Just as Richard was picturing the future—himself standing at the top of the mutant world, abilities stacked endlessly, untouchable—the System's voice echoed inside his mind.
"Electrical Manipulation can be converted into the skilla Thunder. Convert?"
"Cryokinesis can be converted into the skill Blizzard. Convert?"
There was no reason to hesitate.
"Yes," he answered internally.
The response was immediate.
[Skill Thunder Awakened.]
[Skill Blizzard Awakened.]
[Skills and X-Gene abilities updated.]
A new panel unfolded before his eyes.
[Skills: Eightfold Slash (Lv.1, 11/100), Earthshatter (Lv.1, 1/100), Skybreaker (Lv.1, 0/100), Zanshin (Lv.1, 1/100), Iai Slash (Lv.1, 0/100), Thunder (Lv.1, 0/100), Blizzard (Lv.1, 0/100)]
[X-Gene Abilities: Plunder, Super Strength, Enhanced Physique, Flash, Psychic Isolation, Accelerated Regeneration]
Thunder and Blizzard.
In practical terms, they weren't that different from controlling electricity or freezing objects. Lightning struck. Ice formed. The destructive output wasn't wildly beyond what he had already taken.
But the difference wasn't immediate power. It was ceiling.
Marik's electrical manipulation and Beverly's freezing ability had only been Beta-level mutations. Solid, reliable, but limited. They would never approach the upper tiers of mutant evolution.
Skills tied to the Sephiroth template were different.
According to the System, every skill could be upgraded to the maximum potential of the template itself. Richard didn't know what that upper limit was, but his instinct told him it wasn't low.
If Thunder and Blizzard kept scaling, they might eventually rival Alpha-tier powers.
And if the template's ceiling was high enough—
Omega was not impossible.
He dismissed the panel.
The smell of gasoline was already thick in the air. Flames hadn't been lit yet, but the building felt like it was waiting for ignition.
Richard pulled a cigar torch from his pocket—the kind used for lighting cigars in the lounge downstairs. He flicked it on and pressed the flame to a gasoline-soaked wall.
Fire caught instantly.
Orange light raced along the floor in thin, hungry lines. Within seconds, flames climbed curtains and licked across wood paneling.
Richard turned and walked out calmly as the fire began spreading behind him.
By the time he stepped into the open space in front of the main entrance, around thirty or forty people had gathered outside. These were ordinary members of the organization—minor mutants, recruits, drifters who had been taken in.
They stared at the growing blaze in shock.
Some looked confused. Some angry. Some afraid.
They didn't understand.
Even if Richard hated Marik and the others, why burn the entire manor? Without the main building, where would they live?
Before anyone could fully organize their thoughts, Richard spoke.
"The organization is disbanded," he said flatly. "You're free to leave."
For a moment, there was stunned silence.
They had assumed he would relocate them to another property. His father had been a billionaire. Surely there were other safehouses.
Instead, he had just erased everything.
"How can you do that?" someone shouted.
"That's irresponsible!"
"Your father promised us protection!"
"You burned our home! Where are we supposed to go?"
"You owe us compensation!"
"That's right! Either give us money or arrange somewhere else!"
More than a dozen people pushed forward, voices rising, emotions boiling over.
Richard looked at them calmly.
Then, without hesitation, he activated Thunder.
The sky answered.
Boom.
Five or six bolts of silver lightning tore downward from above, striking the group directly. The impact hurled them backward, smoke rising from scorched clothing.
He hadn't used full power.
Even so, the message was clear.
"An explanation?" Richard said coldly. "Why would I explain anything to you?"
His voice cut through the crackling air.
"You eat in my house. You sleep under my roof. You contribute nothing."
"My father was arrested, and instead of thinking about how to help him, you kept eating and drinking like nothing happened."
"You complain about the food. You complain about the conditions. Have any of you made this organization a single dollar?"
Silence.
"You've done nothing," he continued. "You're parasites. All of you."
"If you want an explanation, here it is. I can send every single one of you to join Marik and the others right now."
His eyes swept over them.
"Do you want that explanation?"
No one answered.
Not because they agreed.
Because they were afraid.
The pain from the lightning still lingered in their muscles. More importantly, they had just watched him slaughter the leadership inside.
Whatever he had awakened, it wasn't small.
"I'm giving you one minute," Richard said. "If you're still here after that, I'll personally send you to hell."
He turned away, as if dismissing them from existence, and walked back toward the pickup truck.
There were still four gasoline barrels left.
He lifted one and headed toward the garage.
Behind him, people began retreating.
No one tried to argue anymore.
It was obvious he wasn't letting them drive away with vehicles or take valuables. This wasn't relocation. It was liquidation.
The garage went up next.
Then the church on the property.
Then the warehouse.
Then the gardens.
If the main building was burning, there was no reason to spare the rest.
It took over ten minutes to ignite everything. Flames rose high into the darkening sky, smoke thick and black.
Richard stood for a moment in front of the collapsing manor and watched.
Crimson Manor.
His father's life's work.
Gone.
He didn't feel regret.
Only clarity.
He climbed into the Ford pickup and drove away without looking back.
By the time he reached the main road, the entire estate was engulfed in fire.
Los Angeles.
Mutant Affairs Department – Los Angeles Branch.
Inside a conference room, a tall, heavily built Black man who looked more like a professional bodybuilder than a bureaucrat stood at the head of the table, holding a file.
"Roy Wesley, arrested two days ago, has confessed," he said.
The agents around the table listened silently.
"Publicly, he's the chairman of Wesley Group. Billionaire. Charity donor. Clean reputation."
He tapped the file.
"That's the mask."
"He's the founder of the underground organization Crimson Manor. The group has been recruiting mutants opposed to the Restriction Act."
He flipped to another page.
"Current estimate: over fifty unregistered mutants on site. Including his son, Richard Wesley."
A few agents exchanged looks.
"According to his statement, there are five third-tier mutants in the organization. The rest are second and first tier."
He closed the file.
"This isn't a high-threat network. No need for a full deployment."
His gaze locked onto three agen