It took him only a few minutes to read the report from start to finish, and when he reached the end, he leaned back slightly and smiled, shaking his head in faint disbelief. The article came from a well-known television network that had aired a prime-time panel the previous night. Several experts had been invited to discuss the influence of his actions on the younger generation of mutants, and the moment the broadcast ended, a written summary was uploaded online.
The headline was impossible to miss. Splashed across the top in bold lettering were the words: "New Leader of Mutants."
From a media standpoint, he understood exactly what they were doing. The phrase was engineered for engagement, crafted to trigger curiosity and drive clicks. Still, exaggerated or not, it wasn't completely baseless sensationalism.
Every expert on the panel had shared roughly the same conclusion. In their view, today's mutant population was divided into two dominant camps. One faction followed Professor X and the X-Men, advocating peaceful coexistence with the U.S. government and ordinary citizens. They believed integration was possible, even if progress came slowly.
The other faction stood behind Magneto and the Brotherhood of Mutants, who believed in strength above diplomacy. They argued that rights were never given freely and that only force could secure equality.
Of course, there were fence-sitters in between, and plenty of mutants who preferred to keep their heads down and avoid politics altogether. But broadly speaking, most people leaned toward either the doves or the hawks. That much had been true for years.
Now, according to the experts, a third faction had emerged.
A so-called liberal camp.
It was defined by a simple principle: if you don't provoke me, I won't provoke you. This group rejected the Mutant Restriction Act and the authority of the Department of Mutant Affairs, yet they also refused to launch open attacks against government institutions the way the Brotherhood did. They weren't seeking coexistence through submission, nor dominance through terror.
They simply wanted to be left alone.
More importantly, the majority of those who identified with this stance were young mutants. People his age. People who had grown up watching both sides clash and had decided they wanted no part in either extreme.
He already knew there were mutants imitating his approach. He'd heard whispers of individuals copying his methods and repeating his philosophy. But he had never imagined anyone would consider him the head of a movement.
Leader of mutants?
The idea almost made him laugh.
He had never once set out to become a symbol. He had no interest in organizing anyone, guiding anyone, or fighting on behalf of a collective identity. Mutants were treated unfairly, that much was obvious. But from his perspective, much of that imbalance existed because most mutants were too afraid to resist.
If they had unified under strength the way Magneto preached, the Mutant Restriction Act would never have taken hold. The Department of Mutant Affairs wouldn't have gained so much control. Fairness was never handed out politely. It was taken.
Power decided outcomes.
If you were unwilling to fight for yourself, you couldn't expect the world to fight for you.
Though he himself was a mutant, he was also a transmigrator. This world still felt like an elaborate simulation he had stepped into without a reset button. There was no system administrator to intervene, no save file to reload if something went wrong.
Wolverine, Sabretooth, the agents of the Department, the people who had died by his hand—they all registered in his mind with the same detached clarity as NPCs in a game. That mental distance was the only reason he had been able to start killing on the first day without hesitation.
He understood logically that this wasn't a game. The people he eliminated were flesh and blood, not code. But understanding something intellectually didn't instantly rewire instinct. It would take years, maybe, before the illusion fully faded.
When he finished reading the report, he closed the laptop and stored it in his system space. He carried his plate and utensils into the kitchen and washed them methodically, the steady sound of running water filling the quiet cabin.
Afterward, he returned to the table and retrieved one thousand dollars from his system space. He placed the stack of bills neatly on the tabletop and set a glass over it to keep it from shifting.
It was rent.
He had occupied the cabin without permission for nearly a week. Leaving without compensation would have felt unnecessarily disrespectful. Breaking in had already crossed one line; vanishing without a trace would have crossed another.
While cooking earlier, he had noticed his stored food was running low. At best, he could stretch it another day or two. Since he had already stayed five or six days, it was time to move on.
He gathered the garbage bag from the kitchen, and in the next instant, he teleported.
Downtown San Francisco.
Teleportation was infinitely more practical than flash. In the span of a breath, he crossed dozens of kilometers and arrived in the city center. Unlike flash, teleportation required locking onto a location mentally, but prior familiarity wasn't necessary. As long as it fell within range, he could go.
His current maximum distance was two hundred kilometers. He had tested it himself.
He appeared on the rooftop of a downtown building and surveyed the area. After a short search, he spotted a large chain supermarket nearby. Instead of entering immediately, he teleported into an adjacent alley and tossed the garbage bag into a trash bin.
Then he transferred directly inside the supermarket.
The moment he arrived, he activated telepathy.
The effect was immediate. Conversations cut off mid-word. Shoppers froze mid-step. Cashiers held their scanners suspended above half-swiped barcodes. Even the security staff in the monitoring room were locked in place like wax statues.
Only the background noise remained—the hum of refrigeration units, distant music over the speakers, the television playing in the appliance section.
He had done this before.
With everyone immobilized, he moved calmly through the aisles, selecting supplies at his own pace. He wasn't concerned about the Department tracking him. Once he left the city, any trace would go cold.
After gathering everything he needed, he pushed a cart to a checkout counter.
Zero-dollar shopping was popular these days, but he had no interest in petty theft. There was no reason to create unnecessary hostility over small sums.
He took the handheld scanner from the frozen cashier and scanned each item himself. As always, he couldn't help feeling mildly irritated. Supermarkets across the country were fully capable of installing self-checkout systems, yet most still relied on manual scanning.
When he finished, he calculated the total, retrieved the exact cash from his system space, and placed both the money and printed receipt neatly on the register. Then he stored the purchased goods.
Mind transfer.
He vanished.
In the next instant, time resumed for everyone else.
The cashier blinked and looked down at the extra cash and receipt resting in front of her. Confusion creased her expression as she glanced around, clearly certain something had happened but unable to grasp what.
On a nearby rooftop, he reappeared and sat along the edge. From his system space, he pulled out a bag of potato chips and a bottle of cold soda. As he ate, he considered his next destination.
Three months had passed, and he was still in California, though far from Los Angeles. Maybe it was time to leave the state.
Las Vegas was tempting. Nevada bordered California, and at his maximum range, five teleports would be enough to reach it. Nine hundred kilometers total—manageable.
He had tested his range out of boredom before. Two hundred kilometers per jump. As long as he kept his direction straight, he wouldn't get lost.
Just as he was weighing the idea of visiting the so-called World Entertainment Capital, sirens echoed in the distance. Police cars streaked through the streets below, lights flashing.
He barely paid attention at first. Sirens were practically part of the urban soundtrack in America.
But then he noticed where they were heading.
At a major intersection, a group of mutants were protesting. Police vehicles boxed them in from multiple directions, officers forming a perimeter.
What caught his attention weren't the faces. It was the signs.
Freedom is not a crime!
Oppose the Mutant Restriction Act!
Mutants deserve the legal right to use their powers!
Stop the Department of Mutant Affairs' abuse of authority!
Richard Wesley should not be wanted!
.....
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