Glass shattered in a deafening crash as Hong Fei's blade pierced through the dome. He descended in a flash of gleaming armor, landing with a heavy thud that shook the ground. The sudden arrival startled Dreykov, who leapt from his chair with surprising agility for a man of his age.
Dreykov looked every bit the refined scholar. His snow-white hair and eyebrows framed a face softened by age, his gold-rimmed glasses perched on a nose that seemed too delicate for the rest of his bulk. His chubby cheeks trembled with every movement, his neck so short that his head appeared to rest directly on his barrel-like torso.
Few would believe this unassuming man commanded the Red Room, one of the world's most notorious agent training programs. Yet the Red Room's reputation was well-earned—its methods crossed moral boundaries and disrupted global order.
As Dreykov rose, Taskmaster stirred from her silent vigil. Her skull-patterned mask glared menacingly as she swung her metal round shield from her back and hurled it at Hong Fei with brutal force. The black disc whistled through the air, its sharp edges capable of cleaving through flesh and bone alike.
Hong Fei raised his arm, catching the shield effortlessly with a single hand. His body didn't so much as sway from the impact. But he felt the power behind the throw—Taskmaster's strength was formidable, even if her appearance deviated from the comics. With a flick of his wrist, he sent the shield whirling back toward Dreykov, aiming to sever the old man's head from his shoulders.
Taskmaster didn't disappoint. In a blur of motion, she nocked an arrow and let it fly. The sharp tip struck the shield's edge, deflecting it just enough to miss Dreykov by a hair's breadth. She followed up with a rapid barrage of arrows, forcing Hong Fei to abandon his pursuit of Dreykov and turn his attention to her.
Hong Fei's movements were economical—small shifts of his head, subtle twists of his body, precise lifts of his legs—yet each motion was enough to evade the storm of arrows. Under the Eyes of Death, even the fastest projectiles seemed to crawl. The arrows' true danger lay not in their speed but in their shimmering tips, each imbued with deadly potential.
Hawkeye had mastered these trick arrows, and Taskmaster seemed equally adept. The Red Room had clearly studied both Hawkeye and Captain America, incorporating their techniques into Taskmaster's arsenal long before the Avengers became household names.
To Dreykov's eyes, Hong Fei moved with uncanny precision, evading arrows that appeared as little more than blurs. His speed was shocking, his combat prowess unparalleled. Dreykov's gaze flicked to Taskmaster, confidence in her learning ability gleaming in his eyes. If she could absorb even a fraction of Hong Fei's skill, her power would skyrocket.
Hong Fei was about to close in, so Taskmaster stopped shooting. With a fluid motion, she shook her bow, the curved weapon snapping straight. Her right hand drew a sharp blade from the bow's body—a curved katana. Hong Fei abandoned Dual Wielding, opting instead for his Cross-blade. He drew it swiftly, the momentum carrying into a downward slash. The clash of steel rang out as their blades met. Clang!
Taskmaster's katana shattered instantly, the Cross-blade slicing through it without losing momentum as it surged toward her neck. She didn't hesitate. Retreating swiftly, she reached out, and the round shield embedded in the wall beside Dreykov trembled twice before flying back into her hand.
This wasn't some mystical shield control or mental power—it was pure technology. With the black shield now in her grasp, her stance shifted immediately. She curled her upper body, tucking herself behind the shield just as the Cross-blade descended. A deafening clang rang out. The shield held firm, and so did the Cross-blade.
Hong Fei knew this shield wasn't the original, but it was far from ordinary metal. After deflecting the strike, Taskmaster kept her upper body steady, but her leg snapped up in a sudden kick. The shield tilted slightly, making the motion subtle yet precise—and her target was unmistakable.
A crotch kick—crude but effective, regardless of gender or identity. But Hong Fei, more skilled in such tactics than she was, wasn't fooled. He kicked a fraction later, but his speed outpaced hers. His mind was already running through countless scenarios, discarding impossibilities as reality narrowed the options. By the time he decided on a move, his body had already executed it.
Taskmaster's leg shot forward, and Hong Fei's foot met her shin with brutal force. What goes around comes around.
An ordinary fighter would freeze in such a situation. A master might stay calm but still be surprised. Only the rarest of top-tier opponents could continue unfazed. Taskmaster, however, didn't fit any of these categories.
Her combat style, reshaped by Dreykov's modifications, was a product of emotionless technology chips and cold calculations. Failure meant nothing—she simply recalibrated. Before she could even steady herself, she lifted the shield with both arms and slammed it down with a thunderous crash.
A shield is a heavy weapon, equally suited for defense and offense. Defensively, it's nearly impenetrable; offensively, it's devastating. Though this round shield, reminiscent of Captain America's, was smaller, neither he nor Taskmaster treated it as purely defensive. Its wide surface area made it a formidable striking tool.
