Omega-Level Potential

At the Agravall Experimental Base, hundreds of mutants known as experimental subjects were imprisoned here, becoming laboratory mice on the verge of execution by the U.S. Government.

Deep within the base, inside a sterile containment room, the air was filled with a faint scent of disinfectant, and beams of light cast by shadowless lamps focused on the operating table in the center.

A young man lay on the table with fair skin, a high bridge of nose, and eyes currently tightly closed.

His neck was locked tight by a metal Suppression Collar, his limbs firmly secured to both sides of the operating table by high-strength polymer binding straps, and the frequency of the rise and fall of his chest grew lower and lower.

Several experimental personnel wearing white lab coats, masks, and protective goggles surrounded him, busy collecting various experimental data.

Bzz--

On the screen of the life monitor connected to the young man's chest, the regularly fluctuating green electrocardiogram ripples trembled violently and then rapidly turned into a completely flat red line.

Beep, beep!

A sharp, shrill alarm instantly went off, shattering the oppressive atmosphere of the laboratory.

The blonde female researcher standing by the operating table in charge of recording changed expression slightly, immediately lowering her gaze to the synchronized data on the tablet in her hand and quickly glancing aside at the printed paper backup file next to it, her voice hurried:

"Doctor Caspin, Number 47's vital signs have vanished, heartbeat stopped, and brainwaves have hit zero."

She held a record document of the specimen in her sterile-gloved hands—

[Experimental subject Number 47, original name: Bertrand Russell, genes sourced from Magneto Erik Lehnsherr and Professor X Charles Xavier, Wolverine hybrid gene sequence debugging, project codename: 'Messiah' early experiment, judged as a failure, mutant ability is mental defense...]

"Don't be nervous, this is merely an anticipated rejection reaction after injecting the drug." The man addressed as Doctor Caspin spoke unhurriedly, wearing a pair of delicate gold-rimmed glasses, the gaze behind the lenses frighteningly calm.

He slowly stood up from the edge of the operating table, gracefully removing latex gloves stained with a trace of blood and tossing them casually into the medical waste recycling bin nearby.

"The early fusion failure rate of the R-Type Biochemical Agent is eighty-seven percent. If there are still no signs of life after twenty-four hours, he can be sent directly to Number 6 Incineration Room for disposal. Prepare the next batch of experimental subjects, our tasks today are very heavy."

His voice was steady, without a trace of a ripple, as if the life that had just been lost was not one possessing a name, but merely an insignificant little lab mouse.

"Guards." Caspin instructed without turning his head. "Send Number 47 back to his cell."

Outside the door, two tall white guards over one hundred ninety centimeters tall, covered entirely in black tactical gear and wearing riot helmets, responded and entered.

Moving swiftly and with discipline, they untied the securing straps and hoisted the completely unresponsive body on the table like they were carrying a lifeless cargo, dragging it out of this death chamber full of cold technological aesthetic.

Toward evening, the last trace of the setting sun's afterglow dissipated.

In the narrow cell of Designation D-7, the young man lying on the hard concrete floor trembled his eyelids almost imperceptibly.

Pain!

Tearing agony surged from every inch of skin and every muscle.

"Hiss!"

Russell exerted all his strength to barely prop up his upper body with his elbows, looking around the surrounding environment with a dazed gaze.

He saw that apart from three white concrete walls, there was only an iron window and iron door close to the corridor, while he himself wore a thin white experimental gown.

"Prison?"

This thought naturally surfaced.

Right at that moment—

Clang!

From afar came the heavy crash of a thick iron door opening and closing, followed by the heavy thud of boots treading on the concrete floor, alongside rebukes filled with disgust:

"Get up quickly, you filthy freaks, time to eat!"

"Move faster, don't drag your feet, looking at you is truly disgusting."

The footsteps and curses drew near from afar, and soon a sturdy white man wearing a black prison guard uniform appeared outside the bars of Russell's cell.

He first glanced casually inside the cell, and when his gaze landed on Russell leaning against the wall with his eyes open, a trace of surprise flashed rapidly across his face, as if he had seen something that shouldn't appear.

Yet this surprise was immediately replaced by a more intense disgust and a certain cruel mockery.

"Hah?" The guard emitted a scoff from his nose. "You disgusting mutant bastard, your life is quite tough, huh? Entering the dissection room and not dying counts as you striking dog shit luck."

As soon as those words fell, he took an iron plate holding food in his hand and tossed it like garbage onto the concrete floor in front of Russell with a loud clang, some soup even splashing onto Russell's trouser cuffs.

Conrad seemed quite satisfied with his own action, his mouth pulling into a mocking arc, and he glanced at Russell with abhorrence before continuing to curse his way toward the next cell.

