"Dear Mr. Howlett, this is the first personal letter I've written since taking office. Yes, just as I mentioned in our previous correspondence, you and I need to speak in person and get properly acquainted. As the largest donor to my campaign, and indeed the most important financial partner since the founding of the Republican Party, you have both the right and the duty to voice your political views and demands. I look forward to meeting you. Your friend, Abraham Lincoln."
It had been nearly three years since Old Howlett's death. Another cold winter had come, and Canada's snow had never disappointed. It seemed to swallow every sound. A few snorts drifted faintly from the stable, while beneath the snow, through nearly twenty meters of earth, shouts and roars grew louder and louder.
A massive figure, over two meters and twenty centimeters tall, panted as he rose and fell. His arms hung at his sides, slightly bent, their muscles twisted like the roots of an old tree. His arms reached past his knees, and the claws at his fingertips were stained with blood.
"Mm... Very good, Victor. Really very good. You've made a lot of progress. You actually managed to hurt me," James Howlett said, sounding a little surprised.
Looking at the three faint, cat-scratch-like marks on his shoulder, he turned slightly so Victor wouldn't see them heal in an instant. Then James continued, "Looks like Tiger Form Fist really suits you."
Victor Logan showed no joy at these words. Instead, as if insulted, he threw back his head and roared. Four canine teeth jutted out, and a cloud of dust rose where he stood. Then, without a sound, he vanished.
"Still the same old problem..." James shook his head, planted his feet, twisted his hips, turned, and threw a punch. It cracked through the air and smashed into Victor's cheek as he charged forward, sending two teeth flying and twisting his head to the side.
Boom!
Victor crashed heavily to the ground, his lower body flipping high into the air. That Heng Quan pinned the giant man to the floor.
"That's enough for today."
James put on the robe hanging nearby and motioned for Victor to come upstairs with him. Victor ignored him. He got up, spat out a mouthful of bloody foam mixed with broken teeth and other debris, then twisted his slightly misaligned neck with a crack. He strode over to the gigantic Wolf Fang iron stake and began training with wild, furious blows.
Watching Victor attack the iron stake with the familiar movements of Tiger Form Fist, sparks flying as he raked at it, James could only shake his head in resignation. Victor didn't care that his fingers split and bled. James turned and slowly climbed the stairs.
About two years earlier, one night, James had once again found Victor in the woods, "letting off steam." He told Victor he knew a good place where he could vent, then took him to the Underground Palace.
That day, they formally introduced themselves. James admitted that he, too, had a similar "atavistic" condition. Victor wasn't surprised in the slightest. He simply remained silent and quietly extended the claws from his fingertips.
James didn't extend his own claws. He merely raised his fists.
That night, he nearly broke every bone and organ in Victor's body. Against Sabretooth, whose healing ability was second only to his own, James had no need to hold back. He got a thorough workout.
Victor didn't say a word from beginning to end. He only roared, again and again, rising by animal instinct to attack, being knocked down, recovering, and attacking again, until he was utterly exhausted and could no longer get back up. The two seemed to share a special understanding. Neither explained anything; they simply arranged to meet in the Underground Palace's Training Room every few days for a fight.
No—strictly speaking, Victor Logan was the only one getting beaten up.
In the days that followed, Victor trained with James in the Underground Palace every day. James didn't deliberately teach Victor martial arts. For a long time, he simply fought him using what he considered the style best suited to Victor: [Xingyi · Tiger Form Fist]. Victor quickly learned its movements in battle, mastering both form and spirit, and took to it exceptionally well. Sabretooth had an indescribable affinity for this fierce, killing art.
James had only just returned to his study through the secret passage when the butler gently knocked on the door. Butler Vane knew exactly which times of day he absolutely must not disturb his young master in the study, so he had arrived at a particularly opportune moment.
"Sir, a letter from Washington," Butler Vane said. He still habitually addressed James as "sir."
After taking the letter and glancing over it, James gave Butler Vane a teasing smile. "Someone's run out of patience. Make the arrangements. I'm going to Washington tomorrow."
