Kids, Wait Until I Reach Level Four

After flipping through several channels, Russell finally landed on the news. Since it was evening, the broadcast was a replay from that afternoon.

"Good evening, New York. Welcome to today's news recap."

The blonde anchor on the screen gave a professional smile, her voice sweet and practiced.

"Tony Stark, chairman of Stark Industries and the man known as Iron Man, met today with Norman Osborn, a representative of Osborn Industries, at the Dia Hotel.

The two giants agreed to cooperate on ventures in aerospace and biotechnology. According to sources, they may jointly develop new energy technology and genetic enhancement projects..."

The screen switched to grainy footage shot by a reporter. Stark emerged from the hotel in his trademark expensive suit, an arm around a blonde woman. When reporters pressed him for answers, he merely waved a lazy hand and said, "Trade secret."

"Our friendly neighborhood Spider-Man stopped several crimes in Queens yesterday, including a bank robbery and two street brawls, earning widespread praise from residents.

This morning, a large group of devoted fans organized a march near the Manhattan Bridge, calling on the Avengers to formally accept Spider-Man. The Avengers have yet to issue a response..."

The screen switched again, this time to the Manhattan Bridge. A crowd of young people in Spider-Man T-shirts held signs reading "Spider-Man Deserves It" and "Join the Avengers" as they chanted on the bridge.

Laura sat on the arm of the battered sofa, watching the red-and-blue figure swing across the screen on his webs. Her brows drew together slightly. She could not understand why a mutant would want to put himself in the public eye.

As far as she was concerned, the better you hid, the longer you lived.

"Spider-Man. A real, living Spider-Man. I thought he only existed in comics."

Felicity murmured to herself, then looked curiously at the marchers. "Why does he cover his face? Does he not want people to see what he looks like?"

Russell knew why Peter Parker wore a mask, of course, but he did not answer. He kept watching the screen.

"...Senator Kelly, who advocates mandatory registration for mutants, was reported missing today. A police spokesperson said surveillance footage last showed him near a hotel in Washington, after which his whereabouts became unknown.

Police suspect he may have been abducted and are conducting an extensive search. They ask anyone with information to come forward. The White House is closely following the case and has urged the relevant authorities to solve it as quickly as possible..."

The barrage of news left Russell stunned.

This seemed to be the Marvel Cinematic Universe, but... not quite?

From the scattered memories in his head, he could tell that the last story belonged to the plot of X-Men.

Senator Kelly's capture meant Magneto was about to carry out his plan to induce X-Gene mutations in humans. A battle between mutants around Liberty Island was imminent.

But what was Spider-Man doing here?

As far as Russell knew, Spider-Man, Iron Man, and the X-Men did not belong to the same universe.

Unless... this world was some kind of merged universe?

Russell leaned back against the worn sofa and tapped his fingers lightly on the armrest.

He had originally planned to identify which universe he was in, then profit from knowing the plot in advance—finding key people early, for instance, or avoiding deadly threats.

But that plan was clearly dead.

This world did not follow the unchanging movie plots he remembered.

It was chaotic, blended, and unpredictable.

"So..." he muttered, "I'll just have to get stronger first."

He needed to reach Level Five Mutant, or at least the peak of Level Four Mutant.

His mental defense, in particular, needed serious work.

Having only level-one mental defense always left him uneasy.

The sense that some powerful will could invade his mind at any moment was like a thorn lodged in his heart.

Professor X dropped by to chat with him from time to time. Granted, he had not harmed Russell and had even raised his Mental Defense proficiency, but Russell could not keep relying on that.

And he could not improve his mental defense alone.

He needed someone with mental perception to attack him repeatedly with their ability. Only then would his defenses grow.

Felicity happened to fit the bill.

That thought made Russell realize something was off.

Why did all the mutant abilities he had awakened seem to come with a masochistic streak?

Mental Defense—he had to be attacked with Psychic Power to raise its proficiency.

Superhuman Healing—he had to get hurt before it did anything. The more injuries he took and healed, the faster its proficiency rose.

Psychic Telekinesis was the only one that did not require him to suffer. Repeated use raised its proficiency, but advancing its precision later would require him to make waves, stir up trouble, and keep creating spectacles to harvest Emotion Points.

