Rowan Mercer stood alone in the simulation chamber, wand raised toward a glass tank. Inside, a trout swam lazily, unaware.
A flash of green light struck the water.
The fish went still and drifted to the bottom.
Rowan studied it in silence, lifting the lifeless body from the tank. There were no wounds. No damage. Just an abrupt absence, as if something essential had been torn away.
"Definitely soul-targeting," he murmured.
The Killing Curse was exactly as described in forbidden texts. Instant. Absolute. No physical trace. Dodge it or block it with something solid, and that was the only way out. Defensive spells were useless.
After weeks of testing, Rowan was confident in his conclusion. The spell didn't destroy the body. It annihilated what animated it. That made it just as lethal to spirits, psychic constructs, and other non-physical entities.
Using it required two things: immense magical output and genuine killing intent. Prolonged use warped the mind, steeping the caster in violence until rage and madness became second nature.
For most wizards, that was the real danger.
For Rowan, it wasn't.
His telepathic abilities formed a mental firewall, isolating his emotions from the spell's corrosive influence. Even so, he had no intention of relying on it often. There were countless ways to kill. This was just another tool.
A dangerous one, but worth having.
As he left the chamber, his phone rang.
"Everything's done," Natasha Romanoff said on the other end. "The CIA warrant on Professor X has been withdrawn. His assets are unfrozen. The school's registration is complete. I'll come by tomorrow to handle official IDs for the students."
"Perfect," Rowan replied. "They're out at an amusement park today. How about tomorrow morning?"
"That works."
He paused, then added, "One more thing. There may be another teacher joining us. I'll need an ID prepared."
"A new teacher?" Natasha sounded surprised, but she didn't press. "All right."
After the call ended, Rowan headed to the underground hangar. The X-Jet was ready. Isla was already in the cockpit.
"Let's move."
The jet lifted off under stealth systems, angling north toward the Arctic Circle. Mid-flight, Rowan activated a tracking spell.
"Target," he said quietly. "Steve Rogers."
Four hours later, Rowan told Isla to hold position.
He leapt from the aircraft, wings unfurling as he descended onto a towering iceberg. The spell's pull was unmistakable. Beneath the ice lay a frozen aircraft.
He raised his wand.
A series of controlled explosions carved through the glacier, ice shattering in thunderous bursts. Twenty minutes later, metal emerged from the frost.
Another precise cut split the fuselage open.
Inside the cockpit, encased in ice, sat a man in an old uniform, shield still strapped nearby.
Steve Rogers.
Rowan retrieved both man and shield, sealing them inside a reinforced storage container expanded with spatial magic. Moments later, he was airborne again, returning to the X-Jet.
By the time they reached the school, dusk had fallen. Professor X and Wolverine were back from the amusement park, students buzzing with exhausted excitement.
Wolverine eyed the figure being slowly thawed on the medical platform. "Who's the guy on ice?"
Professor X leaned forward, recognition dawning instantly. "That uniform… that face…"
He looked up. "Steve Rogers."
Wolverine squinted, then let out a low whistle. "Huh. It really is him."
Rowan smiled faintly.
This time, history wouldn't get there first.