X-MEN
The First Class 8/10
Chapter Eight: Beneath the Depths
Atlantis – The Midnight Depths
One Day After the Surface Clash
Namor awoke in his coral bed — vast, regal, carved from living reef that glowed faintly with bio-electrical lights. The ache in his body reminded him of failure. His soldiers had found him nearly fifty kilometers from the battlefield, buried in the ocean floor, unconscious. Any lesser being would have been crushed by the pressure or torn apart by the currents. But he was Namor, son of Atlantis. He endured.
He rose slowly, the water shimmering around him. The pain in his ribs was sharp, honest — a reminder of that blast. The one fired by the boy in red and gold.
Namor's chambers were filled with the spoils of two worlds — human relics and Atlantean treasures alike. Framed medals dulled by salt. Fragments of a Nazi submarine hull. A molten emblem gifted by Jim Hammond, the original Human Torch — his oldest ally, perhaps his only friend among the surface dwellers.
Once, these were symbols of triumph. Now, they mocked him.
He reached for the medal and stared at it for a long moment. The face of his old friend seemed to flicker in the reflection of the bioluminescent coral. Then, with a quiet motion, he crushed the metal in his palm until it warped and cracked.
He left his chamber.
Outside, the sea was dark — a cathedral of pressure and silence. The great city of Atlantis stretched below him: towers of coral and glass, bridges of light and current, spires pulsing with the glow of living organisms. The city was alive, breathing. Watching.
As he swam through the gates, his elite guard fell into formation beside him — warriors clad in fish-scale armor, carrying tridents crackling with arcane plasma. They bowed their heads as he passed, murmuring his title with reverence and fear.
He entered his royal chamber.
The golden dome shimmered with veins of pearl. Ancient statues of the kings of Atlantis watched from the walls — silent, unyielding witnesses to their descendant's humiliation. Namor's throne sat at the chamber's heart, a seat of coral, gold, and pain.
He approached, trident in hand, his eyes dark with thought.
"They were… children," he muttered. His voice was low, dangerous. "Children who defeated my armies. Defeated me."
He clenched his jaw. The red-haired one's face burned behind his eyes. That one. The fire in her mind. The restraint in her power.
"She was holding back," he whispered. "I could feel it."
The memory struck like a spear: her rising into the air, shards of earth swirling around her like a tempest, the raw psychic pressure bending the sea itself. Then the other one — the boy whose eyes became a sun — the blast that hurled him into darkness.
His hands trembled, and the ocean around him seemed to shudder.
"I will not be forgotten," he said at last, voice echoing through the chamber. "Let them believe they have peace. Let the surface think the sea sleeps."
He looked up toward the unseen surface world — the thin, fragile layer of humanity poisoning his realm.
"When I return," he vowed, "I will remind them why they once called me the Avenging Son."
Namor lifted his hand and studied the half-healed mark seared into his palm, it still burned, it was a faint, ugly reminder of the red beam that had thrown him into oblivion. His flesh would mend; his pride, perhaps not as swiftly.
He flexed his fingers until the pain steadied into something bareable, useful even. "I am Namor," he said to himself, "the first son of Atlantis, the Avenging Tide. The sea itself bends to my will. I do not break."
His fingers tightened on the carved arms of the throne.
"I will have their names, each and every one of them," he growled, the words rolling like distant thunder. "Especially hers. The red-haired witch. I will return the blow, and she will regret ever crossing paths with me."
Then—a ripple. The sacred stillness of the chamber shifted, currents whispering where none should. Namor was on his feet instantly, trident in hand, the point gleaming with cold light. Decades of war and blood—Nazis, surface invaders, Leviathans—had trained him to read danger in every vibration of the water.
The stillness bent. From behind a column of coral, the water warped. Scarlet light bled into the chamber, twisting the very pressure around it until the sea itself recoiled. A sphere of dry air bloomed, shimmering, and with a sharp pop, it displaced the sacred quiet.