Combined with her immense strength and considerable speed, the shield's threat level skyrocketed. To counter a heavy weapon, you need another heavy weapon. So what was Hong Fei's answer? His fists. Planting his feet firmly, he drew power from the ground itself.
The armor plates along his back visibly rippled, bulging from his heels upward like a coiled dragon ready to strike. The force surged through his entire body, and the Qi within him didn't need conscious guidance. It flowed naturally, a soldier obeying orders, merging with his physical strength as it erupted in line with his will. Boom!
The impact echoed like a morning bell, his fist hammering into the shield's center with brutal force. Taskmaster—shield and all—was hurled into the air, slamming into the wall before crumpling to the ground. The shield clattered, then split cleanly in two with a sharp crack.
On ancient battlefields, heavy hammers, not sharp swords, were the tools for shattering armor. A single blow might leave the armor intact, but the person beneath it would suffer devastating damage.
Such strikes didn't demand finesse or deep understanding of force mechanics. No need for concepts like "penetrating power" or "collapsing energy." Pure, raw strength was enough—the hammer did the rest, and it never failed.
Hong Fei didn't carry a hammer, but his fists could become one—or even a cannon. This punch wasn't just about strength or technique, though. His power wasn't yet that overwhelming. It was Qi.
Qi had become his greatest ally. After two months of rigorous practice, his reserves had surpassed their former limits. More importantly, his understanding and control of Qi had grown exponentially.
Earlier, he hadn't consciously directed or mobilized it. Instead, Qi had actively cooperated, fueling that devastating strike. Cultivation wasn't just about talent; it required thought, reasoning, and application.
The skill card had granted him Qi, bypassing the need for innate talent. He then transferred his understanding of energy to his mastery of Qi. As his control deepened, his experience with force became invaluable. The two complemented each other perfectly.
He wasn't standing still anymore. In fact, he was beginning to see Qi and technique as inseparable partners. Dreykov stood frozen, stunned. He'd expected Taskmaster might lose, but not this quickly. The word "imitate" laid bare the core of Antonia's modifications.
She'd absorbed countless combat techniques from around the world, analyzing them to perfection. In theory, no one could outmaneuver her; she could adapt to anyone. Yet reality had proven otherwise. Recovering quickly, Dreykov lunged toward his desk.
Hong Fei turned, hurling the Cross-blade. It flashed through the air, piercing Dreykov's arm and pinning him to the desk. His ringed hand hovered mere centimeters from the console. "How can you attack me?!" he wailed.
The base was saturated with an odorless, colorless pheromone. Any life form exposed to it was rendered incapable of harming him—a key reason for his safety within the Red Room. It was reminiscent of the Purple Man's ability, but what had become of him? On the ground, Taskmaster rose in a fluid motion, her movements sharp and precise.
Just as she was about to continue attacking, a mass of red mist enveloped her. It seeped into her armor with each breath, freezing her in place. Hong Fei felt her gaze—a mix of sorrow, pain, and resentment. "Wait for me," he said, turning toward Dreykov.
Dreykov strained against the blade pressing into his flesh, desperate to reach the console. Every twitch sent searing pain through his body as the weapon bit deeper, threatening bone. He needed to summon his Widows—his last hope for rescue—but the blade's precision left no room for error. When he saw Hong Fei approaching, desperation overcame caution.
He lunged, teeth clenched, ignoring the consequences. The blade flashed, severing half his arm in a clean arc. His hand, still clutching toward the console, was suddenly severed at the wrist by a streak of silver light. It flew sideways, landing with a wet thud. "Ahhhh! Damn it!" Dreykov roared, collapsing against the table. His forehead glistened with sweat as he pressed the stump of his arm, trying to stem the agony. "Who the hell are you?"
Hong Fei knelt, retrieved the severed hand, and slipped the ring from its finger. He placed it on the console. The large screen flickered to life, displaying a photo of a young girl. With each click, more images appeared—faces, names, histories. Their lives unfolded before him: past, present, and potential futures. Outside, gunfire erupted, and the base's alarms wailed. Hong Fei studied the screen briefly before turning to Dreykov.
"I suddenly don't intend to kill you," he said. Dreykov's eyelids twitched. He didn't believe it. His sharp instincts screamed that this wasn't mercy—it was something worse. "You... what do you want?" he rasped. Hong Fei gestured to the screen. "These people. They're more qualified than me. They have more needs than me." Dreykov barked a bitter laugh. "You're delusional! They're my most loyal subordinates!"
Hong Fei did not answer, but instead called out: "Antonia!" Taskmaster stirred at the sound of her name. Her neck turned stiffly, and her demeanor shifted, clashing with the skull mask she wore. Dreykov's eyes widened as realization dawned. Hong Fei leaned in, patting his cheek with chilling calm. "How you die... they decide."