"Time to go."
Mark tore a thick tree from the ground with a grunt and hurled it forward. As it soared through the air, he leaped onto the trunk, using the makeshift platform to ride the currents of wind, streaking across the sky toward the X-Mansion.
He landed softly near the main building and made his way to the cafeteria.
"Good morning, Professor. You're up early," he said, stepping through the doors.
Professor Xavier sat in his wheelchair at the far end of the room, looking as if he'd been waiting for some time. The concern etched on his face softened when he saw Mark.
"I had some food brought in. You must be starving after missing dinner," Xavier said warmly, gesturing to a nearby table. It was piled high with food—steaks, hot dogs, sandwiches, burgers, and pizza—a calorie-dense feast fit for someone who had just spent the entire night in motion.
"In that case, I won't hold back," Mark said, his eyes lighting up. He dropped into a chair and immediately began to devour the food.
After hours of leaping across rooftops and racing through the city, his energy reserves were completely depleted. As chaotic as it had been, the night had served as a grueling training session, testing him physically, mentally, and strategically.
Once Mark had eaten his fill, the Professor finally addressed the topic they both knew was coming.
Mark held nothing back. He gave a detailed account of the previous night, omitting only a few minor details. Xavier listened intently, nodding occasionally, his expression one of calm approval.
Mark had exceeded expectations. He hadn't just helped civilians; he had done it while creating a carefully crafted identity, a public persona designed to win hearts and shift perceptions. Xavier could already see the potential. If this "War God" figure gained public support and Mark later revealed himself as a mutant, the effect on human-mutant relations could be revolutionary. People feared what they didn't understand, but a beloved hero could change the entire conversation.
"I'm impressed, Mark. You've done exceptionally well," Xavier said with a genuine smile. "And as you suggested, I went ahead and acquired the Daily Bugle. Starting today, if you want to influence their coverage, you can speak directly to the editor, J. Jonah Jameson."
Mark froze, a piece of pizza halfway to his mouth. "Wait. You actually bought the Bugle?"
He hadn't expected Xavier to move so quickly. He had only mentioned it in passing the night before. The speed and sheer audacity of the move left him stunned.
"You were right," Xavier replied simply. "I should have considered the influence of the media long ago. Even if your War God plan doesn't last, we now have the ability to shape the narrative surrounding mutants."
Xavier had acted swiftly, leveraging his family's wealth and connections to secure control of the paper. Jameson, once a famously proud independent, now answered to him.
"I'll speak with Jameson myself this afternoon," Mark said, still processing the news.
This was more than just support; it was trust. Xavier hadn't just backed his idea; he'd handed him the reins. It was validation, proof that Mark was no longer just a student playing hero. He was being seen as a capable strategist, someone with real responsibility.
Creating a major superhero agency like those in The Boys or My Hero Academia was no small feat. Money helped, but without public support or industry influence, the venture would collapse. Brute strength wasn't enough—not unless you were strong enough to enslave the planet, and Mark had no desire for tyranny. He wanted legitimacy. He needed to work within the system, not burn it down. Going too far would get you branded like Magneto: hunted, hated, and vilified.
And this Earth wasn't safe. Universe 838 was unpredictable, with threats lurking just beneath the surface. The very existence of a group like the Illuminati proved how fragile peace truly was.
But he wasn't alone. He had Wanda, Pietro, Olek, and Iryna. They were more than a team; they were family. That made Xavier's trust all the more important. After all, Xavier wasn't just the founder of the school; he was the heir to a corporate empire, a man of immense influence. With him on your side, doors opened.
"Professor, could you get me a camera? I'll need one for today."
Xavier nodded. After breakfast, Mark returned to his room to rest.
~~~~~~~~
2:00 PM.
Waking from his nap, the first thing Mark did was open his laptop. While television and print media still held significant sway, the internet was where public opinion was born. He wasn't surprised to find that last night's events were already a digital storm.
Bystander clips, grainy but compelling, were spreading like wildfire across forums and video platforms. The comment sections were a chaotic mix of awe and disbelief.
Some users dismissed the footage as a clever fake. Others were obsessed with the design of the golden armor, calling it "iconic" and "badass." Many latched onto the "War God" moniker, a few declaring it a perfect fit. In a world full of gods, why not one more? Of course, there were more extreme takes, with some convinced he was a divine sign, a harbinger of judgment.
The reactions were all over the place, but one thing was certain: the story was gaining traction. Since every video clearly showed him stopping a violent crime, the court of public opinion was ruling in his favor.
After a quick shower, Mark went to the combat simulation room. He took a series of staged, heroic-looking photos with the new camera before heading to the garage to borrow Scott's modified Harley-Davidson. Flying on a tree was fine for a covert entrance, but it wouldn't cut it in broad daylight.
"Now that's power" he murmured, flipping a switch on the handlebar. The bike roared, surging forward at twice its normal speed. A grin spread across his face as the wind whipped past him. A bike like this in his last life would have made him king of the streets.
But this wasn't just a joyride. He bypassed the Bronx, heading straight for the heart of Manhattan and the offices of the Daily Bugle.
Inside the Bugle
"Him?" J. Jonah Jameson scoffed, not even bothering to look up from his papers. "The armored clown? You want him on the front page? Kid, I already buried that story so deep it's on page five."
The sharp crack of Mark's palm slamming against the desk made Jameson jump. He leaned forward, his voice low and cold.
"His name is the War God. And this isn't a request. It's an order."
He held the older man's gaze, his eyes unblinking. "I believe Mr. Xavier explained the new ownership structure. When I speak, you can consider it him speaking. Your job is simply to execute."
The blood drained from Jameson's face. The usual bluster vanished.
"But this is nonsense! It won't sell!" he protested, his voice losing its edge as he shifted uncomfortably in his chair. "The front page is for Tony Stark's latest fling with a starlet! That's what people pay for!"
A bitter regret washed over him. He'd clawed his way to the top of this brutal industry, building the Bugle with his own sweat and fury, only to sell his soul to stay afloat. Now, some teenager stood in his office, giving him orders like he was a damn intern.
But he had no choice.
The media world was unforgiving. The Bugle still had its name, but behind the scenes, the paper was crumbling under the weight of debt. Jameson had been fending off bankruptcy for years. Charles Xavier's offer had been too generous to refuse.
And now, this was the price.
———————————————
patreon.com/Lonely_Translator
Chapter 67
———————————————