The western wing of the sprawling mansion gave way with a deafening roar, collapsing into itself in a swirling storm of dust, shattered stone, and splintered wood. The shockwave rippled outward, rattling distant windows and sending loose debris tumbling like leaves in a gale.
For several long seconds, silence hung heavy in the air, broken only by the distant groans of settling rubble.
A bloodied hand, fingers clawing like steel hooks, tore upward through the wreckage. Debris rained down as Oblivion forced himself free, emerging like a wraith dragged from the grave.
His once-impeccable suit—the tailored, aristocratic uniform of the Master's elite—was now a ragged mess of torn fabric and scorched seams. Crimson streaks stained his face and chest, each breath he drew ragged and wet.
But more than pain, his wide eyes burned with something sharper: disbelief.
That was all it had taken. One careless, backhanded strike had almost ended him.
The Master had warned him. Had told him plainly that Alex Winters wasn't an opponent to be taken lightly.
But knowing was different from understanding.
Now, Oblivion understood.
Blood splattered across the shattered marble as he doubled over, his body trembling. Yet even in agony, pride refused to let him collapse. With a guttural snarl, he forced his broken frame upright.
Then, against all reason, he lunged again—his body flickering into a high-speed blur, aiming to strike Alex with every ounce of strength he had left.
Twin beams of searing crimson cut through the air faster than thought. The impact hurled Oblivion backward like a ragdoll, slamming him deep into the ruins.
This time, he didn't get up.
Dust swirled around his motionless figure. Yet Alex's sharpened senses caught the faint, stubborn rhythm of a heartbeat.
Still alive, he noted silently.
And that was… unexpected.
Most beings couldn't withstand a single hit from him—let alone survive two. Whatever enhancements Oblivion carried, they made him far more durable than appearances suggested.
But durability wouldn't save him. Not today.
Alex's attention shifted from the fallen Horseman to the true threat: the red-haired man now hovering effortlessly above the shattered balcony.
The man's once-impassive face was no longer neutral. It had darkened—eyes glinting with cold, sharp calculation.
"Young man," the Master said, his voice measured but edged with steel, "I showed considerable restraint by sparing Emma and Vanessa. And this is how you repay my mercy?"
This man had kidnapped his people, chained them, used them as bait, and now had the audacity to dress it up as some noble act?
Alex's reply wasn't verbal.
Crimson beams exploded from his eyes, cutting through the air toward the Master.
But the attack didn't land.
The red-haired man merely raised one hand, and a translucent energy field shimmered into existence, catching Alex's heat vision like a solid wall. The beams scattered into harmless light, leaving the man utterly untouched.
"Since courtesy fails," the Master murmured, lowering his hand, "let's try pain instead."
His fingers curled, and the world itself seemed to tighten.
Alex felt it instantly.
The air around him compressed, becoming dense as iron. Invisible forces clamped down on his limbs, torso, and skull with crushing intensity. It wasn't mere pressure—it was a telekinetic grip so refined, so powerful, that the atmosphere screamed as though strangled.
Alex's eyes narrowed. Another ability.
He let out a slow breath, muscles coiling, and unleashed a wave of his own telekinetic power—pushing back against the unseen bind.
The courtyard trembled violently as two invisible forces collided. Dust spiraled upward. Cracks split the earth. The pressure made the air feel molten.
"Telepathy too?" The Master's eyebrows lifted slightly, as if amused rather than alarmed. "How many abilities do you have?"
The question carried a trace of genuine intrigue, even admiration.
For years, the Master had analyzed mutants. Cataloged them. Manipulated them. And yet this—this amalgamation standing before him—was something beyond his expectations.
A mental lash—swift, surgical, and brutal—stabbed toward Alex's mind, seeking to rip through defenses.
But it shattered on impact.
Psychic resistance too.
The Master's lips curved upward, though his eyes gleamed with something colder now.
"Alex Winters," he said softly, "you continue to exceed even my expectations."
He spread both hands wide.
A shockwave unlike anything before erupted outward, not just raw force but a precisely tuned vibration.
Stone exploded into dust. The courtyard cracked apart like glass. Trees in the distance disintegrated into ash.
And for the first time in years, Alex felt his body strain.
Not his skin—his insides.
Every bone, every organ, every nerve vibrated painfully.
This wasn't just brute power.
This was mastery. A frequency attack designed to bypass raw durability and tear a target apart from within.
Alex's teeth clenched.
And if telepathy counted?
Here stood a mutant whose power truly rivaled his own.
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