If I'm going to be stuck here in the Marvel Universe, I'm going to make every single second count. I know the threats that are coming, and frankly, half of Wolverine's enemies don't even make sense—they are just shadows waiting to ruin my life.
I've already started a mental priorities list. At the top? My 'brother' Victor, whose descent into villainy I have to manage, and William Stryker - the man who wants to turn me into a weapon. Then there's Romulus. That man is at the absolute top of my 'Kill on Sight' list, I will hunt him to the ends of the earth if I have to.
And then... there's the family I haven't even met yet. My future son, Daken, I'll need to be incredibly cautious there. And Laura... haishhh. How many times have I sighed just thinking about all of this? It's a lot for a ten-year-old boy in 1848 to carry, but I'm not just a boy. I'm a man with a map of the future, and I plan on tearing that map to pieces.
As I continued to sort through the chaos of my new reality, Victor and I pushed deeper into the unknown. Eventually, we reached a new territory, though 'where' didn't really matter. In 1848, the wilderness was an endless sea of green and grey.
Finding a place to sleep was our first challenge. At this point, anywhere sheltered from the wind and hidden from prying eyes was good enough. I didn't have to worry about food, though; Victor had taken to the hunt with a frightening natural ability. Over the past few days, he had provided enough to keep us going.
But I couldn't just sit idly by. While he hunted with tooth and nail, I began to test my own hands. I used my memories of mechanics and structure to build primitive traps throughout the woods. It was strange, my small, young hands were clumsy, but my mind still understood the physics of a trigger and the tension of a snare. I wasn't just a predator, I was becoming an engineer of the wild.
As much as I worry about the century of chaos waiting for me, I've decided to let it be for now. There is no use agonizing over a future that hasn't happened yet when the present is demanding every ounce of my focus. I have to face the problems right in front of me before I can worry about the ones decades away.
Then, there's Victor. I still don't quite know what to make of him in the flesh. In the comics and the movies, his violence knew no bounds, he was a force of pure, unchecked carnage. But seeing him now, I realize why. It's because he never learned to regulate his emotions. He never had a reason to. He just lets his raw nature sit bare for the world to see, like an open wound that refuses to heal. He doesn't just embrace the beast; he lets it drive. My challenge will be staying close enough to survive without letting his darkness swallow me whole.
A Year in the Shadow of the Wild
It has been exactly one year since Victor and I fled our home, since we left behind our land, our names, and the lives we once knew.
To be honest, I don't even know where we are anymore. We've crossed rivers and climbed mountains that have no names on the maps of this era. I simply follow wherever Victor leads. I don't complain, and I never ask where we're going. Why would I? Behind these young eyes, I already know exactly what we are moving toward. I know the battles we will fight and the horrors we will face as we grow into the men the world expects us to be.
For now, silence is my only companion. I let Victor play the leader, while I play the part of the loyal brother, biding my time and waiting for the moment when my knowledge of the future will finally be the edge we need to survive.
He did ask me once. We were sitting by a dying fire, the shadows of the tall pines dancing around us, when he looked over and asked where I wanted to go, if there was anywhere in this vast, empty country I was dreaming of reaching.
I didn't give him a map or a destination. I just looked him in the eye and told him simply, "I go where you go, Victor".
A slow, rare smile spread across his face then. It wasn't the predatory grin he showed our enemies; it was something else, a flash of genuine connection. Maybe it was because, for the first time in his life, he realized he didn't have to walk this path alone. He knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that I had his back. And in this lawless wilderness, having someone you can trust is worth more than all the gold in the world.
Over the past year, my instincts haven't just awakened, they've flared into a constant, roaring fire. My senses have sharpened to an impossible degree; I feel every vibration in the earth and smell everything within a five-mile radius. To me, the forest isn't just trees and dirt; it's a complex map of scents, the musk of a passing bear, the metallic tang of old blood, the damp rot of a hidden spring.
My sense of smell is now more powerful than any human's, and it's a curse as much as a gift. I'm having to teach myself how to control the flood of information, how to tune it out so I don't go mad. Because I know my true nature now.
I am a wolf. And a wolf is a predator.
