The underground intelligence room of the U.S. Navy Department was permeated by an ever-present, stale smell of tobacco—blended with the odor of ink and sweat that had fermented due to poor ventilation. The map of Luzon hanging on the wall was riddled with holes from red graphiti pins; the red line marking the Japanese army's advance route looked like a freshly cut wound—disconcerting to behold.
Diana Prince stood beside Major Steve Trevor, holding in her hand a stack of newly decrypted telegraph translations. She was wearing her ill-fitting navy blue auxiliary uniform—its coarse wool fabric rubbing against her neck—and her heavy black-rimmed glasses not only concealed her originally deep-set eyes and brows but also seemed to diminish her presence. She looked like a sculpture deliberately weathered over time—stiff, silent, and devoid of any vitality.
"The supply lines on the Badan Peninsula have been severed," Diana said in a low voice, her finger gently tapping a seemingly insignificant coordinate point. "According to this intercepted Japanese field telegram, the 14th Army under Yonemoto Masaharu is assembling heavy artillery. If our troops cannot retreat to Corregidor within a week, this will not be a breakout—this will be a massacre."
Major Trevor frowned; the cigarette in his hand had already burned through its filter. He stared intently at the spot Diana had pointed out, his expression grave. He knew that this seemingly blunt female secretary possessed an astonishing tactical intuition—although she never explained the source of that intuition.
"This intelligence hasn't been confirmed yet, Diana," Trevor said, putting out his cigarette and letting out a sigh. "The staff at the General Staff thinks the Philippines can hold out for another two months."
"They were wrong," Diana replied calmly, her tone devoid of emotion—only the cold, factual tone of stating facts.
Just as Trevor was about to speak, the frosted glass door of the office was roughly pushed open. A man bearing the rank of colonel strode inside, his leather shoes making an annoying, crisp clatter against the floor. He didn't even glance at Diana; his gaze swept directly over her head and landed on Trevor.
"Trevor, I want this office," the Colonel said, slamming the folder he was holding down onto the table. "The people from the Strategic Intelligence Bureau are arriving shortly; we need an environment of absolute secrecy."
Trevor stood up, trying to ease the tension: "Commander, the First-Class Non-Commissioned Officer Prince is assisting me in organizing the Philippine theater of operations—"
"Let her out," the colonel said impatiently, waving his hand as if driving away a fly hovering at the corner of the table. "A meeting of this nature doesn't require a typist present. And Prince?" He finally turned his head, his gaze disdainfully sweeping over Diana's loose uniform and her expressionless face. "Close the door when you leave—don't let the chatter of those women outside get inside."
Diana remained silent. She lowered her eyes slightly, withdrawing her gaze from the map, and clutched the folder in her arms tightly between her hands. Her movements were slow and compliant; her body was slightly hunched, perfectly embodying that of a frightened, subservient subordinate employee.
"Yes, sir."
She turned around; in that cramped space, her shoulder didn't even brush against the colonel's sleeve. Like an invisible person, she quietly withdrew from this room—whose fate had determined that of tens of thousands—and gently closed the door.
The document processing area outside the door was like another world. The rhythmic clacking of dozens of typewriters formed a noisy metallic downpour, making the air even more turbid. Diana carried her documents through the narrow corridor and returned to her desk, which was tucked away in a corner.
"Evicted?" Betty, sitting at the table next door, turned her chair around, chewing gum while holding a slender cigarette in her hand. She glanced up and down at Diana with a kind of cheap sense of superiority in her eyes. "I told you – at a meeting of that caliber, how could Major Steve possibly keep you around all the time? You're probably just there to help him brew some coffee."
The several female clerks nearby exchanged a few soft chuckles. Margaret, who was applying nail polish, added without looking up, "Don't say that—Prince works really hard. Look at those glasses—he must have damaged his eyes somehow, right? It's a shame; men don't value things like that."
Diana sat down and neatly arranged the documents at the corner of her desk. She neither objected nor showed any sign of displeasure. Through her thick glasses, she looked at these women, who had been recruited for the war effort. They wore bright lipstick and uniforms with tight waistbands; during the breaks from their arduous work, they used harsh language to assert their insignificant status.
To Diana, these taunts seemed utterly powerless. She did not feel offended; instead, she felt a profound sorrow. These women were trapped within this vast, testosterone-driven machine—treated as mere ornaments or disposable items—yet they still reveled in the thought of whether someone would even glance their way.
The late autumn in Washington always carried a damp, chilly air; the streetlights appeared dim and feeble due to the lighting restrictions, casting mottled shadows across the wet asphalt pavement. Diana left the Department of the Navy building, carrying an worn briefcase, while her flat leather shoes made a monotonous, dull sound as she walked along the sidewalk. The cold wind pierced through her not-so-thick woolen uniform, yet this did not bother her—in her human form, she could feel the chill, but her Amazonian constitution allowed her to endure the harsh conditions more readily than most people did.
She chose a quiet, secluded alley as her shortcut back to her apartment. The distant hustle and bustle was blocked by the brick wall; instead, she heard the sound of pushing and the innocent scolding coming from deep within the alley.
"Give me your money, you bookworm! This is the consequence of not paying the protection fee!"
Diana stopped in her tracks; through the thick lenses of her glasses, she saw three young men—dressed in jackets and with slicked-back hair—pressing a thin, glasses-wearing boy against the corner of a dead-end alley. They were likely no older than fourteen or fifteen years old, a age when hormones run high and moral restraint is still lacking. One of the taller men was gripping the victim's collar, attempting to lift him off the ground.
This bullying behavior, imbued with primal ferocity, reminded her of how hyenas hunt their weaker prey in the natural world. However, in human society, this behavior has been imbued with even more meaningless malice.
Diana quickly scanned her surroundings. The area was an abandoned warehouse complex—no footsteps could be heard, nor any light emanating from the windows. A perfect dead zone.
She swiftly ducked between two massive wooden crates—a complete visual blind spot. Taking a deep breath, she began to spin her body rapidly; this was a precise movement, honed through countless repetitions. As the centrifugal force generated by the spin surged through her, a strange wave of heat emanated from the depths of her lower abdomen—marking the moment her golden belt was separating from her body and materializing. In that instant, she experienced a brief sensation of dizziness and tearing, as if her bones and muscles were undergoing a rapid reorganization.
The faint glimmer flashed by unnoticed by the group gathered at the alley's entrance.
When the rotation stopped, the suffocating gray uniform vanished. In its place emerged the cold, hard metallic texture and that long-awaited sense of strength filling her. The Truth Lasso hung around her waist, swaying gently with her breath. The golden belt pressed tightly against her waist and abdomen as an endless stream of divine power coursed through her veins, dispelling the fatigue and oppression she had felt when she was a "Prince-Level Non-Commissioned Officer."
She did not descend from the sky; instead, she emerged from the shadows with steady steps. Her red-and-blue combat armor stood out starkly in the dimly lit alley, yet it exuded an unwavering dignity.
Stop.
Her voice was not loud, but it carried a metallic resonance that echoed through the narrow alley.
The three thugs were startled and instinctively let go of the victim. But when they turned around and saw who was standing before them, the youthful bravado they had been displaying instantly collapsed. In this era, Wonder Woman's name frequently appeared in news clips and comics; she was a symbol of power.
"God... Wonder Woman?" the young man muttered, his legs trembling uncontrollably.
Diana walked toward them; the shadow cast by her tall figure completely enveloped the three young men. She didn't adopt a combat stance—simply standing there with her arms crossed was enough to create a powerful sense of presence.
"You've misplaced your strength." Diana looked down at them with a stern yet non-threatening gaze, as if reprimanding some mischievous young lions. "On the other side of the ocean, countless young people—fewer than a few years older than you—are shedding blood and sacrificing themselves for freedom. The entire nation is implementing a rationing system; every citizen is united in the pursuit of survival and victory."
She paused, her gaze sweeping over the young men who were trying to bury their heads in their chests: "And yet, here you are, tearing apart your own compatriots like wild beasts. Is this what you consider bravery? Is this the American spirit you wish to showcase to the world?"
These words carried special weight in the wartime context. Shame crept across the young men's faces faster than fear did. The leading boy's face turned bright red as he rubbed his hands helplessly: "Yes... I'm sorry, Miss. We... we just..."
