Sunlight streamed in through the tall windows of Xavier's office, casting long shadows across the floor and catching the faint glint of dust in the air. The room was quiet, but not comfortably so.
Storm stood near the bookcase, arms crossed, her silver hair falling over one shoulder as her sharp gaze rested on Mark.
"What did you just say?" Her voice was measured, but unmistakably firm. "You're refusing to attend class?"
Mark met her stare with equal calm, raising his hands slightly in a gesture of harmless defense. He wasn't surprised by her reaction. In fact, he had expected it.
"I think you misunderstood," he said, keeping his tone polite.
"I'm not dismissing education. I'm saying I've already completed everything up to middle school. There's no reason to sit through subjects I've already mastered. I should be spending that time training."
Across the room, seated behind his desk, Professor Xavier regarded him with his usual calm intensity. His voice was soft, but resolute.
"Mark, strength alone won't carry you through what lies ahead. Power without wisdom is a danger to everyone, including yourself. The mind must grow in step with the body. We teach not just facts, but how to be human in the face of extraordinary gifts."
Mark tilted his head slightly. He appreciated the words, but they didn't apply to him, not the way Xavier meant. He wasn't trying to be human. He was trying to survive.
"Trust me, I get it. But this isn't about rebelling or wasting time. I've mapped out a training routine Physical and mental discipline combined. I've already started adjusting my nutrition plan to match."
Storm exchanged a look with Xavier. The boy sounded rehearsed, but not disingenuous. He meant every word.
That evening, he had returned to the Institute with plans to begin his training immediately. His body was still humming with energy from the massive feast earlier, and he wanted to convert every last calorie into strength. But before he could reach the basement's training sector, Storm intercepted him in the hallway and redirected him to the office.
She had explained, in her usual patient tone, that classes were resuming the next day. That the Institute, for all its combat instruction, was still a school. He would need to be evaluated to determine where he belonged academically.
He hadn't argued then. But now, standing in front of the most powerful telepath on Earth and a literal goddess of the elements, he was choosing to speak plainly.
"I respect what this place stands for," he said.
"But I'm not here to be part of the system. I'm not trying to publish research or win debates in the Senate. I'm not aiming to become another Jean Grey or Tony Stark. That won't save anyone when a metor is falling out of the sky."
He paused, voice dropping.
"I need to get stronger. Not smarter. Not more cultured. Stronger. That's the only currency that matters."
Xavier gave no immediate reply. Instead, he gestured toward the whiteboard behind his desk. Storm rolled it forward and picked up a stick of chalk. In a swift, practiced motion, she wrote out a quadratic equation.
Without hesitation, Mark stepped forward, took the chalk, and solved the problem in under ten seconds. He handed the chalk back.
Storm raised an eyebrow. "You skipped the work."
"I did it in my head," he said. "Mental math."
She challenged him again, escalating the difficulty, algebra, then geometry, then trigonometry. He solved each problem as quickly as the last, barely pausing between equations.
An hour passed. The board was covered in symbols. Storm finally lowered the chalk and looked toward Xavier.
"He's a genius," she said, softly but firmly.
Xavier nodded. "Twelve years old and solving college-level material without hesitation. Remarkable."
Mark grinned, spreading his arms.
"So, does that mean I can skip class?"
Xavier folded his hands in front of him. "Your academic ability is beyond question. But I still believe in the value of community. Art. Music. Philosophy. You may find something unexpected in those spaces. A kind of rest the battlefield will never give you."
Mark gave a polite shrug. "Maybe later. Right now, I've got work to do."
He didn't wait for permission. He turned and walked out, footsteps light but deliberate. There was no defiance in his pace, only certainty.
Moments later, the elevator opened onto the training floor. The lights flickered on as he stepped into the danger room, deep beneath the school where walls were made of adaptive alloys and hard-light projections could create any environment. It was quiet here, peaceful in a way the upper floors never were. No voices. No expectations. Just him and the fight.
"Scene simulation, begin," he called.
The chamber shifted. Metal twisted and shimmered as the room transformed into an urban alleyway, cracked pavement, graffiti-covered brick, steam rising from a nearby grate. The air turned gritty. Wind tugged at his hair. It looked real. It smelled real.
Five men stepped out of the shadows. Musclebound. Scarred. Each wielded a heavy steel pipe.
"Get him," one barked.
Mark's hand closed around the adamantium staff clipped at his side. He had it modified, weight balanced, reinforced core, collapsible handle. The moment they charged, he moved.
He ducked a swing, stepped into a strike, and spun. The staff cracked against ribs, then wrist, then temple. Each hit landed with the thud of real bone, the sting of real impact. Pain bloomed across his ribs as one pipe caught him in the side. He grunted, twisted, and retaliated with a vicious sweep that knocked two of them to the ground.
The simulation was immaculate. Sweat beaded on his brow. Blood trickled from his lip. These weren't cardboard targets. They moved like real opponents. Reacted. Adapted.
He welcomed it.
The only way to grow was through suffering. Saiyans had taught him that much. Not practice. Not drills. Real pain. Real damage. You had to flirt with death to trigger the next threshold.
Mark didn't have Broly's monstrous power. He was closer to Goku, weak at the start, but hungry. Clawing upward. Earning every inch of power. The simulation gave him that edge. A controlled hell, where he could test himself without dying for real.
Even so, the agony was real enough.
He fought for nearly an hour. His staff cracked bones. His arms bled. His vision blurred more than once. He took hits to learn their rhythm, allowed bruises to track the patterns. It wasn't about winning. It was about adapting.
Eventually, he fell to one knee. His breath came in ragged gasps. A pipe slammed across his back. He collapsed but only for a moment. Roaring, he surged back to his feet and drove his staff through two attackers in a single motion.
The room froze. Simulation reached its safety threshold. Scenario terminated.
Mark dropped the weapon. His body shook. Every inch of him hurt.
He limped toward the exit.
The medical bay was quiet, its lights soft and clinical. Jean Grey sat near the wall, reviewing a patient chart. She looked up just in time to see Mark collapse at her feet.
"Mark!"
She was kneeling in an instant, psychic energy already pulsing around her fingers. She summoned a stretcher and carefully lifted him with telekinesis. Moments later, he was submerged in the Institute's healing pod.
Time blurred.
When his eyes opened, the world was quiet again. His pain was gone.
But in its place, there was something new. Something deeper.
He sat up sharply. Jean stepped back, startled.
"You should still be unconscious," she said, brows furrowed.
"I feel fine." He flexed his fingers, then rolled his shoulders. "Better than fine."
She folded her arms. "Mark, you nearly passed out from internal bleeding. You need to rest."
He slid off the bed with deliberate calm. "Not anymore."
He gave her a respectful nod and turned toward the door.
The pain had faded.
And the power, that strange, seething, growing power had taken one more step forward.
Next time, he would double the intensity.
Ten enemies maybe more
'No pain no gain'
And when he finally collapsed again, it would be with a smile on his face. Because even pain, in the right hands, could become fuel.
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