[Class Quest compl—%#@!—blurr...]
[Av@tar of Corrupt!on d—defea—tred ✔]
[Abs0rbing… C0rrupt!on Auth0rity...]
[ERROR—ERROR—DATA INSTABILITY]
[System integrity: 05%… 12%… 09%]
[WARNING: Core functions desynced]
[WARNING: Authority digestion in progress—UNSTABLE]
[System is 95% damaged]
[Multiple modules offline]
[Skill registry: PARTIALLY LOCKED]
[Emergency failsafes—ACTIVE]
[Do NOT interrupt digestion process]
[System may malfunction]
[System may malfunction]
[System m—m—m—]
Luke let out a slow breath, staring at the fractured haze where the system interface should have been.
"Well… I really screwed the system, didn't I?" he muttered.
There was no clean window, no neat panels—just overlapping glitches, half-formed warnings, corrupted symbols flickering in and out as if the system itself was struggling to remember what it was supposed to be.
Whatever process was happening now felt closer to a forced reboot than recovery. Until it stabilized, poking it further would only make things worse.
He looked away.
"But still… who was that voice?"
It lingered at the back of his mind. Clear. Steady. Familiar in a way that didn't make sense. It had known the system. Known him. Known why he had been chosen in the first place.
And now, he finally understood what he represented.
"Humanity," Luke said quietly, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "Yeah… that comes with a few perks."
Being the Avatar of Humanity wasn't just a title. It was will. Stubbornness. Endurance. The ability to shoulder something that should have shattered any single mind—and keep going anyway.
The domain began to fracture.
Light bled through the cracks as the mental world collapsed inward, folding back into reality. Wind rushed past him, cold and sharp, and suddenly Luke found himself suspended in the open sky.
Esdeath and Jean hovered nearby.
Both of them were staring at him.
Angrily.
Jean's eyes were still faintly glowing, worry and frustration tangled together, while Esdeath's expression sat somewhere between irritation and restrained violence.
Luke blinked once, then grinned.
"What?" he said casually. "That was nothing. I just had a few minor things to take care of."
He waved a hand dismissively, as if he hadn't nearly lost his body, his system, and his sanity all at once.
"If either of you had been in there," he added lightly, "your brains would've fried. Really. It was nothing."
Neither of them looked convinced.
Luke spread his arms slightly, forcing a crooked grin. "What? You think I almost died or something? Look at me—no scratches, no holes, nothing."
Esdeath's eyes flicked to his face, unimpressed. "You might want to wipe the blood from your eyes and nose before you start bluffing."
Luke paused.
"…That's not mine," he said quickly, reaching up anyway. His fingers came away red. "That was his. I'm pretty sure."
***
After that came the aftermath—for the world.
With the Shadow King gone, his invisible pressure vanished almost overnight. Laws that had been pushed through under fear and hysteria suddenly looked absurd even to the people who had signed them.
World leaders woke up to documents bearing their own names and wondered how the hell they had ever approved something so extreme.
The United States was hit the hardest.
They had lost close to ten percent of their active military strength—naval vessels, aircraft, trained personnel—gone in a single disastrous escalation. Worse than that, they had lost public trust.
The Midtown incident, the attempted missile strike, the lies that followed—none of it could be buried anymore.
Approval ratings collapsed.
Behind closed doors, the conclusion was obvious. With barely a year left in the term, the current administration had no realistic chance of surviving the next election. Panic replaced arrogance, and damage control became the only goal left.
So they backpedaled.
Mutant suppression laws were quietly suspended first, then officially repealed. Detention facilities were shut down "pending investigation." Orders were reversed. Funding was frozen. Everything that had once been pushed with urgency was now treated like a contagious mistake.
Publicly, the tone changed.
Statements about "containment" were replaced with talk of "coexistence." Fear was rebranded as misunderstanding. Responsibility was shifted, diluted, softened.
And finally, a headline went out across the world:
The U.S. government formally announced its intent to open dialogue with mutants.
They even named a mediator.
An invitation was extended to Professor Charles Xavier—requesting his presence at the White House to discuss mutant rights, future cooperation, and long-term coexistence.
The public reaction was pure disbelief.
People stared at the news feeds, scrolling back, replaying clips, trying to understand how the narrative had flipped overnight.
Just days ago—on live television—the same officials had declared that coexistence was impossible. That mutants were threats. That negotiation itself was off the table.
And now?
Now they were talking about cooperation. About dialogue. About inviting Charles Xavier to the White House.
It felt unreal.
Did the entire government lose its mind overnight?
*****
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