"Go home." Diana interrupted his defense, her voice still cold and harsh. "Use that energy to help your parents with something, or collect scrap metal to support the front lines. Don't let me see you swinging your fists at the vulnerable again."
"Yes! Really!" The three of them felt as if they had been granted a complete pardon; they didn't even dare to glance at the boy who had been bullied by them again, and in a flurry, they pushed and shoved each other as they fled out of the alley.
Diana turned around to look at the boy, who was still clinging to the wall, still shaken. He was straightening his tilted glasses, his eyes filled with admiration and disbelief.
"Are you hurt?" Diana took a step closer, her tone becoming softer.
"No... no, ma'am," the boy said, shaking his head vigorously.
"Bravery isn't just about swinging your fists—it's also about maintaining dignity even in difficult times." Diana reached out and wiped the dust off his shoulder. Her fingers were slender yet strong, and her touch was gentle. "Hurry home; it's unsafe around here."
As she watched the boy stumbling away carrying his schoolbag, Diana confirmed that no one was around before slipping back into the narrow crevice of the dim wooden crate.
The reverse rotation evoked a profound sense of loss. The golden belt melted once more and sank back into her body; that omnipotent power withdrew as swiftly as receding seawater. In that instant, she felt her body grow heavy and sluggish, and her vision faded from extreme clarity to ordinary haziness.
When she stepped out of the shadow once again, she was once more Diana Prince – wearing black-rimmed glasses and a gray uniform.
When Diana returned to her single-room apartment on the ground floor, the street outside had already fallen into a state of silent darkness under a curfew on lighting. The only light in the room was a tungsten filament bulb that flickered frequently due to moisture; its dim yellow glow barely illuminated this ten-square-meter space – a military cot, a paint-peeled wardrobe, and a desk that also served as a dining table.
Dinner was the standard wartime ration: a can of Lima beans that hadn't been properly reheated, two slices of whole-grain black bread with a texture akin to wood shavings, and a cup of unsweetened black tea. As a semi-god endowed with the "Amazonian constitution," her basal metabolic rate was far higher than that of ordinary people; this meager meal could only sustain her most basic physiological functions—it couldn't quench her insatiable hunger. Yet she simply chewed in silence, feeling her stomach protest at the lack of fat. In the human world, hunger was also a disguise that had to be learned—just like the glasses perched on her nose.
She did not take off her clothes; instead, she lay directly upon a bed with a faint musty odor. The golden belt around her waist was like a dormant organ, warming slightly with her breath—the only source of security she felt within this fragile mortal body.
The next morning, the corridors of the Navy Department building were once again filled with the ringing of telephones and the hurried footsteps of people. Diana pushed open her office door, holding two cups of freshly brewed coffee, and habitually glanced at her mahogany desk.
empty.
The somewhat worn flight jacket was not hanging on the chairback, nor was there any newly discarded cigarette butt in the ashtray.
Diana set down her coffee and glanced at the wall clock—it was 8:15. She frowned slightly, though she didn't seem overly panicked. Although Steve Trevor was a war hero, his lifestyle reflected the typical habits of a pilot—alcohol was their only remedy for managing PTSD. Perhaps last night he had drunk too much cheap whisky at some officer's club; now he lay in his dormitory, his head aching fiercely.
She sat back down at her typewriter and began processing the backlog of documents. An hour passed; the rhythmic clacking of the typewriter was monotonous and tedious, yet the door remained firmly shut.
9:30 AM. The coffee had cooled completely, forming an unsightly layer of oil on its surface.
Diana's unease began to grow. She wasn't worried about his tardiness per se, but rather about that "silence." As his confidential secretary, she knew that even if Steve were suffering from a hangover, he would still call in to request time off—this was part of his professional code of conduct.
She stood up, hesitated for a moment, and then walked toward another office at the end of the corridor—the office belonging to Major John—the very man who had driven her out the previous day.
After the knock at the door, a harsh "Come in!" was heard from inside.
Major John had his foot resting on the table as he flipped through a copy of the Stars and Stripes; when he saw Diana walk in, he raised his eyebrows—showing no intention of putting his foot down.
"What's up, Prince? Hasn't Trevor yet come to arrange some work for you?" Major John's tone carried his usual, unabashed arrogance. In his eyes, the female secretary's role was limited to typing documents, brewing coffee, and acting as a venting outlet when her superior was in a bad mood.
"Sir, Major Trevor hasn't reported for duty, and there are no phone records." Diana crossed her hands in front of her, trying to present herself as a dutiful yet slightly anxious subordinate. "I'm wondering... could something have happened?"
Major John put down the newspaper, his gaze lingering on Diana's face for a few seconds. He saw her beautiful, large eyes behind her glasses.
The tough, macho man sighed and pulled his foot back from the table. Although he looked down on women wearing military uniforms, he didn't dislike those who worried about their men; according to his outdated values, this was exactly how a woman should behave.
"Don't worry about it anymore, Prince. He didn't drown in a sewer." Major John pulled out a cigarette from the pack on the table and tapped it against the surface. "But he won't be back any time soon."
"Is it because of the mission?" Diana asked tentatively, her voice barely above a whisper.
Major John lit a match, took a deep drag on his cigarette, and the smoke that billowed out blurred his face. By all accounts, this information should be classified as top secret. Yet, looking at the woman before him—seemingly clouded by anxiety—he felt it wouldn't be a problem to reveal a little bit—after all, she was merely a secretary; what would it matter if she found out?
"Southeast Asia," Major John said, lowering his voice with a tone blending envy and admiration. "It was an impromptu order issued last night. Those crazy people up top ordered him to go there and handle a 'Lurker List.' They say that if this list ever falls into the hands of the Japanese, our entire Pacific intelligence network would be destroyed. His mission is to find it and burn it to ashes."
Diana's heart suddenly tightened. Southeast Asia was the region where the war was currently at its most brutal and chaotic.
"Alright, don't pretend you're about to pass out," Major John said, waving his hand as if dispelling some bad luck. "Since he's gone, there's no point in you staying here. You don't need to come in these next few days—consider yourself on leave. Go back home and get some proper sleep, or perhaps go to the church and light a candle for him—it's far more useful than just standing here staring at the empty chair."
"Thank you... Officer."
Diana lowered her head to conceal the sharp glint that had flashed in her eyes. She turned and walked out of the smoke-filled office.
Returning to her seat, she appeared to be organizing her handbag in preparation to leave, but in reality, her mind was racing at full speed. Steve's mission was to destroy the list – which meant he would venture deep behind enemy lines and fight alone within that jungle hellhole, now heavily encircled by the Japanese forces.
She picked up the ice-cold coffee cup and walked over to the sink to pour it away. Watching the dark brown liquid swirl into the sewer, she knew that these so-called "vacations" would hardly be spent in prayer.
Diana did not waste a single second on saying goodbye. As she stepped out through the oak door, she didn't even glance at the Stars and Stripes flag fluttering atop the Department of the Navy building. She looked like an ordinary female employee who had just received a notice of dismissal—head down, walking hurriedly into the gray, bustling crowd of Washington. Yet her senses were fully alert, searching for an absolute dead spot amidst the clamorous urban noise.
Two blocks away, a narrow back alley filled with discarded wooden crates and wet trash became her choice. The air reeked of decayed vegetables and cat urine; the towering red-brick walls lining both sides completely blocked out the sunlight, creating a natural visual shaft.
After confirming that there was no one around for the fourth time, Diana took a deep breath of the cold air, which carried the smell of coal smoke. She tossed her briefcase aside, spread her arms wide, and began to spin.
This is not dance, but an ancient and violent ceremonial opening ritual.
As her rotational speed increased, the blood within her began to boil; the divine metal embedded deep within her flesh responded to the call of the centrifugal force. A dazzling yet non-glaring golden beam suddenly erupted from her lower abdomen—the very spot where her invisible belt was concealed. This energy wave was not merely light; it carried immense heat and powerful physical force.
In that fleeting fraction of a second, the laws of physics underwent a profound transformation within the alley.
The gray woolen uniform, the stiff shirt, and the heavy black-rimmed glasses were instantly deconstructed and shattered the moment they came into contact with the golden energy wave, dissolving into countless particles that dispersed into the air.
At the moment when the old garments had departed and the new ones had not yet appeared, Diana was completely exposed to the cold air.
