The clamor of Royal Square did not subside T'Challa withdrew his gaze; instead, it grew even more intense as night fell. The drumbeats resumed, their rhythm more rapid than before, as if urging something on. Ye Mo put down his empty glass, his fingertips lightly tracing the rim. The cool touch allowed his tense nerves to relax for a moment. But he didn't truly relax; the chilling feeling of being scrutinized still lingered on his back, like a tiny thorn, stuck there, impossible to pull out, and without feeling any pain—it simply existed.
He adjusted his posture, leaning back slightly in the shadow of the chair. His silver half-rimmed glasses slipped down to the middle of his nose, but he didn't immediately push them up. Instead, he casually glanced through the gaps above the lenses at the platform in front of him and the surrounding viewing area. Emma Frost stood half a step to his side and slightly behind him, her dark blue dress motionless. Her smile remained impeccable as she listened to an elderly diplomat beside her recount Wakanda's history, but her eyes were like two deep wells, utterly devoid of emotion.
"Don't space out." Emma Frost's voice was soft, almost drowned out by the surrounding music. "If your ' Thermal Vision ' is kept on, even at a low power, those highly sensitive security devices can still detect abnormal thermal radiation signals. Unless you want that old diplomat in the front row with binoculars to think you have cataracts, or worse—be invited in for questioning as a suspicious individual."
Ye Mo's lips twitched slightly, revealing a cynical smile, "I'm appreciating art. Look at this composition, this light and shadow, it's simply a masterpiece by a master photographer. Besides, I'm just feeling a bit hot and want to see where the coolest place is."
Emma Frost didn't reply, but simply tilted her head slightly and said in a voice only the two of them could hear, "Take it easy. Now is not the time to be reckless."
Ye Mo's heart skipped a beat, and he immediately stopped releasing his mental energy to probe outwards. He took a deep breath and completely focused his attention inwards, as if the sharp, surgically-like observer had never existed. He pretended to adjust his glasses, tapping his fingers lightly on the temples of his glasses, but in reality, he was shutting down the residual effect of the " X-Gene Resonance " in his eyes and activating another, more covert mode of perception— Thermal Vision.
The field of vision switched instantly.
The once vibrant world had lost all its bright colors, leaving only Spectrum of crimson and deep blue. The crowd's heat emanated a normal warm yellow, like a flowing warm sea. But Ye Mo's gaze, like a probe, carefully swept across the edge of the viewing platform, the shadows behind the technical team, and the base of the square's pillars. He didn't move his eyes dramatically, but instead, by fine-tuning his focus, he made his gaze jump quickly between a few key points.
Behind the load-bearing column on the left side of the platform, the temperature of three heat sources was abnormally high. It was not the normal body temperature, but a kind of heat that was continuously radiating outwards, carrying the residual heat of some kind of mechanical operation. These heat sources were in an unnatural state of stillness, out of place with the surrounding flow of people. They were like three solidified blocks of ice embedded in a pot of boiling oil.
Ye Mo quickly constructed a map in his mind, marking the first suspicious point. Then, his gaze moved to the right, landing on the exit of the ventilation duct on the right. There were similar residual heat signals there, faint but regularly shaped, clearly traces left by some kind of equipment or weapon.
There are six in total.
At least six ambush points.
The placement of these heat sources is highly tactically strategic. The load-bearing pillar on the left blocks the entrance to the main passage, the ventilation vent on the right controls the aerial view, and on either side of the steps below the platform, two more heat sources are hidden within the ranks of the attendants. Their positions are not randomly scattered, but form a perfect encirclement, awaiting a specific command.
The acrid smell in the air, a mixture of spices, sweat, and burnt metal, seemed to have intensified. It was the distinctive odor produced by the friction of gunpowder and Vibranium, which only emanated when in close contact with heavy weapons. Ye Mo's nostrils twitched slightly as he noticed this subtle change.
He didn't speak, nor did he make any obvious movement. He simply changed the rhythm of tapping the rim of his glass.
