The moment Sabretooth caught sight of the silver-haired young man staring at him and Clarice with undisguised hostility, his lips peeled back in a silent snarl. His eyes sharpened, feral and warning, locking onto Richard with unmistakable threat. Though Clarice wasn't his biological daughter, he had raised her as his own, and in his mind that made no difference at all. Any man who looked at her the wrong way earned his attention.
Clarice had grown into striking beauty over the past few years, the kind that drew eyes without effort. Sabretooth understood that perfectly well, and he despised it. He had dealt with more than one young idiot who mistook admiration for entitlement, and none of them had walked away proud of their choices. Age had taught him patience, but it had also sharpened his instincts. He recognized predatory interest when he saw it.
Richard met Sabretooth's gaze for a second longer, then simply shrugged and looked away. He picked up his fork again and continued eating as if nothing had happened, the tension sliding off him with casual indifference. Whatever warning Sabretooth intended to send had been received, assessed, and dismissed.
Sabretooth and Clarice moved to a table by the window, settling into their seats with guarded awareness. The restaurant hummed with quiet conversation and the clink of cutlery, an ordinary afternoon scene that felt deceptively calm. Richard finished his meal without hurry and rose from his seat, preparing to leave.
That was when three black vehicles rolled to a stop outside the restaurant.
At the front was a black Chevrolet SUV, flanked by two armored transports of similar color and build. Richard's gaze narrowed as he caught the insignia emblazoned on the doors. The emblem belonged to the Mutant Affairs Department, a federal agency with broad authority and very little patience.
The sight of those vehicles didn't go unnoticed. Sabretooth stiffened, Clarice's posture tightened, and even the ordinary patrons sensed something was wrong. Conversations faltered, forks paused midair, and eyes turned toward the windows.
The front SUV's doors opened first. Two men stepped out, both dressed in plain leather jackets and button-down shirts, their appearances unremarkable at a glance. Then the woman emerged.
She looked to be in her early thirties, with voluminous blonde waves cascading over her shoulders and a figure that turned heads effortlessly. Her features were sharp and foxlike, her smile faint but knowing. What drew the most attention, however, was her attire.
She wore a tight, deep-V backless gown that resembled evening wear more than field gear. The fabric clung to her curves, exposing a sweep of pale skin along her chest and back. The hem ended mid-thigh, revealing long, toned legs accentuated by nearly four-inch stilettos. As she walked, the dress swayed lightly with each step, deliberate and unapologetically provocative.
A ripple passed through the restaurant. Nearly every male patron stared, their expressions shifting from curiosity to something rawer and more obsessive. Several swallowed hard. A few leaned forward unconsciously, their gazes locked on her as though drawn by an invisible hook.
Only two men remained unaffected.
Richard observed her calmly, analyzing rather than reacting. Sabretooth's eyes, though sharp, showed no sign of the same glazed hunger infecting the others. Instead, suspicion deepened.
Richard didn't recognize the woman, but he understood immediately what was happening. The unnatural fixation in the room wasn't coincidence. It was influence.
When his own gaze had initially swept over her, the passive mental isolation ability he had plundered earlier activated automatically. The subtle pressure brushing against his consciousness was intercepted and blocked before it could take root. Unlike active telepathy, this ability functioned continuously, screening external psychic interference without effort.
Sabretooth's resistance was simpler but no less effective. His willpower, honed over nearly two centuries of violence and survival, formed a mental barrier strong enough to reject the intrusion outright.
Neither man was swayed.
Both, however, sensed trouble.
The armored vehicles' rear doors swung open with mechanical precision. A squad of fully armed soldiers disembarked, weapons at the ready. Their formation was tight, professional, and deliberate.
Richard and Sabretooth stood simultaneously.
That movement drew immediate attention. The blonde woman's eyes flicked toward them, and her lips curved faintly. The two men beside her exchanged a glance.
Richard Wesley?
They had been dispatched to the manor to apprehend him. Encountering him here, in public, was unexpected but convenient.
The blonde woman lifted a finger, pointing toward Sabretooth. "He's yours," she said lightly to her companions. "Richard Wesley is mine."
Her tone was playful, but her eyes held calculation.
The two agents—Slater and Bourne—didn't argue. They were concerned only with mission success, not personal indulgence. Without hesitation, they pushed through the restaurant doors, moving toward Sabretooth and Clarice with controlled purpose.
The blonde woman—Inesa—began walking toward Richard instead.
Her heels clicked against the pavement in an unhurried rhythm, hips swaying as if this were a social visit rather than a federal operation. She radiated charm, and the psychic pressure in the air intensified subtly as she drew closer.
Richard watched her approach with narrowed eyes.
He felt no killing intent. No overt hostility. The mental interference continued probing, but it couldn't penetrate his defenses. If anything, she looked like she was approaching him for a flirtatious introduction.
He didn't waste time speculating.
His left hand lifted slightly.
With a thought, the massive blade stored within his system space materialized in his grasp. The authentic sword—over two meters in length—appeared instantly, its weight settling into his palm as naturally as breath.
He didn't hesitate.
There was no preamble, no warning. He swung.
The blade cut through the air in a clean, decisive arc, moving with lightning speed. In less than a blink, its edge was at Inesa's throat, poised to sever cleanly through flesh and bone.
Then a distortion rippled through the space between them.
An invisible shockwave erupted outward, colliding with the blade mid-swing.
Bang.
The impact was violent. The force redirected the sword's trajectory, hurling it sideways with a resonant crack.
"You're awfully ruthless for someone your age," Inesa said, her voice smooth and teasing despite the attack. "Looks like your big sister needs to teach you some manners."
Richard didn't respond.
He vanished.
Flash activated in an instant, and his figure disappeared from the spot where he stood. He wasn't retreating. He was repositioning.
The restaurant interior was too confined for what was coming.
He reappeared outside in the open lot, boots skidding slightly against the asphalt as he pivoted. The soldiers had already begun advancing, weapons raised.
Summoning a blade. Instantaneous movement. Immunity to her charm.
Inesa's expression shifted subtly.
According to the information provided by his father, Richard had never awakened any superpower. Yet here he was, manifesting a massive weapon from thin air and teleporting with seamless precision. On top of that, her psychic influence had failed entirely.
Three abilities at initial awakening?
Her eyes gleamed.
This mission had just become far more interesting.
Her body blurred and vanished, reappearing outside the restaurant in a heartbeat.
She arrived just in time to see Richard step into the advancing special forces unit, blade sweeping outward as the first soldier fell.
.....
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