The comms were live—every X-member wired in—but mute buttons were a savior when needed. Ororo, hovering on the wind, flicked her mic off the second Susan's scream cracked the air. She shot Ryuuto a quick signal: are we sure about this?
Ryuuto didn't take his eyes off the tree line ahead. "What's wrong?" he asked.
"Susan," Ororo said quietly. "She's one of the Fantastic Four. If she goes full-out against the government, the whole team will be dragged into the spotlight. That's… risky."
Ryuuto's lips twitched. "She chose this. Nobody forced her hand."
Ororo's wind-blown hair shimmered. "I know. Still—"
"You might not get it yet," Ryuuto cut in, voice steady and low. "Freedom is everything to these people. Susan hates being packed into a public role; she calls Invisible Woman a shackle. This school—this is family to her. If the government comes with torches, she'll defend family before she defends a public image. Don't ask her to stop loving what she defends."
Ororo's smile was rueful. "I learned that the day I became deputy captain. You've changed, Ryuuto. From little kid to someone who teaches the rest of us."
"Power comes with responsibility," he said. "Anyway—the blade's getting restless. I'm heading to Susan. If you spot a bomber or those humanoid suits, ping me immediately."
"Go. Susan needs you."
Ryuuto dropped from the sky like a meteor.
Susan's face was carved tight with decision. She'd tried mercy and almost paid for it with her life—no more. Tank after tank sat like metal teeth biting into the road; infantry fan out behind them with thermal optics and heavy ordinance. Susan's mouth tightened. She raised her hands and clenched the air.
boom.
A shimmering bubble of force erupted inside the lead tank, expanded like a heart beating too fast—and the armor ruptured from within. The crew had no time to react. Susan moved like that: precise, terrible, the nicest face in the world with the most vicious defenses.
Bullets chewed at her fields. Cannon rounds slammed into the bubbles and detonated, shaking her so hard blood ran from her nose. She staggered but kept pushing forward, turning tank after tank into wreckage with quiet ruthlessness.
A soldier popped a shoulder around the side with a rocket launcher aimed at her. Steel—massive, roaring, unstoppable—charged and knocked the man clear into the sky. He caught the bazooka mid-flight, spun, and launched the projectile back into the column. The explosion took five soldiers in a single bloom.
Scott—Cyclops—kept his visor steady. His optic blasts were surgical when aimed; when he shifted his head and let the beam track across a line of infantry, whole squads split cleanly in a soundless, smoky slash. The reek of burnt flesh hung over the field like smoke from a funeral pyre.
Susan's force field trembled, then flooded outward with a sick pop—an enemy soldier's torso erupted as the bubble collapsed across him. The truth hit Ryuuto like a wave: this mission was being filmed.
They weren't here only to destroy the school. They wanted footage—mutants killing American soldiers—to turn public opinion into a weapon. A staged atrocity. A conspiracy with cameras. The thought didn't frighten him. It pissed him off.
Fine.
Let the cameras watch.
Ryuuto dropped into the fray with a laugh that tasted like metal. Smoke and spent earth sprayed in concentric rings at his impact.
Susan's face softened when she saw him, even with blood on her lips. Ryuuto wiped her nose and hissed, "You're overloading—pull back and rest. Cheer from the rear. I'll handle the rest."
She shook her head stubbornly. He barked one order and then turned forward, voice low and hard. "Steel, Cyclops—fall back. Get patched up. If you're shot to bits we lose key pieces."
Both men, winded and bruised, slunk back with a grunt. Scott had snipers locking his position; Steel's armor systems were smoking. Retreat was mercy disguised as strategy.
Ryuuto drew breath. "Susan—stand back. I'm taking this."
He called it, loud and ceremonial, like announcing a headliner.
"Summoning: Beheading Broadsword!"
"Mist Shinobi Technique!"
"Silent Killing!"
Fog boiled up, thick and swallowing. The world narrowed to white mist and the ringing in Ryuuto's ears. He felt the blade in his hands—heavy, alive—its edge humming to the cadence of his heartbeat.
Perfect.
Inside the fog, the soldiers were blind and frantic. The Vice Admiral's voice barked orders that dissolved into chaos: "Regroup in the center! Don't spread out—he'll pick you off!"
Ryuuto only grinned. The more they clustered, the richer the harvest. He sprinted, blade angling for the nearest knot of men. Killing felt like mathematics now—angles, arcs, efficiency. Each swing carved tidy rules into the air: one strike, two deaths, three if he let the momentum carry them into each other.
He moved like a perfect predator—fluid, merciless. Every cut was a punctuation mark. Blood sprayed and the mist drank it like rain. Bodies collapsed into neat smears. Soldiers fired blindly and hit nothing but fog. Screams were muffled, panicked, already dying.
He paused on the edge of the main group and felt, absurdly, theatrical. Cameras must have been rolling—let them. Let the world watch the predator. Let them make their narrative. He'd make his own.
Ryuuto flicked his wrist and the Beheading Broadsword sang, carving a path where none had been. Men who'd bragged about uniforms and righteousness went down in ugly, efficient silence.
"Come on—bring it!" he whispered to the unseen sky. "Show me who else you sent."
The mist swallowed his words. The blade answered with ferocity.