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Author's Note (Important)
As you know, the poll results are in—along with some extra wishes from readers. So here's the update:
1. Bang and Hanma got equal votes, but I'm choosing Bang first. Hanma will be added later as a Special Template.
2. Sora is chosen for Intelligence.
3. The Immortality Option was mainly to check power levels, but I need an immortal character for the plot but i thought why don't I give alex immortality through other means so I picked something else. Don't worry Yamata Arata is picked, but will appear later mainly just before the start of one piece arc.
4. Quicksilver is confirmed as the first Special Template.
5. Satoru Gojo is added.
6. Darth Vader is added.
Also, Susan Storm will be next, then Jean Grey.
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Chapter Title:
"The Greatest Trickster" — Who is it? Comment your guesses!
SUPERHERO NAME - AETHEREON
and there will be delay in chapters i upload 1 chapter in 5 day but it will turn into 1 ch/per week. Not for long but atleast till October- November
Updated Author's Note:
This note wasn't here before — I've rewritten and updated it after seeing a comment accusing me of using fake accounts to review my own story.
Let me be clear:
I write around 4000–5000 words every 4–5 days, and before Chapter 12, I was putting out 10,000 words a week — all while managing a full-time job. I'm 23 years old, and I don't have the time or interest to waste on petty stuff like fake reviews.
I genuinely love fanfiction because it offers new perspectives on familiar stories. Unfortunately, due to CCP propaganda and other forced elements, some great stories have been ruined — that's why I started this one myself. I literally said, "Fine, I'll do it myself."
Now, I'm not claiming this story is some peak fiction. It's average, maybe even decent at best — a fun way to pass time. That's all.
As for the commenter who also said I'm not focusing on the Marvel Universe — bro, the first world the MC visited was Demon Slayer, and it was just a 10-chapter mini arc. I clearly mentioned this in the first three chapters. What do you expect? For the MC to visit Demon Slayer after he's already fighting Thor or other cosmic-level beings? That's just dumb.
Yes, there will be spinoffs involving anime or TV worlds, but those will be separate stories because, honestly, Alex would be way too overpowered in most of them.
Anyway, I initially thought your comment was genuine feedback. But after checking your comment history — all you do is trash every story you read and drop rage bait. Honestly, man, get a life. I won't type your name .
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CHARLES XAVIER'S SCHOOL FOR GIFTED
MAY 6,1998
TRAINING GROUND
THIRD PERSON POV
Three figures sprinted across the training field, their breaths sharp and frantic, trying to escape a barrage of razor-sharp icicle shards darting toward them.
They twisted and dodged with practiced urgency, but their momentum faltered as the path beneath them transformed—slick and treacherous, now a sheet of gleaming icy glass that clung to their feet like a trap.
Kitty, her ponytail swinging behind her, glanced over her shoulder. Her eyes narrowed the moment she sensed danger closing in. Her gaze quickly darted toward the red-haired girl beside her.
"Jean! Give me the flag!" Kitty shouted, urgency ringing clear in her voice. Her outstretched hand trembled slightly as the cold bit into her fingertips.
"No one can touch it if it's in my hands. And Kurt—you help Angel! He's keeping Scott busy, but that won't last long!"
Jean, still catching her breath, met kitty's determined eyes and nodded. "Yes, Kitty's right. Kurt, go with her. I'll hold off Bobby. You two stay on defense—don't engage! Pyro's handling the flag capture from our side."
She passed the flag which like a blue handkerchief into Katie's grasp, her fingers brushing the fabric for a heartbeat longer as if handing over more than just cloth.
The moment the flag left Jean's hand, Bobby narrowed his eyes. He had sensed the handoff. With a flick of his wrist, icy bolts erupted in mid-air, sharp and fast, aimed to entangle the three of them before they could escape.
But Jean wasn't done.
