The Invitation from Magneto

"System, add points for me."

The moment his focus locked onto the "Atomic-level Precision Control" entry, his Emotion Points began to plummet at a speed visible to the naked eye.

10,034... eight thousand... six thousand... four thousand... The numbers dropped like a punctured balloon.

At the same time, an unlocking progress bar on the panel crept slowly and steadily to the right.

47%... 63%... 78%...

The instant his Emotion Points hit around one thousand, the progress bar stopped dead at one hundred percent.

[Precision: Atomic-level Control (Unlocked)]

[Next-tier Precision: Subatomic-level (Pending Unlock) Note: Subatomic-level includes protons, neutrons, electrons...]

Before Russell even had time to digest the number, the world before his eyes shattered abruptly.

It did not literally break—his way of viewing the world had changed.

Molecular vision peeled back like a stripped-away veil, revealing a more essential, naked truth beneath.

The molecular structures formed by atoms in his field of view decomposed, stripped away, and dissipated, leaving only the most fundamental atomic nuclei and electron clouds.

He saw that the leather surface of the sofa was not leather, but a complex network woven from carbon and hydrogen atoms; he saw that the oxygen in the air was not oxygen, but two pairs of atomic nuclei sharing electron pairs;

He saw his own hands—innumerable atoms vibrating at high speeds, atomic nuclei like tiny stars, electron clouds like planetary orbits, transforming his entire body into a condensed nebula.

"So this is... The atom," he murmured under his breath.

Felicity poked her head over from the side, looking at his eyes with curiosity.

"Lord Russell, your eyes changed again. They don't seem purely blue anymore."

"What color are they?"

"I can't quite say. It's like... like there's light spinning inside. Ring after ring."

Russell closed his eyes, then opened them again, temporarily shutting off that overly overloaded layer of vision.

The world returned to normal once more.

Yet he knew that vision was right there, ready to be switched on at any moment.

Like a computer installed with a new operating system, the old interface remained, but the backend was already running on an entirely new logic.

He leaned back against the sofa and began to think.

He thought about the Emotion Points it had cost to upgrade his psychic telekinesis precision from the molecular level to the atomic level.

He thought about what atomic-level manipulation of psychic telekinesis truly meant.

As for the increasing consumption of Emotion Points for the former upgrade, Russell did not care; on this azure planet, the one thing in least short supply was population.

In other words, he lacked Emotion Points least of all.

The latter was the focal point of his contemplation.

Middle school physics textbooks stated that nuclear fusion is the combination of two light atomic nuclei into a heavier atomic nucleus, releasing tremendous energy; nuclear fission is the splitting of a heavy atomic nucleus into two light atomic nuclei, likewise releasing tremendous energy.

The sun burned through fusion for five billion years, nuclear power plants relied on fission to supply cities with electricity, and the core of these reactions was the manipulation of the forces between atomic nuclei.

If one could manipulate atoms, to a certain extent, one could manipulate nuclear fusion.

One could manufacture a sun in the palm of one's hand.

One could turn any substance into another substance—lead into gold, water into oil, air into steel.

Russell lowered his gaze to look at his hands.

These hands could turn stone into gold from now on.

Controlled nuclear fusion, which Doctor Octopus had pursued his entire life, seemed within his easy grasp.

It was comparable to Iron Man, who could cobble together a cold fusion device in a cave with just a few sheets of steel.

Or perhaps even stronger than Iron Man, seeing as Russell was hand-crafting it purely from scratch.

Yet he did not rush to experiment with those cool-sounding, not-so-simple abilities.

He thought of another matter right before him—the X-Factor.

His gaze sharpened; molecular vision—no, it should be called atomic vision—activated.

The microscopic world unfolded before his eyes—the molecules and atoms in the air, the internal structure of every object in the room, the cells, proteins, and DNA inside Felicity and Laura.

And the X-Factor.

That was something he had previously seen on Hound 10, or rather, on many people—a special gene segment existing within all mutants.

It might not directly produce superpowers; it was a key, the key that unlocked mutant gene expression.

Russell focused his attention on Felicity. Her X-Factor was very active, flashing with a faint fluorescent glow in every cell nucleus.

Her ability was telepathy—not high in rank, but its potential ought not to be low.

He tried touching those X-Factors with his telekinesis, not to destroy them, but to stimulate them.

Felicity's body suddenly stiffened.

"Lord Russell?" Her voice carried a hint of tension. "I... I feel a bit strange."

"Don't move."

Russell stared at the trembling Felicity.

She was leaning against the sofa armrest, rubbing her temples, her complexion somewhat pale. Having accompanied him to train for hours in the training room, her mental exhaustion was severe.

