I am the Son of Homelander

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"Huh?!"

"Fuck, you lunatic!"

The heavy roller surged forward, and the saber-toothed tiger's eyes widened in terror. He struggled desperately to turn over and escape, but his efforts were futile.

Pinned beneath the immense weight, fear coursed through his entire body. His curses echoed in the night as the massive steel roller drew ever closer, his voice trembling with desperation.

Until death descended, crushing him mercilessly.

"Ah..."

Crack!

In the stillness of the night, a horrifying scream ripped through the air, shattering the silence and reverberating far into the distance.

With the sickening sound of bones shattering, the saber-toothed tiger was reduced to a grotesque pulp of flesh.

"You're right, the process is a bit boring."

Minutes later, Ron drove the roller back and forth methodically, as if smoothing out a colossal, grotesque cookie.

His expression remained eerily calm, tinged with a hint of boredom. He glanced at the unrecognizable mess of flesh on the ground, his demeanor detached and indifferent. It was a scene that could have been lifted straight from the story of a deranged horror movie killer.

Had anyone stumbled upon the sight, they'd have been paralyzed with fear.

For half an hour, Ron continued.

He rolled for half an hour.

The remains of Sabretooth had reformed several times, but his regeneration was no match for Ron's persistence. Flesh and blood, no matter how resilient, could not withstand relentless crushing. Over a hundred cycles of pulverization and reformation wore down even his formidable regenerative ability.

Finally, Sabretooth's body gave out, his regeneration exhausted.

[Ability Points Gained: +2,500]

Sabretooth was not supposed to die yet—not in this timeline. He was meant to endure for decades, constantly clashing with Wolverine and his brother, participating in pivotal events like Magneto's attempt to mutate humanity.

Yet here he lay, dead. His fate had been rewritten.

"Not bad. That almost settles the score," Ron muttered, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

But this was merely the beginning.

"I've got the tickets. Time to prepare for the main event."

He brushed off the blood and grime, casting one last, disdainful glance at the gruesome remains—a corpse capable of haunting nightmares. With a dismissive chuckle, he turned and walked away.

Regeneration may be powerful, but even the mighty Magneto—often shaking the world with his actions—had been captured and subdued by mere humans, reduced to a lab rat on more than one occasion. Compared to that, what was Sabretooth?

Had it not been for the military's need to keep him alive for research, he would've been eliminated long ago.

Ron smirked. "I can think of a dozen ways to kill him with everyday items."

---

In a dimly lit bar, two figures approached a man with an unmistakable wolverine hairstyle.

"Excuse me, my name is Charles Xavier."

"And I'm Eric Lanshere," Magneto added, offering a cordial smile.

Before either could continue, the man took a slow drag from his cigar and growled without so much as glancing at them:

"Get the fuck out."

His words were cold, decisive, and brooked no argument.

The two men exchanged startled glances, then reluctantly retreated.

Outside the bar, Charles sighed and spread his hands in exasperation.

"That compatriot was too rude. He told us to leave before we even had a chance to explain ourselves. How are we supposed to communicate like this?"

Eric merely shrugged, his expression unreadable as they walked away into the night.

"Although I don't know why, let's go find someone else."

Eric frowned, his expression darkening.

'What's wrong with the man inside? Has he been stabbed?' he thought. 'He's still as arrogant as ever.'

"Maybe because he has a very sensitive nose and smelled the mixed scent of the two of you," came a slightly playful voice from nearby.

"Thinking you're a pair of gays, he probably wanted to bring you along for some fun, but felt disgusted and told you to get out."

The man inside was Wolverine. At this moment, he was enjoying what could be described as a rare highlight in his confrontations with Magneto. Without hesitation, he insulted the young Magneto. However, after Stryker turned him into a literal Wolverine, his once formidable confidence was shattered during subsequent encounters with Magneto.

Today, Wolverine scorned and dismissed Magneto. But soon, Magneto would teach him the meaning of "take it up, and let it go."

"Huh?"

Eric and Charles turned their heads toward the source of the voice. A handsome young man leaned casually against the wall, his arms folded, a smirk playing on his lips.

"Gay? We're not..." Charles hurriedly protested. The accusation flustered him. Known as a playboy back in college, he wasn't keen on anyone misunderstanding his sexual orientation.

"I know you're not," the young man said, stepping closer with a knowing smile.

"Not yet," he added slyly.

The two men before him were none other than Magneto and Professor X in their youth. At this point in their lives, they had just formed an alliance to take down their common enemy, Sebastian Shaw.

Using the brainwave enhancer created by Beast Hank, Professor X had teamed up with Magneto to locate and recruit mutants willing to fight Shaw.

For Eric, this was personal—he wanted vengeance for his mother, who had been murdered by Shaw when he was a child. For Charles, it was about thwarting Shaw's plans to ignite World War III and saving the world from destruction.

"What do you mean, 'not yet'? Although we're good friends, we'll never have 'that' kind of relationship," Charles emphasized, waving his hands dismissively.

Eric, frowning deeper, remained silent.

