Chapter 8: The Castle and Five Chances
The Xavier estate loomed over the misty hills outside New York, its ancient stone walls and towering spires cutting through the autumn chill like a blade through silk. The scent of damp earth and aged oak filled the air, the grand foyer's marble floors gleaming under a chandelier's golden glow.
Charles's vow to train the survivors—forged in the wake of Banshee's death and the Black King's devastating attack—had brought them here, a fortress to shape them into warriors. Charles, Erik, and Moira faced the young mutants—Alex, Darwin, Raven, and Hank—their Soviet triumph over the White Queen now a faint echo. The weight of their losses lingered, but this manor promised a chance to fight back.
Charles's voice was steady, though guilt shadowed his eyes. "Ron… you threw the Black King into a crematorium?"
His gaze fixed on the blonde mutant lounging against a carved banister, his leather jacket creaking, his piercing blue eyes glinting with cold amusement. The image was jarring: Sebastian Shaw, the mastermind plotting global war, humiliated by a teenager in a furnace's fiery jaws.
Erik's lips twisted into a feral grin, his dark eyes blazing with savage approval. "Fitting. He burned thousands as a Nazi. A crematorium's poetic justice." His voice dripped with venom, the memory of his mother's murder fueling his rage. Eighteen years of chasing Shaw, only to fail again, had sharpened his hatred to a lethal edge.
Ron's smirk was sharp, his tone casual, like he'd just pulled a clever trick. "Figured the smoke might choke him. Low oxygen, high heat."
He knew Shaw's energy absorption made him untouchable in a straight fight. "Didn't take, I'm guessing."
Charles exhaled, his face taut. "Unlikely. Emma's memories show Shaw's endurance is superhuman. He can go without air for hours—two, three, maybe more."
A normal person could manage minutes; Shaw was a fortress of resilience.
Ron's eyes narrowed, his mind racing. "Mariana Trench wouldn't do it either, then."
Shaw's strength, speed, and healing could haul him from the ocean's depths in minutes. Need a better angle, he thought, his Template System flickering:
Ability Points: 78,000.
Mutant Black King Template: 120,000.
So close to Shaw's power, yet agonizingly short.
"This estate will be our training ground," Charles said, his voice firm, echoing his vow to prepare them. "It's secure, spacious, built to last."
His gaze swept the group, lingering on Ron, whose calm stood out like a blade in the opulent hall.
…
Hours later, they stood in the manor's vast library, its towering shelves heavy with leather-bound tomes, the air thick with the scent of old paper and polished wood.
Darwin, once a cabbie, gaped at the soaring ceilings. "This ain't a house, man—it's a damn castle!" he said, nudging Alex. "Could fit a whole army in here."
Charles offered a faint smile, his patrician charm unshaken. "It'll do. Safe, secluded, defensible." He gestured to the tall windows overlooking manicured gardens, a stark contrast to their lost past.
"How loaded are you, Charles?" Alex asked, half-awed, half-teasing.
"No clue," Charles shrugged, his tone light. "Money's never been my thing. Ideas are."
His inherited wealth was a backdrop, not a focus.
Erik stood silent, his jaw clenched. The manor's grandeur stung—a reminder of his childhood, scavenging in war-torn streets after the camps, hunger gnawing at his bones. His fists tightened, rage simmering beneath his calm.
Ron surveyed the estate, his smirk faint but sharp. The X-Men's future starts here, he thought, recognizing the manor that would become Xavier's School.
His eyes flicked to Raven, standing close, her blonde hair catching the light, her human form flawless but strained. Her hand grazed his arm, her touch warm and lingering, her green eyes darting to him with trust and a spark of something deeper. Her pulse quickened under his gaze, her closeness a silent plea.
Raven led the tour with a forced grin, her human form—pale skin, blonde hair—masking her true self. "Let's move, people!" she called, striding through halls of polished mahogany, past antique clocks and Xavier heirlooms. The castle screamed old money—crystal chandeliers, stern portraits of ancestors.
Charles was a cosmic lottery winner: rich, handsome, brilliant, the world's strongest telepath. Yet, Ron thought, he's blind to the heart. Charles would lose Raven to Erik, then drown in a savior complex, wasting his life on mutants. What a waste.