Two figures stood inside the sphere. A woman robed in scarlet, hands alive with flickering magic. And beside her a tall and imperious, a man whose very posture declared dominion — a crimson and purole helm framing his face like a crown.
Namor's voice was a growl. "You dare trespass in my domain?"
The man inclined his head inside the pocket of air, calm as a glacier. "Only to talk."
The woman—young, focused, her gaze steady—maintained the air bubble with visible strain. Namor could feel the pressure bending around her spell. Few surface dwellers could even breathe this deep, distort the sea's weight to their is a feat worth of note. That alone earned a measure of his attention.
"I am Magneto," the man said, stepping forward, careful not to breach the bubble's edge. "And this is my daughter, Wanda. I have come to speak of the future."
Namor's eyes narrowed still in his fighting pose. "And what future would that be?"
"One where you are not alone," Magneto replied. His voice carried the unshakable confidence of a ruler addressing another. "You declared war on the surface. Bold, if premature. But you are not the only one waging that war. The world fears us—mutants, evolved, born different. You, too, share our burden. I am building something greater. A sanctuary. A kingdom for our kind, where the strong need not kneel before the weak."
Namor relaxed near the steps of his throne, he stepped closer to Magneto, each stride radiating power. "You want sanctuary," he said. "In my kingdom?"
"You mistake me," Magneto said coolly. "I ask not for shelter, but for understanding. For neutrality, perhaps even alliance. You rule the seas. I will rule the land, a land where mutants can run free without the meddling of the homosapiens. Let there be peace between my realm and yours."
Namor began to circle the sphere, trident trailing faint sparks in the water. "All surface dwellers speak of peace before they demand tribute," he said. "You call yourself mutant. I've heard that term before, you are still a human but superior in some ways, yet you poison the world above as surely as the rest. The difference between you and them is arrogance."
"I do not fear your judgments," Magneto said, unflinching. "Fear is for those who live under the rule of others. You and I are kings. We do not ask for what is ours—we take it."
Namor's lip curled. "I am not your kin. I am Atlantean, not mutant. My people are born of the sea, not of chance or evolution."
Magneto's eyes flickered, almost pitying. "So you tell yourself. Yet the humans have studied your genes and lo and behold we sing the same song, Namor. You are one of us, whether you accept it or not."
The tension thickened. A distant tremor echoed through the walls — the palace guard, drawn by the disturbance surely. He could hear dozens, perhaps hundreds of them closing in.
Namor angled his trident forward, the glow of its tip igniting the chamber in blue bio-electrical lights. "Leave my kingdom now, Magneto, before I test whether your armor bends as easily as your words."
Wanda glanced to her father, her voice soft but sure. "It sounds like he means it."
Magneto nodded once. "This was only a conversation. But consider this, King of Atlantis — the surface will destroy itself, maybe in a year maybe in a couple of centuries but in time their reign will end. When that day comes, you may find that your true enemies are not mutants like me, but those who claim to rule the world above can be desperate enough to try impulsive things."
He turned, the air bubble trembling as Wanda prepared the spell.
"One last thing," Magneto added. "That young one who fought you — the telekinetic. If I'm not mistaken that was Jean Grey. She is one of Charles Xavier's pupils. I once had hopes of recruiting her to my Brotherhood, but he got to her first. A pity. She would have made a fine ally… or a weapon."
Namor's jaw tensed. And with a flash of crimson, the air bubble collapsed. The water rushed to fill the space, bubbles spiraling upward like vanishing ghosts.
Silence reclaimed the hall. Namor stood unmoving for a long time, the ocean pressing around him like a heartbeat.
At last, he turned and sat back upon his throne. His reflection in the gold mosaic shimmered, distorted by the currents.
He whispered, almost to himself — a name that now burned with equal parts hatred and fascination.
"Jean Grey…"
He leaned back, eyes closing, the faintest smile ghosting his lips.
"She will remember the wrath of the sea."
To Be Continued...