Inside Xavier's Mansion, the air had shifted.
The mansion—grand, timeless, and now alive with youthful energy—hummed with the weight of new beginnings.
The young mutants had found their temporary peace. But peace was never idle.
Beneath the mansion, in an underground bunker built to withstand even nuclear blasts, Alex Summers stood alone. Sweat clung to his brows as energy pulsed beneath his skin.
"Focus, Alex!" Charles's voice came through the intercom. "Control the flow—don't just let it explode."
His breath was ragged, heart thudding in his chest. "Focus," he muttered to himself. "Focus."
With a pained yell, he let it loose—an intense spiral of plasma blasted from his chest and lit the entire room in a white-hot glow.
The room lit up in a sudden blaze of red-orange flames. Another failed attempt—yet another wall scorched, pipes melting from the raw heat.
Upstairs, on the mansion's west lawn, Sean Cassidy screamed himself hoarse. His voice was supposed to lift him—carry him skyward with the makeshift wings. But all it did was throw him six feet into the air before he collapsed onto the grass, groaning. Charles and Hank exchanged a look of concern.
"...It's a start," Hank muttered.
"You'll get it," Charles encouraged while placing a hand on Sean's shoulder.
In the gym, Hank McCoy ran the track with blistering speed. Charles had finally convinced him to stop hiding behind science and instead, embrace the beast. He wasn't just smart. He was fast—powerful. It was time he learned to run free.
Raven, too, had dedicated herself to becoming more than just a face-shifter. She now trained in strength and agility, pushing her limits through weight training and combat drills.
Clad in athletic gear, she lifted weights, practiced kicks, and shadowboxed while watching old fighting tapes.
Sweat glistened off her forehead, but her expression was unreadable.
And then there was Logan.
In one of the reinforced training halls, Charles stood near a stack of punching bags as Logan paced across the mat with his arms crossed. His muscular frame gleamed, his breathing calm but heavy.
"Punching bags, huh?" Logan asked before cracking his neck.
Charles gave a small smile. "I'm more interested in your strength, Logan. You're... different compared to others. And I want to know how different."
Logan grabbed a punching bag with one hand and effortlessly hung it on the hook.
He placed both hands on it for a moment to steady the swing, then took a step back.
His fists began to move—slow, measured punches at first. But with each strike, the force behind them grew stronger, sharper.
The sound of each hit echoed louder as his strength surged, muscles tightening with every blow.
With each punch, a bag swung like it had been hit by a wrecking ball.
Charles was observing calmly.
"How sharp are your claws, Logan?" he asked casually while folding his arms.
Logan didn't stop punching. Thump. Thump.
"Denser than normal bones," Logan muttered through a lit cigar. "Haven't exactly tested their sharpness. Not on anything tougher than flesh and leather."
"Well," Charles smiled faintly, motioning toward a side door, "perhaps now's the time to test that."
---
He led Logan to the manor's back gardens, where Hank had helped arrange a strange assortment of materials. Long planks, rods, and blocks—lined up in ascending density.
From soft wood to hardwood, from thin cardboard to wooden logs, from thin steel sheets to solid copper rods and iron slabs. And several metal sheets of steel, copper, and iron.
Charles gestured to the beginning of the row. "We'll start small. I want to see how much pressure and resistance your claws can take. Think of it as... sharpening your edge."
Logan smirked, cracking his knuckles. "Sounds like my kind of science experiment."
With a clenched fist, three bone-white claws slid out of each hand with a chilling SNIKT.
He approached the cardboard-like wood. One quick slash—clean, effortless. No resistance.
He moved to the first real wooden log—medium density. It took a bit more pressure. A clean cut, but not without pushback. His brows narrowed. He could feel it—the sensation of his claws adjusting, grinding on the inside like a beast waking up.
Then came the dense oak. The claws dug in but didn't go through. Logan grit his teeth and struck again. Once. Twice. The third time, it split.
As the pieces fell away, Logan stared at his claws.
They felt different. Denser and sharper.
Charles watched him intently. "Fascinating."
Logan didn't answer loudly, 'Yeah... It was like they're learning and evolving.'
He stepped to the next thick log—and this time, cut it in half with a single strike.
Charles raised an eyebrow, "Just as I suspected. Your mutation isn't just healing you. It's strengthening your claws in real time. The harder the resistance, the more your claws adapts to overcome it."
Logan looked at his hands before curling the claws back. "Like a sword tempered in battle."
"Exactly. Given time and enough challenge, you might one day match even one of the strongest metals out there."
Logan's smile widened. "Better than being stuck with brittle bones, I'd say."
He turned his gaze toward the steel rods. "Let's see if they're ready for the real test."
Hours passed...
Logan moved from material to material—cutting copper, scratching iron, even leaving marks on reinforced steel.
Sweat rolled down his chest. His shirt long gone. Each time his claws struck, they became a little denser. A little sharper.
Just like a whetstone... made of struggle.
In the middle of a break, Charles walked up. "If you keep this up… you'll be able to cut through almost anything in the future."this continues… ."
Logan chuckled before staring down at his hands and turned his gaze to the metal rods. "Got anything harder than this?" he asked.
Charles chuckled. "I'll send someone to raid an aircraft scrapyard if needed."
Later that evening, Logan found himself in the recreation room, oddly quiet. The TV played a yoga program—some overly cheerful woman in a tight outfit demonstrating breathing techniques and stretches.