It was a body of exquisite craftsmanship—free from the excess flesh or imperfections typical of mortal women. Her pale skin was adorned with layers of firm, seamless muscle lines; every inch of her embodied explosive power. Yet this divine form was also its most vulnerable state—without the cover of clothing or the protection of divine power, she was merely a naked woman standing in a filthy alley. Should a stray bullet strike her at this moment, it could easily pierce her heart.
Immediately, the golden belt materialized into a solid form, tightly encircling her waist. The divine power circuit was instantly activated.
The red chest armor, as if cast from molten metal, swiftly covered her chest and back before hardening into indestructible armor; beneath her waist appeared a blue battle skirt adorned with star patterns, while her armguards and long boots were fastened to her limbs with the heavy clatter of metal striking together.
Rotation stopped.
The True Word Lasso glimmered at her waist; she felt a long-lost power surge through her mind and fingertips—erasing all the sense of dulled perception that had been suppressed.
She raised her head, her gaze piercing through the dim sky and locking onto a specific point in the stratosphere. There lay her spiritual connection with Amazon Technology—the隐形战机 was silently hovering above the clouds.
Diana bent her knees slightly, her thigh muscles tensed to the limit; the asphalt pavement beneath her feet cracked into a spiderweb-like pattern, unable to withstand the impending, terrifying pressure.
"bang!"
A muffled bang echoed as she shot up into the air like a heavy artillery shell hurled from hell. The powerful recoil sent a fierce gust of wind through the alley, toppling the nearby trash bin.
Due to her excessive speed, her figure was reduced to a fleeting red-and-blue shadow in the air. The hundreds of meters of altitude vanished in an instant; a fierce wind howled past her cheeks, and the buildings on the ground swiftly shrunk to the size of a matchbox.
Amidst the biting cold wind at great height, she extended her right hand with precision, reaching out toward what seemed to be an empty void.
"Clang."
A crisp metallic clatter echoed through the air. Her fingers caught onto an invisible edge—the door handle of the隐形战机. The sensation was奇妙: while the surrounding view appeared as nothingness, her fingertips felt the cold, rigid texture of a special alloy.
With a single-arm exertion, she glided effortlessly into the void, just as she would during a pull-up. As her body traversed the boundary of some kind of optical camouflage, the instrument panel and control levers in the cockpit came into view before her eyes.
Diana took her seat and skillfully fastened her seatbelt. She reached out and pulled down the equally concealed cabin lid; as the airtight seal clicked shut with a hissing sound, the wind noise from the high altitude vanished instantly, leaving behind only the low, steady hum of the engine inside the cockpit.
She pulled the control stick; the fighter jet traced a massive arc through the air, charging at full speed toward the other side of the Pacific—toward the jungles of Southeast Asia, where countless lives had been claimed.
The stealth fighter pierced the silence of the troposphere, hovering like a silent ghost above the sickly green jungle bordering the Philippine archipelago.
The moment the hatch slid open, a nauseating wave of heat—blended with the stench of decaying vegetation, smoke, and fermenting corpses—instantly displaced the originally pure, thin layer of oxygen floating in the high altitude. Diana stood at the edge of the cabin and, without a moment's hesitation, leaped downward. Behind her, the invisible hatch closed silently, sealing once again the clean space that symbolized civilization and technology.
She was like a meteorite woven from red and blue hues, crashing with the immense wind pressure generated by her supersonic descent into a circular defensive fortification guarded by U.S. troops on the edge of the Badan Peninsula.
"bang!"
The impact wave overturned several iron barrels filled with sewage, sending mud flying everywhere. Diana slowly straightened herself amidst the knee-deep mud; her red breastplate reflected a dazzling golden light as it caught the mottled sunlight filtering through the gaps in the tree canopy.
However, what greeted her was not cheers, but a profound, silent stillness.
The trench was filled with living skeletons—human beings whose bodies had been reduced to mere husks by hunger and disease. Their military uniforms had long since disintegrated into strips of fabric, hanging from their torsos, their ribs exposed. Diana spotted a marching pot placed over a fire, its contents a murky soup boiling vigorously; a military boot, now reduced to just half its length, and a stripped-off monkey limb bobbed up and down in the boiling water.
Diana instinctively held her breath. Her flawless physique, born of a divine bloodline, now seemed utterly out of place. Her skin was fair and plump, glowing with a healthy, rosy radiance; her thighs were strong and muscular, each muscle brimming with the most scarce resource in this hell—vitality.
In this trench filled with the stench of gangrene and where every soldier was slowly decaying, her beauty was no longer a pleasing sight but a cruel affront. She was like a fresh, honeyed cake thrown into a swarm of flies desperate for food.
"Are you... just an illusion?" a soldier murmured to himself, leaning against a sandbag; his eye sockets were sunken, his gaze fixed firmly on Diana's exposed thighs and shoulders. There was little reverence for the role of "hero" in his eyes—instead, his gaze was filled with a raw, insatiable greed—a mixture of appetite and sexual desire. It was the instinctive longing of a dying beast for life—dirty and straightforward.
"I'm here to help," Diana said, suppressing the discomfort of being eavesdropped upon, her voice as calm and authoritative as possible. "Tell me about the situation on the front lines. How many outposts ahead are still safe?"
She carefully avoided mentioning Steve's name. In such a desperate situation, searching for a specific major seemed like an absurd joke.
A soldier, who had lost half his teeth, let out a strange, cynical chuckle; then he extended his fingers—like withered branches—and made a lewd gesture: "Frontline? My dear, look around you. This is the edge of the grave. Instead of asking that, why not let us, before we die... experience the taste of a woman?"
Several low, hoarse laughs echoed through the crowd, yet there was no joy in those laughs—only the lingering resonance of despair.
"basta!"
A sharp shout interrupted the suffocating chaos. A man bearing the rank of lieutenant stepped out from the shadows. He appeared to be only thirty years old, yet his hair was already completely white, and his left leg was wrapped in a dirty bandage that was oozing blood—indicating severe gangrene.
The lieutenant approached Diana without retreating—as would be expected of an ordinary man—due to her divine power field; instead, he studied the goddess who had descended from the heavens with an expression tinged with almost hatred.
"You're late,' Wonder Woman '." The lieutenant's voice sounded as dry as sandpaper. "If you'd arrived a month earlier, you might still have been able to serve as a savior. But now? There's no way for us to retreat. We don't have medicine, no ammunition—our shoes are almost completely worn out."
"I can lead you out," Diana said urgently; she tried to take a step forward, but the lieutenant stepped back.
"Who are you taking with you? This bunch of useless men who can't even lift a gun?" The lieutenant coldly pointed toward the soldiers around him, their eyes vacant. "If you take us along, you won't go far either. We're just discarded pawns—mere shield troops meant to delay the Japanese forces."
The lieutenant stepped closer to Diana—what might be described as an ordinary human's intense gaze directed at a deity: "Don't waste any more time showing off your compassion or those impressive muscles here. It just makes us feel disgusted."
He suddenly pointed north—the direction where the artillery fire was most intense.
"If you truly wish to be a hero, head to the front lines—either to Corregidor or to Marivalez. There are still thousands of men who can still walk or fire their weapons waiting to be evacuated. Rescue those who matter; do not waste your divine power on us, the dead."
Diana was stunned. In that moment, she felt an unprecedented sense of helplessness. She could lift the tank or use the Truth Lasso to extract intelligence, but she couldn't save them.
Facing Lieutenant's eyes—filled with lifelessness and hatred—Diana neither offered an explanation nor sought divine punishment. Instead, she slowly and solemnly raised her right hand and extended a standard military salute to this group of living dead who had been strategically "discharged" by the state.
This was not a matter of military rank or etiquette, but rather a complex expression of respect for the animalistic nature and resilience humans demonstrate in times of extreme adversity. She forgave the vulgar language used to describe sexual desire—forever the last desperate struggle to prove, in the face of death's stench, whether they still possessed a body or were still men.
Wish you good luck, Lieutenant!
She whispered softly, then bent her knee slightly; accompanied by a muffled crack of mud, the red-and-blue figure once again pierced through the decaying canopy of the trees.