Every fiber of my being is screaming at me to hunt, to find a victim, and to thrive on the chase. It's a primal hunger that the 'civilized' man from 2027 finds terrifying, but the 'James' of 1849 finds exhilarating. I have to find a balance soon, or the predator will be all that's left of me.
The struggle was overwhelming at first. In my previous life, I was just a normal human, bound by five dull senses and a body that could break. Now, I have to rein in a storm of information in a fraction of the time. I know I have to master this, and soon. One day, the ability to control these senses won't just be an advantage; it will be the only thing that keeps me alive.
When I manage to still my mind and concentrate, even for just a fleeting moment, the world opens up. I can catch a scent on the wind from miles away or hear the faint snap of a twig deep in the brush. It means I can detect danger before it even knows I'm there. No one can sneak up on a ghost that can hear their heartbeat.
I won't lie, despite the fear, there is an incredible sense of exhilaration. These are newfound powers, a level of peak physical existence I never dreamed of. And then, there's the healing. To know that I can push myself to the absolute limit, that I can endure what would kill any other man and simply... knit back together? It changes the way you look at the world. I'm no longer just surviving the wilderness, I am becoming the most dangerous thing in it.
Back at our camp, if you can even call this rugged patch of earth a camp, I am sitting in total silence, meditating. I breathe in deeply, then let it out slowly, clearing the mental noise of my past life to make room for the signals of my current one.
I start to push my awareness outward, testing the boundaries of my perception. 100 meters... 200... 300... I can feel the heartbeat of a deer in the thicket. I push further. 670 meters... I can hear the rustle of a predator stalking through the high grass nearly a kilometer away.
I'm roughly counting the distance, mapping out the radius of my awareness. I don't really have an ingenious or 'superhero' name for this ability yet; for now, I just call it 'Super-Sense.' It's simple, maybe even a bit plain, but it does the job. I'm no longer just a boy sitting in the dirt, I'm a living sonar, a tactical center point in the middle of a vast, breathing wilderness.
I remained in my sitting position, body relaxed but mind sharp, continuing my meditation. Suddenly, a familiar scent drifted into my range. It was Victor, but as he drew closer, I picked up several other layers beneath his musk.
The air grew heavy with the thick, metallic tang of fresh blood—lots of it. My nose wrinkled involuntarily as I processed the data. He was carrying something heavy, and the scent was far more pungent than the usual small game we caught.
Hmm, I thought, still keeping my eyes closed as I tracked his footsteps through the brush. He's brought back something substantial today. Whether it was a massive elk or something more... problematic... remained to be seen. In this world, blood usually meant one of two things: dinner or trouble. With Victor, it was often both.
"Jimmy, dinner is served!" Victor shouted as he marched toward the camp. He had a massive, crooked grin plastered across his face. Honestly, I don't even need to explain that smile to you, you know exactly what it means. It's the look of a predator who just proved he's at the top of the food chain.
He dropped his heavy kill and looked at me, shaking his head. He wanted to know what I was doing just sitting there, apparently wasting time while he did the 'real' work.
I looked back at him, but the words died in my throat. How could I even begin to explain the concept of deep-tissue breathing or the lotus position to someone like him? To Victor, if you aren't moving, bleeding, or breaking something, you aren't living. He couldn't perceive the miles of forest I had just mapped out in my mind while my eyes were closed. To him, I was just a lazy kid, to me, I was the radar station keeping us from being caught.
I didn't bother trying to explain the meditation. Instead, I just stood up, brushed the dirt off my clothes, and went to claim the day's prize so I could start cooking. It wasn't going to be a fancy dish, the culinary standards of the mid-1800s wilderness are pretty basic: you eat what you can, and you don't complain.
I started prepping a meal out of our 'dear deer.' Get it? Like dear... deer? I let the pun hang in my mind for a second, then sighed and shook my head. I wasn't even going to try that one on Victor, he'd probably just stare at me like I'd finally lost my mind.
I set to work over the fire, using my modern understanding of heat and prep to make the meat as edible as possible. In this life, I don't have a kitchen or a grocery store, but I still have my hands and my focus. As the fat began to sizzle, I realized that while Victor provided the raw materials, I was the one who turned them into something that kept us human.
