass pierced his shoes, but he felt no pain. His attention was entirely focused on the chaotic crowd ahead.

Tony's fighter jet hovered low, locking onto Captain America's position; Steve waved his shield, deflecting attacks from all directions; Hawkeye darted between cover, his arrows never missing their mark. No one noticed the young man in the black hoodie, just as no one notices an ant.

Ye Mo lowered his body, crouched low, and quickly passed through a pile of abandoned shipping containers. His heart was pounding, not from fear, but from excitement. The feeling of dancing on a knife's edge reminded him of that night at the beginning of his transmigration.

"System," he murmured to himself, "Give me a straight answer, is this thing even usable?"

The Gene Spiral Tower in my mind trembled slightly, sending a vague feedback. It wasn't a warning, nor a confirmation, but just a subconscious intuition: it could be used, but at a great cost.

"That's enough." A slight smile appeared on Ye Mo's lips.

He stopped in his tracks. Ahead lay the area where civilians had gathered. Several Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. dressed in black were trying to maintain order, but they were clearly struggling; the fighting in the distance had already reached them. A stray bullet grazed the rooftops, sending sparks flying and causing screams to erupt from the crowd.

Ye Mo took a deep breath and put his hands in his pockets. His gaze changed from the cold scrutiny he had just displayed to a solemn and focused one. What he wanted to do was not to become a hero, but to become a ghost, a ghost that could move through the flames of war.

He strode towards the terrified crowd. His figure gradually blended into the night and smoke, like a lurking cheetah searching for the perfect angle to enter.

Just as his hand was about to touch the first civilian's shoulder, a dazzling red light descended from the sky, heading straight for his head.

Ye Mo didn't look up, but simply stepped aside.