Why be a hero… when you can be a god?

Night sky, beneath the bright moon.

High above the ground, Azazel—the Black King's red-skinned, demonic-looking subordinate—suddenly appeared, clutching a terrified civilian from the base.

The man flailed helplessly, eyes wide in panic as he took in the impossible scene.

Azazel grinned cruelly, then activated his teleportation ability—vanishing in an instant.

"No—! AAAaaa..."

The man, still unable to process what had happened, screamed as he plummeted from dozens of meters above.

He hit the ground with a sickening thud—dead on impact.

Bang. Bang.

A strange, rhythmic sound followed—like air being torn apart and sealed shut all at once.

Above the CIA base, more people began falling, one after another.

Azazel was teleporting people high into the air, only to drop them—slaughtering the personnel in cold blood.

Bodies fell like rain.

Corpses slammed into the courtyard and onto rooftops. Blood splattered across walls, windows, and stone, painting the night in crimson.

Meanwhile, through the floor-to-ceiling windows on the other side of the room— Whoosh. Whoosh. Whoosh.

A violent tornado surged toward a large, spherical device.

It was Cerebro—the machine built by Hank McCoy, used by Professor X to locate and track mutants across the world.

Now, it was under direct attack from Riptide, a mutant aligned with the Hellfire Club, who was unleashing a storm of spinning air blades in an attempt to destroy it.

The base was under siege.

A brutal, coordinated attack—enemies on both sides.

"Ah—this.. w-what do we do?!"

Mystique and the others screamed as they stumbled back in fear.

Even though each of them possessed powers, they were still just a group of young, inexperienced mutants—ordinary kids who had never witnessed real bloodshed.

Panic spread quickly through the room.

All except for one.

Ron stood still, calm and composed, eyes scanning both ends of the chaos-torn base. The howling wind, the screams, the sound of bodies hitting the ground—none of it seemed to register on his face.

One by one, the terrified youths huddled toward him, as if drawn by instinct, seeking safety near the only person who looked unfazed.

"R-Ron… what should we do?" Raven's voice trembled. Her face had gone pale as she stared through the window at the courtyard below, littered with bodies.

At this stage in her life, she wasn't yet the hardened Mystique—no symbol of mutant strength, no revolutionary. Just a frightened girl trying to survive.

"It has to be those people Charles warned us about," Alex muttered, his usual bravado gone. His eyes darted anxiously between the windows.

Someone took a step forward, trying to steady his breath.

"Hide behind me. I'll protect you."

Only Darwin—slightly older and possessing a unique ability—managed to steady himself. Swallowing hard, he stepped in front of the others.

Ron glanced briefly at Raven but said nothing. His focus shifted inward—to the system.

As expected, during the panic, several people had accidentally brushed against him. Among them were two he had been waiting for.

Acquired: [Mutant Template – Darwin]

[Mutant Template – Alex Summers]

A wave of heat surged through his body.

Aside from the warmth, there was no discomfort. No pain. His body accepted the power effortlessly—his genetic carrying capacity was limitless.

Within seconds, the heat subsided.

Ron looked down at his hands, a faint smile tugging at his lips. He could feel the change. His body was no longer the same.

Weak streams of energy were continuously being drawn into him.

Darwin's 'survival of the fittest' only activates under threat… but Havok's ability—I can feel it already.

Various ambient energies—radiation, electromagnetism, and heat—were subtly flowing into his body, ready to be weaponized.

Finally, the base's internal defenses kicked in.

Armed agents burst onto the scene, weapons raised.

But Azazel was faster.

Flashing between them in a blur of red, he used his teleportation ability to cut through them one by one. His dual short blades made quick, deadly work of the defenders.

Da-da-da-da!

Gunfire erupted near the main entrance.

"Stop him!" At the same time, gunshots and shouts came from the front door.

The Black King didn't enter from the side of the base like his two subordinates. Instead, he chose to break straight through the main entrance.

A fully armed special forces unit opened fire on him without hesitation—but it was useless. Only the clatter of empty shell casings hitting the ground could be heard. All the kinetic energy was being absorbed.

Click!

Suddenly, a stray bullet shattered one of the glass panels near where Azazel had been fighting, triggering another wave of panic. Two women screamed, recoiling in terror.

"Stay here—and stop screaming. It's useless."

Ron's voice cut through the noise like a blade. Cold and calm.

In the next moment, his body moved.

