American comics: I am full of martial virtues and I love to be kind to others.

The room was about 60 square meters, with surveillance screens lined up on three walls—most of them were broken or smoldering. An L-shaped control panel sat in the center of the room, its keyboard and control panel smashed to pieces. Broken glass, broken cables, and several overturned office chairs were scattered on the floor.

Scott stood on the left side of the room, his legs slightly bent, his body in a half-crouching combat stance. His right hand was raised in front of his chest, two fingers resting on the edge of the red quartz lens—his standard preparatory move before unleashing the optical shockwave. There was a burn mark about twenty centimeters long on the left shoulder of his flight suit; a section of the fabric had been burned through, revealing the protective layer underneath.

Jane stood behind him, her hands outstretched in front of her, a pale green, almost transparent membrane of light constantly flowing between her palms—a psychic shield. Veins bulged on her forehead, and her lips were tightly pressed together; maintaining this shield was clearly consuming a tremendous amount of her energy.

On the opposite side of them—

A man stood on the open ground behind the control panel. Or rather, "stood" wasn't quite accurate—his feet dangled about three inches above the ground, his entire body encased in a distorted, light-refracting, transparent spherical shell. The surface of the shell shifted colors like soap bubbles—but not rainbow colors, rather an unsettling optical disturbance that hopped back and forth between transparency and total reflection.

Prism.

The man was in his early thirties, bald, with high cheekbones and thin lips like knife marks. He wore a gray uniform—unlike the mercenaries', this uniform had a symbol Lynn had seen embroidered on the chest—the Brotherhood emblem.

"You think a few guns can do anything to me?" Prism's voice came from behind the optical sphere, sounding metallic and resonant, as if the sound waves had been filtered. "I can burn through the retinas of every single one of you."

“You can try.” Scott adjusted the angle of his lens slightly on the rim. “But first, you’ll have to guess which is brighter, what’s in my eye or your light.”

The prism's spherical shell flickered—not a flash, but a sudden change in light intensity. In less than a second, the shell transformed from transparent to a totally reflective mirror, and the person stood in the center of the room like a sphere of liquid mercury. All the light falling on the shell—the fluorescent light, the lightning outside the window, even the red glow leaking from the edge of Scott's glasses—was reflected back.

Then suddenly a gap opened on one side of the spherical shell—like an eye opening—and a dense, almost purple, beam of intense light shot out from the gap.

Scott dodged with astonishing speed—the beam grazed two inches from his right ear and struck the wall behind him. The concrete sizzled under the beam, leaving a fist-sized, red-edged dent.

“Jane!”

Jane pushed her hands forward, and the psychic shield detached from her palms, flying towards the prism like an invisible wall. The shield struck the optical sphere with a sharp, resonant sound—the two energies interfered with each other at the contact surface, producing a high-frequency vibration that made one's teeth ache.

The sphere didn't shatter—but it wobbled. The prism's levitation height decreased by a few inches, and a fine layer of sweat appeared on his bald head. Maintaining the sphere while resisting the psychic impact was distracting him.

“Lynn!” Scott tilted his head slightly toward the doorway. “His spherical shell is formed by optical refraction—essentially bending the light around him to create a reflective layer. But light refraction requires precise calculations and sustained focused force. If pressure could be applied to him simultaneously from multiple directions—”

“Understood.” Lynn gestured to Pedro and Diana.

The three men raised their guns from different angles.

"Fire simultaneously. Three—two—one—"

Three gunshots rang out almost simultaneously. The nine-millimeter bullets flew towards the prism's spherical shell from three different directions—front, 45 degrees to the left, and 60 degrees to the right.

The bullets did not penetrate the spherical shell. They were deflected the instant they hit the reflective layer, flying in all directions at irregular angles—one pierced the ceiling, another embedded itself in the shattered surveillance screen, and a third bounced into the corridor.

But a look of pain flashed across Prism's face.