Over the last year, I haven't just been surviving; I've been practicing. I've mastered the mechanics of my own body. I can now control the extension of my claws with surgical precision. I don't always need to unsheathe them fully like a savage.
Instead, I've learned to let them slide out just a fraction of an inch, enough to turn a standard punch into something lethal. It's like the hidden pocket knives an assassin might use. I've practiced the timing until it's seamless; the blades snap out and retract in the blink of an eye, too fast for the naked human eye to track.
This is my secret advantage. Everyone expects a beast to roar and show his teeth, but they won't expect the boy who hits like a ghost and leaves a mark that shouldn't be there. I'm not just a predator anymore, I'm becoming a weapon that hides in plain sight.
I've reached a level of control where I don't even need the full set. I can slide out just a single claw, one sharp, sturdy blade of bone, and use it with the precision of a scalpel. That's exactly what I'm doing now as I break down the deer in front of me.
To anyone else, it looks like I'm just cutting meat, but I'm applying a bit of 'future' knowledge here. Pro-tip for the day : Never cut your meat horizontally if the grain of the muscle and the blood flow run that same way. You have to cut against the grain. If you slice it the other way around, the muscle fibers stay long and stringy; but if you cut across them, the meat stays tender. When it hits the fire, it won't turn into a piece of leather that's impossible to chew.
Even out here, miles from civilization, there's no reason to eat like a scavenger. Victor might be happy just tearing into a carcass, but I'm a man of refinement, or at least, as much refinement as a ten-year-old with bone blades can manage.
I started a bonfire to cook the meat, the flames crackling against the cold forest air. We don't have any condiments, no salt, no spices, nothing. For now, we just have to eat it plain, tasting nothing but the smoke and the iron.
I made a mental note to myself right then: Business Plan Number One. In the future, I could easily start a company dominated by the basics—salt, sugar, pepper, and spices. People in this era take these things for granted or pay a fortune for them. With my knowledge of trade and chemistry, I could build an empire before I even reach my twentieth birthday.
If i want to.
I sat there, chewing on the unseasoned venison, thinking about the massive fortune I could amass. It's funny, Victor is sitting across from me thinking about his next kill, while I'm sitting here thinking about global supply chains and market monopolies. If I play my cards right, I won't just be the most dangerous man in the world, I'll be the richest.
In my past life, my father used to take me into the woods and teach me the basics of navigation. He even showed me which plants were safe and which poisonous mushrooms to avoid. It's useful knowledge to have in the back of my mind, but honestly? I'm not really feeling like a mushroom hunter today.
My appetite isn't exactly leaning toward a vegan diet right now. There's a wolf living inside my chest, and a wolf doesn't care about 'locally sourced' greens or identifying edible fungi. My body craves protein and iron, the kind you can only get from a fresh kill. It's strange to have all this survival lore about plants stored in my head while every instinct I possess is telling me to ignore the garden and stick to the meat. I suppose I'll keep the plant knowledge for emergencies, but as long as Victor keeps bringing back deer, the salad bar is closed.
5 years later
Our lives have bled into the rhythm of the wild. It's been five years since we first ran, and the change in Victor is nothing short of terrifying. At eighteen, he has filled out into a wall of pure, functional muscle. Standing at about 178cm, he carries a menacing presence that seems to darken the air around him.
With his long, unkempt hair and those naturally sharpened nails, he looks less like a man and more like a myth. Then there's that grin, that jagged, permanent expression of confidence. He is the kind of person you only need to glance at once to know you should keep walking. If you see him in the brush, you don't look back; you just run. But for me, he isn't just a threat, he's the only family I have left in this century.
At sixteen, I've carved my body into something very different from Victor's. While he's built like a tank, I've stayed on the leaner side. I made a conscious choice: I want to be a speed-type predator, fast, agile, and impossible to pin down.
To achieve this, I've adapted the 'Saitama' training regimen, but I've pushed it to an extreme that would kill a normal human. I do hundreds of sets, thousands of repetitions, every single day. Usually, that level of taxation would tear muscle fibers to the point of permanent damage, but I have the ultimate 'cheat code': my healing factor.