Like a panther pouncing, he sprang forward. His five fingers extended into razor-sharp claws as he vaulted effortlessly over the broken window and lunged toward Azazel without hesitation.

"Well, well… someone interesting at last."

In the courtyard, Azazel was strangling a suffocating agent with his prehensile, demonic tail—dangling him in midair like a grotesque puppet. As Ron approached, the red-skinned mutant gave a cruel smile.

A second later, he flung the limp agent aside and drew his twin short blades, stepping forward to engage Ron.

Ron now possessed Sabretooth's enhanced physique—raw strength and durability—but his frame wasn't as bulky. Instead, he was leaner, more refined. The muscles beneath his clothes were tight and compact, built for speed and power.

Explosive like a tiger. Precise like a leopard.

The two clashed in a blur of motion.

Azazel's twin blades slashed through the air with sharp, hissing sounds. But Ron weaved through them with ease.

To him, Azazel's attacks looked sluggish—telegraphed and wide.

Ron ducked beneath one blade, pivoted on his heel, and swiped upward with his claws.

Swish!

Azazel stumbled back a few steps, reaching up to touch the five bloody gashes now carved across his face. His red eyes narrowed as he stared at the young man before him.

"A slightly troublesome kitten," he muttered, wounded but unfazed. His tone was dismissive, almost amused.

Ron glanced at the blood staining his claws and let out a slow, mocking sneer.

"I thought I saw a demon," he said coldly, "but I didn't smell the sulfur of hell in your blood."

He looked Azazel up and down.

"Grotesque… but nothing more?"

In the comics, Azazel was one of the oldest known mutants—rumored to have lived for thousands of years. Throughout history, he had been feared by mankind, known by many names, including Satan himself. His powers were vast: teleportation, enhanced physique, shapeshifting, longevity, and even mind control.

But in the movie adaptation, he had been reduced to a mere mutant from Russia with a demonic appearance, limited to teleportation and minor physical enhancements.

"I'll show you hell right now!"

Enraged by the insult to his appearance, Azazel snapped. His eyes burned with fury as he prepared to finish Ron off then and there.

His boss was about to arrive. He had to clean this up before that happened.

Bang!

The next second, Azazel activated his power, instantly vanishing and reappearing behind Ron. He brought his blade down in a vicious arc.

But Ron's reflexes were razor-sharp. He spun around and raised his arm, catching the strike with ease.

"You seem to have forgotten my tail," Azazel sneered.

With a feral grin, his prehensile tail whipped around and wrapped tightly around Ron's ankle.

Bang!

Teleportation triggered.

In the blink of an eye, Ron and Azazel were hundreds of meters above the ground—high above the thick clouds, bathed in cold moonlight—both in free fall.

"Go to hell and repent!"

Azazel let out a cruel laugh as he released his tail, leaving Ron plummeting alone through the sky.

He teleported back to the ground, landing gracefully. Straightening up, he tilted his head and calmly looked up into the dark night sky—waiting.

Waiting for that arrogant little kitten to fall hundreds of meters and splatter like the rest.

"Ron, no!"

Mystique and the others screamed from the building below, eyes wide with panic as they stared upward.

They had seen what happened to those who fell before. Crushed. Unrecognizable.

…Bang!

That all-too-familiar sound rang out—right behind Azazel.

His expression froze.

Every time he teleported, that unique sound echoed.

But this time… he hadn't activated anything.

Huh? A hallucination?

"What—are you looking at?"

A cold, magnetic voice echoed behind him, sharp as a blade. Like a hunter emerging from the shadows, Ron struck without hesitation—his claws slicing mercilessly across Azazel's throat.

Slash!

"You… how did you do that…?"

Azazel staggered back, clutching his bleeding neck, eyes wide in disbelief.

The one he thought had fallen to his death had somehow reappeared—right behind him—and had used his own ability to do it.

"I gave it some thought," Ron said coolly, tilting his head slightly, eyes cold. "And honestly... you look a lot more suited for hell than I do."

Azazel gasped, trying to form words. "I… you…"

His mouth worked helplessly as life drained from his body. His knees buckled.

"Goodbye," Ron said flatly.

"No…"

Azazel choked out a final, broken syllable. Clutching his neck, he collapsed to the ground—dead — eyes frozen wide in disbelief.

And in that moment, the Ability Points counter, previously drained, jumped by several thousand once more.