His spherical shell exhibited a noticeable "flicker" at the moment the three bullets struck simultaneously—the reflective layer trembled for a fraction of a second, like a broken television screen, revealing the true space inside the shell. In that fleeting window, Lynn saw Prism's body—he was sweating, his lips were trembling, and his hands were held unnaturally in front of his chest, with unstable filaments of light dancing between his fingertips.

“He’s almost at his limit,” Jane said. “His mental strain is nearing its limit—maintaining the spherical shell and preparing the offensive beam at the same time is draining his concentration.”

“One more time.” Lynn changed the magazine. “Pedro, buckshot.”

Pedro pulled the pump-action front grip on the Remington—this time he loaded not rubber bullets, but No. 00 buckshot—nine lead pellets, each 8.4 millimeters in diameter, with enough impact force at close range to pierce a car door.

"Jane, can you give him another telekinetic attack while we're firing?"

"Yes, I can. But I only have the strength to do it one more time."

"Enough. Three—two—one—"

Four forces collided with the prism's spherical shell at the same instant.

Pedro's buckshot—nine lead pellets—covered the front of the sphere with a dispersed impact surface. Lynn and Diana's nine-millimeter bullets attacked from both flanks. Jane's psychic shockwave pressed down from above, an invisible force field slamming onto the top of the sphere like a giant hand.

The shell broke.

It wasn't an explosive shattering, but rather a network-like collapse, like the collapse of an ice sheet under simultaneous pressure from multiple points—cracks spread in all directions from each point of impact, breaking the continuity of the reflective layer, and distorted light returning to its normal refraction path. The prism's body plummeted three inches the instant it lost its protective shell—its knees slammed against the floor with a dull thud, and its hands braced itself to keep from falling.

Scott did not waste this window of opportunity.

His fingers left the edge of the lens—the red quartz lens had flipped up less than a centimeter.

A crimson beam of light shot out from the gap—not the scattering intensity of a prism, but a precise straight line with almost no divergence, the concentrated optical energy leaving a visible red trail in the air. The beam struck the floor in front of Prism—not him, but a foot in front of him—the concrete instantly vaporized under the beam's rays, the evaporating high-temperature gases and debris forming a scorching shockwave that hurled Prism backward.

The prism's back slammed against the edge of the control panel, producing a dull thud as metal and bone were subjected to the force of the impact. He opened his mouth and cried out in pain, his hands attempting to reform the spherical shell—the filaments of light between his fingertips flickered twice before extinguishing.

Jane stepped forward. She knelt down in front of the prism, extended her right hand, and gently touched his forehead with her fingertips.

Prism's eyes rolled upwards. His body relaxed instantly as if someone had pressed the power button, and he fell to his side, curling up into a ball.

“Psychological suppression.” Jane stood up, beads of sweat dripping from her forehead onto her green cardigan. “He’ll be unconscious for at least two hours.”

"Where are the other two people in the monitoring center?"

“Behind the console.” Scott gestured with his head toward the other end of the room.

Lynn walked around the control panel. Two men in gray uniforms lay face down on the floor, hands covering their heads, trembling—they hadn't moved since they'd been behind the control panel during the firefight. One of them was even wearing slippers. "Federal agent. Stay put."

They pressed themselves even tighter.

Lynn tied their wrists together with cable ties, then straightened up.

"The first and second floors have been completely cleared. Eleven mercenaries and one mutant security guard have been apprehended. Remaining targets: one runway technician, one outer patrol officer, and two communications personnel who have been rendered unconscious—a total of four people remain uncaptured."

“The runway technicians are running toward the main building,” Jane’s telepathic scan continued. “He heard gunshots. He had no weapon, only a wrench.”

"Jason, north entrance."

"Received. I saw him—short, wearing blue overalls—running towards the door."

A few seconds later—

"It's done. He raised his hands as soon as he saw me holding the gun. We didn't even need the cable ties; he just lay down on the ground, covering his head, and wouldn't get up."