After just a few seconds, Diana returned to her seat in the cockpit of the stealth fighter. As the airtight hatch closed, the foul odor, the buzzing of flies, and the desperate groans from the trench below were instantly silenced; the world was once again enveloped in a silent, sterile stillness, akin to that of a precision instrument.
However, Diana's heart remained unsettled.
The finger gripping the control lever had turned pale from excessive force. The lieutenant's words cut through her conscience like a rusty saw blade: "Go save those who matter."
Rationality told her that the lieutenant was right. If she flew immediately to Corregidor Island, her force could break through the defensive line for the retreating troops and save the lives of thousands of people. Every second of hesitation could mean the destruction of an entire military formation.
However, her gaze involuntarily swept toward the flight chart beside the dashboard; instead, the image that surfaced in her mind was the brief glimpse she had taken in Major John's office the previous day.
At that moment, Major John was leaning back on his chair, smoking a cigarette, while the folder marked "Top Secret" lay casually open on the edge of the table—Steve's mission briefing. Though it was just a fleeting moment, Steve's remarkable memory allowed her to recall that coordinate with clarity. It marked the former U.S. military command post, as well as the last known location before Steve had destroyed the list.
If he hasn't died yet, he's still there.
Diana looked at her fuel gauge, her mind engaged in a fierce internal battle of self-defense.
This wasn't just about personal matters, she told herself. That list was integral to the entire intelligence network across the Pacific theater. Without it, even more soldiers would die in vain, just like the people listed below. Steve Trevor was the only one who knew where the list was kept. Saving him was, in essence, saving the entire situation.
This chain of logic seemed flawless, yet Diana could feel a faint, trembling selfishness lurking deep within her heart.
"Just three hours..." she murmured to the void, as if bargaining with an invisible judge. "Including the return trip, it'll take at most four hours. I'll bring Steve out and throw him to safety behind the lines, then I'll head straight for the Bataan Peninsula. I still have time."
It's not too late.
This self-consoling thought seemed thin and fragile within the empty cockpit.
Diana gritted her teeth, her jawline tensing into a sharp, determined line. She suddenly pressed the control lever downward to the left, and the stealth fighter executed a massive, sharp turn in mid-air—defying its intended flight path toward the main battlefield.
The tremendous overload pressed her body firmly against the seat; as the engine roared low, she – a half-god endowed with divine power yet bound by mortal emotions – dove at full speed into the deep, emerald jungle shrouded in mystery.
The air in the jungle was thick as if it were glue about to solidify.
Major Steve Trevor raised his hand and wiped the sweat that had blurred his vision. They were deep within the rainforest in central Luzon, twenty kilometers away from the nearest U.S. military line. Three days earlier, the reconnaissance aircraft he was aboard had landed on the bumpy temporary runway at Bataan despite heavy air defense fire; thereafter, he had assembled this six-man temporary assault team from among the retreating troops, providing them with two boxes of cigarettes and half a bottle of whiskey.
Their destination lay ahead—a abandoned outpost partially concealed beneath vines and broadleaf trees. It had originally served as an American military communications relay station; during the retreat, however, due to chaos, a miniature film containing the list of all personnel operating in the entire Pacific theater was not destroyed in time.
"Commander, it's too quiet out there," muttered Miller, the veteran, his Thompson submachine gun still nervously pointed at the swaying ferns.
Steve nodded and drew his M1911 pistol from his waistband. It was indeed incredibly quiet—even Monkey's cries had vanished. This could only mean one thing: this area had been taken over by a new predator.
"At two o'clock – cover your advance." Steve made a gesture. "As soon as we enter that building, I'll have three minutes to locate the safe and detonate the thermite mixture. If I'm unfortunately killed in action, Miller will take over command; in any case, that thing must be burned."
Before the words had even faded, a crisp gunshot pierced the sweltering air.
The private stationed at the far left didn't even have time to let out a scream before a cloud of blood erupted between his brows as he collapsed backward.
"Ambush! Hide!" Steve shouted, then rolled behind a massive, rotting tree trunk.
Then, the jungle seemed to come alive. Countless tongues of fire erupted from the dense surrounding bushes, while the distinctive sharp gunfire of the Type 38 rifle echoed like popping beans; as the bullets struck the tree trunks, splinters flew everywhere.
"Whoa! It's the reorganization squad! There are at least thirty of them!" Miller shouted as he fired back, "We're surrounded!"
Steve leaned out from behind the tree trunk and swiftly pulled the trigger; two rapid shots downed a Japanese soldier who had attempted to flank him. Yet he knew full well that this move was futile—a carefully orchestrated pocket encirclement. The Japanese troops might have long identified that undestroyed outpost and were simply lying in wait.
"Hand grenade!" someone shouted.
A Type 97 grenade, emitting smoke, rolled into the ground less than five meters from Steve. He instinctively pulled himself back, pressing his body tightly against the damp, cold soil. The shockwave from the explosion made his eardrums buzz, and dirt and shrapnel fell like raindrops.
The smoke of battle had not yet cleared when the despairing Japanese battle cries echoed around them. This was not merely a tactical charge—it was the final roar before the bayonets met blood.
Steve glanced at his magazine—three rounds remaining. He took a deep breath; the air, mingled with the smell of gunpowder and blood, choked his lungs. As a veteran, he knew this was the end. To die here would mean no one would ever know; even his body would become fertilizer. His only regret was that list—the brave souls lurking in Tokyo and Manila—would now be exposed due to his failure.
"Bayonet!—" Steve ordered, gritting his teeth—even though it sounded like a suicide declaration. "Let's fight these bastards to the death!"
At that very moment, the canopy above the jungle suddenly emitted a terrifying crackling sound.
It was neither the roar of a mortar nor the thunder of an airplane, but rather the sense of pressure created when a heavy object fell at high speed, tearing through the air.
Before Steve could even lift his head, a reddish-blue streak of light—like a bolt of divine thunder—suddenly crashed into the heart of the encirclement.
"Dong-!!!"
A massive shockwave erupted from the point of impact, its surging air current blowing away more than a dozen Japanese soldiers charging with bayonets like withered leaves. The mud on the ground was thrown several meters into the air, instantly forming a thick black curtain of rain.
Steve subconsciously raised his arm to shield his face. As the muddy rain began to fall, he looked out through the gaps in his fingers, astonished.
At the center of the deep crater gouged out by the impact, a tall, vigorous figure slowly rose to their feet.
She wore armor that appeared both utterly absurd and profoundly sacred on this battlefield—a dazzling red breastplate, dark blue shorts, and a golden crown gleaming in the sunlight filtering down from the treetops. In her hand, she held a rope that emanated a golden glow; this light was not swallowed by the shadows of the jungle, but instead pierced the eyes of all who saw it.
"God... Wonder Woman?" Miller's mouth dropped open; he didn't even notice as the muzzle of his gun fell to the ground.
Steve was stunned. He had seen this name in the newspaper, but he had always assumed it was merely a fabricated propaganda stunt designed to sell war bonds, or perhaps just some form of collective hysteria.
Yet at that very moment, she was standing there—this was by no means an illusion.
In that moment, Steve Trevor felt a profound sense of dissonance. In this filthy hell dominated by rotting flesh, malaria, and death, her presence was like a flawless diamond falling into a septic tank—beautiful,deadly, and utterly out of place in this world.
The goddess turned her head, her gaze sweeping over the stunned U.S. soldiers before lingering for half a second on Steve's face. Her expression was both unfamiliar and yet carried a sense of familiarity that sent a thrill through him; before he could fully process it, however, she had already turned away, facing the Japanese troops who were gradually recovering from their shock.
The Japanese soldiers' astonishment lasted only two seconds. As the commander let out a series of shrill roars, the instinctive drive of the war machine overwhelmed their fear of myth. Thirty Type 38 rifles unleashed streams of fire simultaneously; a dense barrage of bullets woven through the narrow jungle formed a web of death, enveloping the red-and-blue figure and the U.S. military squad behind her.
"Find cover!"
Steve shouted, trying to push Miller into the mud pit, but he soon realized it was completely unnecessary.
Diana didn't adopt the heroic posture she had seen in the comics; at the very moment the first shot rang out, she had already moved. Her action was devoid of any unnecessary flourish—so swift it was like a bolt of lightning piercing through reality. Instead of retreating, she stepped forward into the hail of bullets; at that instant, her tall frame seemed to transform into an indestructible shield, firmly standing between that battered squad and the enemy.