A powerful psychokinetic pulse surged from her body, shattering the ice floor beneath them in a burst of crackling shards. Crystalline fragments rained around them, shimmering like tiny frozen daggers.
Both Kitty and Nightcrawler were prepared, so they grounded themselves to shield themselves from the shockwaves.
Jean focused, her brow creased in concentration. Those shards—light, jagged, and perfectly shaped—lifted around her in a swirling dance, blurring the air like a snowstorm caught in a cyclone.
"Go! Now!" she commanded, her voice like thunder in the haze of frost. Her teammates didn't need to be told twice. In a flash, they vanished from the battlefield.
Jean turned her attention back to Bobby, who stood poised and ready. With a flick of her fingers, the swirling ice shards shot forward, slicing through the air toward him like a pack of angry birds.
The speed and intensity were enough to tear through solid wood—if not blocked, they'd bruise at best and cause serious injury at worst.
Reacting fast, Bobby erected an ice wall in front of him. It was solid, thick, and tall enough to block the oncoming attack.
But it also blocked his vision.
Jean smirked. That was his mistake.
Taking advantage, she leapt into the air with a graceful jump, guided by telekinesis. Behind Bobby, a stack of training logs sat unused. Jean gritted her teeth and hurled them with mental force.
Bobby, sensing the shift in air pressure behind him, started to turn.
Too late.
A wooden log rocketed toward him like a battering ram. He barely had time to cross his arms in front of his face, a cold sheen of protective ice forming just in time.
But the speed—!
Just as Bobby braced for impact—
WHAM!
A blur of silver and steel darted between him and the log. Piotr aka Colossus, smashed into the wooden projectile with a punch so forceful it echoed across the field.
BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!
Three logs exploded mid-air, splinters flying everywhere like fireworks. Though not massive, they were heavy enough to qualify for a self-defense trial—this was no light sparring match.
Piotr stood tall, his steel-toned muscles glinting under the training lights. He cracked his knuckles with a grin, his thick Russian accent rolling off his tongue like thunder.
"Are you alright, comrade?"
Jean stared, panting hard, a grin slowly spreading across her face.
"Haaah…"
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On the other side, Pyro, who was chasing Jubilee—the one holding the flag of the other team—used his mutant power. By flicking his two middle fingers, which were fitted with a handmade gauntlet, he produced a small flame that he could control or enlarge at will.
Through this, he whirled two firestorms like flamethrowers to block Jubilee's path from both the right and left sides.
"Now you don't have anywhere to go," Pyro said with a grin, as the flames raged on either side of Jubilee, and the wall behind blocked her straight path.
As Jubilee, who had been running until now, sensed she was cornered—and that her team members were busy fighting the other team and attempting to capture their flag—she acted.
Plucking her hand from behind the cover, Jubilee launched a stream of dazzling plasmoids—tiny buzzing balls of light that danced through the fire.
They detonated mid-air with precise timing, disrupting the oxygen flow to Pyro's flames and pushing him back.
"What the hell?" he said, as he saw that the path to her right side had opened. But the gap between them was too big to cover.
Frustrated, Pyro created a flaming serpent, directing it to coil and strike. The air shimmered with heat as Jubilee was nearly overwhelmed, who was trying to escape.
But who would have thought Pyro would use such a lethal move in this training session?
Just as the final outcome was nearing, Pyro grinned ear to ear, thinking he could win. But suddenly, a buzzing sound was heard—and the environment around them shimmered.
Water pour down from the above ceiling which halted his fire to cause no more destruction
hisss
The once broken-highway theme vanished, replaced by a white training facility. However, some real props were still there—like rods, furniture, cars, and logs that Jean had used earlier.
Seeing this, Pyro's eyes darkened. He was just around the corner from winning... if only his teammates had held on a little longer.
("Okay, students! Team A wins! Firestar got the flag from Kitty!") announcement was rung
The energy in the room had shifted.
After the training simulation ended, all the students—members from both teams—gathered in front of Ororo Munroe, better known as Storm.
