The first sign was the sharp whistle of incoming fire. A moment later, the camp exploded into chaos.
An enemy attack.
The entire camp instantly shifted into full combat readiness. Even the elderly, those who had once only been caretakers or quiet survivors, reached for weapons. Rusted pistols, battered rifles, and salvaged thermal weapons were snatched up in desperate hands.
Some of the Mutants didn't bother with guns at all—this was the moment to use their abilities. Skin rippled and twisted as a few transformed into pig-headed brutes; others drove their hands into the dirt, commanding the soil itself to rise like a living thing; some simply swelled with unnatural strength, muscles bulging under torn shirts.
Through the haze of smoke and dust, Wolverine's sharp eyes locked on a sight that made her heart jolt. Sabretooth had been hit—blown off his feet in a spray of blood and gore.
"Victor!" she cried, her voice raw.
Sabretooth crashed to the ground with a sickening thud. His chest was a ruined mess—blood gushed from shredded muscle, broken ribs jutted through skin, and for a moment his internal organs were horrifyingly visible.
"F—! It hurts too much!" he snarled through clenched teeth, his face twisted in agony.
But then, before the eyes of both friend and foe, his wounds began to knit back together. Skin closed over ruptured flesh, bones snapped back into place, and his breathing steadied.
He gave Wolverine a grim, almost mocking grin. "Why worry? I'm much tougher than you, kid."
In one smooth motion, Sabretooth pushed himself upright. His eyes swept the treeline, catching the glint of steel and the glimmer of headlights—enemy troops were charging from multiple directions, closing in.
All of them bore the insignia of Essex.
Their forces were well-armed, with clean uniforms, advanced weapons, and endless ammunition. In contrast, the defenders here were the old, the sick, and the starving Mutants, their abilities weakened from months of poor rations. The gap in power was glaring.
In a straight fight, this ragtag group wouldn't stand a chance. If they fought here, they'd all die.
Sabretooth's jaw tightened. "Damn it… we hid so deep, and they still found us!"
His eyes scanned the field quickly—north was the thinnest point in the enemy line. Without hesitation, he bellowed, "Break out north! Move!"
He charged forward first, claws sliding out with a sharp metallic snikt! They gleamed under the flickering light, cold and merciless. His expression was a mask of deadly focus, the face of a predator who had decided this was kill-or-be-killed.
This wasn't the mercenary Sabretooth of years past—the selfish lone wolf. This was a fighter with purpose.
Mystique, keeping pace beside him, felt a strange pang. She had known Victor for years, but the man at her side now was almost unrecognizable. It wasn't his body—he still bore the same rugged, scarred features. But there was a shift in his presence, in his will.
Ever since they'd fought side by side against that monstrous amalgam of stolen Mutant abilities, Victor had disappeared from the spotlight. He'd stayed in the shadows, changed in ways few could see—until now.
Wolverine had never expected the transformation to be this profound.
The defenders surged after Sabretooth, using the trees for cover as bullets tore through the forest. Bark splintered, dirt exploded into the air, and the sharp stench of gunpowder burned their nostrils.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
A bullet ripped into a nearby tree, showering Wolverine in wooden dust. Others struck home, punching into flesh. Mutants cried out in pain, some collapsing, others stubbornly pressing forward.
The northern path had fewer enemies, but they were far from unguarded.
Sabretooth was a whirlwind of violence. His claws shredded rifles, sliced through bulletproof vests, and punctured helmets like paper. Nearby, a Mutant lifted the ground into towering pillars, crushing soldiers in bursts of earth and stone. Another, wielding a steel sword, cleaved an enemy clean in half with brute force.
Others unleashed their more savage forms—a man turned into a hulking beast, biting down on an enemy's torso and tearing it apart in a spray of gore.
It was a brutal, bloody breakout. And every second it dragged on, more of their own were falling.
The older Mutants fared worst. Their abilities had faded with age, leaving them reliant on firearms and slowing their movements. This made them perfect targets.
An elderly man was caught in the shockwave of a shell. He was hurled into the trunk of a tree with a bone-cracking impact, then slid limply to the ground. Blood streamed from his mouth.
His companions roared in grief.
The old man looked down, saw the jagged shrapnel lodged deep in his chest, and knew instantly—there was no coming back from this.
He smiled grimly. "Live," he rasped to those around him.
Then, with the last of his strength, he charged into the thickest knot of enemies, yanking the pin from the grenade strapped to his chest.
BOOM!
The explosion tore through the forest, flinging dismembered limbs and scorched flesh in all directions. The acrid stink of burned meat rolled through the smoke.
Sabretooth's face hardened. Another comrade gone. Another soul burned into his memory.
The loss only fueled his fury. He threw himself into the fight with renewed savagery, ignoring the bullets ripping through his body. Pain lanced through his nerves, but he pushed it aside, roaring as his claws drove into a soldier's eye sockets.
The man screamed—then fell silent forever.
All around, the Mutants fought like cornered animals. Those too wounded to continue simply hurled themselves at the enemy in suicidal charges, detonating whatever explosives they carried.
The forest became a nightmare—trees torn apart by blasts, flames climbing into the night, the air thick with the sound of gunfire and the stench of blood. The ground ran red with muddy water, fed by the lifeblood of the fallen.
At last, with the sacrifice of many, Sabretooth and the survivors broke free of the encirclement.
They had started with more than twenty. Now, only a fraction remained. Five or six had vanished entirely, four of them elderly—gone forever.
The survivors wore faces carved with pain. In this shattered world, these comrades had been their last warmth, their only family. Now, pieces of that family lay scattered on the battlefield.
An old man, his face caked in blood, whispered hoarsely, "Chen…" Another, riddled with bullets but still standing, growled, "These damned bastards…"
Wolverine said nothing. None of them did. They'd seen too much of this. Mutants dying in droves was nothing new—but each loss still cut deep.
The little wolf girl clenched her fists, teeth grinding.
Finally, clear of the enemy's immediate reach, Sabretooth glanced over his shoulder. The enemy was still in pursuit. His lips peeled back in a feral grin.
"Good," he growled. "I made it out… now it's your turn to die."
From inside his jacket, he pulled out a small iron case. Flipping it open, he revealed a remote detonator.
He slammed his thumb on the button.
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