"Ding! Ding! Bang—!"
The silver wristbands transformed into two silver light shields during the high-frequency swings. The sound of the bullet striking the divine metal was not a crisp impact, but rather a bone-chilling shriek as the metal was instantly compressed and deformed. The deflected bullet splattered across the air at scorching temperatures, severing the surrounding vines and leaving behind a series of charred bullet holes on the massive banyan tree trunk.
She did not remain in passive defense throughout; upon confirming that the soldiers behind her were temporarily safe, Diana planted her right foot firmly into the ground, launching herself like a red siege hammer into the Japanese defensive line.
This was a massacre of utter imbalance—yet it lacked any bloody revelry; instead, it was marked by surgical precision and coldness.
The golden mantra-lens moved like a spirit snake with its own consciousness, tracing golden trails through the air. It ensnared the roaring light machine gun; with a swift flick of her wrist, Diana sent both herself and the gun flying toward a nearby tree trunk, triggering a bone-shattering thud. Immediately afterward, she sidestepped to dodge a bayonet thrusting beneath her ribs and swiftly grabbed the soldier's rifle barrel—with just a gentle twist, the steel twisted and deformed like soft mud. She then delivered a elbow strike to the soldier's jaw; the young soldier collapsed to the ground without even letting out a scream.
There were no flashy special moves or shouted commands—only the dull thuds of physical impacts and the crisp crack of broken bones. In less than a minute, this well-trained ambush squad had completely lost its combat effectiveness. Most of the soldiers fell to the ground, groaning in pain, either losing consciousness or their ability to move; the few who remained standing had already laid down their weapons and slumped into the bushes with vacant stares—completely broken.
The jungle returned to silent stillness; only the lingering smell of gunpowder and the dust in the air bore witness to the recent battle.
Diana slowly withdrew the Truth Lasso; the golden rope wound itself automatically around her waist. She stood amidst the chaos—her chest showed no visible rise or fall—but her gaze did not fall upon Steve, who had just been rescued; instead, it rested on the body of the young soldier not far away—the second lieutenant, who had been shot in the head by the sniper and now lay quietly in the damp, decaying leafy soil, his blood attracting several unidentified jungle insects.
She had arrived too late. Even if it had been just one minute, divine power could not reverse the mortal vulnerability of death. Diana felt a familiar, heavy sense of helplessness—a feeling that had always accompanied her in every battle since she left Paradise Island.
"You've done your best."
A familiar voice interrupted her gaze. Steve Trevor stepped out from behind the tree trunk; he still held his M1911 pistol tightly in his hand, his face covered in dirt and smoke, yet his eyes remained sharp.
Unlike the other soldiers, he did not exhibit any fear or unfamiliarity at the sight of the miracle. He was the man who had accidentally fallen from Paradise Island, bringing her into the human world, and the first to witness her power. When he saw that red-and-blue figure amidst this hellish predicament, he felt nothing but a mixture of relief—and a sense of guilt—akin to that of encountering an old comrade.
"I'm glad to see you," Steve's voice was somewhat hoarse as he glanced at the corpse on the ground, gritted his teeth, and forced his emotions back deep within him—though he wished he hadn't ended up here, in this eerie place, to catch up.
Diana turned around, facing the man she cared about most in this world. Behind her Wonder Woman mask, she had to suppress her urge to rush forward and embrace him, maintaining the restraint and dignity befitting a half-god warrior.
"I also hope to meet you at a more appropriate occasion, Steve," Diana said, her tone calm and restrained. "But I've received an alert."
"Alarm?" Steve raised an eyebrow as he gestured for the surviving Miller to secure his comrade's identification tag, then asked with confusion, "This operation is top secret—even the参谋 headquarters thought I was still drinking in Manila. Except for a handful of those involved in the plan, no one knows the exact coordinates."
Diana said calmly, "I'm Diana, your secretary. While compiling intelligence, she noticed something unusual and did everything in her power to contact me. She is very concerned about your safety, Major Trevor. She asked me to bring you back alive."
It was a lie, yet Steve's reaction was surprisingly gentle.
He gave a bitter smile, then pulled out a box of flattened cigarettes from his pocket; when he tried to light one, he found the match had already soaked through.
"I knew it was her." Steve slipped his cigarette back into his pocket, his tone filled with unreserved trust and admiration—even a hint of warmth. "That girl... although she always looks like she's wearing thick glasses and acts quite subservient, I know she's smarter and more perceptive than anyone else. Sometimes I feel she's more effective than the entire Intelligence Bureau combined."
Upon hearing Steve's high praise for "another self," Diana felt a complex mixture of emotions welling up in her chest—both the satisfaction of being recognized as the "Prince" and an indescribable bitterness.
"She is indeed very... loyal," Diana replied softly.
"Alright—since you're here, this battle will be much easier to fight." Steve quickly switched back to his commander mode, though his gaze remained filled with sorrow as he looked at the corpse. "We've lost a good young man, but I can't let his death be in vain. That list is still in the ruins ahead."
He looked at Diana with a determined expression: "Will you help us clear the way? Or will it be just like old times?"
Diana nodded slightly; the resolute mask characteristic of a warrior once again covered her face, masking the momentary tenderness she had displayed.
"As always, Steve. I'll go first; you follow."
She turned her back toward the heart of the jungle, raised her silver wristband, and stepped into the shadowy realm fraught with lethal danger.
Their group swiftly infiltrated the command post building. Within minutes, the air was filled with the distinctive, pungent sour smell of burning film. The abandoned outpost was housed in a two-story wooden structure deep within the jungle; the damp, rotting wooden planks emitted a bone-chilling groan beneath their military boots.
Major Steve Trevor tossed the last microfilm into the still-smoking iron barrel, watching as the blue flames swiftly consumed the names that would determine the outcome of the entire Pacific theater.
"Got it," Steve whispered, raising his hand to wipe the sweat from his forehead. "Miller, prepare to withdraw—"
"Ding!"
A crisp, almost piercing metallic clang interrupted his command.
A 6.5 mm Yosaka rifle bullet, which should have pierced Steve's skull, was firmly held back by a silver wristband, keeping it less than five centimeters from his temple. The projectile shattered instantly; the searing copper casing slid across Steve's cheek, leaving a faint bloodstain.
Diana maintained her arm-raised parrying stance, her expression stern. "Sniper. We're surrounded."
Before the words had even faded, the once silent jungle erupted into chaos. This was no mere siege—it was a meticulously planned trap, like catching a turtle in a jar. Countless hooks and claws clung to the windowsill of the second floor; accompanied by a thunderous crash as the glass shattered, more than a dozen Type 99 Japanese hand grenades rolled into the cramped room, emitting plumes of white smoke.
"grenade! Get down!"
Diana did not lie down; instead, her red-and-blue figure transformed into a whirlwind within the cramped space. Rather than attempting to retrieve the grenades, she used her shield-like wrist guard and lightning-fast hand movements to propel them all back out the window in the instant before they exploded—just like hitting a tennis ball.
"Bang! Bang! Bang!"
A series of explosions echoed outside the building, accompanied by successive screams. Yet this did nothing to halt the advancing wave of attackers. The wooden gate was shattered by targeted bombing; as wood splinters flew everywhere, a group of Japanese special forces soldiers—dressed in camouflage gear and armed with Type 1 submachine guns—swarmed into the compound like a black tide.
"Fire! Damn it, fire!" Steve shouted as his M1911 and Miller Thompson submachine gun roared simultaneously.
However, the room was too small. Six U.S. soldiers were crammed into one corner of the room, making it impossible for them to establish effective crossfire. The Japanese troops, however, had clearly been prepared; instead of rushing to shoot everyone, they leveraged their numerical advantage to quickly squeeze the space.
"For the Emperor!"
Three sergeants, each wielding a katana, burst forth from the smoke, their blades pointed directly at Steve as he was reloading his ammunition.
Diana suddenly turned around, her back meeting a barrage of tommy gun bullets head-on. The divine armor emitted sparks as the bullets were deflected by her godly muscles and bones, leaving only faint red marks on her skin. She grabbed the blade of the katana that had pierced her—steel capable of severing bone, yet in her hands it folded and warped like paper.
