Wolverine was just about to snap back and tell Richard there was nothing in that direction when the black fighter finally entered his line of sight. It was still distant, partially obscured by trees and atmospheric distortion, but the silhouette was unmistakable. The angular frame and engine placement were clear enough.
"How did you know they were after you?" Logan demanded, narrowing his eyes.
"Their uniforms carry the Mutant Affairs Department insignia," Richard replied evenly. "And the missile just now? That was almost certainly theirs."
After answering Logan, he turned his attention back to Jean.
"You just said you could guarantee they wouldn't attack me," he said calmly. "Well, here's your chance to prove it."
He tilted his head slightly.
"If you can convince them to stand down, I don't mind going back to the school with you."
Jean's brows knit together.
A few minutes ago, she might have believed that outcome was possible. Now, watching the approaching aircraft and recalling the missile lock warning, her confidence dropped sharply. She couldn't be entirely certain the missile had come from that jet—but the probability was overwhelming.
After several seconds of silence, she straightened.
"Fine," she said firmly. "I'll prove it."
Richard gave a faint smile and drove his blade point-first into the ground.
"Then I look forward to seeing how this plays out."
The black fighter soon descended into full view. Like the Blackbird, it possessed vertical takeoff and landing capability. Twin turbine engines rotated, adjusting their angle as the aircraft slowed and hovered before settling roughly thirty meters away.
From a distance, it resembled a S.H.I.E.L.D. Quinjet—sleek, efficient—but the insignia on the fuselage belonged to the Mutant Affairs Department.
The rear hatch opened with mechanical precision. A ramp lowered smoothly.
Three agents in black tactical uniforms stepped out.
They moved without hesitation, faces rigid, expressions blank. Their pace was steady and synchronized as they approached Richard and the others.
Watching them, a thought flickered through Richard's mind.
Clones?
The Los Angeles branch had housed cloned Sabretooths in its underground levels. Other branches undoubtedly maintained their own classified contingencies—research programs the public would never see.
Within moments, the three agents stood before them.
Jean stepped forward to intercept.
"I'm Dr. Jean Grey of the X-Men," she said clearly. "Bringing Richard to the school was the professor's decision. If you object, contact your superiors now."
Despite the tension, she didn't raise her powers. She didn't posture aggressively. Her tone was controlled, diplomatic.
It wasn't fear that guided her restraint. It was principle.
An open conflict between the X-Men and the Mutant Affairs Department would shatter what fragile cooperation still existed. No matter who won, the damage would be permanent. That was not something she—or Charles—wanted.
The middle agent, a broad-shouldered man in his forties, responded without hostility.
"Dr. Grey, we respect the professor. We have no desire to go to war with the X-Men."
His gaze shifted slightly.
"Please step aside and allow us to complete our mission."
Jean's expression tightened.
They weren't backing down.
And judging by his tone, the decision wasn't theirs alone. The missile strike had likely been ordered from higher up. If not for that order, perhaps they wouldn't have fired on the Blackbird at all.
These men might even be what some called "doves"—mutants who accepted the Restriction Act and believed cooperation with the government was still possible.
Before Jean could respond again, something only Richard could see appeared in his field of vision.
[Task: One-Winged Angel (I)][Task Content: Kill the three mutant agents before you.][Reward: Prison Gate, Black Magic Crystal][Time Limit: 10 minutes]
Finally.
A Sephiroth-template task.
Until now, most system assignments had aligned with the Vergil template, forcing him to refine those techniques first. He had briefly wondered if the system expected him to reverse-engineer Sephiroth's abilities independently.
Apparently not.
Completing tasks was far more efficient than blind experimentation.
The panel vanished as he dismissed it.
He pulled the blade from the ground.
The motion alone was enough.
The three agents shifted instantly into combat readiness. They didn't waste time arguing further. Jean's presence ceased to matter to them.
The middle agent launched forward first.
He shot toward Richard like artillery, each step cracking the ground beneath his boots. As he advanced, his body began to expand—muscle swelling, bones elongating, mass increasing at a visible rate.
By the time he closed the distance, his original height of around six-foot-three had multiplied grotesquely. He towered at over twelve feet tall, his frame thickening into that of a monstrous giant.
His shirt and boots shredded under the strain. Only his reinforced combat trousers held, stretching with improbable elasticity.
For a split second, Richard thought of Hulk's infamous pants.
Then the giant's massive fist came down.
Flash.
Space twisted.
Richard vanished just before the impact, reappearing dozens of meters away. The giant's punch slammed into the earth, sending dirt and debris exploding outward in a violent shockwave.
Even as he relocated, a sharp pulse of danger prickled along Richard's spine.
He flashed again.
But this time—
A pale, gaunt figure materialized in front of him like a specter.
The second agent.
His skin was ashen, his body thin to the point of fragility, like someone freshly recovered from terminal illness. Yet his movement was instantaneous. In each hand he gripped a matte-black dagger.
The blades struck toward Richard's throat and heart in perfect synchronization.
So that's your ability.
He aborted the incomplete Flash and pivoted instead.
His left hand moved.
The blade cut forward in a precise arc.
Eight Blades Flash.
Steel sang.
In less than a heartbeat, eight intersecting slashes carved through the air, weaving a lethal lattice between him and the attacker. The pale agent's daggers met resistance mid-strike as sparks burst outward.
Metal screamed against metal.
The exchange was so fast that the surrounding air seemed to distort.
.....
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