The air was thick with tension, sweat, and disappointment. The winning side wore tired but proud smiles, while the losing side hung their heads, worn out and crestfallen.
Most notably, Pyro stood a step ahead of his team, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. His face was stormy, lips pressed in a thin line, eyes shadowed with frustration. He had been this close—just one step away from capturing the flag. That narrow miss gnawed at him, bitter and hot.
Ororo's piercing gaze swept over all of them, her posture regal and unyielding. She wore a composed expression, but her presence alone seemed to command the very air around her.
"Don't be disheartened," she began, her voice echoing slightly in the high-ceilinged room. "This is just training. A drill to prepare you—to teach you how to defend yourselves in case danger ever befalls us."
Her tone was firm, but not unkind.
"As you know, even though Professor Xavier already has some ties with the government…" She paused, her eyes narrowing slightly. "…there are still those in power with very different views about us. There are people who fear what they don't understand, and they may act on that fear."
A wave of unease passed through the group, though no one dared to speak.
"But that doesn't mean danger is imminent," Ororo added, softening her tone just a little. "Here, we are safe."
[A/N – No, you are not.]
Ororo shifted her stance slightly and raised her voice again. "Now… let's analyze the session before we turn in for the night."
She turned her eyes sharply toward Pyro, who stood tense, his shoulders stiff.
"John(Pyro)," she said, her voice now cold—dispassionate, like the eye of a hurricane. "Even though winning is important… this was just a training session. You used your powers in a way that could have endangered Jubilee's life."
The temperature in the room seemed to drop by a few degrees. Her words hung in the air like frozen mist.
"This is my first and last warning to you."
Pyro didn't speak for a moment. His jaw tightened, throat bobbing as he swallowed the sting of the rebuke. His gaze fell to the floor, unable to meet hers.
"…Yes, Teacher Ororo," he muttered quietly, shame curling his shoulders inward.
No one spoke. Even those who had snickered earlier now remained respectfully silent. Pyro's frustration, guilt, and pride warred silently on his face.
No one could tell what he was thinking—but the faint tremble in his fingers hinted at the storm he was holding back.
Ororo exhaled, her sharp gaze shifting now to two other students.
"Scott. Bobby."
Both straightened instantly, eyes snapping to her like guilty cadets before a commanding officer.
"You two have great control of your powers," she said, "but you allowed yourselves to be distracted."
Her tone was firm, but no longer cold.
"Scott," she continued, eyes narrowing, "you refused to engage Jean in combat. That put your team in a disadvantageous position."
Scott Summers—Cyclops—visibly flinched. His usually stoic expression cracked as a crimson blush crept up his cheeks, betraying his internal panic. He tried to maintain composure, adjusting his visor slightly, but it was no use.
The moment hung awkwardly—and then a few of the other students burst into muffled laughter.
Some nudged each other. A few grinned openly. Everyone knew why Scott had hesitated. Everyone.
Even Jean.
Jean Grey's cheeks flushed a deep red. She looked down quickly, lips pressed together as she avoided eye contact with everyone.
Her fingers fidgeted with the hem of her glove. She already knew about Scott's feelings—had known for some time. She had gently rejected his advances in the past, but their friends never missed a chance to tease.
"And Bobby," Ororo continued, sparing Jean from further embarrassment, "you let your guard down too quickly once your target was cornered. You cannot afford that in a real fight. You must stay alert until the end."
Bobby Drake—Iceman—nodded quickly, trying to look serious despite the grin he wore a moment ago. "Yes, ma'am."
Ororo's eyes softened slightly now as she began listing out the positives and negatives of other students' performances. She gave praise where it was due and criticism where it was needed. Her evaluation was thorough, fair, and honest.
As the debrief ended, time seemed to slip by in the calm after the storm.
"Okay… now dismissed."