Previously it was a leisurely three taps, now it's two short taps followed by one long tap.
This is the "dangerous" code they agreed upon.
Emma Frost understood instantly. She had been listening to the diplomat speak, and upon hearing this, her body stiffened almost imperceptibly for a moment before returning to normal. Her mental tendrils didn't expand outwards but contracted inwards, assuming a defensive stance. She didn't look at Ye Mo, nor did she turn to observe her surroundings; she simply maintained her original posture, as if continuing the conversation about history. But Ye Mo knew she was ready. If the conflict erupted, she would immediately activate her Diamond Form or use Telepathy to create chaos, buying the two of them time to escape.
Ye Mo continued to scan the entire area out of the corner of his eye, noticing that the concealed armed men seemed to be adjusting their breathing. Their movements were extremely slow, as if afraid of making the slightest sound, but the oppressive tension was clearly transmitted through the thermal imaging. Their weapons were already silently cocked, the sound of the safety catch being released masked by the roar of the music, but to Ye Mo, it sounded like the muffled rumble before thunder.
He turned to look at the platform, trying to catch T'Challa's reaction.
If T'Challa discovers something amiss, how will the situation develop? Will he feign ignorance and wait for an opportunity to retaliate? Or will he immediately order a crackdown, triggering a chaotic battle?
Ye Mo's Thermal Vision focused on T'Challa.
He noticed that T'Challa's heartbeat hadn't quickened; instead, it had become even more steady and powerful. Thump, thump, thump. Each heartbeat was like a heavy hammer striking a drum, carrying an undeniable force. His pupils contracted slightly, and his gaze seemingly casually swept across the audience, but in reality, it precisely swept over every suspicious corner.
T'Challa's eyes changed.
It was no longer the imposing sense of dominance he had exuded, but rather a hunter's sharpness and vigilance. His right hand hung seemingly casually at his side, but his fingers were lightly tracing the edge of his combat suit. This was a typical preparatory gesture, indicating that he had already sensed something was wrong and was assessing the level of threat.
Fragments of memory from Chapter 601 flashed through Ye Mo's mind. The abnormal energy fluctuations detected at the border had puzzled him. He had thought it was a natural phenomenon, a malfunction of equipment, or even sabotage by the remnants of the Klaue faction. Now, looking at the heat sources hidden in the shadows, he suddenly realized: it was neither a natural phenomenon nor a malfunction of equipment, but an energy disturbance caused by militants infiltrating with heavy equipment. Those fluctuations were man-made, purposeful, and designed to conceal their approach to the King.
Foreshadowing and closure.
Ye Mo confirmed that this was a meticulously planned attack. T'Challa was not a lamb to the slaughter; he had already smelled the blood and was simply waiting for the best opportunity to retaliate.
The cheers around him reached their peak, a scene of singing and dancing, a truly lively and festive atmosphere. But beneath this festive exterior, undercurrents were surging. Ye Mo felt a strange sense of oppression, not from a threat of force, but from a desire to control the unknown situation. He knew he couldn't let himself be consumed by these emotions. The mission was still ongoing, and the crisis was far from over.
He glanced at Emma Frost beside him. Emma Frost was slightly turned her head, listening to the old diplomat recount the history of Wakanda. She wore a polite smile, but her eyes were calm and composed. The two needed no words; their understanding was ingrained in their very bones.
In the distance, an aircraft swept overhead, leaving a faint contrail before disappearing into the blue sky. The music in the square grew even more rousing, the drums beating again, the rhythm lively and enthusiastic.
Ye Mo's fingers tightened slightly around the wine glass. He noticed that some of the security personnel below the platform were beginning to relax; their attention was diverted by the celebratory atmosphere, and their weapons were hanging down.
This is the calm before the storm.
Ye Mo didn't move or speak. He simply stood there quietly, like a statue, blending into the sea of revelry. His gaze pierced through the gaps in the crowd, fixed on the direction of the high platform, waiting for the next moment to arrive.