"Psychopath!" Russell cursed inwardly, a nameless fire flaring up inside him.

Being insulted and treated like this for no reason, any normal person would feel anger.

Yet immediately after, he quickly realized that this tall guard was not speaking Chinese, but English.

Mutants?

This word... didn't it only exist in movies and comic books?

Before he could figure it out, the next instant, an unfamiliar memory rushed over like a tide.

"Ugh—"

Russell abruptly grasped his head, curling up his body and enduring the impact brought by the fusion of memories.

Countless memories flashed through his mind.

A blurred figure in a white lab coat, mutant experiments... and a few thunderously famous names—Magneto, Professor X, Wolverine... Stark Industries.

This...

"The Marvel Universe... I traveled through time? And I even turned into a mutant?"

Russell lowered his hand, his eyes filled with disbelief. How had he run into such a thing when he had merely stayed up late to catch up on some sleep?

As for whether this was a dream? The incomparably real, excruciating pain he had just experienced had already provided the most cruel answer.

Transforming into a mutant might be the beginning of a legend in certain novels.

But the premise was that you needed to have a decent ability—to control metal like Magneto, to possess superhuman speed like Quicksilver, or even to emit lasers like Cyclops!

Yet what was his mental defense supposed to count for? It could only passively resist mental prying? In the Marvel Universe, where the weak were prey to the strong and dangers lurked everywhere—especially when being caught and used as an experimental subject—what difference did this ability have from having none at all?

He also thoroughly understood at this moment why that prison guard had been so hostile toward him.

Because in this world, particularly among ordinary people, mutants were often regarded as monsters and freaks. Even homeless people living at the very bottom of society would look down upon them.

He had to escape.

If he stayed here, even if he managed to survive this experiment by a fluke, he definitely wouldn't live past the next injection. The ultimate end would either be dying on the operating table or being thrown into an incinerator.

Yet how was he supposed to escape?

Enduring the pain, he staggered to his feet, walked laboriously to the wall, knocked against it with his knuckles, and tried to bash the iron bars with his shoulders... The reality was cruel.

Let alone escaping the mutant prison beneath his feet, escaping this ten-square-meter cell alone was as difficult as ascending to the heavens.

Could it be that he, dignified as a person who had received a modern education, was going to die so inexplicably in this ghost of a place, becoming a line of cold data in someone's experimental report without even deserving to have his name left behind?

Anger, unwillingness... all sorts of intense emotions churned in his mind, causing Russell to clench his fists tightly.

[Host soul fluctuation matching detected, Ultimate Evolution System binding...]

A cold mechanical voice sounded in his mind.

"What sound?" A flash of shock and suspicion crossed Russell's eyes, and then, thinking of the perks belonging to a time traveler, his vision suddenly lit up.

Could it be... his golden finger had arrived.

Suppressing the joy in his heart, he tried to softly call out in his mind:

"System."

As if responding to his call, the scene before his eyes blurred slightly for a moment, and then a translucent virtual interface clearly hovered before his eyes.

[Name: Russell]

[Age: 18 years old]

[Mutant Abilities: Mental Defense (6/100) Level One, passive skill, acts as a basic mental barrier]

Superhuman Healing (1/100) Level One, Psychic Telekinesis (1/100) Level One, precision is at the macroscopic matter level, next precision tier: molecular level (unlocked pending, specific conditions must be met)]

[Emotion Points: 0]

Russell stared fixedly at the information on the panel, especially those two items following the first ability.

Superhuman Healing! And... Psychic Telekinesis!

He instantly associated them with those two highly representative existences in the Marvel Universe.

One was Deadpool, famous for an undying body and snarky mouth, while the other was Professor X, one of the mutant poles.

What did superhuman healing mean? It meant terrifying vitality, meant it was hard to be killed, and meant that as long as it was developed to a sufficient degree, it might even touch the realm of eternal life.

Wolverine and Deadpool were living examples.

And telekinetic control at the material level could be called an all-rounder among mutant abilities.

It could manipulate objects for attack and defense... Moreover, the surface display showed that this ability could continue to evolve toward a more microscopic molecular level.

According to what Russell knew, in the worldview of Marvel, once a certain ability involved the level of microscopic particles, its potential and destructive power would skyrocket in geometric progression.

Magneto, who mastered electromagnetism, and Phoenix, who possessed the Phoenix Force, were every bit terrifying existences standing at the apex of mutant abilities.

A nearly immortal physique, coupled with a control power capable of infinite evolution whose potential reached straight to the source of matter...

Russell slowly raised his head, a trace of joy emerging in the depths of his eyes.

He should probably be able to be called an Omega-Level Mutant now. After all, an Omega-Level Mutant represented potential, not strength.