With a powerful backhand swing, she hurled the sergeant—and his sword—away, sending him crashing through the partition wall. Immediately after, she kicked out, snapping the ribs of another soldier who had attempted to launch an ambush.
However, this is, after all, a battlefield, not a duel ground.
Within just over a dozen seconds of Diana's fierce onslaught, the situation deteriorated irreversibly: Miller was knocked unconscious by a shot from a rifle butt, while two other soldiers were pinned to the wall by bayonets. As Steve ran out of ammunition and tried to draw his trench knife in a desperate attempt to escape, he was suddenly overwhelmed by four or five Japanese soldiers, who pinned him firmly to the glass-riddled floor.
A gleaming military sword was held against Steve's throat; its sharp edge had sliced through his skin, causing blood to flow down his neck.
"call it quits!!"
A harsh English roar.
Diana's movement came to an abrupt halt mid-air. Her fist was merely an inch away from the Japanese soldier's face; the force of her punch had even torn open the corner of the soldier's eye.
She turned her head and saw Steve, his face covered in blood, being dragged by the hair while kneeling on the ground; the military knife was pressed firmly against his carotid artery.
"Drop your weapon! You monster! "
The roar was accompanied by a spray of saliva splashing onto Steve's face, but Steve couldn't make out what it was. Amidst the ringing in his ears caused by surging adrenaline, those Japanese words sounded like nothing more than menacing noise to him. He was pinned down on the glass-riddled floor; the sharp pain in his neck told him that the military knife had already cut through his skin.
Diana's movements froze mid-air. As an Amazon, she possessed the Gift of Tongues – the ability to understand every language in existence. To her ears, those roars were not chaotic syllables, but clear, direct, and crude commands. She understood every word – even the vulgar slang used by the city's thugs.
She slowly released her grip, and the rifle—now reduced to scrap metal—thudded loudly onto the ground.
"I will not resist," Diana replied in clear, precise Japanese. Her pronunciation carried the elegant rhythm characteristic of the ancient Kyoto nobility—a stark contrast that left the irritable captain stunned for a moment.
The captain narrowed his eyes; the fear in his gaze was gradually replaced by a twisted greed. He scrutinized the tall, white woman before him—dressed in revealing armor—and her Adam's apple moved violently. In this enclosed, blood-soaked arena filled with male hormones, this extreme beauty ignited the darkest desire for conquest within him.
"Take off that ridiculous outfit." The captain suddenly lowered his voice, a cruel smirk playing on his lips, "Right here. Take off everything."
The surrounding Japanese soldiers let out a series of unspoken, lascivious smiles—a primal signal understood only by men.
Steve struggled to lift his head amid the suffocating air; he saw the expression on his enemy's face—a look he knew all too well: the gaze a raider would adopt when confronted with a trophy. Yet he couldn't understand the command.
"Diana! Don't listen to him!" Steve roared; the violent movements had caused more blood to flow from his neck. "Just kill them! Get out of here!"
He thought the captain was simply asking her to surrender or to kneel. He couldn't understand why Wonder Woman—who had just moments before seemed utterly unstoppable—had suddenly become so rigid and pale.
"Shut up!" The captain swung his rifle butt squarely against Steve's temple. Steve let out a muffled groan, his vision blurring as he collapsed to the ground in a semi-conscious state; yet his eyes remained fixed on Diana, his gaze filled with confusion and a desperate plea—asking her not to give up, asking her to fight.
Diana looked at Steve's bleeding forehead, and her heart tightened suddenly.
She couldn't tell Steve what the other person had said; she couldn't translate that humiliating command in front of this man. She had to swallow that humiliation alone.
What was even more deadly was that the captain's command—driven by lust— "Take off everything" —had inadvertently struck the sole vulnerability in her being that could defeat her.
To remove her armor, she first had to untie her golden belt—its key to divine power. The enemy believed they were merely stripping a woman of her clothes, seeking perverse pleasure through humiliation; but Diana knew that, in reality, they were disarming a god.
"Can't hear me? Or do you want to watch this guy's head move?" The captain's sword once again pressed against Steve's carotid artery.
Diana took a deep breath—a breath that conveyed a sense of resignation, trembling with emotion.
"Wait."
She spoke softly in Japanese. Her voice was no longer as hard as steel; instead, it carried a hint of the vulnerability characteristic of an ordinary woman.
Under Steve's blurred, puzzled gaze, Diana slowly raised her hand and reached it toward her waist.
Her fingers touched the cold metal buckle. Only she knew what this moment meant. It was not merely the loss of dignity—it was suicide. Once the belt fell to the ground, she would no longer be the invulnerable half-god, but a naked lamb awaiting slaughter within this sealed chamber surrounded by wolves.
But seeing the bloodstain on Steve's neck, she had no other choice.
"Click."
A faint metallic crack echoed through the silent room, sounding deafening.
In that instant, her golden belt slipped loose. The divine light in her eyes dimmed; the overwhelming power coursing through her limbs and every bone vanished in an instant, like receding seawater. Coldness, pain, and fear—these long-lost mortal sensations pierced her nerves like sharp thorns.
Her perfect muscle lines remained tense, yet in essence, they had returned to being soft, warm, yet fragile flesh.
Now, she is just an ordinary, sturdy woman.
The golden belt slid across the dust-covered, glass-strewn floor, producing a dull, despairing thud. The sound was like the echo of a gate being lowered, sealing the invincible goddess off on the other side, leaving behind only a mortal woman named Diana, standing naked before this horde of hungry beasts.
Diana's trembling hands unlocked the buckle at the back of her armor. With a soft click, the red armor—symbolizing the glory of Amazon—slipped off. She bit her lip and had no choice but to remove it from her body.
As the rigid metal armor fell to the ground, the breasts—once tightly bound—lost their support and swayed gently under the force of gravity, revealing an utterly breathtaking curve. This was no flat, lifeless allure seen in periodicals, but rather a voluptuousness brimming with vitality and maternal warmth. The snow-white skin, long concealed beneath the armor, appeared exceptionally tender; two delicate pink spots stood slightly upright amidst the murky air, stirred by the chill and a sense of shame.
The air inside the room seemed to freeze instantly. More than thirty pairs of male eyes were fixed firmly on her chest; those gazes seemed to carry a tangible warmth, greedily licking every inch of her exposed skin. It was a collective silence—a mixture of shock, desecration, and primal animalistic desire. Steve painfully closed his eyes, unable to bear the sight of his beloved being subjected to such utter visual violence, yet he was pinned down with his head held down, forced to witness this scene.
Diana did not stop. The knife in the Captain's hand was still pressed against Steve's neck.
She bent down, her fingers grasping the edge of the blue shorts adorned with stars. As the fabric slid down her slender thighs, the enigmatic black floral print and the rounded, full curves of her buttocks were fully exposed under the dim lighting. Then came her long boots—when the last barrier was kicked away, she stood completely naked amidst the circle of these foreign men.
It was a body of exquisite craftsmanship—wide shoulders, a waist that tapered dramatically, and thigh muscles that seemed to harbor boundless explosive power. Yet, having lost the blessing of divine power, this body no longer emanated that sacred glow that would make one dare not look directly at it; instead, it exuded a thrilling sense of carnal allure. She was like a Venus carved from creamy white jade, only to be forcibly dragged off her altar and cast into a muddy trench.
The captain made a dry swallowing sound from his throat. The military knife in his hand trembled slightly; his gaze slid down from Diana's delicate collarbone, swept across her flat abdomen, lingered for a long moment upon that intimate triangular area, and finally settled on her slender toes. The thrill of stripping this lofty, powerful figure down to the skin aroused in him an unprecedented physical arousal—so intense that his lower body even responded with a shameful sensation.
Diana struggled to maintain her standing posture. She straightened her back, attempting to conceal her nakedness with the authority reflected in her eyes. She told herself that she was still the princess of Amazon; even without clothing, her presence could still intimidate these mortals.
However, physiological reactions cannot be concealed.
Without the protection of divine power, the suffocating heat of the tropical rainforest and the body heat emanating from the more than thirty people inside instantly enveloped her. Fear, tension, and shame caused her body temperature to rise sharply.
The captain narrowed his eyes; he keenly noticed a detail.
During the battle, no matter how vigorous her movements were, her skin remained as dry, cold, and flawless as marble. Yet now, a crystalline droplet of sweat slid down from her temple, flowed down her slender neck, merged into the deep cleavage, and finally left a moist trace upon her snow-white skin.