I can literally torture my body with high-intensity training, pushing my muscles to the absolute breaking point. But the moment I stop to rest, my body knits itself back together in seconds. Every time I heal, I come back denser, faster, and more efficient. I'm not just training; I'm overclocking my biology. By the time I'm done, I won't just be fast, I'll be a blur.
Even with a body that heals in an instant, there is a limit. It's my mind that bears the brunt of the taxation. My muscles might never stay torn, but my mental focus can get exhausted just like anyone else's.
I'm not some invincible, overpowered god whose mind and body are equally unbreakable. There's no such thing as a perfect balance. Just look at Professor X, his mind is capable of touching every soul on the planet, yet his body is as fragile as any normal human's.
For me, the trade-off is different. I have the ultimate physical 'cheat code,' but the mental energy required to stay focused, to control my predator instincts, and to maintain the discipline of a man from 2027 in the body of a 19th-century mutant is draining. If I push too hard for too long, I don't break physically, I burn out mentally. I have to remember that even a wolf needs to close its eyes and let its mind drift, or else the 'Logan' part of me will eventually shatter under the pressure.
No one is truly invincible; everyone has a breaking point. Take Jean Grey, she's a cosmic powerhouse with the entity of a god living inside her, yet she's still as vulnerable to a physical strike as any other woman. Then there's Scott Summers, his eyes can level a building, but his body is just flesh and bone, and he's completely paralyzed the moment you rip away those ruby-quartz glasses.
I've seen it across the board. Ororo Monroe can command the very atmosphere, yet she can be brought down by a well-aimed bullet before she ever raises a hand. Even Kitty Pryde, who can phase through solid steel to avoid any blow, still has a mind that can be invaded and controlled by a telepath.
The point is, every gift comes with a tax. My body is a self-repairing machine, but my mind is still human. If I let my mental guard slip, or if I let the 'wolf' take over because I'm too exhausted to think, I'm just as dead as the rest of them. My healing factor might close a wound, but it won't fix a broken spirit or a clouded mind. That's why I have to stay sharp, sharper than the claws in my hands.
You can only get one thing for free in this life; everything else has to be earned through grueling training. As much as I adore my new physical capabilities, the speed, the strength, the sheer resilience, my mind is still bound by the laws of biology.
If I don't sleep for three days straight, my healing factor might keep my heart beating and my muscles fresh, but my mind starts to fray. The edges of reality blur, my reaction times slow down, and that tactical '2027 brain' starts to shut down.
It's a humbling reminder that I'm not an invincible machine. I'm a hybrid. My body belongs to the 1850s and the mutant gene, but my consciousness is still that of a man who knows the value of rest. I've learned that I have to protect my sleep as fiercely as I protect my life. If I lose my mind to exhaustion, I lose the only thing that actually makes me 'me.' Without sleep, I'm just a healing animal, and that's a version of myself I never want to meet.
As I sat there, focusing on the rhythm of my breath - in and out, deep and steady, I noticed something peculiar. A strange, profound calm began to settle over me, but it wasn't the calm of sleep. It was an awakening. I could feel a sudden surge of energy flowing through my veins, a golden heat that made me feel sharper and more alive than ever before.
It felt almost like an intoxication, a natural high that I had stumbled upon by accident. I haven't fully tested the limits of this sensation yet, but it's a discovery that has been brewing for the past five years. When I hit this state, the mental exhaustion seems to lift, and the 'wolf' and the 'man' finally stop fighting and start working together. It's as if I've found the 'Overdrive' button for my own soul. For the first time, I don't just feel like a mutant or a fugitive; I feel like a force of nature.
After training until my muscles should have turned to jelly, I've found my sanctuary in meditation. As I sit and breathe, that peculiar energy begins to circulate, replenishing my spirit and strengthening my resolve.
My mind drifted back to my past life, back to Jack. I remembered him obsessing over an old anime about ninjas. He used to talk about this one character in a green jumpsuit, a guy who was mocked because he didn't have any flashy powers. But Jack adored him because that ninja never gave up, no matter what people said. He pushed his body to the point of breaking, opening 'gates' of power through sheer willpower.
I realize now that I am living that reality. My 'special' ability isn't just the claws or the healing, it's the fact that my body allows me to never give up. I can push through the pain that would stop a normal man, and through this meditation, I'm learning to open my own gates. I'm not just a wolf anymore; I'm becoming something disciplined, something focused. Victor might be a monster by nature, but I am becoming a warrior by choice.