"What about the one patrolling the perimeter?" Lynn asked Jane.

He stopped. He was in the bushes about 150 meters outside the fence, facing the complex. He heard noises, but the downpour obscured his view. He hesitated—whether to come and investigate or stay put.

"Don't let him get away. If he hides in the bushes, find someone on this island—"

"I'll go." Ororo's thought signal swept through everyone's consciousness like a gentle breeze.

Lynn ran to the window at the end of the second-floor corridor and looked out. The storm was still raging—but he could see a tiny change. About 150 meters southwest of the fence, a dark figure hesitated at the edge of the bushes in the rain.

Then Ororo appeared.

She descended from the bottom of the clouds—no, she emerged from the clouds—her white figure like a fallen star in the gray-black storm. She hovered about ten meters above the patrol post, her white hair billowing in the air currents, her entire body enveloped in a shimmering blue-white halo.

The patrolman looked up.

In his view, right in the center of the storm, a woman floating in the air was looking down at him. Her eyes were pure white. Real, crackling lightning was swirling around her body.

He threw the rifle in his hand on the ground, knelt down, and raised his hands above his head.

“He surrendered.” Ororo’s thought signal carried a dry humor. “I didn’t touch a hair on his head.”

“Beautiful.” Pedro’s thought comment crept in.

Lynn breathed a sigh of relief.

"Logan, Taylor, how is the condition in the test subject's area?"

The response came from Logan—not a telepathic message, but a harsh roar from outside the building, piercing through the downpour and wind.

"They're all here! Thirty-seven people! A few younger ones are crying but aren't injured! Come and help!"

Lynn ran down the stairs from the second floor and rushed out the back door of the main building.

The subjects' living quarters—three strip-shaped buildings—were located about thirty meters behind the main building. The buildings resembled cheap prefabricated houses—precast concrete walls, aluminum window frames, and flat tar paper roofs. Each building was about twenty meters long and six meters wide, arranged neatly in rows, with only about three meters between them.

Logan stood in the doorway of the first building. There were a few specks of mud splattered on his combat suit, but no blood. His fists hung at his sides—nothing unusual was sticking out between his fingers.

“The door is locked. I didn’t break it down—I was afraid of scaring the children inside.” He tilted his head slightly towards the electronic lock on the door. “You need a password or a card.”

Taylor stood behind Logan. His hands had returned to their petrified state—gray, rough stone fingers glistening wetly in the downpour. A complex expression crossed his face—tension, anger, and a deep sadness—a sadness that, when he looked through the window at the building's interior, transformed into something that made his lips tremble violently.

“I can open it.” Taylor raised his right fist.

"No need," a voice came from behind them.

Jane Grey walked to the door. She placed her right hand flat on the surface of the electronic lock and closed her eyes. Three seconds later, the lock's indicator light changed from red to green, and the door clicked open.

“Telekinesis to control the internal mechanical structure,” she explained. “Quieter than banging on the door.”

The door opened.

The sight inside made Lynn's stomach clench.

A narrow corridor runs through the entire building, with a small partitioned room on each side—more like a cubicle than a room—each about three meters by two meters, just big enough to fit a single bed, a plastic bucket, and a small steel storage cabinet. The cubicle doors are made of iron, with a small observation window welded to them.

People live in these cages.

The door to the first cubicle was open. Inside sat a boy of about thirteen or fourteen—white with blond curly hair—curled up in the corner of the bed, his arms wrapped around his knees, looking at the strangers who had suddenly appeared in the doorway with the eyes of a frightened little animal. He wore a metal ring on his right wrist—some kind of electronic monitoring device, its red indicator light flashing incessantly.

Lynn recognized him. The second file on the USB drive—a twelve-year-old boy, orphaned, taken from the state orphanage with forged adoption documents. Ability type: Limited metal perception. (End of Chapter)