Magneto was the King of Mutants; he had grown much since first meeting Arthuria and making a deal with her.
He was well aware that he was being used by her, a mere tool to distract the world, a target for them to focus on so they would ignore her.
But he didn't mind.
Because in this deal, what he got was indeed far more important.
He got not just a place for his kind to live, though that alone would have been more than enough.
After all, he never doubted that as long as his people could gather their strength, they would quickly become more powerful than their enemies.
And a safe place to call home was just what they needed, as it gave them access to resources they could never touch before.
And without having to hide, they could fully use those resources.
No, the far more important thing he got out of his deal was legitimacy.
Thanks to her, he was able to gather his people, fully become their leader, and stand proud before them, never having to hide or sneak around; even Charles was limited in what he could do to him.
This allowed him to act with far greater intensity than he ever had before, target countless enemies, and rescue his people, and this time, he wouldn't have to hand them over to Charles and his school.
Instead, they could work for him.
All of this meant that Magneto was no longer the man he once was; he was a king and had the resources of a king.
To him, human society was one great weapon. Whether it was street lamps, the cables buried in the ground, or the cars driving on the road—all of these could be weapons or shields for him.
But to fight in such a manner was unbecoming of a king.
Not to mention, not all that effective.
A car, while it could stop bullets if he used the right parts of it, couldn't compare to purpose-built slabs of metal.
A street lamp wasn't built to be a spear, and while it could be used like one, why use the second-best?
Wherever Magneto went these days, he would bring with him many weapons; after all, he had a large support network behind him now.
So why not make use of it?
This greatly increased his power, even more so in a defensive battle where he could truly fill the battlefield with weapons and purpose-built metal objects.
Right now, a dozen large metal crates stood all around him, thick enough to stop even armor-piercing bullets, and filled with small metal objects.
Some held small spikes, perfect for piercing damage; others held small metal balls.
Others had rods; others still had thick cables, perfect for restraining.
Anything the Master of Magnetism could ever need for a fight.
He didn't need to speak any words or give any commands; all of them opened at once, revealing their contents.
The Sentinels were fast, but Magneto didn't need to be faster.
He only needed his metal objects to be, and thanks to their smaller size, they were.
Countless small objects shot out with the force of bullets, each and every one moving with unerring precision toward the joints and other weaker points of the Sentinels.
The Sentinels' own armor was strong, able to resist most forms of attack, but the joints, the places where the armor had to give way for movement, were always a vulnerability.
A vulnerability that Magneto, with his intimate knowledge of metal, exploited with ruthless efficiency.
The small, sharp projectiles tore through the joint housings, shredding wires, severing hydraulic lines, and disrupting the delicate balance of machinery that allowed the Sentinels to move.
Several of the Sentinels stumbled, their movements becoming jerky and erratic, their limbs locking up or going limp.
Magneto didn't pause. He didn't gloat. He simply continued his assault, a relentless, unyielding tide of metal that battered and broke the machines.
The Sentinels, their processors struggling to process the sheer volume and speed of the attack, retaliated. They fired their plasma cannons, their energy beams, their kinetic weapons, a coordinated barrage designed to overwhelm their target.
But Magneto was ready. One of the empty metal crates rose into the air and blocked the line of fire.
It warped and the metal melted under the heat of the superheated plasma, but still, it did its job. It stopped the attack, and the melted, ruined mess was still a melted, ruined mess made of metal, so he used it to encase another Sentinel in quickly cooling and hardening steel, turning it into a modern statue.
The remaining Sentinels, seeing the futility of their attacks, tried a different tactic. Their anti-mutant measures came online, a field of energy designed to disrupt the X-gene, to neutralize the very source of a mutant's power.
It was a weapon that had brought many of their kind to their knees, a weapon that had been the bane of their existence.
Even Magneto was fearful of this technology, yet the Sentinels weren't the only ones learning from past encounters.
Many of his people had fought these monsters; not all survived, but each encounter allowed them to learn.
For one, he was careful to remain outside the range where the field was most effective, and his attacks focused on those closest to him, allowing him to still fight.
Now, against an overwhelming number of Sentinels, he would still lose; at most, he could try to crush a few before fleeing, or fight as he was now and then retreat.
But it just so happened that due to the very nature of this attack, the number of Sentinels he would face at once was limited.
And so, this small fight here was over almost as soon as it began, as with one final push of will, he tore the two still-functioning Sentinels apart and let them fall, the broken pieces of metal making a loud clatter as they hit the ground.
He had won.
But he knew this was but a small victory, a single battle in a war that was far from over.
The Sentinels, for all their losses, were still coming, and he, even with all his power, could not be everywhere at once.
He had to protect his people, and he had to trust in the others to do the same.
He had to trust in his allies.
As a mutant, those had been rare to come across in the past, but indeed, times were changing.
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Sir Gareth found herself in the town of Pembroke, a quaint little place on the western coast of Wales.
The town, with its ancient castle and its narrow, cobbled streets, was a place of history, a place of legend.
An overall nice place, and one Gareth wouldn't allow anything to happen to.
And so, she sat at the highest point she could and used a nice pair of binoculars to watch as the Enforcement Knights fought, the magical flashes in the distance beautiful, if one didn't know they were a sign of death and destruction.
But she wasn't here to watch the light show; she was here to wait for them to make a mistake, to break through the line.
And she didn't have to wait long.
A single Sentinel, its armor scorched and dented, its movements slightly sluggish, broke through the defensive line and flew inland, its red eyes fixed on the town below.
Gareth didn't hesitate. She jumped from the roof, her descent a controlled, graceful arc, and landed in the middle of the town square, her lance already in her hand.
The Sentinel, its sensors detecting the new threat, changed its course, its massive form casting a long, menacing shadow over the square.
Gareth stood her ground, her expression calm, her posture relaxed. She was a Knight of the Round Table, a warrior of unparalleled skill, and she would not be intimidated by a mere machine.
The Sentinel fired its plasma cannon, a bolt of superheated energy that ripped through the air, leaving a trail of ionized gas in its wake.
Gareth moved, a blur of motion, a dance of death.
She didn't try to block the attack, nor did she try to dodge it. She simply flowed around it, her movements a perfect, fluid dance, a testament to her years of training and her natural grace.
While generally regarded as one of the more harmless knights by the public due to her short stature, kindness, and gentleness, she had once been dubbed the "Raging Wolf."
Because once the fighting began, she didn't stop until it was over.
She lunged, her lance, a weapon of exquisite craftsmanship enchanted with magic by none other than Merlin himself, a true Mystic Code.
While not as powerful as the sword of either her brother Gawain or her idol Lancelot, nor equal to any of the King's treasures, it was still a weapon of legendary might.
And absolutely not something to be underestimated.
She struck, not at the Sentinel's armor, but at its chest, right where its core was located.
The lance, its tip honed to a razor's edge, punched through the armor, the metal groaning in protest.
She twisted the lance, a quick, brutal movement, and the Sentinel's core, its very heart, was shattered.
The red light in its eyes flickered and died. Its massive body slumped, its systems shutting down, its life force extinguished.
She didn't pause to catch her breath, but looked up at the sky, searching for the next threat. She was ready. She was waiting.
But for now, there was none.
(End of chapter)
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