After all, Emotion Points were the key to unlocking Molecular-level Control.

"So my path to getting stronger is..." Russell's mouth twitched. "Get attacked, get beaten up, or go out and make a scene? Just like Magneto."

Perhaps he did not need to make trouble. Emotion Points did not have to be negative. Becoming a celebrity like Homelander would also be a good way to harvest them.

But Russell only entertained the idea for a moment. He might agree to a mutant becoming a celebrity, but a society that argued mutants were not even people certainly would not.

Beside him, Laura looked up, a trace of confusion in her eyes.

She did not understand why Russell had suddenly made such a complicated face. To her, he was strong. He should not have so much to worry about.

Felicity sat quietly nearby, hugging her knees. She did not interrupt Russell's thoughts. She simply watched the man who had rescued them.

"Ah..."

Russell sighed and shook his head. Pointless speculation would get him nowhere. Better to do something useful.

He set down the remote and looked at the few pieces of cheap furniture they had salvaged from the trash.

A battered table, two wobbly chairs, and a coffee table with a chipped corner.

With a slight shift of his will...

The table slowly rose three centimeters off the floor and hovered there.

The chairs began to turn gently.

One corner of the coffee table lifted slightly.

[Psychic Telekinesis Experience +0.2]

[Psychic Telekinesis Experience +0.2]

[Psychic Telekinesis Experience +0.2]

System notifications sounded in his head one after another. Each gain was a pitiful 0.2, but small amounts added up.

It was frustrating for Russell. As his level rose, he had discovered that simple Psychic Telekinesis exercises no longer produced the substantial gains they once had.

Not unless he used his ability at full strength.

Laura watched the floating furniture, her eyes widening slightly.

She had seen Russell fight. Bullets flying backward and metal twisting were far more impressive than this. Yet this quiet, everyday display showed her something else: control.

Not a violent outburst, but precise, sustained control.

She silently held out her right hand and watched three steel claws slide from between her knuckles.

The claws gleamed coldly, sharp enough to cut through almost anything.

But she knew she could only use them to stab, tear, and kill. She could not make them float or move with the flexibility of Russell's Telekinesis.

So this is... the difference? she wondered.

Felicity felt something different.

She felt safe.

The stronger Russell became, the safer they would be.

"Felicity, do me a favor. Attack me with your mental ability."

Felicity was puzzled by the request, but she did not refuse. She used her ability to touch the mind of the man on the sofa again and again.

[Mental Defense Experience +1]

[Mental Defense Experience +1]

Over an hour later.

Grrr...

Russell's stomach let out an uncooperative growl.

He stopped training his Telekinesis and pulled up the virtual panel for a look.

[Psychic Telekinesis Proficiency: 1218/5000]

He was still nearly 4,000 proficiency points away from Level Four Mutant.

At this rate, playing with furniture, who knew how long it would take him to break through?

Outside the window, dim yellow lights had begun appearing in the low buildings.

The hazy sky gradually turned pitch-black. Night was coming to the slums.

Russell stood, straightened his clothes, and turned off the television.

"I'm hungry. I'm going out for a late-night meal," he said simply.

"Are you two hungry?"

Laura and Felicity immediately rose and followed him like two silent shadows.

At the door, Russell suddenly remembered something and stopped.

"Shame I forgot to buy a phone," he muttered. "Then I could order delivery instead of going out."

The slums were hardly safe at night.

But there was no helping it. A man had to eat.

Bang!

He casually shut the large, rusted iron door. Level Three Superhuman Healing had given him strength beyond that of an ordinary person, and he used a little too much force. The old wall beside it rattled, shedding flakes of plaster.

"Good heavens!"

An elderly cry came from higher up the stairs.

Russell looked up and saw an elderly Chinese woman coming down one step at a time, holding the handrail.

The sudden crash had startled her so badly she had nearly dropped her cane. She swayed before steadying herself.

She drew a deep breath. Her aged face still showed a touch of shaken irritation as she spoke in heavily accented English.

"You scared me half to death! Why are you young people so hotheaded? Lucky for you it was me. If it had been that old Happy upstairs, you wouldn't be getting away without paying him a million or two!"

