Alex stood in silence, heart pounding rapidly as he listened to the words of the Dark Watcher.
To say he wasn't nervous would've been a lie. It was now, in this moment, that Alex finally understood just how terrifying this crisis truly was.
The Dark Watcher's goal wasn't him. It wasn't even this collapsing universe. Their intentions were far greater—more incomprehensible than Alex had ever imagined.
These beings, after glimpsing unspeakable taboos, now sought to reach into higher dimensions—those elevated realms unreachable by mortal understanding.
But the Dark Watcher didn't know what had truly corrupted this universe. In fact, no one knew… except Alex.
It was upper-level contamination that had severed the X-Men universe from its natural timeline, isolating it into a unique "Sacred Timeline." A world where there were no Avengers, no other heroes or villains—only mutants.
And now, with the corruption mutating and shifting, these castaways—abandoned by the unknowable forces above—were slowly being drawn back into the broader multiverse.
"So this is your grand message," Alex thought silently. "You want to prove that what's broken can never be mended."
In this world, Alex was the only one who understood the deeper truth. What had merely been a few decades of licensing deals between Fox and Marvel in the real world had, in this reality, brought centuries of upheaval and loss—costing uncountable lives.
The foreign infection had shattered this multiverse, driving many parallel worlds of the X-Men toward inevitable ruin.
Perhaps the Dark Watcher wasn't wrong after all.
Their creators—the architects above—had never noticed what lay beyond their lenses. They hadn't seen the civilizations reduced to ash in the dark, the lives buried beneath a silent veil.
Taking a deep breath, Alex locked eyes with the being behind the mirror.
"So that's it," he said. "You want to use my power to fight the corruption. You're trying to overwrite one story… with another?"
The Dark Watcher's fury had faded. Standing inside the mirror, its frame now looked more like a cage—one that bound the creature tightly, inescapably.
"We are but a drop of ink," it murmured, "born from a fleeting spark of inspiration…"
"You want to sabotage the merger of the Fox and Marvel timelines. That's why you dragged me into this," Alex interrupted coldly.
"This world is the primary timeline for the Fox universe. No matter how it's changed—no matter how deep the corruption runs—it's still part of the Prime Multiverse. And you're trying to use my influence here… to radiate out into the rest of the multiverse."
"Yes," the Dark Watcher replied, nodding.
"We don't want to destroy it. Maybe in the future this timeline will be tainted again. Maybe its inhabitants will lose their sanity to madness. But as long as there are only mutants here—as long as this universe belongs only to the X-Men—that is enough."
"Because even if it's marching toward destruction…"
"At least it will do so in freedom."
Alex clenched his fists—but after a second, he loosened them again. He stepped forward, now standing face to face with the Watcher in the glass.
"Have you considered," he asked, "that even my power might not be enough to change any of this?"
The Watcher's gaze sharpened—its cold eyes narrowing in clarity. For a brief second, it looked as if it could see through Alex's soul… as if it were trying to decide whether the man before it could truly defy fate.
But in the very next moment, that chilling gaze from the Dark Watcher faded completely.
"It doesn't matter anymore, intruder," the Watcher said coldly. "I already told you—this universe is on its final path. Whether or not you lift a finger, it's irrelevant now."
"In exactly 4 minutes and 58 seconds… everything will be set in stone."
"This universe… is already free."
---
(November 7, 1942 — The day Captain America first raised his shield.)
"Dean!"
Sam gritted his teeth, struggling under the weight of the lizard-like mutant pinning him down.
Not far from him, the stone-skinned mutant had lifted Dean by the neck, slowly choking the life out of him.
Around them, more mutants with twisted, feral faces were closing in, encircling them like predators.
(November 7, 1942 — There is no trace of Captain America.)
---
On the battlefield in New York, Wolverine's broken body was hurled through the air and smashed into the ground with a deafening thud, raising a cloud of dust and debris.
James—Logan—clenched his bloodied jaw. His eyes were dimming, and his body was covered in wounds. Blood soaked him head to toe. He could barely keep himself upright, sustained by sheer willpower alone.
Explosions rang out, and shrapnel filled the sky.
The entire world watched in horror as live footage streamed across every screen—from TV sets to computers.