After the tour, Charles assigned rooms and outlined training.
In a blast-proof bunker, he pushed Alex to sharpen his plasma blades, scorch marks blackening the walls. He guided Erik to channel rage into precision, seeking calm to master his magnetic powers. Darwin faced hazard rooms—fire, ice, vacuum—to test his adaptive evolution. Hank, haunted by his massive feet, got therapy to boost his speed, but Charles soon let him retreat to his lab, where his genius thrived.
Then came Ron.
In a private study, Charles chose his words with care, his eyes probing Ron's face. "Your abilities are… unique," he said, leaning forward. "You can take other mutants' powers?"
Ron's gaze flicked from the window, where Erik was twisting steel into spirals. "Five," he said, raising five fingers with a calculated smirk. "I can copy five abilities in my life. Once they're gone, that's it."
A lie—his Template System had no limit, but Charles didn't need the truth.
Charles exhaled, relief softening his features. "Five?" An unlimited power would've been catastrophic—a single mutant shaping the world's fate. His idealism shuddered at the thought. "How many have you used?"
"Longevity and healing, tiger-leopard strength, teleportation, Darwin's adaptation, Alex's plasma," Ron said, counting them off until his hand was empty. "That's five." His tone was casual, his eyes glinting with deception.
"Longevity?" Charles's voice sharpened, his telepathic instincts stirring. "How long can you live?"
"Couple hundred years, maybe a thousand," Ron said, shrugging as if it meant nothing. Sabretooth's healing factor had extended his lifespan, and who knows how much more Azazel had tacked on—the rapid aging of his cells was no longer a problem
"Got time to figure it out."
Charles nodded, his mind racing. A mutant like Ron, even capped at five, was a wildcard. A potential god, he thought, uneasy.
…
In the manor's gym, Raven lay on a weight bench, struggling with a 100kg barbell. Her human form—pale skin, blonde hair—felt like a cage, her superhuman strength dulled by the effort to maintain it. Sweat beaded on her forehead, her green eyes strained.
The barbell lifted, floating mid-air. Erik stepped in, his magnetic field humming. "You're holding back, hiding your true self," he said, his voice low, intense. "That's why you're weak." His eyes flickered, and the barbell dropped.
Raven gasped, catching it with effort, her human form trembling. Erik was right: hiding weakened her. But his lecture burned. "You've never been shunned!" she snapped, her voice raw. "Never had kids throw rocks, screaming 'freak!' You've never felt society's rejection!"
Erik shook his head, a confident smile breaking through. "You want their approval, but you can't accept yourself." His tone was firm, infectious. "You're a miracle, Raven. A pioneer. Mutants are evolution's edge. Hiding is like Copernicus burying his truth, fearing the mob."
Raven's anger wavered, her eyes wide. Erik's conviction shook her. Am I wrong to hide? she wondered, setting the barbell down, her face conflicted. Erik left, leaving her to wrestle with her thoughts.
A knock sounded. Ron leaned against the doorframe, his leather jacket creaking, his blonde hair catching the gym's dim light.
"Ron!" Raven gasped, her human form tense, her hand brushing her blonde hair back. Memories of rejection—rocks, jeers, fear—flooded her. "This is me," she said, her voice trembling, gesturing to her human guise. "Trying to fit in… but it's not enough."
"I see," Ron said, stepping closer, his voice low, devoid of pity. "Heard Erik's speech, too."
"Is he right?" Raven asked, her green eyes searching his, desperate for guidance. "Have I been wrong to hide who I am?"
"He's not entirely wrong," Ron said, his tone measured, his eyes sharp. "But it's not that simple. People talk big, but most crumble under pressure. Copernicus hid his truth for thirty years, died safe in his bed. His student Bruno? Preached it, burned at the stake while the crowd cheered." His voice darkened. "The new era's not here, Raven. Trailblazers get crushed if they're too far ahead."
"I… I get it," Raven said, her eyes suddenly firm. Her hesitation gone, she looked at Ron and asked the question that truly mattered to her. "Ron, what do you think of me… as I am now?"
"You want the truth?"