The Scumbag Has Too Many Love Rivals

Xiang Qian's meeting with General Ross was unremarkable.

A fastidious businessman demanded government protection for his legitimate investments as a taxpayer; a Lieutenant General of the Air Force, pushed forward as a representative, solemnly reiterated the United States' firm determination to combat terrorism and maintain social stability.

Back and forth they went, neither side bothering to mask the formulaic, perfunctory nature of the exchange. The real deal had already been struck the moment Xiang Qian placed his calls to the White House and the United States Department of Defense.

It was Xiang Qian who threw in two unprompted remarks: "I hope General Ross fares better than General Frank Hummel," and "If you fail, will there be fighter jets leveling the entire Alcatraz Island?" These left the humorless General Ross momentarily stunned.

It wasn't until a subordinate who couldn't suppress a laugh whispered a reminder about The Rock that the realization hit, leaving the General to issue an order for his guest to leave in a fit of embarrassed rage.

"I will be staying at the Hilton in San Francisco for a while. You may send your negotiation team once the San Francisco Bay has returned to peace," Xiang Qian said to Worthington II before departing Alcatraz Island.

Worthington II let out a sigh of relief. "That day will come soon enough. You can treat this as a short and comfortable vacation; the service at the Hilton is quite excellent."

"Is that so? I'm not particularly fussy about hotel service, but since Miss Hilton helped me secure the highest-tier VIP status, it would be a waste not to use it."

Worthington II flashed a knowing, masculine grin. Given the style of that "Miss Hilton," getting involved with Xiang Qian was perfectly on brand. However, when he casually asked, "Which Miss Hilton? The older sister or the younger sister?" he received an answer that left him green with envy.

"BOTH!"

Amidst an atmosphere that appeared relaxed and harmonious on the surface, the two waved goodbye. Yet, just as Worthington II watched the small ferry carrying Xiang Qian pull away from Alcatraz Island, a palm-sized Spider-Bot crawled into a crevice in the concrete pier.

By the time Xiang Qian stepped ashore, the sky had turned completely dark. As far as the eye could see, crowds were gathering on the streets, most of them looking hostile and sporting various eccentric, counter-cultural styles.

"Radical mutants in North America have an unwritten rule: they get different tattoos on their faces or exposed areas like their hands based on their specific superpowers, using them as a form of identification," the employee from the American branch, who was in the car, explained while pointing at the mutants outside the window.

Xiang Qian chuckled mockingly. "Like the rule about gay people wearing earrings?"

The people in the car let out awkward, forced laughs. Having lived in the United States for a long time, being politically correct had become an instinct; they would subconsciously clam up when encountering sensitive topics, unable to joke as casually as Xiang Qian.

But Xiang Qian was not as shallow as they thought.

"That is more than just self-expression." Xiang Qian looked indifferently at the impassioned mutants outside the car window. "A tattoo is an identity, representing the division and recognition of a group; they are searching for and establishing a sense of self-identity that belongs to the mutant race."

"It's a pity. Based on our historical experience, establishing such group identity requires fertile soil and at least several hundred years of accumulation. And in the United States, that soil does not exist."

African Americans, Anglo-Americans, Irish Americans, German Americans, Latin Americans, and so on—when has there ever been a true American nation?

A country cobbled together like a joint-stock venture; united by profit, and destined to scatter when the profit runs dry.

The motorcade sped along, and by the time they arrived at the Hilton, it was very close to the time Xiang Qian had scheduled with Professor X.

"Miss Hilton left a message for you, hoping you could return her call when you have time. These are their new phone numbers." As the hotel lobby manager handed over the room key, he also handed over two slips of paper with numbers written on them.

Xiang Qian's expression was unreadable. "Two numbers?"

"The two Miss Hiltons left messages separately. They both specifically requested that Mr. Zion call them individually." The lobby manager maintained a professional expression, showing no sign of anything unusual, perfectly embodying the qualities of a top-tier professional.

"Zion"—the surname Xiang Qian used abroad. Americans couldn't pronounce the four tones of Chinese characters correctly and often read the pinyin of "Xiang" as "Zion." Over time, Xiang Qian simply walked abroad under the name "James Zion."

Xiang Qian took the numbers with a calm face, but before leaving the front desk, he cast a meaningful glance toward the bustling lobby lounge.

The hotel's presidential suite offered the best view in the entire building. Xiang Qian stood by the window, overlooking the brightly lit city; San Francisco was livelier tonight than usual. Wailing sirens echoed one after another, and the vast majority of police cars were racing toward the waterfront.

For the police in San Francisco, tonight was surely destined to be a sleepless one.

At the appointed time, the doorbell rang as expected.

Xiang Qian turned and signaled for his staff to open the door. Professor Xavier, seated in his wheelchair, entered first.

"Professor, you are as punctual as ever, not a second off."

"Punctuality is a virtue, James. It has been a long time." The Professor's expression was, as always, a mix of gentleness and severity, possessing that air of natural authority people often spoke of.

Behind the Professor, several X-Men filed in. Seeing those familiar faces, the smile on Xiang Qian's face instantly stiffened.

Wolverine Logan and Cyclops Scott.

These two former rivals, who had once despised each other, were now glaring at Xiang Qian in unison, presenting a united front of shared animosity.

Among those accompanying Professor Xavier, there was neither the close-knit Phoenix Jean Grey nor Storm Ororo, who, despite appearing like a stranger, might have actually spoken up for Xiang Qian.

Xiang Qian was certain that if given the chance, Logan and Scott, those two bitter men, wouldn't mind hacking him into pieces and using laser blasts to grind his bones into dust.

This old bald man is definitely doing this on purpose! Xiang Qian gritted his teeth and glared resentfully at Professor Xavier.

Fortunately, the last person to enter was the current Secretary of Mutant Affairs, "Beast" McCoy. This burly man, who appeared wild, possessed a sincerity and honest nature that belied his appearance.

"Hello, Mr. Secretary, long time no see." Xiang Qian skipped over the two rivals when offering his greetings. "I heard you went to the island to see that child?"

"James, you can call me Hank." Beast was as honest as ever. "Yes, I just saw him. By the way, have you seen Raven lately? We haven't had any news of her for a long time."

Xiang Qian's grip on Beast's hand tightened for a moment, but he shook it off with a calm demeanor.

"Is that so? It seems she has taken a liking to the life of a lone wolf," Xiang Qian said, feigning ease. "Coming and going like a ghost—it certainly fits Mystique's style."