If you want the full story on Jack, you're going to have to wait. I'm not ready to peel back those layers of the past just yet, not until the timing is right. Our journey is a long one, and I want to make sure the pieces of my old life and my new one fit together smoothly.
It's not a long story, but it's an important one. For now, I'll keep his memory tucked away alongside my business plans and my secret training. Everything in its own time. After all, when you're destined to live forever, you learn that the best stories are the ones you let breathe.
I remember Jack telling me about that guy in the green suit. He was different from all his peers, and not in a way that made him popular. In a world where everyone could harness their 'Chakra' or 'Chi' to perform incredible feats of magic, his body simply wouldn't allow it. He was incapable of using the very power that defined his society.
But he didn't let that stop him. He took that 'disability' and turned it into fuel. He trained his body to such an extreme limit that he could move faster and hit harder than the geniuses who relied on their energy. He proved that hard work could beat natural talent.
I think about him often as I push through my own sets. I have the power to heal, sure, but I don't want to rely on it. I want to be like that guy, someone whose strength comes from the thousands of hours of sweat and pain, not just a lucky roll of the genetic dice. If a guy who couldn't even use his own energy could become a legend, what can I do with a body that never breaks?
Jack told me that this guy trained so hard, and for so long, that his hands became brittle and hardened. They weren't the soft hands of a nobleman; they were tools of war, forged through millions of strikes against wood and stone.
And he wasn't alone. There was another man in a matching green suit, his mentor, who shared the exact same struggle. He also lacked the ability to use 'Chakra' or 'Chi' like the others. They were two outcasts, ignored by the 'geniuses' of their world, wearing those ridiculous tight suits as a badge of honor. They didn't need magic because they had something more reliable: discipline.
I look at my own hands now. They heal instantly, which means they never stay scarred or 'hardened' in the way theirs did. But in my mind, I'm building that same calloused spirit. I'm training until my knuckles feel like iron. I might have the gift of healing, but I'm choosing the path of the man who had nothing but his own two fists.
They stayed together, two outcasts in green, training until their bodies became living weapons. They refined their movement until they were faster than the eye could follow. Then, one day, the teacher decided it was time. He shared a secret technique, a forbidden method designed specifically for a physique like theirs, one that couldn't rely on Chakra or Chi.
It was a way to unlock the internal limiters that the brain places on the muscles to keep the body from tearing itself apart. For a normal person, using this technique is a double-edged sword, it grants god-like power but destroys the user's body in the process.
As I sat there in the Canadian wilderness, remembering Jack's words, I realized why this story mattered to me so much. With my healing factor, I don't have to worry about the 'destruction' part. I can push past the safety limits of the human frame, and as my muscles tear under the sheer pressure of my own speed, they will knit back together instantly. I'm not just learning a secret technique, I'm discovering that my mutation makes me the only person in history who can use that power without a death sentence.
I'm not talking about the 'Copycat Ninja' with the special eye. I'm talking about the other one, the one Jack didn't like because he felt the guy was just a knock-off of the Green Suit hero. But I disagree. I love his technique: the Seven Heavenly Breaths.
For the past five years, I've been sitting here in the lotus position, breathing in and out, feeling that energy flow. I realize now that I've been laying the foundation for this exact style. By expanding my lung capacity and forcing oxygen into every corner of my mutated cells, I can push my body into a state of 'Hyper-Focus.'
I get giddy just imagining it. If I can master those seven steps, I won't just be strong, I'll be a blur. I won't be a brawler like Victor, screaming and tearing things apart. I'll be the Silent Wolf. I'll be moving so fast that by the time my enemies even register a shadow, I'll already be behind them. They won't know what hit them, and they won't even hear me coming. In this 19th-century world of slow muskets and heavy sabers, I'll be a ghost.
Change of plan. The salt and spice business? That's moving to the number two slot. I have plenty of time to get rich, but right now, I have the chance to become something more than just a mutant. I'm going to master the Seven Heavenly Breaths.
Heck yeah.
