Because of the violent rolling, the airplane cabin was now completely upside down.
Chen Mo first unbuckled his own seatbelt, dropping lightly onto what used to be the overhead luggage racks, then reached up to unfasten the straps of the two unconscious women beside him.
Hoisting one over each shoulder, he began moving toward the broken tail section.
The floor—now the "ceiling"—was a mess of twisted seats, mangled luggage, and hanging corpses. Dozens of passengers were still strapped into their upside-down seats, their bodies swaying lifelessly as thick blood dripped from their wounds, falling like rain.
The ground beneath him was slick with blood and debris, every step treacherous.
Intent on getting out before the wreck exploded, Chen Mo didn't bother avoiding the corpses. A few drops of warm blood splashed onto the faces of the women on his shoulders—
and that was enough to make them stir.
He instantly felt the change in their breathing. His hands shifted from their backs toward their heads—ready to act.
But before he could, both women opened their eyes, saw the nightmare around them—blood, fire, mangled limbs—and screamed.
Then they fainted again.
Their terrified shrieks vanished into the crackle of flames. Chen Mo shook his head helplessly. Probably better that way, he thought. If they stay unconscious, I won't have to knock them out myself.
He moved faster now, stepping over bodies until he reached a section of torn fuselage where the metal had been ripped open during the crash—a jagged hole barely large enough for one person.
Raising one boot, he kicked hard. The twisted steel shrieked, tearing wider.
Then, with both women still slung over his shoulders, Chen Mo leapt out of the wreckage and into open air.
He landed heavily on the scorched earth outside, sprinting forward another hundred meters before stopping.
When he turned back, the shattered hulk of the plane burned behind him—flames licking at the torn metal, black smoke rising into the sky.
For a brief moment, he stood there in silence, feeling that thin, trembling thread between life and death.
Back when the crash first happened, his survival had been pure luck. He had truly felt death closing in that day. Who would've thought that very disaster would awaken his latent power—sending him into another world, where he would become stronger than he'd ever imagined?
And now, he'd come full circle—returning to the same crash, alive, powerful, and even able to save two girls who'd been as good as dead.
Setting them gently down on the ground, Chen Mo scanned the surroundings.
Dense jungle loomed in every direction. The only open stretch was the deep trench carved by the plane's impact—forty meters wide and nearly two hundred long, stretching from the forest into the beach. Broken trees and scattered wreckage littered the path like the scars of some colossal beast.
He followed that scarred trail back toward the sea and could see the sand, still streaked with the gouges from the plane's landing.
Satisfied with his bearings, he glanced once more at the unconscious women, then quietly slipped into the shadows of the trees.
He could feel movement inside the wreck—other survivors starting to crawl out.
But he couldn't risk being seen.
He was a wanted man. The Zhou Tianhao case might have already led the authorities to him, and if he returned to civilization now, his sudden reappearance—stronger, larger, and somehow different—would draw every kind of attention he couldn't afford.
No. He couldn't be found.
Even if the rescue teams came, they had to believe Chen Mo had died in the crash.
If the two girls had stayed conscious, he might've had to knock them out himself. Luckily, fate had spared him the trouble.
So he decided to turn disaster into opportunity:
the "Chen Mo" who boarded this flight would die here today.
It wasn't the first time he'd pulled such a trick.
In the Captain America world, he'd staged his own death by flying a bomber into the ocean. Now, back in reality, he would repeat the performance—burying his old self for good.
And this plan, he had to admit, was almost flawless.
The plane had crashed into the sea before breaking apart. Many bodies had been lost to the depths. Recovering every corpse would be impossible.
With his physique and face now altered, Chen Mo could easily assume a new identity when the time came.
All he needed to do was remain unseen—wait until the survivors were rescued, and then disappear into the island's wilderness.
He had enough food, fresh water, and supplies stored in his spatial vault to live comfortably for months. The next world jump would come in about a month. He could wait.
From the shadow of the trees, Chen Mo observed silently.
More survivors were emerging from the wreckage. To his surprise, there were more than he expected.
Besides the two women he'd saved, the first to escape were three foreigners. They stumbled out of the burning fuselage, bloodied but alive, then sprinted straight for the shore—
never sparing the fainted girls a single glance.
So much for chivalry,Chen Mo thought dryly. Still, their luck was impressive; apart from some scrapes and shock, they seemed unharmed.
A few moments later, at the torn tail section, another group appeared—two people supporting an elderly man.
The old man, in his sixties, was flushed purple, sweat pouring down his face as he grimaced in pain. Some kind of illness was clearly acting up.
The man helping him was tall, muscular, his head shaved—a bodyguard by the look of him.
On the other side was a striking young woman in a gray business suit, her black hair neatly falling to her shoulders. Her movements were calm, efficient—sharp eyes, cool demeanor: the aura of someone used to being in control.
They half-carried, half-dragged the old man across the wreckage until they reached the two unconscious girls. There they stopped.
The woman immediately knelt, pulling a small pill bottle from her jacket pocket and pressing a tablet into the old man's trembling hand.
Within moments, his breathing steadied and the pain eased from his face. The woman let out a long breath of relief—then turned to check on the two unconscious girls.
But before she could reach them, another sound split the air—
a deep metallic groan from the shattered plane.
More survivors.
This time, four figures appeared at the broken opening.
Two flight attendants were each supporting an injured man. Both men were bleeding heavily, their uniforms torn, faces pale, barely able to walk.
The two women struggled under their weight, inching forward one painful step at a time.
From where he watched, Chen Mo could tell—they were moving too slowly.
At that pace, they'd never clear the danger zone before the wreck exploded.