The next morning, the atmosphere was tense. Everyone had gathered in front of the old television, the screen flickering as the President made his announcement.
His words were sharp and grave. "Effective immediately, the United States Navy will establish a blockade around the island of Cuba. Any attempt by Soviet ships to breach this line will be considered an act of war."
There was no mistaking the implication—war was coming.
Logan stood silently in the back with his arms crossed as he listened. He didn't need telepathy to know what everyone was thinking. They all understood this wasn't just political maneuvering—this was Sebastian Shaw's doing. The man was playing both sides like a puppeteer.
Shaw had manipulated the Soviet leadership, convincing them to install nuclear missiles in Cuba under the guise of defense. But in truth, it was an aggressive move—intended to provoke. To escalate. To burn the world down and rebuild it in his image.
Even worse, Shaw twisted American interpretation, using subtle tricks and influence to make it seem like a blatant attack. The trap had been set. The U.S. responded predictably—with the threat of force.
The countdown had begun.
One week. That's all they had before the blockade began, before the Soviets tested American resolve, before fire might rain from the sky.
And so, the training intensified.
--------------
Charles focused on Erik, pushing him further, trying to unlock the full range of his powers. There was little time, but even Charles knew Erik's potential was immeasurable.
Sean finally learned to fly. Sean soared, uncertain at first, but with each controlled dive and correction, he found his rhythm in the sky.
Alex still struggles to control the destructive energy he emits from his body. To help him manage this volatile power, Hank developed a custom device tailored to his abilities.
The device functions as a focusing and containment harness, stabilizing the energy that builds up within Alex's body. Rather than letting the energy erupt uncontrollably, the device harness and channels it into a more directed, controlled beam.
This allows Alex to release his power in precise bursts rather than wide, chaotic explosive rings. It effectively turns his raw energy into a usable weapon while protecting both himself and those around him.
Darwin pushed his evolution further. He submerged himself in ice tanks, walked into burning rooms, and crushing pressure tests created by Hank.
Each time, his body adapted — growing denser, tougher, more resilient. His skin morphed into dense rock or thick scales depending on the trial.
But Logan?
Logan was on another level entirely.
While the others trained in bursts, Logan didn't stop. He slept no more than three to four hours a night, often resting only when Charles forced him to. His training wasn't only about techniques or precision but was also raw, brutal and repetitive means.
He wanted to know what he was truly capable of now.
Ever since his transmigration, he could feel something different—stronger, sharper, calmer. His stamina was nearly endless. He could go hours without breaking a sweat. After full training sessions, his pulse barely rose.
A smirk tugged at his lips one night as he punched through reinforced training plates. "Damn… I could go for hours... in the gym… or in the bed," he chuckled darkly to himself before cracking his knuckles.
It was more than just regeneration.
He began testing his strength and durability, stacking weights, jumping off towers, throwing himself into Hank's pressure traps. By the end of the four days, he had a rough estimate—physically, he was closing in on Captain America's level. Not quite there, but close enough to trade blows and walk away.
That thought stirred a memory.
Back in World War II, Logan had fought alongside Steve Rogers as a member of the Howling Commandos. They'd wrecked Hydra bases together—Logan on the ground, tearing through enemy lines, while Cap threw his shield through gun nests. They'd shared campfires, dry jokes, and the occasional bottle.
Of course, Logan being Logan, he'd let a few too many profanities fly.
"You're a good man, Rogers," Logan once said. "But if you tell me to watch my language one more fucking time, I'll shove that star-spangled frisbee up your fucking ass."
Logan's mouth had a habit of turning allies into strangers.
Steve never quite warmed to him. Not as a friend. But as a fellow soldier and a comrade. And that was enough.
And when Steve woke from the ice decades later, Logan will greet him in his own way.
"'Bout time you got thawed out, Icicle. Missed ya. Not your speeches, though—those still suck ass."
Steve will stare at him for a long moment before sighing, "Still the same, huh?"
A soft chuckle escaped him as he shook his head, amused by his own wandering thoughts.
Back to the reality, Logan again went to grind.
He pushed his claws against denser materials again—metal, reinforced alloys, ceramic composites. He heated them to high temperatures, then dunked them in ice water. He burned, shattered, and regrew them—again and again and again.
Each time they regenerated, the claws returned denser, more resistant. Fire, force, friction—his claws learned and evolved. Adaptive evolution, he figured. A gift from whatever cosmic dice roll dropped him in this new body, this new world.
He wasn't aiming to be a hero. He didn't crave fame, recognition, or leadership.
Logan only wanted one thing... Peace.
But in a world like this—where gods, mutants, aliens, and monsters walked the Earth—peace required strength. Enough strength to protect himself, the people around him, and the life he wanted to build.
And if gaining that strength meant breaking his bones a thousand times? So be it.
He hoped—no, prayed—that this version of reality was the movie version, not the comic version.
Because the comic one? That shit was crazy.
But for now, there were no Sentinels. No multiversal incursions. No Phoenix Forces descending from space.
Just two days until war.
So Logan cracked his knuckles again, glanced at the shattered training dummies, and took a deep breath. "Back to the grind."