The students let out sighs of relief—some tired, some embarrassed, some deep in thought—and began to drift away in groups. Chatter started to rise again as they exited the training hall, heading for their rooms for the night.
Ororo stayed behind a moment longer, walking alone through the now-quiet corridor. Her heels clicked softly on the wooden floor. The sterile lighting overhead cast long shadows along the walls, blending with the soft hum of the school's systems.
As she turned the corner, she spotted a familiar blue-furred figure approaching.
Hank McCoy—Beast—strode toward her with his usual calm grace, holding a tablet under one arm. He looked up, his glasses catching the overhead light.
They exchanged a knowing nod.
"Is the Professor still seeing her in Cerebro?" Ororo asked, her voice low and contemplative.
Hank sighed through his nose, folding his arms as they walked together.
"Haaah… yes. She's been with him since childhood," he said, eyes distant. "He just worries about her well-being, especially now."
His voice carried a tinge of nostalgia—perhaps even regret. There was something unspoken in it, something aching.
Ororo nodded slowly, her gaze forward.
"She is like an idol to me" she said, her lips curving into a faint smile. A small chuckle escaped her.
"She was the only one," Hank nodded and said softly, "who could ever bring the two of them together… even though their ideas about the future of mutants couldn't have been more different."
As they talked about different things, walking side by side
In a room, four teenage girls were chatting after showering their bodies.
"Jean, why don't you just accept him?" Jubilee said as she slipped on her shirt and started brushing her damp hair.
"He's doing everything for you. I mean, I don't want to meddle—but just giving him a chance would be better, right? And besides, getting to know what he's like in reality would be good, you know? We're already cut off from normal social life anyway."
Jubilee popped her gum, the sound snapping through the room like punctuation.
Jean let out a long, frustrated sigh. Her wet red hair clung to her cheeks as she pulled on a clean top.
"How many times do I have to tell you not to bring this up?" she huffed, her brows furrowing. "Didn't I already explain the reason I don't accept Scott's advances?"
Her tone was sharper than intended, but this was the fifth time this week the topic came up.
"Yeah, yeah, we know," Kitty chimed in with a smirk, drying her hair vigorously with a towel. "The Prince Charming who doesn't even know you. Quite the fairy tale, huh?"
Jean shot her a glare. "Don't call him that."
"Okay, okay, girl. I'm sorry," Kitty said, raising her hands in mock surrender, though her voice still carried a teasing lilt. She sat on the edge of the bed and added more seriously,
"But you have to admit—our lives and his life are worlds apart.Even if, miraculously, he regains his memory… what then? You really think being with him will be that simple?"
She placed a gentle hand on Jean's shoulder, her expression softening with concern.
"The news of him being the youngest billionaire is spreading like wildfire. He's practically a living storybook character now—charming, mysterious, powerful. But… if we engage with him, if we get involved, it'll only bring danger. You know that."
Jean looked down at her hands, which were resting in her lap. Her fingers twitched slightly, a subtle sign of her constant effort to control the power pulsing beneath her skin.
I know... I know everything she's saying is true.
But still… in some corner of her heart, she held onto that impossible wish.
If there's even a small chance that he could remember me… if there's even a tiny moment where I could stand beside him without putting him at risk—I'd take it. I'd do anything.
Yet that chance felt so distant, so far out of reach.
Like an unattainable dream…
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MAY 8,1998
LATVERIA
THIRD PERSON POV
An old castle stood silent and crumbling beneath the weight of time. The only hint of natural light seeped in through a narrow, cracked window, where a thin ray of sunlight had once lit the room—but now, night had taken over. A single rusted oil lamp flickered on a dusty wooden table, its flame casting long, wavering shadows along the stone walls.
The air was thick with the musty scent of damp wood and forgotten history. Ancient antiques lay scattered haphazardly across the floor—some broken, others cloaked in white sheets, hiding their age behind a layer of time.
In one of those rooms, Victor Von Doom—having come all the way from the United States—searched frantically. He had brought no one with him.