Charles was desperate to clarify. "If I got labeled as gay, all those beautiful ladies would steer clear of me!"

The young man chuckled, his eyes gleaming with mischief as he studied them both.

Eric bore a striking resemblance to the future Magneto, save for the long-suppressed gloom that clung to him like a shadow—a lone wolf shaped by years of darkness and pain. He lacked the commanding presence of the older Magneto, who had been forged by years of leadership.

Charles, on the other hand, was far removed from the benevolent, saint-like Professor X of the future. Instead of the quiet wisdom of his older self, this Charles was a lively mix of a scholar and a rogue. His thick, curly brown hair, combed back neatly, added a hint of unruliness to his otherwise refined demeanor.

"I didn't expect to meet another compatriot today," Charles remarked, cutting short his own defense. His eyes widened as he studied the young man before him.

Charles had the gift of telepathy and mental control, allowing him to sense mutants at close range. He realized, with some surprise, that Ron—the man standing before them—was also a mutant, like their target on this mission.

"My name is Charles," he said warmly, extending a hand in greeting.

"Eric," the other man added tersely, his piercing gaze fixed on Ron.

"Ron," the young man replied, shaking hands with Charles in a manner as precise and direct as Magneto's.

"Interesting... I can sense you're a mutant, but I can't see through your thoughts," Charles said, his expression shifting to one of surprise as he observed Ron more closely.

He had encountered only one person whose thoughts he couldn't penetrate—Emma, the White Queen beside the Black Emperor. But Emma was a powerful psychic, which explained her resistance.

This compatriot, however, was neither psychic nor in possession of any mind-related abilities. So, how was he doing this?

"Are you spying on my thoughts?"

The system could spend ability points to block any intrusion into his memories or thoughts, effectively concealing the system's existence. This was one of its fundamental rules to safeguard the host.

When Ron noticed dozens of his ability points had vanished, his face darkened.

"Sorry, Ron, I didn't mean to."

Caught in the act, the young Charles Xavier looked apologetic yet awkward. He hurriedly offered an apology.

Professor X in his youth was far less composed than his older self, who respected boundaries and practiced restraint. Young Charles, however, had a tendency to instinctively probe people's minds when curious, a habit he had yet to curb.

Ron had anticipated this behavior and had already prepared to spend ability points as a countermeasure. Though he remained calm outwardly, he exaggerated his reaction, ensuring Charles felt the weight of his actions.

"Charles, as I've said before, no one likes having their memories invaded or their thoughts manipulated," Ron replied, his tone cold and firm.

Eric, who had suffered similar invasions in the past, chimed in. His expression was grim. "He's right. It's an unforgivable intrusion."

"Uh… I promise, I won't do this again," Charles stammered. Embarrassed under their sharp gazes, he repeatedly apologized and vowed to restrain himself in the future.

Clearing his throat, he shifted the subject. "Ahem, compatriots, we're here to save the world. Would you like to join us?"

With a grin, Charles turned to Ron and added, "It's a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity!"

Saving the world. It sounded so grand and heroic—an invitation few could resist. After all, who didn't dream of being a hero at least once in their life?

---

A Few Days Later – CIA Secret Base

Night had fallen. In a room designated for relaxation, Ron sat at the bar, sipping whiskey. His gaze drifted to a group seated on the sofas near the floor-to-ceiling windows. Watching their carefree laughter and lively chatter, he shook his head in quiet disdain.

"My name is Raven," one of them said, her voice filled with excitement. "What are your names? And what are your abilities? Oh, and I've decided on a codename—Mystique!"

Raven, still young and inexperienced, looked thrilled as she introduced herself. Alongside her were Hank McCoy, nicknamed the Beast, who was deeply involved in the base's research, and a handful of other mutants Charles had recruited. The scene felt more like a casual party than a prelude to a mission.

Ron watched them with a faint smirk. "A group of immature kids," he muttered under his breath. "Laughing and joking, completely unaware of the gravity of the situation. To them, joining the CIA's special division and saving the world is just... cool."

He had accepted Charles's invitation and come to the CIA's temporary secret base—not out of some noble desire to save the world, but for another reason entirely: to disrupt fate and earn ability points.

Upon pinpointing the current timeline of the X-Men universe, Ron had immediately set his sights on a specific target.

Taking a slow sip of his whiskey, his eyes gleamed with determination. "In this era of the X-Men universe, the ability I want most isn't Magneto's power to manipulate magnetic fields or Professor X's telepathy." His voice lowered, almost a whisper. "It's Sebastian Shaw's—the Dark King's."

Sebastian Shaw, leader of the Hellfire Club, was a mutant who could absorb all forms of energy, be it kinetic, thermal, electrical, or nuclear, and convert it into his own power. His abilities allowed him to store immense energy and release it at will.

Once, Shaw had absorbed all the nuclear energy from a submarine's reactor. Despite his overwhelming strength, he was ultimately defeated by the combined efforts of Magneto and Professor X.

And now, Ron thought, the Dark King was within his reach.

With anticipation burning in his chest, Ron took another sip of whiskey. The time for his plans was drawing near.