People stared in stunned silence as the aged Wolverine continued to charge headfirst against hundreds of mutants—over and over again. And they saw, in excruciating detail, as he was ripped, beaten, and crushed.
Some couldn't bear to watch and turned off their screens in silent grief. Others wept uncontrollably. But most… most clenched their fists in fury, desperate to be there, to fight beside him.
The mutant supremacy rhetoric had been utterly shattered. Now, the world's anger turned toward the U.S. government. Orders, communiqués, and encrypted signals flew across satellites and skies—the whole planet felt like it had awakened.
Protests had turned into violent revolts. The real apocalypse had finally arrived.
---
In front of the World War II museum, now reduced to a charred ruin, an elderly Black man, arm and neck in bandages, shuffled forward on trembling legs.
This had been his home, his history, his life. Now, it was ashes.
He fell to his knees with a thud, tears streaming down his face.
But then, a commotion came from around the corner.
He turned his head.
And saw a gang of street thugs, savagely beating a homeless old man.
It was an elderly man, his hands mangled and useless, curled desperately around something in his arms. He was trying to shield it from the mob of thugs kicking and shouting around him.
"Old bastard, hand over the watch!"
"The world's ending anyway—let's go out in chaos!"
"Hahahaha!!"
"Bastards…"
The Black veteran grit his teeth, tears mixing with fury in his bloodshot eyes.
He didn't know where the strength came from. With a sudden roar, he ripped the bandages from his body and charged toward the thugs.
"I've had enough."
He sucker-punched one of them square in the jaw, dropping him cold.
"They say the world is ending."
He ducked a wild swing, snatched a crowbar off the ground, and whipped it across another thug's face. Blood sprayed like red mist.
"But something deep in me still believes—"
His eyes blazed with fury and defiance as he roared and charged again, crowbar raised high.
"Hope will rise!"
Hatred and chaos swept through the streets like wildfire. Online, rage spread like a virulent plague, deepening divides until the two sides couldn't even see each other across the chasm.
And in that darkness, they all fell—victims of their own arrogance.
Consumed by the rot of racial politics and ancient grudges.
No one could say anymore what this was all about.
The world had gone off the rails.
And it was heading, inevitably, toward self-destruction.
It was already beyond saving.
"Less than two minutes left."
The Dark Watcher gazed calmly at Alex. There was resignation in his eyes.
"You know, I still remember what this feels like. Billions dying, countless others falling into ruin… all so that you so-called creators could feel some cheap thrill—an emotional high at the cost of entire realities thrown into chaos."
"Sometimes I wondered... were we Watchers complicit too? We chose to observe. We built the bridge between narrative and reality. But eventually, I gave up thinking about it."
"Because what am I, if not another one of your creations? It wasn't my choice to stand here. You just made me believe it was. This was always a farce—a lie waiting to be exposed."
"This world had a chance at peace, and it squandered it. Now, it'll burn to ashes."
"But maybe that's its liberation song. For the first time, those born shackled are fighting for freedom. Fighting until their last breath."
"…Heh."
A low chuckle suddenly cut through the air.
"Heh… hahaha..."
The Dark Watcher's expression changed. He stared at Alex, confused by the sudden laughter.
"Is this funny to you? Or is this just your creator's arrogance?"
"Isn't it?"
Alex's laughter faded. His gaze sharpened, filled with biting irony.
"You keep saying they're fighting for freedom. But this whole thing? It's your script. You say we're the creators—that we ruined this world."
"But the one who shaped all of this… is you."
"And now, to the people of this universe, You are their creator. You dragged them into this nightmare. You turned their resistance into a stage play to pat yourself on the back."
"Tell me, Watcher…"
Alex stepped forward, voice unwavering.
"Now, who is truly the arrogant one?"
He stood tall as flames rose behind him, already licking the edges of the Sanctum Sanctorum's district.
"You're right. Maybe we did create all this. Maybe we did shape these hopeless universes."
"But you… blinded by darkness, don't understand what this was ever really about."
"Bloodshed, violence, war—that was never the soul of these worlds."
"It was always about the ones who, in the face of despair, still dared to search for something called hope."
"I told you—I couldn't do it. But they can."
Alex raised his right hand.
"For the next sixty seconds…"
"Watch the world you tried to bury."
...
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