This mission was personal, and more importantly, secret. No one could know what he was looking for—especially not the truth behind his family's legacy.
For hours he had combed through the relics, parchments, and books stacked in teetering piles. But nothing. Not a clue.
Frustrated and drained, Doom finally collapsed onto an old couch draped in a thick white sheet, the fabric puffing up slightly from the impact. Dust flew into the air in a lazy cloud, glowing under the dim lamp light.
"Where the fuck is it? I've been searching since morning," he muttered to himself, his voice low and sharp with irritation. "The sun's already set... and the moon's hanging up there."
He rubbed his temple, clearly annoyed and now very hungry. His stomach grumbled in protest.
"I should eat something first. Maybe I'll think better after that," he sighed, pushing himself off the couch, already mentally preparing to drive to the nearest town for food.
But then—
THUD.
A low, hollow noise echoed through the empty castle halls. It sounded like something had fallen. The emptiness of the place only amplified the sound, making it bounce off the walls like a drumbeat in a cathedral. At night, even the smallest thing falling could feel like a full-blown symphony of dread.
Victor froze mid-step, muscles tense. His hand still clutched the lamp tightly, its flame swaying with his shallow breath.The torch he brought it's battery were already used.
This wasn't the Doom people feared yet—not the one who would strike terror with just his presence. Right now, he was still a man with questions... goosebumps crawling up his neck.
He hesitated. "H-Hello? Is someone there?" His voice cracked slightly as he raised the lamp forward, casting flickering light into the abyss beyond. The darkness beyond the lamp's reach swallowed everything else.
No answer.
THUD.
The same sound echoed again, this time deeper—closer.
Victor swallowed. His breath caught, heart pounding a bit faster now. But despite the flurry of nervous energy in his gut, he followed the sound. Something about it stirred something ancient inside him. A whisper of purpose. Maybe… this was the reason he'd come.
The sound led him down a narrow stone staircase toward the castle's basement. The air grew colder with every step. Cobwebs hung like curtains, brushing against his face. He didn't flinch.
Eventually, he found himself in front of a wall lined with shelves. He lifted the lamp and placed it on one of the ledges to free his hands. As he did, his fingers brushed against an old candle sconce—an ornate brass fixture covered in dust and tarnish. The moment he twisted it sideways—
Click.
The wall before him shifted with a low, grinding rumble. Dust fell from the cracks as a hidden mechanism activated, revealing a narrow passageway.
Victor blinked in surprise, stepping back slightly. "A hidden door...?" he whispered.
He stepped through cautiously.
Inside, a chamber opened up before him—lined with ancient texts, faded diagrams etched into the walls, and fragments of knowledge lost to time. Scrolls and tomes were piled high, most buried under centuries of dust.
But at the very center of the room, resting on a marble pedestal, was a single diary—neat, clean, and untouched by dust.
Victor approached, brows furrowed. "Strange…"
He reached for it, flipping it open. The text shimmered, glowing with a soft golden light, the same eerie glow he'd seen once behind the old family photograph.
But unlike before, nothing happened. No strange surge of energy. No symbols flooding into his mind.
"Dammit," he muttered, closing the diary with a snap.Cause he can't understand these symbols and glyphs and even if he did what would be do it would take years to just analyse this.
Then an idea struck him.
Eyes narrowed with determination, he bolted up the stairs, out to his car parked in the dead courtyard. From the glovebox, he retrieved a small knife.
Moments later, he was back in the hidden room, standing over the glowing book.
"Let's try this..."
He pricked his finger with the blade and let a single drop of blood fall onto the text.
The moment his blood touched the golden letters, they changed—the glow shifted into a deep blood-red hue, and the characters began to swirl in circular patterns, dancing before his eyes. But this time, they didn't fly into his head like before.
Instead, they floated in mid-air, shimmering and spiraling like fireflies.