Emma Frost also stopped what she was doing, her mental antennae extending slightly to monitor the emotional fluctuations of the surrounding guests. The air was filled with an atmosphere of excitement and anticipation, but also mixed with a subtle restlessness.
Ye Mo put down his wine glass, his fingertips lightly tapping the rim. Once, twice, three times. The rhythm was steady, the frequency fixed. This was a habitual action he took when he was thinking.
He knew that the real challenge was just beginning.
In the center of the square, T'Challa slowly raised his hands to greet the crowd. His movements were solemn and slow, each gesture full of ritual. The crowd erupted in even more enthusiastic cheers, the sound almost lifting the dome above.
Ye Mo squinted, peering through the lenses of his silver-rimmed glasses, trying to capture every subtle change in T'Challa's expression. He noticed a faint, elusive smile playing on the corners of the new king's lips.
What was hidden in that smile?
Is it confidence? Is it sarcasm? Or is it some kind of hidden calculation?
Ye Mo had no answer. But he knew he had to find it.
He stood up, straightened the hem of his suit jacket, and took a small step toward the platform. It was a small step, but it stood out conspicuously in the crowded throng.
Emma Frost reacted quickly and grabbed his sleeve.
"Don't be impulsive," she whispered, a hint of warning in her eyes.
Ye Mo stopped and glanced back at her. Their eyes met in mid-air, and they instantly reached a consensus.
Yes, now is not the time.
He stopped, sat back down, and resumed his relaxed demeanor. He raised his wine glass again, offering a perfunctory toast towards the high platform.
T'Challa seemed to notice the gaze. He turned his head slightly, his gaze passing over the crowd and landing precisely on Ye Mo.
In that instant, Ye Mo felt a chill creep up his spine. It wasn't killing intent, but rather a scrutinizing gaze. Like a cheetah spotting a potential threat in the grass, yet unsure if it was worth the effort.
Time seemed to freeze at that moment.
The cheers around him grew distant and indistinct; in Ye Mo's world, only that gaze piercing through the crowd remained.
He met T'Challa's gaze expressionlessly, a faint smile playing on his lips.
This is a silent standoff.
Whoever blinks first loses.
After a moment, T'Challa withdrew his gaze and continued to face the crowd. His expression returned to its usual solemnity, as if nothing had happened.
Ye Mo breathed a sigh of relief; his back was already soaked with cold sweat. He picked up his glass and drank it all in one gulp. The spicy liquid slid down his throat, bringing a burning sensation, but it also sobered him up a bit.
"It seems this new king is not to be trifled with," Ye Mo thought to himself.
Emma Frost put down her glass, her face pale, clearly exhausted from the mental struggle. But she quickly regained her composure and smiled at Ye Mo, saying, "What do we do next?"
Ye Mo looked down from the platform, where a large number of security personnel had already gathered. They were clearing the passageway, seemingly preparing to welcome the next important guest.
"Let's keep watching the show," Ye Mo said casually. "Now that we're here, we can't leave empty-handed. T'Challa's secret might be hidden in this suit."
Emma Frost nodded and readjusted her telepathic mode. Her gaze refocused on the platform, awaiting the next turning point.
The lights in the square gradually came on, and night fell. The celebration entered a new phase, filled with singing and dancing, and was exceptionally lively.
Ye Mo leaned back in his chair, seemingly relaxed, but his whole body was tense. The scene from earlier kept replaying in his mind, trying to find a flaw in it.
Suddenly, a slight tremor came from the ground.
It's so faint that it's impossible to detect unless you're completely focused.
Ye Mo suddenly opened his eyes and glanced at the ground. In the cracks of the stone pavement, he saw a very faint black powder slowly spreading.
Was that... poison? Or some kind of tracking agent?
Before he could react, Emma Frost's mental antennae suddenly trembled violently.
"Something's coming," she said softly, her voice tinged with seriousness.
Ye Mo didn't speak, but silently clenched his fists. His gaze swept past the crowd and toward the entrance to the square.
There, a dark figure was silently approaching.