I've spent five years sitting in the dirt, breathing in and out, but now I have a goal. I'm going to refine that 'intoxicating' energy I found. I'm going to train my lungs to pull in so much oxygen that my blood turns into liquid fire. I'm going to learn how to move so silently and so fast that I leave the 19th century behind.
By the time I'm done with the Seventh Breath, I won't just be 'Jimmy' or 'Logan.' I'll be the ghost in the woods that even the monsters are afraid of. Once I've mastered the technique, then I'll worry about the business plan. After all, it's a lot easier to protect your cargo when you can move faster than a speeding bullet.
We've been here five years now, and the landscape of our lives has changed. We've moved past the days of sleeping in the dirt; I've used my strength and 2027 knowledge to build us a sturdy hut, a real shelter that keeps the Alberta winter at bay.
Not far from our sanctuary, Victor stumbled upon a town during one of his hunts. It's not a bustling metropolis, but it's enough for our needs. We've started venturing there to barter. We trade high-quality animal hides and surplus meat for basic necessities, like clothes that actually fit our growing frames. We always make sure our own bellies are full first, but once the 'wolves' are fed, we turn into businessmen.
Walking into that town is a strange experience. To them, we're just two rugged brothers from the bush, one a bulky, menacing eighteen-year-old and the other a lean, quiet sixteen-year-old. They have no idea that under my new flannel shirt, I'm practicing the Seven Heavenly Breaths, or that I'm mentally drafting a spice monopoly that will one day rule the markets.
We had spent five years carving out a life of quiet isolation, but the world finally came knocking on our door. A detachment of the Republican army arrived at our hut, their uniforms dusty and their eyes weary from a war I barely remembered the dates for. In my past life, I couldn't recall if the fighting started in 1840 or 1855, but looking at these soldiers, it didn't matter. To them, the war was very real and very hungry.
They demanded 'able-bodied men' to join the fight against slavery. From where we stood near the border, the tension between the North, the South, and Mexico had been escalating for six years. They saw Victor - eighteen, bulky, and menacing and me sixteen, lean, and coiled like a spring, and they didn't see children. They saw recruits.
The irony wasn't lost on me. I was sitting there practicing 'Heavenly Breathing' and dreaming of a spice empire, and now the 19th century was trying to hand me a musket. They wanted us to fight in a war that would define the soul of a nation, but all I could think about was how this might be the perfect, and most dangerous, testing ground for the skills I'd been honing in the dark.
The year was 1854, and the air was thick with the scent of a coming storm. The tension over slavery was reaching a breaking point, a conflict that wouldn't truly be resolved until Abraham Lincoln took office in 1860. But the army didn't care about the future, they only cared about the present, and they forced us onto the front lines to defend American territory.
I'll skip over the details of the battles. To me, it wasn't important. I didn't want any part of their politics or their slaughter. I was there in body, but my mind was elsewhere, perfecting my breathing and planning my future. While the men around us were shouting slogans and firing clumsy muskets, Victor and I were just surviving, moving through the smoke like shadows. We did what we had to do to keep them off our backs, but I refused to let their war define me. I had a legacy to build, and it didn't involve dying in a trench for a cause I already knew the ending to.
The Butcher and the Monk
As the years bled together, the conflict peaked in 1865. The American Civil War was in its final, most brutal stages, and Victor and I were right in the thick of it. We were a two-man wrecking crew against the resistance, and the military command loved us for it.
Victor flourished in the chaos. He was promoted quickly, gaining access to everything he ever wanted: money, women, and the freedom to kill without consequence. I watched his ego swell until it became a physical presence. With every life he took, I could see his humanity slipping away, replaced by a cold, predatory hunger that never seemed satisfied.
I was the only thing keeping him from descending completely into the abyss. I stayed by his side, not out of a love for the war, but to act as his anchor. I was the 'check and balance' to his madness. While he was relishing the roar of the cannons, I was still practicing my Seven Heavenly Breaths amidst the smoke of the battlefield, using the carnage as a grim reminder of why I needed to stay disciplined. He was becoming the monster the world feared; I was becoming the shadow that kept the monster on a leash.
I stayed close to him through the fire of the Civil War, closer than the history books would ever record. I saw the movies from my past life, I saw how the 'other' Logan left him, sparking a grudge that lasted a lifetime. But I'm not that man. I looked Victor in the eye, the man who was currently high on the power of his promotions and his kills, and I spoke the truth.