Her chest began to rise and fall violently; her once ivory-white skin now took on a faint pink hue due to blood congestion.
"Sweat? " the Captain murmured to himself, as the cruel smile at the corner of his mouth gradually widened.
God does not sweat, nor does he turn his entire body red simply because he is being observed by a man.
The invulnerable monster had vanished. What stood there now was merely a woman who could feel heat, experience fear, and exhibit human physiological reactions.
"Raise your hands!" The captain's voice grew increasingly audacious, filled with playful mischief.
Diana gritted her teeth and slowly raised her arms. This movement accentuated the contours of her chest, while the lines of her ribs emerged and disappeared with each breath; her lower body became more exposed as her muscles tightened. It was a gesture of complete surrender.
"Come and confirm it." The Captain pointed with his chin at the two soldiers closest to Diana, his eyes gleaming with malice. "Look—determine whether this 'Goddess' is genuine or not."
The two soldiers swallowed; they put down their rifles, their faces wearing a sly, tense smile as they rubbed their hands and advanced step by step toward the naked, tall white woman. The light in their eyes was no longer the vigilance befitting warriors, but the seductive allure befitting prey.
She did not cover her private parts or her chest; instead, she slightly shifted her weight forward, causing the muscles of her long legs to tighten instantly, revealing a sculptural beauty brimming with explosive power. A cold gleam flashed in her deep blue eyes as she fixed her gaze firmly on the two people before her and whispered in fluent Japanese, intimidating them:
"When the time for death comes, come forth. I will twist your neck off—just as I would break a withered branch."
This threat, combined with her terrifying feat of dismantling a rifle with her bare hands, created a palpable sense of oppression. It was not merely words—it was the murderous intent emanating from a high-level predator. The smiles on the two soldiers' faces froze; instinctive fear overwhelmed their sexual desire. As if struck by an invisible whip, they halted in panic—and even subconsciously stepped back half a stride—turning to look at their commander, their eyes filled with both helplessness and fear.
Even without divine power, Diana Prince was still a warrior who had undergone the most rigorous combat training. In a one-on-one confrontation, she truly had the ability to kill both opponents in an instant. She was gambling—gambling that her opponents wouldn't know the secret behind her diminished strength, and gambling that they would be intimidated by her presence.
However, the captain was not deterred.
He stood to the side like a cold, venomous snake; his gaze did not rest on Diana's face, but was instead fixed firmly on the faintly trembling hollow beneath her collarbone.
"Idiot."
The captain let out a curse, yet he did not glance at the soldier; instead, he stepped out from the shadow and walked straight toward Diana. A mocking smile, as if he could see through everything, lingered at the corner of his mouth as he casually sheathed his sword—realizing that he no longer seemed to need a weapon.
"Don't play any more games, woman." The captain stopped just a single step away from Diana; his foul breath nearly sprayed her exposed chest.
Diana forced herself not to retreat, continuing to glare at him angrily.
The captain extended a finger with the scent of tobacco; instead of touching her directly, he pointed toward the deep, enticing groove nestled between her prominent breasts.
"Look!" he said to the two retreating soldiers, his tone filled with both disdain and ecstasy, "Monsters don't sweat. But this guy... he's soaked through."
Diana's pupils contracted suddenly.
That fleeting micro-expression completely betrayed her.
Indeed, when she was under divine protection, her body maintained perfect thermal equilibrium and absolute control—no matter how intense the battle, her skin always remained as dry and cool as jade. But now, as a mortal, the tension, shame, heat, and rapid depletion of her physical strength prompted her body to respond faithfully.
That layer of fine, crystalline sweat seeped from beneath her armpits and along the lower edge of her breasts, converging into delicate streams that slid across her smooth skin. For the man, this was a potent stimulant; for her, it was a fatal flaw.
The captain maintained a steady gaze upon her eyes. When he saw the flicker of fear—resulting from the revelation—in Diana's eyes, he was convinced of the accuracy of his judgment.
"Did you guess correctly?"
The captain let out a shrill, strange laugh. No longer holding back any restraint, he extended his rough, calloused hand—streaked with remnants of gunpowder—directly.
Diana wanted to escape, wanted to fight back, but over a dozen gun barrels still pointed at Steve's head. She felt as if she were bound by invisible chains, unable to move except to stand frozen in place.
That dirty hand pressed firmly against her left breast without any hesitation.
There was no metallic clanging sound, nor any rebound from fractured bones. The captain's palm sank into an astonishingly soft, warm mass—living, unprepared flesh and blood.
"So warm... " The captain's fingers greedily caressed her snow-white, delicate skin, feeling the fierce, frantic beat of her heart beneath their palms. This touch shattered the myth of the "Goddess" utterly, dragging her from the clouds straight into the mud.
Diana's body shuddered violently as a wave of intense humiliation, accompanied by an electric sensation, swept through her entire being. Her cheeks flushed instantly—not out of shyness, but from a mixture of fury and sorrow at being so contemptuously offended yet powerless to do anything about it as a warrior.
"Soft... just a woman's body." The captain withdrew his hand, placed his finger against his nose, and strangely sniffed the mixture of sweat and feminine fragrance; then he turned to the stunned soldiers and shouted, "Did you hear that? This is neither iron nor stone—just premium meat."
At that moment, the fear in the eyes of all the soldiers in the room vanished completely; replaced by it was a frenzied, green light—much like that which would be seen when a pack of hungry wolves encounters an injured doe. They finally realized that the stunningly beautiful naked woman before them was no longer the invincible deity, but merely a mere object to be manipulated at will and used to satisfy their desires.
The room was filled with an nauseating mixture of rusty odors and the scent of male sweat. The Captain no longer concealed his desires; instead, he paced slowly around Diana's naked body, as if examining a newly captured rare wildlife specimen.
"Beautiful... yet that gaze is too arrogant."
The captain suddenly lunged forward, his rough palm – still bearing traces of gunpowder – striking Diana squarely on the cheek.
"Clang!"
A crisp, sharp impact resonated through the air. Diana's head was thrown aside, and five vivid red fingerprints quickly appeared on her once-pale cheeks. As a mortal, her pain receptors faithfully transmitted the searing agony to her brain. She gritted her teeth without making a sound; instead, she slowly turned her head—her blue eyes still fixed firmly on the captain, as if she intended to etch his face into her list of targets for revenge.
"Lower-class offspring..." She squeezed these Japanese words out between her teeth.
This act of defiance infuriated—or rather, excited—the Captain. He grabbed Diana's disheveled black hair, forced her to look up, and then, without any warning, leaned down and gave her slender, elegant neck a vigorous lick.
The moist, rough tongue coating scraped across her delicate skin, like a slug crawling across it. Diana shuddered; this unfamiliar, invasive, slippery sensation filled her with nausea, yet beneath that nausea, goosebumps erupted uncontrollably across her skin. The captain did not stop; his tongue slid down along her collarbone, greedily licking across the fine layer of sweat on her chest—as if it were some precious nectar.
"It's too salty. Is this the taste of fear?" The captain's face was buried between her full, prominent breasts, and his stubble pricked her sensitive skin.
He opened his mouth and gently cupped the erect pink nipple on his left side.
"Hmm!" Diana let out a suppressed, dull groan. It wasn't pain—rather, it was a tingling sensation, like an electric current, that instantly shot through her spine. As a virgin with no prior sexual experience, her body was completely unprepared for such intense sexual stimulation. She couldn't understand why being violated by an enemy would evoke such a somewhat comfortable illusion.
The captain sucked vigorously, her tongue maliciously teasing the hardened nipple, while her other hand roughly kneaded the breast on the opposite side—her fingers plunging deep into the snow-white, plump flesh, distorting its perfect shape.
The captain suddenly opened his mouth; his abused nipple was red and swollen, covered in saliva, trembling in the air.
Before Diana could even catch her breath, a heavy punch landed squarely on her flat, firm abdomen.
"cough!"
The intense stomach cramp made her instinctively arch her body, groaning in pain as she retched. Just as she bent down, the Captain grabbed the back of her head and forcibly pressed his own lips—stained with the stench of smoke and bad breath—against hers.