Russell gave her a once-over. She wore a faded old blue shirt, worn nylon pants, and black slippers. Her hair was thin and gray, and deep lines marked her face.

At a glance, she was a working-class person being "oppressed" by the U.S. Government, just like him.

Still, she had an interesting way of warning him. A million or two before he could leave? That old Happy upstairs must be a professional at faking injuries for compensation.

"Got it, ma'am." Russell waved and kept walking. The two girls said nothing.

Respecting the elderly and caring for children had been a habit of his in his previous life. It was worth keeping up now.

"Young people are so reckless..." The woman watched Russell stroll away, shook her head, and sighed. A complicated memory flickered through her cloudy eyes, but they soon grew calm again.

She continued down the stairs one step at a time, steadying herself against the wall while her cane tapped against the concrete.

When she finally reached the ground-floor entrance, she was about to stop and rub her aching, rheumatic leg. Then she saw the young man heading toward Man-Eater Alley.

She froze. Her expression changed, and she hurriedly shouted in a raspy voice.

"Hey! You're going the wrong way! Don't go into that alley! It's full of desperate criminals. If you run into them, you could be killed!"

Hearing the elderly woman behind him, Russell paused and turned slightly.

Laura and Felicity stopped too.

Truthfully, Russell was a little surprised.

He looked white now, and their first meeting had hardly been pleasant, yet she had still warned him out of kindness.

The white people coming and going along the street, the well-dressed "respectable" ones, had not even spared them a glance.

"Thanks for the warning, ma'am." Russell nodded to her. "But this is the shortest way to where I'm going. I'll be careful."

With that, he walked into the dark alley without looking back.

Laura and Felicity followed in silence.

Hunched over, the elderly woman watched the three figures disappear into the shadows at the alley entrance. After standing there for a long moment, she sighed and muttered.

"Those who won't listen to their elders will learn the hard way... Young people these days are far too bold."

She shook her head, turned, and slowly walked in the other direction.

Deep in the alley.

Only a few streetlights still worked, casting a dim yellow glow that flickered on and off.

Trash, cigarette butts, and empty bottles littered the ground. Gang symbols and obscenities covered the walls.

At a relatively open junction, more than a dozen tall men carrying various weapons had gathered.

Some were Black, some white, though most were Black. They stood in a circle as if holding a meeting.

Their burly Black leader, a vicious scar running across his face, was cursing up a storm.

"Today was a fucking disaster! We didn't get the supplies, we lost three brothers, the three new recruits ran off, and now we've pissed off the Blood Wolf Gang!"

He led the group and went by the nickname Scar.

Gangs were everywhere in these slums. The Blood Wolf Gang was the biggest local power, with more than a hundred members, every one of them armed.

His own hastily assembled crew consisted entirely of drifters and bankrupt men with nowhere else to go. They could not compare.

"You useless bastards! Next time you pick a mark, keep your fucking eyes open." Scar kicked over an empty oil drum with a loud clang. "Quit staring at the women and take a good look at the men, too. How many people living around here do you think are easy prey?!"

"Y-yes, boss." His underlings nodded meekly.

Just then, a Black lookout hurried over from the alley entrance and whispered a few words in Scar's ear.

Scar's eyes lit up. "You sure? Just one adult, and no gun?"

The lookout nodded hard. "Positive! Two little girls are following him, too. They're obviously dead weight!"

"Hahahaha!" Scar threw back his head and laughed, clapping the lookout on the shoulder. "Nice work!"

He turned, pulled a polished silver pistol from his waistband, and waved it at the others.

"Boys! We've got business! This time, I'll handle it myself and show you what a real robbery looks like!"

His underlings cheered and grabbed their weapons—machetes, steel pipes, and spiked clubs—before surging toward the alley entrance behind their boss.

Fifteen minutes later.

The same alley. The same spot.

Bang!

A gunshot rang out. Scar lay sprawled on the ground, all his swagger gone. Blood and brain matter poured from a hole in his forehead.

His wide eyes still held the shock and disbelief of his final moments. Even as he fell, he had not understood why the bullet he fired had suddenly turned in midair and then... flown back at him.

Around him, more than a dozen underlings crouched with their hands over their heads, trembling too hard to breathe. Some had already wet their pants.