"We're brothers, Victor", I told him, my voice steady despite the chaos of 1865 around us. "That blood bond is permanent. But it doesn't mean we're joined at the hip. It doesn't mean I have to watch you sink into the mud every time you decide to be a monster".
I saw the confusion in his eyes, buried under that growing ego. I told him plainly: One day, I might leave. Not because I hate him, but because I have a path to walk, the path of the Silent Wolf and the businessman, and his path of blood might not follow mine. I wanted him to understand that my presence was a choice, not a guarantee. I was trying to save him from the grudge before it even started, even if I knew his pride might not let him hear me.
At first, his rage was like a physical heat. He roared at me, pacing like a caged animal in the ruins of our post-war camp. To him, my desire for independence felt like a betrayal of our very nature.
"Why?" he'd snarl, his claws extending just to emphasize his point. "We can't die, Jimmy! We could walk into any city in this miserable country and take whatever we want. We could be kings! Why would you want to sell salt to peasants when you could have them kneeling at your feet?"
He didn't understand that being a 'king' in this era meant being a target for the rest of time. He didn't see that the world would eventually catch up, that 'not dying' doesn't mean 'not suffering.' While he was drunk on the idea of absolute power, I was looking at the long game. I knew that a king is just a man with a crown on his head and a bullseye on his back. I wanted to be the ghost in the machine, the man who owned the trade routes, the man who held the purse strings, the Silent Wolf who didn't need a throne to be powerful.
I looked Victor square in the eye, the smoke of the Civil War still clinging to our coats. I could see the 'King' fantasy dancing in his pupils, but I wasn't part of it.
"I'm not like you, Victor", I said, my voice dropping into that low, steady register I'd developed through years of Heavenly Breathing. "I might be a wolf, I might be a monster, but wolves don't always move in packs. Sometimes, there's one that's just... different. The peculiar one. The one that realizes the group is just a weight holding him back".
I wanted to run again, not out of fear, but for the same reason I left the Howlett estate. I needed to see if my business plans and my 'Seven Steps' could survive without his shadow looming over me. But Victor... he wouldn't let go. To him, my independence felt like a limb being ripped off. He didn't understand that by trying to cage a wolf, you only ensure that when it finally breaks free, it'll never look back.
After we had our adventure in the war, I wanted to run away again, I told victor that I want to stay on my own, but victor won't let me go.
Victor's voice was a low rumble, the sound of a landslide waiting to happen. To him, our invulnerability was a weapon for conquest. He saw the scars that disappeared minutes after we got them, and he thought it made us gods.
"Why can't you see this, Jimmy? he growled, stepping into my space, his shadow looming over me. 'Why leave all this behind? We could live like kings here. Nothing can hurt us. You saw that on the front lines. We're the only things in this world that don't break!"
I looked at him, and for a second, I want to scream what he did was wrong but word got stuck at my throat. He was addicted to the power, addicted to the fear in people's eyes. He didn't realize that being a 'King' just meant you were the biggest target in the room.
I didn't flinch as he loomed over me. I let my words hit him with the weight of a century.
"I don't want that, Victor", I spat back, "You're the one who wants the blood and the crowns. I've had your back through the mud and the fire, but I can't keep killing until we're a hundred years old. It doesn't make sense. What's the point of being immortal if you spend every waking second in a trench or a gutter?"
He was just thinking about the next man he could make scream. For the first time, the age gap between us didn't matter. I was the one who felt older, the one who understood that power without a purpose is just a slow way to lose your mind.
"You always have been stubborn like your foster fool of father jimmy" Victor grin while saying all this hoping that i will flare up at him.
I didn't give him the satisfaction of a snarl. I didn't even let my pupils dilate. I just stood there, "Victor", I said, and my voice was so steady it actually seemed to quiet the wind around us. "He may be my foster father, but he is the man that even you looked up to. As much as you want to spite me at this moment, I won't back down from my decision".
I didn't let him get a rise out of me. I stayed perfectly calm, which only seemed to make him look even more pissed off.