More and more characters appeared, twisting in the air, merging, until they began to form a figure—a feminine silhouette, slowly taking shape.
Victor stumbled back, his mouth slightly open, eyes wide with shock. He fell onto the cold floor, heart pounding.
"Holy shit…"
But he didn't run.
Despite his fear, despite the unreal sight before him, something about the figure was familiar. It called to him—not with sound, but with emotion. A strange sense of recognition… like the ghost of a forgotten lullaby.
And as the floating symbols solidified, the figure stood fully formed—mysterious and radiant in the dim red glow.
After seeing the figure face he said
"M-Mom…"
The only word that escaped Doom's trembling lips as he stood in the dim red glow. His eyes shimmered, wet with emotion. It had been so long—so painfully long—since he last saw this figure.
So long since he felt the warmth of her embrace. So long since he'd had the chance to share his life, his journey, his achievements. A mixture of grief and joy twisted across his face—both sorrowful and ecstatic tears fighting for dominance.
Seeing her before him, Doom instinctively moved forward, rising slightly but still staying half-kneeled—unable to fully rise in her presence.
"My son… So you have found it," the ghostly figure spoke, her voice laced with emotion.
"The thing I tried to hide. Yet… I still wanted you to know. To know what your mother truly was, so that your past wouldn't remain ambiguous." A soft, melancholic smile touched her lips as she looked upon her son.
"H-How are you… and what is happening here, Mom?" Doom stammered, overwhelmed. His mother—long dead—was now standing before him in astral form.
He didn't know whether to collapse into her arms or demand answers. But he needed to understand. He needed to know everything that had happened to her.
"It's a long story. Care to listen?" she said, her voice gentle as she ran her fingers through Doom's hair, caressing him with a tenderness only a mother could offer. And so, she began—laying bare her story, piece by painful piece.
After several minutes...
"…So that's what happened to your mom and dad." Her voice had lost its earlier calm. The smile she once wore was gone, replaced by a haunted expression, her face etched with sorrow as she finished recounting the bitter truth.
Doom sat silently, absorbing every word like a blade to the heart. His fists clenched. His breath grew heavier. Rage bubbled inside him like molten lava threatening to erupt
.
Then… a growl rumbled from his throat.
"These animals… These fucking animals! They burned my mom!" His voice cracked with fury. "I'll burn this whole fucking country! No—I'll dominate this country!"
His eyes burned with hatred.
He had finally learned the truth: his mother was an arcane sorceress who practiced mystic arts. She had used her powers selflessly—helping villagers, healing the sick, easing suffering.
But ignorance and fear had turned to violence. Radical zealots had gotten wind of her gifts and condemned her as a devil. They had captured her—tortured her—and burned her at the stake.
And his father… His father had been exploited and hunted. A powerful baron had demanded treatment for his dying wife.
Doom's father had warned the baron she was beyond saving—that nothing could be done. But the baron didn't listen. When his wife died, he turned on the healer and had him branded a murderer.
they hunted him
Wounded and on the run, Doom's father carried him to safety—entrusting him to a passing Romani tribe.
Doom, unconscious from a head injury, had no details why baron hunted them down and as for her mom father said that she died in an accident. The tribe took him in, raised him as one of their own, while the truth of his parents' fate remained buried… until now.
"Shit!" Doom roared, slamming his fist into the nearest wall cracking it with a thunderous boom.
"Don't worry, Mom. I'll make them all suffer the same way you and Father suffered. That's my vow."He said without turning back to the figure. His voice low and cold with promise.
The figure—'his mother'—watched him with a smile, but it wasnt a smile of mother who see her son who drive forward for their parent honor.
No… the smile on her face was something far darker. It wasn't a smile worn by a grieving mother or a gentle soul.
It was a smile born from hell… one that only the Devil could wear.
And sure enough, the Devil she was.
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how did you like the chapter a different origin and backstory from original but why?because I want it that way
Tell me why?(You people continue)