If the rules allowed it, Tony honestly wouldn't have minded taking the punishment in place of the Peter. It wasn't his first time participating in the quiz game, and he had a pretty good sense of how harsh the punishments could get.
By the standards of past games, the penalties weren't exactly light—but they were still within the realm of acceptability.
More importantly, Tony had already blown through most of his points.
But clearly, the rules of the quiz didn't allow anyone to take a punishment on someone else's behalf. Just like Tony said: under the game's rules, everyone is just a player. There's no room for things like protecting the weak, moral values, or giving the kid a break. None of that exists here.
"Let's just hope those mutants don't do anything stupid…" Tony muttered with concern, eyes on the glowing screen.
After two consecutive questions wrapped up, the screen finally began playing the next video.
The camera panned to an old man sleeping inside a car. He wore a sharp, tailored suit, but his face was worn and haggard. He was sleeping deeply and only woke up when the car began to shake violently.
As his bloodshot eyes blinked open, some viewers vaguely recognized the figure as Logan—but then immediately second-guessed themselves.
"No way. That can't be Logan. How could Logan look like such a tired old man?"
Even Logan himself didn't recognize the person on screen at first. He just felt the face looked strangely familiar.
The old man stepped out of the car to find a group of punks stealing his tires. His car was a stretch luxury sedan, parked on a deserted roadside—an easy target for a bunch of thugs skilled in breaking and entering.
The old man staggered on his feet like he was nursing a hangover. He slurred his words as he tried to talk with the gang. His voice was gravelly and rough, very much like Logan's—but if it really was Logan, wouldn't he have already popped his claws? Since when did he waste time with words?
But before he could even finish his sentence, one of the thugs raised a shotgun and pulled the trigger without hesitation.
BANG!
The roar of the 12-gauge shattered the silence of the night. The old man dropped to the ground, and the gang casually went back to stealing his wheels.
Watching this, you couldn't help but marvel at the great American spirit—truly a land steeped in martial vigor. Even greetings between strangers are done with gunfire. It's no wonder they rose to global dominance with such robust "handshake" customs.
Still, most viewers couldn't recognize the old man lying there. That is, until he groaned, pushed himself off the ground, and with shaking hands clenched his fists—revealing three gleaming steel claws erupting from each hand!
Outside the screen, Charles looked surprised. "Logan, I had a feeling he looked familiar... but I wasn't sure."
Erik crossed his arms and said flatly, "Even the fiercest wolves grow old. The claws might not be rusted yet, but they've definitely lost their edge."
In the video, the old version of Logan stood with claws still sharp—but one of them was stuck halfway out, as if jammed beneath the skin. Logan paused in confusion. The thugs didn't. They rushed him without hesitation, fists and boots flying.
Viewers barely had time to digest the shock of seeing Logan old and weary, only to be hit with the sight of him being beaten down by a gang of street-level punks. It shattered their image of the unstoppable warrior.
It was obvious—Logan had aged. His movements were clumsy and sluggish, barely keeping up with the thugs. He flailed his claws without rhythm or precision, dragged down to the level of the street punks who used to be beneath his notice.
This was the same Logan who once tore through elite soldiers like a buzzsaw, charging into gunfire like it was a spring breeze. Back then, he was a one-man army.
Now, he was locked in a desperate scuffle with some low-rent gangsters—and struggling to win.
The most heartbreaking moment came during the fight. The gang drew their guns again, and Logan, afraid the rented luxury car might get damaged, actually threw himself in front of the bullets to shield it.
That's how far he had fallen—he was literally taking bullets for a car.
A few shots hit him, and his aging body couldn't handle it. He collapsed again, then got stomped and kicked, even pinned to the ground with someone's boot on his head.
Outside the screen, many viewers instinctively covered their mouths. Their hearts tightened at the sight.
There's something profoundly sad about beauty fading, about a hero growing old. Once upon a time, Logan was like a teenager—brimming with energy, reckless confidence, and the feeling of being invincible.
But time spares no one.
Where once he could go sleepless for days and still fight like a demon, now even a single sleepless night left him dizzy and disoriented. That youthful fire was gone—and nothing made that clearer than the scene playing out before them.
Logan's fall from glory was laid bare. The fiercer he had been in his prime, the more pitiful he looked now. Many middle-aged viewers could hardly bear to keep watching.
Still, a wolf is a wolf—even a gray one. And a former king of wolves never stops being dangerous.
With a final roar, the old wolf lashed out in desperation. His claws sliced off someone's arm.
Unfortunately, the severed limb's hand was still on the trigger. The shotgun fired again—this time riddling his car with holes.
Logan's eyes burned with fury. Swearing violently, he threw himself into the gang. Claws flashing, blood flying—it was a messy but cathartic rampage. For a few brief moments, the viewers caught a glimpse of the Logan they remembered: savage, relentless, unbeatable.
But time doesn't turn back. Logan chased the thugs off, but he himself was barely standing. Limping, swaying, he got back in the car and drove away.
He arrived at a rundown motel. Carrying a clean change of clothes, he headed into the bathroom to patch himself up. Hands trembling, he dug the bullets out of his body.
But clearly, his healing factor had weakened. The wounds wouldn't close the way they used to. He bled. He hurt. And he stayed hurt.
After bandaging himself, he changed clothes and dragged his aching, exhausted body out again—to get back to work.
The car radio gave the date: it was already 2029. Mutants were no longer relevant. The X-Men were history.
And Wolverine… had become nothing more than a drunken rideshare driver.
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