Logan, surprisingly, copied the movements—twisting, balancing, breathing. It wasn't about relaxation. It was about control. Stability. Holding power in check.
"Didn't think I'd catch you doing yoga," came a voice.
He turned slightly to see Raven enter the room in a sleek, dark blue yoga outfit that hugged her curves.
"Didn't think I'd get caught," he muttered.
She chuckled and joined him on the mat. "So what's next? You gonna start doing hot pilates?"
"Only if it helps me kill faster."
They both laughed and moved together through the poses, occasionally cracking jokes. Raven teased his lack of flexibility. Logan countered by daring her to beat his pushup count. The air was light, but something deeper passed between them—respect... and something else.
In the hallway outside, Hank peeked in for a second. Seeing the two of them stretching, smiling, laughing—he narrowed his eyes, then quietly walked away.
------
Days passed, and within the vast halls of Xavier's Mansion, the echo of effort never ceased. Sweat dripped, powers flared, and every mutant under Charles's guidance pushed their limits—none more so than Logan.
Inside the training yard, now scarred with deep claw marks and battered debris, Logan stood with a torn white sweatshirt clung to his frame, hanging loosely over his defined torso. His breathing was calm.
His claws slid out with a familiar SNIKT, he stared down the thick iron plate mounted in front of him.
It already bore dozens of scars—cracks running like veins across its body from repeated strikes. Give it few more minutes, maybe less, and it would split in two.
But Logan wasn't even tired.
He rolled his shoulders and clenched his fists.
Ever since his arrival in this world—this altered MCU—he'd noticed something strange. His stamina had skyrocketed. There was no exhaustion, no shortness of breath, even after hours of training. His muscles regenerated stress before it could build. It was subtle at first, but now impossible to ignore.
And it wasn't just his stamina.
Logan's mind and body had begun to unearth old techniques—deadly, precise hand-to-hand skills from wars he thought long buried. The trenches of World War I. The storming of Normandy. Black ops missions during WWII. Moves lost in the fog of time were now flowing back as naturally as breath.
He smirked. "Guess transmigration gave me a damn upgrade. This ain't just standard Wolverine anymore."
Then, without warning, a faint buzz echoed through the air as a rectangular, translucent yellow door opened midair with a static hum. The edges shimmered like golden water.
From it stepped a man in red and black—twin katanas strapped to his back, a futuristic TemPad glowing in his gloved hand.
Logan paused as his claws slowly slid back into his knuckles.
The man didn't even look at him. Instead, he glanced around and whistled low.
"Hot damn, someone skipped leg day never," he said before eyeing Logan's muscular back. "You've got the kind of mass that anchors timelines, buddy. I could bounce pennies off those delts."
Logan's eyes narrowed as he raised a brow, silently bringing the cigar to his mouth.
He knew that voice. Turning slowly, he locked eyes with the intruder.
Red suit. Black eye patches. Dual swords. Constant shit talking.
Deadpool.
Wade Wilson blinked twice, then his mask's white eye patches widened dramatically.
"Ohhhh... you've got that 'anchor being' aura just screaming from your pores." He pointed dramatically. "I'm telling you, you've got plot armor. Real MC energy. This has 'main protagonist of an overpowered AU fanfic' written all over it."
Logan stood there. Silent. Unimpressed.
Deadpool tilted his head. "...Nothing? Not even a growl? God, the sexual tension is palpable."
He turned suddenly to the screen you are reading, "Guys, I think he fell for me. Look at that glare—definitely love at first sight. Happens all the time."
Logan's eye twitched.
Deadpool turned back. "Relax, Wolvie. I'm not here to fight—unless it turns into a slow-burn enemies-to-lovers arc. Also..."
He glared off to the screen again. "Author. We need to talk."
He crossed his arms dramatically. "I mean, seriously? You've written some good fanfiction and I didn't make a single cameo? Not even a footnote? I'm your best marketing tool! Do you know how many clicks I bring with one 'Chimichanga' joke?"
He sniffled dramatically before turning to Logan. "It's okay. I'm not mad. I'm just disappointed. But hey—I forgive easily. Especially if you come write more about me and my heroic tales in my universe."
He took a step forward.
That was a mistake.
SNIKT.
Logan's claws extended fully as he took one threatening step forward.
"Get the fuck outta here," he growled, "before I bury these claws in that ugly red suit of yours."
Logan knew what would happen if he went along with Deadpool—he wasn't ready to face those troubles Deadpool bring him… at least, not yet.
Deadpool stopped in his tracks before placing both hands on his cheeks as his masked eyes widened comically.
"Wait a minute..." he whispered while scanning Logan's claws. "Those aren't metal…"
He turned to the fourth wall again with a tone full of betrayal. "...Author. Are you seriously telling me this perfect Logan specimen has bone claws? Bone? Not even a scrap of adamantium?! What is this? Budget fanfic Wolverine?!"
Logan advanced a step.
Deadpool backed up toward the still-open yellow door. "Alright, alright—I'll go. But mark my words, Logan. When you get those shiny claws... we're gonna make beautiful fanfic history together."
He gave a two-fingered salute, stepped through the portal—and vanished just as Logan hurled the heavy iron plate like a discus.
CRASH!
It embedded itself in the ground, exactly where Deadpool had been a second before.
Silence returned to the yard.
Logan sighed, took a long drag of his cigar, and muttered, "Idiot."
But in the back of his mind, he couldn't help but smile.