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Chapter 296: Twenty Years and the Altered Future Trajectory
🕑 Added 2025-08-31 16:38:51 +0000 UTC
"How… how can this be?"
"How did you suddenly become… so powerful!"
A broken, trembling voice echoed weakly across the ruined ground.
It was Mr. Sinister. His once-proud figure now looked pitiful, his entire body battered and on the brink of collapse. His eyes, wide with disbelief, locked onto Alex as if staring at something inhuman.
Even at death’s edge, that gaze carried pure shock.
A month ago, though Alex had nearly killed him, it hadn’t been because Alex’s raw power outclassed his own. No—back then, Mr. Sinister had been tricked.
He had relied too confidently on his invention—the device that could seal mutant abilities, a weapon that had brought countless victories. Yet, for reasons beyond his comprehension, it had failed spectacularly against Alex. At that moment, Alex had caught him completely off guard, seizing the upper hand and nearly destroying him.
But before that incident?
They had fought to a standstill. Both men had unleashed their full capabilities, clashing in a drawn-out, desperate battle. Blow for blow, strike for strike, the fight had ended in a stalemate. Neither had been able to crush the other, and in the end, both had withdrawn.
They had been equals.
And now?
Now, Alex was suppressing him utterly—dismantling him blow by blow, as if their earlier parity had been nothing more than a joke.
Mr. Sinister’s lips trembled. He simply could not accept this reality.
"You—"
Boom!
His words were cut short. Alex, without a flicker of hesitation, waved his hand. A surge of telekinetic force crashed into him like a collapsing mountain. Flesh and bone twisted grotesquely, reduced instantly to nothing but pulped meat.
The body that had stood moments ago was gone, crushed into an unrecognizable heap.
But then—
That horrifying pile of gore twitched. The minced flesh writhed, squirming, pulling itself together in a nauseating, blood-soaked spectacle. It was like watching a horror film played out in real life.
Piece by piece, the fragments knitted together. Muscles re-formed. Limbs regenerated. Blood seeped back into veins.
And slowly—disgustingly—Mr. Sinister’s figure reappeared.
Yet this resurrection was not triumphant.
His frame trembled. His face was chalk-white, drained of vitality. His chest heaved shallowly, breath barely audible. He looked less like an immortal mastermind and more like a terminally ill man clinging to life by sheer force of will.
He wasn’t just weak—he was spent.
Even standing seemed almost beyond him. Fighting Alex again? Impossible.
Alex narrowed his eyes, realization flashing in them. So that’s it. His resurrection isn’t limitless. Every return drains him, each more than the last. If I break him one more time, he won’t come back.
The truth clicked neatly into place.
Resurrection always came with a price. It could never be as simple as it appeared.
And judging by Sinister’s pallid, frail condition, the price he had already paid was steep.
"Alex, wait!"
The words burst out of Mr. Sinister in panic, his voice cracking with urgency. For the first time, true fear colored his tone.
"There’s no deep-seated hatred between us. There’s no need to fight to the death!"
His eyes darted wildly, his once-arrogant demeanor replaced with desperation. He could feel the danger looming over him, sharper than ever. Alex’s earlier strike hadn’t just wounded his body—it had shattered his confidence.
"I am not your enemy," he pressed on quickly, words tumbling over one another in his rush. "On the contrary, I am your greatest potential ally! All mutants—all of us—will face a terrible enemy in the future. Including you! Everything I’ve done, every action I’ve taken—it was all to prepare for that enemy!"
"Alex, I told you this the first time we met, remember?"
"You mean Apocalypse, right?"
Alex’s tone was almost casual, his lips curving in a faint, dismissive smile.
"Sorry," he said lightly, "but I don’t need your help to deal with Apocalypse."
The response stunned Mr. Sinister as though he’d been slapped.
"You… you know about Apocalypse?" His composure cracked completely, eyes widening with disbelief.
This was supposed to be the ultimate secret—the hidden truth only he had uncovered after decades of study and schemes. And yet Alex knew. Alex had known all along.
It seemed, even after all his calculations, he had still underestimated this man. Alex was far deeper, far more unfathomable, than he had ever imagined.
"Since you know about Apocalypse," Mr. Sinister stammered, grasping at arguments even as despair gnawed at him, "then you must understand! He is not someone you can possibly defeat—he is an existence beyond any of us, beyond you—"
Boom!
Once again, Alex didn’t bother letting him finish.
His telekinetic might surged, smashing Mr. Sinister’s body into minced flesh a second time.
This time, however, the grotesque spectacle did not repeat. The bloody pile remained motionless. No regeneration. No resurrection.
The truth was clear: Mr. Sinister’s limit had finally been reached.
But Alex was not a man who left things to chance.
His body blurred, vanishing briefly into the distance. When he returned, he held a simple metal canister in one hand.
Gasoline.
Without hesitation, he poured the contents over the remains. The acrid stench of fuel filled the air.
Splash. Splash. Splash.
Then, with a flicker of flame, the remains ignited.
Whoosh!
The fire roared to life, orange tongues devouring flesh and bone alike. The sizzling crackle of burning meat filled the air, acrid smoke curling upward. Minutes dragged by as the pyre raged.
Until finally, nothing remained but ashes.
Alex stood silently for a moment, watching.
"I refuse to believe you can still live after this."
His voice was low, cold, carrying finality.
Then, with a wave of his hand, his telekinetic power swept outward. A hurricane-force wind erupted, scattering the ashes high and wide until they vanished into the night sky.
Mr. Sinister was gone. Not even dust remained.
Boom!
The sonic boom of Alex’s departure echoed, and his figure blurred from sight.
When he reappeared, it was within the mutant base.
In the conference hall, Charles, Erik, Raven, Hank, and the others were still seated around the long table, mid-discussion.
For them, scarcely twenty minutes had passed since Alex had left. His mission had taken so little time it felt almost unreal.
To their eyes, it was as if Alex had only stepped out briefly—like someone excusing themselves for a short break.
"Alex, problem solved?"
Raven’s voice carried a hint of casual confidence, as though she already knew the answer.
Alex dropped into his seat, stretching his legs out lazily. "This time," he said, "I burned Mr. Sinister to ashes. Then I scattered those ashes to the wind. I think that should do it, right?"
The hall fell silent for a heartbeat. Then relief swept across the gathered mutants.
If even after being burned and scattered to the wind, someone could survive… that would not be a man. That would be a god.
No—Mr. Sinister was finished.
The first oppressive shadow looming over mutantkind, the man who had suffocated them for so long, had finally been erased completely.
The mood in the room lightened instantly.
Now, only two looming threats remained on the horizon: Apocalypse, and the distant, unfathomable Celestials.
The Celestials still felt too far away, untouchable and abstract. Apocalypse, however, was real. He was the enemy they would one day face.
Yet with Alex’s current strength, and with Charles and Erik by his side, who could possibly stand in their way?
Peace returned.
And time, unremarkably, began to flow again.
The mutants resumed their lives, their work, their quiet preparation for the future. They accumulated power, strengthened their community, and step by step, laid the foundations of their own place in the world.
Eight years passed.
By 1983, the world was not the same.
The great war had ended. And unlike the original tragic fate, where countless mutants had been forcibly conscripted and slaughtered on the battlefield, this time things were different. This time, thanks to Alex, Charles, and the others, the mutants had suffered far less.
Their hidden influence had grown, spreading quietly through society until it had become something formidable.
The Sentinel crisis never came. Wolverine, who should have returned from the future, never appeared. The trajectory of fate itself had been altered.
The future had changed.
The mutants had survived—and more than that, they were thriving.