In the original storyline, Azazel didn't die. He defected to Magneto after the latter broke away from Professor X. But now, the mutant with the strongest escape ability had encountered Ron—and tonight, his life had come to an end.

"Ron, oh my god—you were amazing!"

Mystique and Alex both lit up, eyes wide with awe and excitement.

It had all happened in a flash, but in just a few seconds, Ron had taken down the red-skinned demon who had effortlessly slaughtered numerous CIA agents. He was too powerful!

"I think… I think I saw Ron use that demon's ability," Hank said slowly, his expression dazed.

"Did I imagine it?"

"No, I saw it too," someone else replied.

Those who had been too stunned to react earlier now exchanged uncertain glances.

Bang!

Suddenly, the French window on the opposite side shattered violently.

Riptide stepped through the broken glass.

He had just finished carrying out his task: completely destroying Cerebro on the Black King's orders.

Mystique and the others—six or seven young mutants—stood in front of the shattered window, blocking his path.

Riptide still hadn't realized that Azazel was lying in the courtyard behind them—lifeless and very much dead.

"Riptide…"

Ron had already spotted him through the gaps between the others.

Teleportation—so long as he had seen or been to a location, he could warp there instantly.

Bang!

"Is it already handled?"

A familiar voice spoke from behind Riptide.

He assumed it was his ally—Azazel.

"Yup!"

Without turning around, Riptide flashed a cold smile to the panicked group of young mutants in front of him and asked casually, "Everyone else in the base taken care of?"

But from Mystique and the others' perspective, it was a different scene entirely.

Riptide looked like a clown, blissfully unaware that Ron now stood silently behind him, his face cold and expressionless.

"No," came a voice like death itself, calm and chilling. "There's still one more."

Crack… crack.

Before Riptide could react, the smug smile froze on his face.

A moment later, immense strength twisted his neck sharply—once, twice—until it snapped completely. His lifeless body crumpled to the floor, joining Azazel in death.

Ability Points: 42,000.

The number surged upward—an all-time high.

"Impressive power," Ron muttered, glancing down at the corpse. "But such a fragile body."

The mutant Riptide had the power to generate whirlwinds, tornadoes, even full-blown hurricanes—his destructive potential rivaled that of a small natural disaster.

Unfortunately, his physical body was far too fragile.

This was a common weakness among mutants. Very few possessed both overwhelming powers and the durability to back them up.

Take Magneto, for example. In the future, his control over the Earth's magnetic field would reach terrifying levels—capable of triggering global disasters. Yet, under the right circumstances, even a small plastic bullet could end his life.

"Another one down! Ron, you're like a cold-blooded assassin—deadly and incredible!"

Raven, her cheeks flushed with excitement, walked over with the others, voices filled with awe.

At their age, Ron already felt worlds ahead of them. He had taken down two powerful enemies back-to-back, without so much as a scratch. His presence alone gave the group an overwhelming sense of safety.

Ron, however, paid no attention to their admiration. He simply turned his gaze toward the front entrance.

"T-Those freaks you're looking for are inside, spare me—ah!"

A loud bang cut off the panicked cry from outside.

"What a beautiful night, ladies and gentlemen…"

The main doors swung open.

Sebastian Shaw—the Black King—strolled in with calm, deliberate steps.

He was dressed in a perfectly tailored suit, wearing his signature ornate helmet, both elegant and imposing. Moments earlier, he had taken on a fully armed special forces unit—hundreds of agents.

Even an RPG had been fired at him.

Yet not a single strand of his hair was out of place.

His ability ensured that no matter the situation, he always remained composed—elegant and untouchable.

"Oh.. Riptide… and Azazel."

But the moment Sebastian Shaw stepped into the room—prepared to deliver a smooth, persuasive speech to sway and recruit these young mutants—his eyes landed on two corpses.

Riptide's body lay nearby, and just beyond the courtyard windows, Azazel's lifeless form sprawled across the lawn.

His smile vanished.

"Interesting… it seems one of you has given me a surprise."

The calm, gentlemanly air that Shaw carried like a second skin began to crack. His expression darkened. For a man known for his composure, it was a rare and chilling shift.

He lifted his head slowly, his icy gaze sweeping across the room.

Everyone who met his eyes felt a chill run down their spine, as if they had been plunged into an arctic sea.

Then, his gaze settled—locked onto Ron, who stood beside Riptide's corpse, still and composed, with visible energy humming faintly through his body.

"Was it you?" Shaw asked coldly. "Did you kill Azazel and the others?"