His body was old, but he was no sheep waiting for slaughter.
A few armed Mexicans were nowhere near enough to intimidate him.
"Come on then!"
Logan glared coldly at them. Before the gunman could pull the trigger again, Logan stomped his left foot against the ground and leapt high—like a wolf pouncing on its prey. His massive fist crashed into the man's face.
He didn't reveal his claws.
His age made it harder to extend them, and besides, he didn't want to expose his identity.The marks left by those claws were far too recognizable. If word got out, San Antonio would instantly become a hunting ground for mutant-killers.
He wasn't ready to give up his fragile peace just yet.
But even without the claws, the raw power in his muscles and fists was more than enough. The Mexican's nose shattered, his eyes rolled back, and he dropped at Logan's feet—out cold.
"My God…"
Crewe, half hidden behind the hotel door, watched in stunned disbelief.He had underestimated James.This alcoholic cab driver clearly had a past he didn't want to talk about.
The remaining four Mexicans froze when they saw their leader sprawled on the ground, blood pouring from his nose and mouth.They exchanged quick glances, swallowing hard.
"He's just one guy!" one of them finally shouted. "All at once!"
The four of them immediately pulled batons from their pockets, swinging wildly as they rushed at Logan.The one in front brought his black baton down hard toward Logan's head.
But Logan sidestepped, and the swing hit nothing but air.Before the man could react, Logan's massive fist slammed into his gut.
The blow sent the man flying several meters backward, crumpling on the ground, clutching his stomach in agony.
The other three flinched, their expressions tightening, but they pressed on, swinging their weapons furiously.
Logan suddenly caught one by the arm—his grip like a steel vise.
With one hand, he blocked another incoming baton, then used the momentum to drive his elbow straight into the man's chest.
A sickening crack echoed through the night.The man's chest caved in, ribs snapping, as he fell to the ground groaning.
Logan reached out again, grabbed another man by the neck, lifted him effortlessly like a chicken, and hurled him several meters away.
The man flew like a kite with its string cut, landing hard on the sand—his fate uncertain.
Meanwhile, another Mexican crept up behind Logan and struck him across the back with his baton.
But the expected reaction never came.
It felt like hitting solid steel. The man's hands went numb, and the metal baton bent under the force of impact.
Panic flooded his face. Abandoning all hope of winning, he turned to run.
Logan didn't give him the chance. He grabbed the man by the shoulder and, with the other hand, threw a punch that sent him sprawling several meters away.
In barely two minutes, the four Mexicans were completely defeated.
The first one—who had taken the gut punch—was still conscious, crawling weakly toward the fallen gun nearby.
Logan just glanced at him, then stepped forward and crushed the weapon under his boot.
The gun shattered instantly.
Cold sweat ran down the man's face.
He realized Logan had been holding back; otherwise, with strength like that, he could've easily torn off their heads.
"Get out of here," Logan said flatly.
The four beaten men didn't dare say a word.They scrambled to their feet, dragging their unconscious companion and running off into the night as fast as they could.
Logan watched them go with a look of disdain. He pulled a cigarette case from his pocket, lit one, and exhaled a long puff of smoke.
"With just one damn pistol, trying to rob me like a bunch of amateurs," he muttered.
Still, it made sense. In the "land of the free," nearly every household owned at least one firearm.But concealable handguns and automatic rifles were heavily restricted—those Mexicans must've gone through a lot of trouble to get one.
"James, another drink?"
Crewe, still half hidden behind the door, hesitated but didn't press further.He was certain now—this man calling himself James had a story.But in San Antonio, a city full of drifters and secrets, such things weren't exactly rare.
"Another drink…" Logan murmured, about to head back inside. But a faint chime echoed in his mind, stopping him mid-step.
"Wait… am I drunk?"
[If you dare to resist, you're no sheep for the slaughter.][Prestige +1]
Logan froze, staring at the dark blue panel that appeared before his eyes.
He shook his head. The cold night wind brushed against his face, sobering him slightly.After confirming that he wasn't hallucinating, he realized something strange.
Can… only I see this?
[Stamina]: 6
[Strength]: 7
[Agility]: 7
[Speed]: 7
[Special Ability]: Healing Factor[Current Physical Condition]: Gradually weakening, deteriorating state![Available Attribute Points]: 0
"What the hell does this mean?"
Logan studied the strange panel and noticed the small text at the bottom.
[Except for special stats, the normal baseline for all data indicators is: 5][Gain Prestige to receive corresponding rewards.][Note: Gaining Prestige within the mutant community doubles the effect.][Rewards include free attribute points, special abilities, special attributes, etc.]
He took a moment to process the fine print.
"Did I just awaken a new ability?" he muttered.
Having multiple powers wasn't common among mutants—but it wasn't unheard of either.Some developed secondary abilities later in life.
Jean Grey, a student of Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters, had both telekinesis and telepathy.
Still, Logan hadn't expected to awaken anything new at his age.
As he read the descriptions flooding his mind, he realized the ability was linked to community reputation.Increasing Prestige among mutants would strengthen him and grant new attribute points.Even among ordinary people, Prestige could raise his stats—though less effectively than within the mutant community.
As he pieced it all together, surprise slowly turned to excitement.
His situation was grim—his aging body was deteriorating, his healing factor weakening day by day.And with mutants hunted nearly to extinction, survival itself was a struggle.With the old Professor Xavier depending on him, Logan had been forced to live a quiet, meager life.
But no one wanted to die filled with regret—least of all him.Not even decades of pain and torment could extinguish that fire burning inside.
"Still drinking?"
Crewe peeked at him, misreading Logan's dazed look as worry that the gunfire had drawn the police.He chuckled. "This place is hell, James. Unless we call the cops ourselves, they're not coming."
"Then let's drink," Logan said with a smirk.
The weary lines on his face softened into a faint smile. He chuckled. "I'm not leaving until I'm drunk tonight."
The discovery of his new power felt like a breath of life—something he hadn't felt in years.He drank heavily that night, long past midnight.
When dawn finally broke, he stepped out of the inn, bottle in hand, and headed for his car.
After years as an Uber driver, he rarely returned to his so-called "home"—an abandoned factory devoid of warmth.Most nights, with his grueling schedule, he simply slept in his car.
Lying in the back seat, he gazed up at the night sky through the sunroof.
The stars look different tonight.They seemed brighter than before, and the cool night breeze felt gentler than usual.