"Yes, sir. Whom should I arrange to accompany you? The American Civil War is imminent. Perhaps Victor should go with you," Butler Vane suggested, sounding a little worried. James waved him off. "He's not in the mood for that now. Send a telegram and have someone from the family in Washington meet me. I'll go by myself."
Mr. Abraham Lincoln had been elected the sixteenth president of the United States last November and had just taken office that year. He was a man of great charm and natural leadership. Though he came from the working class, he had swept through the American political scene like a storm and risen to the presidency. Beyond his political skill and ability, his formidable campaign finances had also played a major role in his election.
What unsettled the president was that James Howlett, a Canadian who had supported him for nearly three years, had never shown himself or even hinted at what he wanted in return.
According to the information he had gathered, the Howlett Family had grown rapidly in recent years, building a flourishing presence in industry and real estate across the northern United States. Before that, however, they had been nothing more than estate owners and landlords. The president had never feared knowing how much a person wanted. More often, it was what was given freely that came at the highest price.
The White House was hosting a small dinner that evening for an unknown number of guests. Several maids in standard black dresses, white headpieces, and white aprons bustled back and forth. After glancing a few times at a tall, unfamiliar maid carrying a dish past her, the president's wife, Mary, crossed the hall and gently opened Lincoln's door.
"Are we having guests for dinner today?"
Mrs. Mary was a gentle, down-to-earth woman. She had come from a far wealthier family than Lincoln's.
When she was young, one of her suitors had been a city councilman, while Lincoln was still teaching himself law and working as a shop clerk. No one knew what had happened between them to make the wealthy young lady fall in love with the tall, shy yet clever Mr. Lincoln. Even now, living in the White House as the First Lady, Mary spoke as casually as if she were inviting people to dinner in an ordinary home.
"Ah, yes. That Mr. Howlett I told you about."
The president glanced at the documents on his desk, pushed up his spectacles, and looked up at his wife.
"That young man, right? I remember. I still haven't had a chance to meet him."
"Yes, just him. The three of us will have dinner together."
Mary nodded and left the room. As she went, she found herself trying to remember who that maid had been, muttering that her memory must be getting worse.
Evening.
Standing before the White House, James still felt a little dazed. This was the White House—and Abraham Lincoln was here.
He smiled for no particular reason and strode inside, following the usher's directions.
"Mr. President, I must say, I never imagined you were so... tall and imposing." James's opening remark after they sat down was rather impolite, but he really was astonished.
President Lincoln stood 193 centimeters tall, only a little shorter than James. He had a broad, straight frame and shoulders, and a back as wide as two great fans. His hand felt solid and sinewy when he shook James's, as if it must have been covered in calluses in his younger days. Along with his distinctive, deep-set features and full beard, the president's appearance truly amazed James.
"Ha ha ha! I never imagined the legendary 'Mr. Howlett' would be so young!" President Lincoln was as witty and magnanimous as the stories claimed. Mrs. Mary laughed along and asked whether Mr. Howlett had a wife yet and what sort of young lady he liked.
The evening was a pleasant one for host and guests alike.
"Try this dessert. After my aide tasted it, he sighed, 'I'd run for president just to have this cake whenever I wanted!'" A tall, thin maid with an elongated face came in and set the final dessert on the table. James flared his nostrils a few times, a look of disgust flickering across his brow, as if he had smelled something revolting. He quickly composed himself and responded to the president's words, though his thoughts kept wandering.
After dinner, James accepted Lincoln's invitation to join him in the president's office, a round room, to enjoy cigars. They had barely sat down when the president casually began, "Mr. Howlett, what do you think of the United States—"
"Forgive me, Mr. President, but allow me to be rude once more. What room is about ten meters away next door?"
Lincoln looked taken aback. He glanced in the direction James was pointing and hesitantly answered, "It's my youngest son's playroom." The president wondered if James needed the washroom.
"Excuse me, Mr. President!"
James darted out the door and crossed the ten-odd meters in a single bound, then pushed the door open.
The tall, thin maid from earlier was crouched on the floor, her face turned a livid blue-black, veins bulging. Her mouthful of saliva-slicked fangs snapped at a pale, adorable little boy.
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