She noticed his gaze, the tips of her ears turning slightly red. She lowered her head, her hands clutching tightly at the hem of her clothes, her voice as soft as a mosquito's hum:

"I'm so useless..."

Russell looked at her and fell silent for two seconds. "Sit closer."

Felicity startled slightly, then slowly shifted over.

"Do you trust me?"

Despite not understanding the reason behind Russell's sudden question, Felicity nodded all the same:

"I trust you."

After all, if not for Russell, she might still be trapped inside the base, destined to become one of the living test subjects in a laboratory.

"Then do you want to grow stronger?"

Felicity replied without a moment's hesitation: "Yes!"

Hearing the words "grow stronger," Laura's ears twitched alertly.

And so he continued his operation.

Felicity's entire body transformed into a precise atomic map within his field of view—bones, muscles, nerves, blood, every layer clearly visible.

And in the deepest depths of every cell nucleus, those X-Factors were like strings of folded passwords, quietly waiting to be read.

He could read them now.

Not that vague "sense" from before, but truly "seeing"—seeing the arrangement order of every base pair, seeing the start and end positions of each gene segment, seeing which segments were expressing themselves, which were dormant, and which had been intentionally shut off.

Microscopic telekinesis acted like an extremely fine needle, precisely stimulating those X-Factors.

They began to glow—with a brighter light.

Gene expression accelerated, and the core of her mutant ability was being activated.

Felicity's hands began to tremble, not out of fear, but because of energy—that energy surging from within her body, a power she had never felt before.

"Focus your mind," Russell said in a serious tone. "Feel the sounds around you."

Felicity closed her eyes.

A few seconds later, her eyes snapped open.

"I... I can hear them. The hotel front desk clerk is on the phone, people are arguing across the street, a child is crying three blocks away... It's so far. I've never been able to hear sounds from this far away before."

Russell withdrew his atomic-level telekinesis, looking at the additional prompt line on the system panel.

[X-Factor activation successful, target: Felicity, ability potential level: Tier 2 → Tier 3.]

He had not expected the system to come with its own reminder.

"Your ability should have improved. Try sensing deeply again," Russell said calmly.

Felicity stared at him in a daze. "How... how did you do that?"

"The X-Factor," Russell said. "It's the source of a mutant's power. Opening the lock on your genes can enhance your abilities once more."

He paused. "In theory, it can also weaken or even erase them."

Felicity's pupils contracted slightly.

She suddenly realized what the thing Russell had just done meant: he could make mutants stronger, and he could make mutants weaker.

This was a terrifying ability, far surpassing any weapon.

Laura stood up from the window, walked over to Russell, and handed him a fruit knife.

"Try me." A trace of yearning carried within her gaze.

Russell looked at her, took the fruit knife, and sliced a cut across her palm.

The wound healed in five seconds.

"Your healing speed is slower than Logan's," he analyzed. "But if your X-Factor undergoes secondary activation, it should be more active than his. In theory, you could be faster than him."

He handed the fruit knife back to Laura. "So there's no need to test it."

Laura was silent for a few seconds, put the fruit knife into her pocket, and walked back to the window to sit down, pondering inwardly how to bring the subject up again.

Russell leaned back on the sofa and closed his eyes.

Outside the window, Manhattan's sunlight pierced through the glass, casting a warm patch of light onto the white carpet.

Felicity was still experiencing her newly acquired ability, her fingers tracing gently in the air as if playing an invisible piano.

Before long, the hotel manager personally pushed a breakfast cart to the door of the presidential suite.

Sterling silver tableware, white porcelain plates, crystal juice glasses—this was not standard hotel service; it was an upgrade he had paid for out of his own pocket.

Ever since witnessing it from afar with his own eyes last night, and following that video spreading wildly online, the entire hotel from top to bottom knew one fact.

The three young people living on the top floor were no ordinary individuals.

As for whether they were actually mutants? That was not something for them to worry about.

If they were mutants, they couldn't handle them.

If they weren't mutants, they were metahumans similar to Spider-Man, and they couldn't handle them either.

In their hearts, many people actually classified them as mutants; otherwise, the military and police wouldn't have blockaded the streets to conduct manhunts.

Yet strangely enough, this young mutant seemed never to bully people. He didn't run tabs, didn't make things difficult for the waitstaff, and didn't cause destruction in his room.

He even had that brown-haired girl go out onto the street to hand out money to the homeless—not for show, but real, hard cash, distributed continuously for many tens of thousands of dollars.

Those homeless people who received the money knelt on the ground crying, saying God had sent angels to save them.

People online had already begun calling Russell the "incarnation of God."