----------------
Evening settled softly over the green expanses of the Xavier Estate, painting the mansion in warm amber and casting long shadows across the training fields.
Out near the front lawn, Charles stood with a whistle in hand, eyes gleaming with mild amusement as he glanced between two of his strongest residents—Hank McCoy and Logan.
"Two laps around the mansion grounds, first to finish will be the winner." Charles said.
Hank crouched forward, stretching out his calves with a grin. "You sure you're up for this, Logan? I wouldn't want you pulling a hip."
Logan rolled his neck with a grunt, his black tank top hugging his muscular torso. "Kid, I was outrunning death while you were still learning the alphabet."
Charles raised the whistle to his lips before smiling. "Gentlemen…"
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They launched off the line.
Hank took the lead early, his powerful legs and long stride propelling him with momentum across the field. He glanced over his shoulder and saw Logan several feet behind, running with a casual rhythm.
His smile stretched wide as the distance grew between them.
"I knew it," Hank called out between breaths. "You're strong, but you're not fast—"
A voice cut through the wind. "On your left."
Hank blinked.
Logan blew past him in a blur of precise, relentless motion, his expression is clam except for a slight smirk at the corner of his mouth. He didn't look strained. His breathing wasn't even audible. It was as if he'd just started the race.
"Wha—?" Hank pushed harder, but it was already too late.
By the time the two completed their laps, Logan crossed the finish line a solid ten seconds ahead. He slowed to a walk, posture still relaxed, while Hank stumbled in just behind him, panting slightly.
Charles blew the whistle again, chuckling.
"Well done," he said. "Though I think Logan may have found a second wind."
Hank leaned over, hands on his knees. "That's not a second wind… that's a damn jet engine."
Logan glanced back, throwing a towel over his shoulder. "Hell of a run, Hank. Few more rounds, and you might even make me sweat."
From the upper windows of the mansion, Raven watched silently, leaning against the sill. Her eyes lingered not on Hank—but on Logan. There was something different about him. Something quiet, but intense. A man who moved through the world like a wolf that had seen every trap.
Later that night
The mansion slept in silence, save for the soft thuds echoing from the basement gym.
Raven descended the stairs, drawn by instinct. She pushed open the door to find Logan, shirt damp from light exertion, punching a heavy punching bag with precise, brutal rhythm.
Logan, still wearing the same dark gym clothes from earlier. A sleeveless tank top that clung to his muscular frame and black sweatpants. His physique was primal—broad chest, sinewy arms, and a core that looked carved from stone.
His body moved in a slow, controlled circle around it—fists flying in a pattern like a predator stalking its prey.
Every punch landed with a thud that made the bag vibrate. He ducked, weaved, stepped, and struck again. Kick. Elbow. Jab.
And then—CRACK.
The final punch snapped the bag from its chain. It slammed into the wall, splitting at the seam as sand gushed across the floor.
Logan stood still, exhaling a slow breath as if he were just warming up.
"You're gonna run out of bags," Raven said, stepping inside in her gym clothes—a sleek, black tank top and high-waisted leggings that shimmered with a sheen of sweat, highlighting the curves of her toned figure. Her abs flexed subtly with every movement. She looked like a goddess carved from stealth and grace.
Logan didn't turn, already dragging another bag into place.
"Better the bag than me punching Shaw again before I'm ready."
She tilted her head. "You think training will be enough?"
He hooked the chain and gave the new bag a test punch.
"It's not just him," Logan said without looking.
Thud.
"In two days, the world finds out about mutants."
Thud.
"Some will be scared."
Thud.
"Others will be curious."
Crack.
"And some will want to dissect us like lab rats and poke around our DNA."
His final punch sent the bag swinging and finally turned toward her with sweat now just starting to pearl across his neck.
"I train now... so I can live comfortably later."
Raven's expression softened, her usual playful smirk replaced with something thoughtful. "You talk like someone who's seen too much already."
Logan leaned against the wall before grabbing a water bottle and cracking it open. "Maybe I have."
"You act like you're older than Charles, but look... what? Twenty-five?"
Logan took a sip and shrugged. "Age is just a number when you've got healing powers and a temper problem."
Raven laughed softly. "That's not an answer."
Logan smirked. "Wasn't supposed to be."
Raven stepped closer. "You don't talk much with the others."
"Never did. Doesn't mean I'm not watchin'."
She smiled. "Then how about you talk with me? Just for a little."
Logan paused, then nodded once. "Alright."
They spoke. Slowly, at first. Raven asked questions. Logan gave half-answers and dry humor, dodging anything too personal. She teased him. He teased back. Sparks danced between their words.
Eventually, she asked for a sparring lesson, half-mocking, half-serious.
"Come on, mystery man. Show me how to throw a punch that can knock a bag off the chain."
Logan raised an eyebrow. "You asking for a fight, or lessons?"
She winked. "Why not both?"
"Alright. But you're signing up for bruises."
"I can take it."
And just like that, they stood on the mat, he stood behind her, guiding her arms through some offence and defense stances. Raven picked things up quickly—too quickly.
Their sweat mingled with tension, the dim lights of the gym casting long shadows as they moved—warrior and shapeshifter, predator and phantom, drawn together by tension, and the rhythm of the night.