The next morning, Richard woke slowly in the master bedroom of the house that was already listed for sale. Sunlight filtered through the curtains in thin, pale lines, cutting across the polished floor and the half-packed emptiness of the room. It wasn't even eight yet, but he knew he couldn't linger. By afternoon, the realtor would be bringing in prospective buyers in waves, and the last thing he needed was to cross paths with curious strangers.
He pulled toiletries from his system space—towel, toothbrush, toothpaste, shampoo, body wash—items that had long since replaced anything personal left in the house. The bathroom echoed faintly as he moved, the place already feeling less like a home and more like a temporary shelter. He washed, shaved, and showered with unhurried efficiency, letting the hot water clear the last trace of sleep from his mind.
Half an hour later, dressed in clean clothes and fully alert, he flashed out of the house in a ripple of distorted air. Instead of leaving Los Angeles immediately, he reappeared in a nearby neighborhood and chose a well-known chain diner that blended easily into the morning routine of the city. After pulling on a baseball cap and slipping on sunglasses to complete a minimal disguise, he walked inside with casual confidence and ordered a standard American breakfast.
Coffee, fried eggs, bacon, hot dogs, toast. Nothing fancy, nothing memorable.
He ate slowly while watching the morning news playing on the mounted television near the ceiling. As expected, his slaughter at the Los Angeles branch of the Mutant Affairs Department had become headline material across every major network. Panels of so-called experts dissected his motives with theatrical seriousness, speculating about psychology, ideology, and escalation.
Official spokespeople from the Mutant Affairs Department delivered firm statements promising swift justice. Their tone carried forced authority, but beneath it lingered tension. Richard took another sip of coffee and found the entire performance faintly amusing.
He retrieved a disposable phone from his system space and began searching his name online. The results exploded across the screen instantly, news articles and opinion pieces flooding the page. The headlines were dramatic, almost hysterical.
"65 Dead! Illegal Mutant Assaults Los Angeles Branch of the Mutant Affairs Department!""Terrifying Livestream! Branch Office Turns into a Living Hell!""Revenge or Open Provocation? Illegal Mutant Slaughters Officials!""From Wealthy Heir to Mass Murderer: Who Is Richard Wesley?""The So-Called 'Natural Enemy of Mutants' Fails to Protect Its Own!""Silver-Haired Devil Emerges in Bloodbath!"
He skimmed through them without emotion. Fear always generated clicks, and blood always sold.
Curious, he logged into a local Los Angeles forum. The homepage was overwhelmed with threads about him, some condemning him as a terrorist, others praising him with disturbing enthusiasm. After flipping through several pages, he discovered something unexpected.
He had fans.
Not casual supporters, but fervent, almost religious followers. They defended him aggressively in comment sections, attacked critics, and in less than a single night had created multiple websites and discussion boards dedicated entirely to him. Some had even designed logos based on his appearance.
They had also given him nicknames.
Silver-Haired Death God.Los Angeles Sword Master.Silver Samurai.Angel of Death.Seraph.Dominator.
Richard stared at the screen for a moment and shook his head slowly. He had no idea who these people were, but judging from the reckless tone of their posts and the way they lashed out at anyone calling him cruel, they were likely ordinary civilians. The Mutant Restriction Act had forced both registered and unregistered mutants into cautious, muted lives. For many people, resentment simmered quietly beneath the surface.
Of course, chaotic organizations like the Mutant Brotherhood were exceptions, but these online zealots didn't read like trained radicals. They read like citizens who had been waiting for someone to tear open the illusion of control.
After browsing the fan sites for several more minutes, he powered off the disposable phone and returned it to the system space. If he were a celebrity, he might have enjoyed the sudden rise of a devoted following. But he wasn't an influencer or a pop icon.
He was now officially an S-level wanted criminal.
While reading the news, he had noticed that headquarters had upgraded his status from A-level to S-level. They had also attached a reward.
One million dollars.
Capture him alive or deliver his corpse, and the payout would be one million dollars. Even providing reliable information could earn between five thousand and thirty thousand. It was enough to tempt bounty hunters, mercenaries, and opportunists alike.
The most theatrical move, however, was something else entirely. In what was clearly an attempt to provoke him, the Mutant Affairs Department had announced that the "illegal gains" of the Wesley family would be publicly auctioned in three days. That included the ancestral home, private collections, and all property registered under the family name.
If the original owner of this body were still in control, that announcement would have ignited fury. But Richard was not the original man.
Less than an hour after transmigrating into this world, he had dissolved Crimson Manor—the organization founded by the previous owner's father—and personally set fire to the main estate building. Whatever sentimental attachment had once existed had burned with it.
The department believed such a conspicuous insult would draw him out. It was a calculation based on misunderstanding.
Beyond lacking emotional ties to the Wesley name, he also carried a colder certainty. No matter how thoroughly the government seized and auctioned the family assets, he would reclaim everything in the future—with interest.
He finished his breakfast and prepared to settle the bill when four strangers approached his table. One woman and three men. None of them had crossed his path before.
"Mind if I sit here?" the woman asked.
She was blonde, blue-eyed, and curved in all the right places, appearing to be in her early twenties. Her expression was relaxed, almost playful, but her gaze was sharp.
"Go ahead," Richard replied calmly. "I'm about to pay and leave anyway."
He placed several bills on the table.
"Is it because I don't look like you expected?" she asked lightly.
Then, lowering her voice so only he could hear, she said, "Richard Wesley."
The moment she spoke his name, his first instinct was to summon his blade and kill her where she stood. However, as he focused on her eyes, he saw her pupils shift color in an instant.
Green to blue.
Recognition settled in.
Mystique.
"Did Magneto send you?" Richard asked evenly.
Since he had identified her, the identities.
.....
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