Not a mutant, not a metahuman, but a deity.

The hotel manager didn't believe in gods, but he believed in fear.

And Russell happened to be the kind of person he both feared and respected.

He feared him because of that video—one hundred and forty bullets suspended mid-air before turning back around. He respected him because of those homeless people—after receiving the money, they finally had the means to eat, rent a house, and wash the dirt from their bodies.

Some of them had even found jobs.

When the manager pushed the breakfast cart into the room, Russell was standing before the floor-to-ceiling window watching the sunrise.

His bathrobe had been changed, his hair was dry, and the whole man looked like a supermodel who had just stepped off a magazine cover.

"Mr. Russell, please enjoy your breakfast." The manager's voice was very soft, as if afraid of disturbing something.

"Today's French toast has been adjusted according to your instructions last time. The maple syrup is in a separate container and hasn't been poured over it."

"Leave it down." Russell did not turn around.

The manager parked the breakfast cart, hesitated for a moment, pulled an envelope from his pocket, and placed it beside the cart.

"This is... something the homeless people downstairs asked me to pass along. They didn't know your full name, so the signature says 'To the angel who fell from the sky.'

I had someone write down the address, and they pooled this together—"

Russell turned around and glanced at that envelope. It was bulging, and the contents inside were clearly not stationery, but loose change.

His gaze sharpened as he looked at the wrinkled bills of varying denominations inside.

"Take it back. I have no use for this," Russell shook his head.

The manager startled slightly.

"Tell them," Russell turned back around to continue watching the sunrise, "I don't need their money. Let them keep it."

The manager opened his mouth, wanting to say something, but in the end said nothing at all.

He picked up the envelope, bowed, and retreated from the room pushing the empty cart.

As the door closed, he heard Russell say to Felicity: "Keep distributing it today. Hand it out until it's all gone."

"How much should I give out?"

"Give it all out. Have every homeless person in New York come and collect it."

The manager shook his head and stepped into the elevator.

She was understanding this man less and less by the day.

The elevator doors closed.

Nine in the morning. Hotel lobby.

Russell sat by the window in the lobby lounge, a cup of untouched coffee placed before him.

Felicity and Laura had gone to the streets to continue handing out money, leaving him with a rare hour of solitude.

He was using atomic vision to observe that cup of coffee—the atomic structure of the caffeine molecules in his field of view was as clear as a three-dimensional map.

He tried using telekinesis to replace one of the carbon atoms with an oxygen atom, turning the caffeine into another alkaloid whose name he didn't know.

He took a sip; the flavor remained unchanged. It seemed the replacement of a single atom did not affect the macroscopic taste.

"Is anyone sitting here?"

A voice suddenly came from across the table, its magnetic tone carrying a certain composure born of having lived through far too much.

Russell looked up.

An old man stood opposite him.

His silvery-white hair was combed meticulously, his deep purple suit impeccably tailored, and the collar button unbuttoned to reveal a dark turtleneck underneath.

He held a silver-gray fedora in his hand, his posture as casual as if he were strolling through his own living room.

Through the wanted photos he had mastered on the internet, this elder was easily recognized at a glance.

Magneto -- Erik Lehnsherr.

Russell looked at him without speaking.

Magneto did not wait for an answer either, sitting down directly across from him, placing his top hat on the table, folding his hands over his knees, and calmly sizing up Russell.

That look was not an inspection; it was appreciation -- like an old painter looking at a young painting.

"I've seen the videos about you," Magneto said. "The one at the hotel entrance, the one in the slums, and --" He paused. "It seems that's all. But I'm very interested in you."

"I know," Russell tapped his fingers lightly on the table. "Another old man said pretty much the same thing to you."

"You mean Charles."

Magneto's eyebrows twitched slightly. "You know me?"

"You're Magneto. You recently captured Senator Kelly, wanting to use the mutation device to turn nearby humans into mutants, but that device is unstable, and the converted genes will collapse."

Russell picked up his coffee cup and took a sip. "Your plan is good, but the technical side clearly won't do."

Magneto looked at him, something shifting within those gray eyes.

It was not anger, nor was it being offended, but something closer to "interest."

"You really do know a lot. Charles told me about you," Magneto finally spoke. "He said you were special, so special he was reminded of me in my youth."

He chuckled lightly. "But I don't think he's entirely right. You're not like me; you're yourself."

"Thanks." Russell's tone was flat, like responding to a stranger's polite small talk about the weather.

Magneto was not affected by this attitude. He leaned back in his chair, his gaze lingering on Russell's face for a few seconds.

"Do you know why I've come to find you?"

"To invite me to join the Brotherhood."

"Then will you join?" Magneto's gaze burned.