It was a fierce kiss devoid of any affection—purely driven by desire. His teeth grazed her lips, and his tongue forcibly forced its way through her jaws, ravaging her mouth, plundering her fluids and her breath. Diana felt a sense of suffocation; the scent of blood spread throughout her mouth.
When the captain finally released her, a seductive silver thread stretched between them. Diana gasped heavily; her gaze wavered for a moment, then filled once more with shame and indignation.
The captain's hand slid down her abdominal beltband to her lower body. He crouched down, his gaze meeting the dark, intimate area of her skin.
"What about here?"
He extended his finger and slid it in a highly obscene manner across the tightly closed labia, then thrust it roughly inward.
"No..." Diana tried to pull her legs together, but the captain's hand was firmly clamped around her thigh, forcing her to keep them apart.
Her rough fingertips touched the most delicate stamen. Diana's body tensed abruptly, her toes curling inward. Despite her intense mental resistance—and despite the countless times she had wished to kill him in her heart—her young, healthy female body, now in the ovulation phase, shamefully responded with a physiological reaction to the touch, the pain, and the forceful kiss that had just occurred.
The captain's finger felt a slight sense of slipperiness.
He drew out his finger and raised it before his eyes; it was covered with a layer of translucent, loving fluid.
"Look! This lewd woman!" The captain excitedly pointed his finger toward the soldiers around him. "She may say she doesn't want it, but her body is completely honest—she's soaked through!"
"No... this is... instinct..." Diana protested in trembling Japanese, but her explanation was utterly inadequate. A sense of shame consumed her mind like molten lava. She couldn't understand why she, as a warrior, would betray herself. This panic—this loss of control over her own body—was more terrifying than death itself.
"If you really want this so badly, then just kneel down and beg me."
The captain stood up and suddenly lifted his foot—worn in heavy military boots—and stomped it hard against Diana's exposed ankle.
"Click."
Although there was no fracture, the intense pain was excruciating.
"Ah!" Diana could no longer hold herself together—her knees gave way, and with a loud thud, she fell heavily onto the floor covered in glass shards.
Her knee was pierced by shards of glass, blood flowing from it—yet this pain paled in comparison to the humiliation of her current posture. Bare-chested and supporting herself on both hands, she knelt at the feet of the short man, just like a mother dog; her once proud head was now facing the captain's crotch.
"This is the height you should be at."
The captain moved behind her and stared at her rounded, pure-white buttocks—those perfectly sculpted curves reminiscent of ancient Greek statues. Then he raised his hand and slapped the snow-white flesh of her buttocks with all his might.
"Clang!!!"
The sharp sound echoed throughout the room. An intensely red palm print instantly appeared on her fair skin.
The flesh churned violently. Diana shuddered all over from the pain and let out a moan tinged with sobbing. That slap didn't just hurt her flesh—it shattered her last remaining barrier of dignity. Following that excruciating pain, an eerie wave of heat surged up along her spine—marking the moment when her "masochistic tendency" —something even she herself didn't fully understand—was violently awakened from the depths of her subconscious.
The captain crouched down once more, his hands encircling Diana as she knelt—his one hand roughly kneading her swollen buttocks, while his other hand, like a snake, slid forward to grasp her still-shivering breast. He blew warm air into her ear and whispered to her like a demon:
"Did you feel comfortable? Warrior-sama."
Diana knelt naked on the ground, embraced and lavishly caressed by the man. Her body trembled violently with both pain and pleasure; sweat dripped down from the tips of her breasts and her nose.
"I'll kill you... One day I will... You... "
She continued to curse in Japanese, but her voice was now utterly broken—resembling more of a distorted, soft gasp.
The room was filled with an oppressive scent of blood and the lingering warmth of desire. The captain shifted his gaze away from Diana's full breasts with a hint of lingering reluctance; his calloused hands still savored the exquisite sensation of having just caressed that exquisite flesh. He stood up, letting out a sigh tinged with regret, and straightened his disheveled military uniform collar.
"What a pity – no more time left to enjoy it."
The captain glanced at his watch; the lecherous smile on his face vanished instantly, and he reverted to his cold, imperial soldier persona. The situation on the front lines did not allow for a prolonged stay at this abandoned outpost. Although this perfect physique was enticing, it could only be enjoyed on a temporary basis—far outweighed by military merit and orders.
He turned around and, with a tone as casual as if discussing the disposal of garbage, delivered a verdict to the soldiers around him:
"All the men shall be executed; the woman shall be taken away."
This command was like a bolt of thunder, instantly shattering Diana's entire patience.
"Shh!!"
Diana let out a heart-wrenching roar. The sole reason she had endured that utter humiliation—being touched, beaten, and subjected to a thorough inspection like an animal—was the lives of Steve and the soldiers.
At that very moment, she sprang up abruptly from the ground. Despite having lost her divine power, the Amazon warrior's combat instincts remained intact. Ignoring the searing pain in her knees, she delivered a fierce headbutt toward the soldier closest to her and then attempted to seize his bayonet.
"bang!"
A dull gunshot rang out—not from an active fire, but as another soldier swiftly slammed the butt of his rifle into Diana's back of the head.
Diana felt her vision blur; the intense dizziness caused her recently gathered power to dissipate instantly. Before she could collapse, four or five strong soldiers surged forward and, like they were subduing an injured lioness, roughly pinned her down on the ground.
Her face was pressed firmly against the floor covered with shattered glass and mud; her bare chest and abdomen were tightly against the cold, filthy ground. Her limbs were tightly restrained by several large hands, leaving her completely unable to move.
"Steve! Run!!" she cried out in despair in English, her eyes widening as blood streamed down her cheek.
But Steve couldn't escape.
Several short, anguished screams—as if the throat were being constricted—rang out, followed by the muffled, rhythmic sound of bayonets repeatedly thrusting into and out of the flesh— "pfft, pfft" —as if piercing a leather bag filled with water.
Then came the dull thud of a heavy object hitting the ground, accompanied by a final, long, resigned sigh.
Diana painfully closed her eyes. Tears, mingled with the blood on her face, flowed down—salty and hot. She knew that this body would never move again.
Her sacrifice was utterly meaningless; her dignity had been trampled upon in vain. And Steve—the man who had believed in her first and brought her into the human world—had died like any ordinary animal slaughtered by the roadside.
"Vibrant women..." The captain wasn't angry at all; instead, he watched Diana intently as she struggled fiercely beneath the soldiers, her muscles tensed. Her naked back, covered in sweat and red marks, looked all the more enticing amidst her struggle.
The captain bent down and picked up the golden rope from the ground—the Truth Lasso.
In his hands, it was merely a golden rope—exquisitely crafted but of unknown material. He had no idea that this was a magical artifact forged by Hephaestus, nor did he realize its magical power. To him, the rope seemed sturdy and beautiful—truly worthy of being a war trophy.
"Don't use your hands. And... (bind the handbrake.) Also..." The captain tossed the rope to his subordinate and glared at Diana's private parts with a lewd expression. "Tighten that 'important part' securely—so she can't escape, and so I can enjoy it whenever I want."
The soldiers gave a knowing, sly laugh.
They roughly interlocked Diana's arms behind her back; the golden rope was tightened around her delicate wrist, forming a solid knot. Then, the rope extended downward along her spine, passing through her firm, rounded buttocks and gripping her most private perineum with the force of a saw.
"Woo—!" Diana let out a humiliating, mournful cry. The coarse woven threads rubbed against her most sensitive, tender flesh; the rope was suddenly tightened, plunging deep between her two swollen, flushed labia and forcibly pushing her private parts outward—as if revealing a blooming flower.
The rope was pulled back forward, crossed over her abdomen, and then wound upward, tightly constraining her heavy breasts. The golden rope sank deep into the snow-white flesh of her breasts, distorting and protruding them; the two red, swollen nipples were deliberately lifted by the rope, exposed to the air.
This is a highly insulting and distinctly pornographic form of Japanese "Turtle Shell Binding." At this moment, Diana is completely naked, bound by her most sacred weapon into a mere physical specimen for public display. The golden light of the Shingon Lasso—once symbolizing truth—now appears more like a vulgar ornament.
On the other side, the soldier swiftly packed her red-and-blue combat armor—comprising the chest armor, shorts, long boots, wrist guards, and the crucial golden belt—into a canvas travel bag, just as one would pack battle loot.
"Depart."