Chapter 46 – The Burden of Leadership,The Scent of Contempt
The forest was silent, save for the crunch of Scott Summers' boots against fallen leaves. He had come here to breathe, to escape the walls of the mansion that suddenly felt too heavy, too crowded, too filled with eyes that looked to him for direction.
His visor glowed faintly, casting a red shimmer against the bark of trees. He leaned against one, palms pressing flat, forehead bowed.
'Was I right to stay? Was it strength or cowardice that kept me here when the others left? Xavier says leadership is sacrifice. But how much of myself am I supposed to burn before nothing's left?'
He exhaled sharply, jaw tightening. The faces of the old team drifted in his mind, ghosts in the foliage. Jean's soft smile. Bobby's laughter. Warren's restless wings. They had all gone, chasing their own paths, while he remained chained to the Professor's dream.
'They left because they could. I stay because I must. That's the difference.'
His hand curled into a fist.
'But what if staying wasn't duty? What if it was fear? Afraid of a world where I'm not the one in control, where I'm not useful anymore.'
The pressure in his chest swelled. His optic beams pulsed behind the visor, demanding release. With a guttural sound he didn't recognize as his own, Scott slammed his fist into the trunk. Wood exploded under the force, the tree groaning, splintering, toppling in a rain of bark and leaves. The raw sound of destruction echoed through the forest like a gunshot.
His breathing came hard, ragged. He stared at his shaking hand, not proud, not relieved—only hollow.
Then came the change.
A shadow stretched across the clearing. Not the shade of trees or cloud, but something vast, something wrong. Behind him, the air thickened, and a low vibration hummed through the ground.
Scott turned slowly.
A monstrosity loomed, towering and grotesque. Its form seemed carved from stone and sinew, limbs too long, skin ridged with cracks that bled faint light. Its face was no face at all—only a jagged mask of horns and teeth, eyes burning with hatred that was not merely seen but FELT. The contempt rolled off it in waves, seeping into Scott's bones.
A hiss like escaping steam filled the air as thick smoke spilled out from its body, curling around the clearing, suffocating the stars above.
Scott staggered back, his instincts screaming.
'What the hell is this…'
The forest was no longer silent. It was a coffin filling with smoke. And in that coffin, Scott Summers stood alone, facing the first shadow of something far greater than himself.
The TV flickered inside the mansion's lounge, casting lazy light over the room. For once, there was peace. Colossus sat with arms folded, politely indulging a comedy he didn't quite understand. Sunfire leaned against the wall, eyes half-closed in disinterest. Banshee chuckled loud enough to rattle the windows. Nightcrawler dangled upside down from a rafter, tail flicking at nothing.
It was almost normal. Almost.
Logan sat on the edge of the couch, a cigar stub clenched between his teeth. He wasn't watching the screen. His nose twitched once, twice. His brow furrowed. The smoke from his cigar couldn't hide it—something cut through, acrid and sharp, a stench not of nature, not of man.
It was the smell of a soul steeped in loathing.
He spat the cigar into a nearby tray. "Something's wrong."
Storm tilted her head, brows knitting. "What is it?"
Logan's nostrils flared again. He growled low, feral. "Contempt. The kinda stink that wants the whole damn species gone."
Before the others could question, a deep tremor shook the floor beneath them. The lights flickered, the television popped into static.
Banshee rose, hand to his throat. "You all hear that?"
No need to answer. A muffled BOOM rolled through the walls, and outside the window, the night sky bloomed with a sudden plume of black smoke rising from the forest. It spread fast, swallowing moonlight, a living cloud that pulsed with something sinister.
Professor Xavier rolled in, drawn by the disturbance. His eyes locked on the window. "To the forest. Now."
No hesitation. Colossus swept Xavier into his arms like carrying a child, chair and all. The others scrambled to their feet, adrenaline snapping the peace in two.
They burst into the night, the mansion shrinking behind them as the smoke swallowed the trees. The smell hit them full force—burning, bitter, carrying a whisper of hate so sharp it made the skin crawl.
When they reached the clearing, the scene was chaos.
Scott lay battered, suit torn, visor cracked at the edge, his chest heaving as he struggled to rise. And towering over him, born of smoke and hatred, was the monstrosity. Kierrok, the Shatterer of Souls.
His body was a grotesque sculpture—horned ridges like a crown of bone, sinewed limbs thick as stone pillars, claws that dragged furrows into the dirt. His eyes burned a dull red, not of fire but of hatred that seemed ancient, eternal.
The X-Men froze for a heartbeat, caught between awe and dread.
Cyclops managed a broken shout. "Stay… back!"
Logan ignored him. He crouched low, voice a rasp meant only for himself. "Big, ugly, and smells like the end of the world. Just my kinda night."
And then the clearing erupted into war.