That scene had shattered everything they thought they knew.

Bullets could curve?

What the fuck was he, human or ghost?

Of course, some of them had their suspicions about Mutants, but saying so now would be asking to die.

The guy could make a bullet turn with a flick of his finger. If a bullet blew your head open, what good would knowing the difference do?

Russell walked unhurriedly to Scar's body, crouched down, and began his practiced routine of searching the corpse.

Laura stood behind him, watching the crouching underlings warily.

Her fingertips trembled slightly. Her steel claws could spring out at any moment.

If anyone dared to move, she would take their life at once.

Felicity stood a little behind Russell's side, hands clenched and face pale, struggling to stay calm.

She disliked violence, but she knew that here, in a filthy place like this, violence was the price of staying alive.

Russell pulled a thick wad of bills from Scar's body. A quick count put it at over a thousand dollars.

Not bad. Another decent payday.

He stuffed the money into his pocket, stood, and glanced impatiently at the dozen or so underlings crouching on the ground, trembling.

"Hey, what are you all waiting for?"

He pointed at the body on the ground, then at them.

"This is a robbery. Hand over everything valuable you've got. Otherwise—"

The corner of his mouth lifted in a dangerous smile.

"Your boss only just left. I don't mind being a good guy and sending you after him. Leave now, and you might still catch up."

The underlings shuddered.

One white underling, a little braver than the rest, raised a shaking hand. He pulled a few crumpled bills from his pocket and held them high above his head, his voice trembling so badly he could barely get the words out.

"B-boss! No, Superman! I... I didn't get along with the b-boss! You can have all my money! Don't kill me! Please don't kill me!"

By the end, tears and saliva were streaming down his face.

The others snapped out of it and hurriedly dug out every bit of money they had—coins, bills, even a few crumpled checks. They held it all above their heads, terrified that a moment's delay would leave them like their dead boss, their skulls blown open by that "curving bullet."

Russell went from one to the next, taking their money.

When he had collected it all, he counted roughly four hundred dollars.

Less than half what Scar had carried.

Apparently, the rule in this makeshift gang was that the boss took the lion's share. No wonder only the boss had a gun while the rest had to make do with melee weapons.

"In your next life—" Russell pocketed the money and looked down at the underlings, who were still crouching with their hands over their heads. "Don't be born in America."

Russell moved a finger, and the underlings merged with the ground. He turned and walked toward the other end of the alley.

Laura and Felicity followed in silence.

[Fear +1]

[Fear +1]

[Shock +1]

As Russell walked down the street, the delightful system notifications sounded in his mind. He was in an excellent mood.

He had gained more than a thousand dollars this time, along with a dozen or so Emotion Points.

It wasn't much, but every little bit counted.

A thought suddenly struck him: what if he followed Spider-Man's or Superman's example and started "fighting crime" in the slums, targeting robbers and gangs? He could earn Emotion Points and money at the same time. Two birds with one stone.

But he quickly dismissed the idea.

Playing vigilante might earn him plenty of Emotion Points in the short term, but the long-term risks were too great.

He knew the U.S. Government's attitude toward Mutants all too well. Once they set their sights on him, he could face wave after wave of pursuit and raids, perhaps even missiles raining down on him.

Spider-Man was hailed by the public as a "friendly neighborhood" hero because he wasn't a Mutant and hadn't revealed his real identity.

To the world, he was just a "freak in tights."

Russell was different. He really was a Mutant. If that came out, there would be no parades or cheers waiting for him—only Hounds and operating tables.

"Better keep my head down and build up my strength first, kids. Just wait till I hit level four." Russell shook his head.

Laura walked a little behind him, silent the entire way.

She had noticed the faint smile at the corner of Russell's mouth, and the way his eyes occasionally drifted toward the dark corners.

She didn't quite understand what Russell was thinking, but she knew one thing: following him was the right choice.

Felicity stole several glances at Russell. She had seen him kill without hesitation, yet he had thanked an elderly stranger and spared the petty thugs even while "robbing" them.

What kind of man is he, really? she wondered.

The night deepened. On the streets of the slums, three figures headed toward the brighter lights and gradually disappeared into the distance.