He brandished his claws, swinging them directly at my face. I reacted instinctively, sidestepping the blow by a hair and throwing a counter-punch toward his jaw. But he was fast and he ducked low, sweeping my leg out from under me.
As I stumbled, he used his momentum to spring upward, baring his claws for a second strike. But then, something strange happened. In that split second, time seemed to slow down. I didn't just see him; I felt him. I could read his every movement before he even made it.
As Victor's claws closed in, I didn't panic. I saw the opening. Just as he committed to the strike, I drove my knee upward with everything I had, aiming straight for his chin.
He tried to twist away, sensing the danger at the last possible moment, but he was a second too late. He took my knee full-force as a "gift" from me that snapped his head back and sent him reeling.
He hit the dirt hard, shaking his head violently to clear the cobwebs and regain his vision. Growling, he scrambled back to his feet and lunged again. He kept coming at me, the same wild swings, the same predictable lunges, over and over.
I didn't break a sweat. Every time he swung, I simply sidestepped, letting him catch nothing but air. I moved like a ghost, letting his own momentum exhaust him while I remained perfectly centered. To him, I must have looked untouchable; to me, he was just moving in slow motion.
I can see it all, the clear lines of his intent, the rhythm of his breathing, the subtle shift in his weight before he even moves. It's all laid bare before me. I can see everything.
I found myself wondering... is this Haki? It feels exactly like the Observation Haki from One Piece. My mind is processing his every heartbeat, predicting his next strike before he even thinks of it. Victor isn't just a fighter anymore.
In this moment, I realized I could do more than just see his movements. I felt a surge of energy within me, call it Chakra, Chi, or Haki and I focused it. I willed that energy to flow down my arms, concentrated it, and forced it to coat my hands.
It wasn't perfect; the flow was shaky and the coverage was thin. But as I focused, I felt my skin go rigid. I was actually hardening my body. It wasn't just my mutant healing factor anymore, I was learning to armor myself from the inside out.
I didn't give him a chance to breathe. I stepped into his guard and threw a straight punch directly into his jaw. Because of my "Haki," he didn't even see the strike coming.
The impact of my hardened fist snapped his head to the left, but I wasn't finished. Before he could even register the pain, I followed up with a brutal left hook to his right cheek. The force was enough to send him reeling. Victor stumbled, his legs giving out as he crashed to his knees. For the first time in his life, he was completely helpless against the "brother" he used to look down on.
I stood over him, my shadow falling across his bruised face. I didn't gloat. I didn't sneer. I simply looked him in the eye and asked, "Have you had enough, Victor?"
I reached out, holding my hand down to him in a gesture of peace he clearly didn't expect. He stared at it for a long beat, his eyes searching mine for a trick. Finally, he reached up and took it. Gritting my teeth, I pulled him back up to his feet, cementing a bond that in this timeline might actually lead to something different.
Victor wiped a smear of blood from his lip, his eyes lingering on my knuckles with a mix of suspicion and awe. "That was some punch, Jimmy," he muttered, his voice gravelly.
He kept glancing at my hands, flexing his jaw as if trying to figure out how they didn't shatter against his face. I could see the confusion in his eyes; he clearly thought I had been hiding a piece of steel in my fist. To him, there was no other explanation for how a "sickly" kid could deliver a blow that felt like a solid iron bar.
I just looked at him and shrugged, keeping my expression unreadable. "I already told you to train your fists, Victor. But you always said your claws were enough. What can I say? You were wrong".
"Do we have an agreement now, Victor?" I asked, my voice steady and firm.
He looked at me for a long moment, the fire of his rage slowly cooling into a begrudging acceptance. He let out a long, heavy sigh the sound of a predator finally acknowledging an equal.
"Yeah," he muttered, looking away. "We do."
Victor knew then that no matter what he did, Jimmy wasn't going to back down. My mind was made up. But more than that, he could feel the shift in the air, he saw that I actually respected him as a brother. That respect meant more to him than any victory in a fight.
"Just tell me when you're ready to leave," Victor said quietly.
That was enough for him. He let out a breath, the tension leaving his shoulders. He realized he didn't have to fight me for dominance anymore. He would eventually go on his own journey and find his own path, but for now, the bond between us was solid. We weren't just two kids on an estate; we were brothers-in-arms.