MUTOSTERONE

The salty wind of Arkhelion City carried the scent of the sea, mingling with the aroma of gasoline and asphalt. Skyscrapers loomed over the bustling metropolis, their mirrored surfaces reflecting the midday sun. The city, the crown jewel of Edenia's eastern coast, was alive with the constant hum of traffic, impatient horns, and hurried footsteps. Yet, amid the chaotic symphony of urban life, an anomaly had emerged—a stage, set upon the sands of Silverwave Beach, where the Atlantic tides kissed the shore.

Atop that stage stood a man who commanded attention with his very presence. His name was Professor Aldric Langley, a scholar of great renown, his name echoing through the halls of academia like a legend of old. His attire—a long, deep-blue coat lined with silver filigree—flapped gently in the sea breeze. He was not merely a man of knowledge, but of purpose. And today, that purpose was to reshape the future.

Before him, a gathered crowd of thousands murmured among themselves, speculation thick in the air. Mutants and humans alike stood shoulder to shoulder, though an invisible divide separated them. Tension crackled like an impending storm. The recent amendment to the Mutant Treaty Act, signed on 4 Byeolhwa, Hikaribi 1312, had shattered the fragile peace between the two species. Across Edenia, conflicts had erupted—riots in Gallanta, skirmishes in the industrial heart of Vanthelis, and outright war in the slums of Ashmere. The world had begun to turn its back on the children of evolution.

Professor Langley raised a gloved hand, and silence rippled through the crowd like a stone cast into a still pond. He reached into the folds of his coat and retrieved a scroll, its parchment thick with the weight of authority. With a deliberate motion, he unfurled it, revealing the unmistakable royal seal of King Ivan of Gallanta, the sovereign ruler of Edenia. The golden wax bore the sigil of the Gallantan lion, its claws outstretched, an emblem of absolute power.

Gasps spread like wildfire. Even Mayor Rutherford, the shrewd and skeptical leader of Arkhelion City, took an involuntary step back.

"This," Langley declared, his voice resonating across the shoreline, "is the decree of His Majesty, King Ivan. By the will of the central government of Edenia, I have been granted full authority to establish a sanctuary for mutants—a school where they will no longer be feared, but nurtured. A place where their gifts will be refined, their spirits emboldened, and their futures safeguarded. Today, on 3 Baram, Suiseibi 1314, I hereby declare the founding of Hall of M!"

A sudden gust of wind tore through the beach, sending sand whirling in chaotic spirals. The moment felt ethereal, as though the very elements themselves bore witness to history being made. The crowd erupted—not in immediate applause, but in a cacophony of reactions. Some mutants cheered, eyes alight with hope. Others whispered in hushed skepticism. The humans in attendance exchanged wary glances, their expressions ranging from reluctant acceptance to barely contained disdain. And then—chaos. A shot rang out.

The bullet sliced through the air, its trajectory a merciless path aimed directly at Langley's heart. But before it could strike, a blur of motion intercepted its course. A mutant, his arm transforming into a crystalline shield, deflected the projectile with a deafening clang. The crowd recoiled in terror, screaming as a group of masked figures emerged from the sidelines. Their insignias—black triangles upon crimson armbands—marked them as Purity Dawn, an extremist faction devoted to the eradication of mutants.

"Mutant filth!" one of them spat, raising an energy rifle. "You don't belong in our world!"

A second shot, then a third. The beach erupted into a battlefield. Mutants retaliated—one with telekinetic prowess hurled an assailant into the air, while another conjured a wave of fire that sent their foes scrambling. The air crackled with energy, the tension reaching a fever pitch.

Langley, unshaken, turned to a figure at his side—a young woman with hair like woven silver and eyes that gleamed like liquid mercury. Seraphina Vale, his first student, his most trusted protector.

"Shield the civilians," he commanded. "Let the world see that we do not fight with fear, but with conviction."

Seraphina nodded, raising her hands. A translucent barrier of pure energy expanded outward, shielding the onlookers from the crossfire. The battle raged, yet within the storm of violence, a declaration had been made. This was not merely an announcement. It was a war cry.

As the dust settled and the remnants of Purity Dawn lay subdued, Langley stepped forward once more, his coat tattered, his breath measured. He gazed upon the crowd, his voice unwavering.

"The world is changing. Fear breeds hatred, and hatred leads to war. But we are not beasts. We are not threats. We are pioneers of a new era. And Hall of M will stand—not as a refuge, but as a beacon!"

The air reeked of blood, burnt sand, and gunpowder. Screams of the wounded—both mutants and humans—pierced the battlefield as Purity Dawn militants struggled against the mutant defenders. Some fled, realizing they were outmatched, but others fought to the death, fueled by blind hatred.

Among the civilians, terror spread like wildfire. Mutants who had come merely as spectators now found themselves bleeding, bruised, and gasping for breath. Some lay lifeless on the ground, caught in the crossfire of a battle they had never wanted. And then—a blaring siren. The Capitol Patrol Guard had arrived.

From the north, armored vehicles roared onto the beach, tires kicking up plumes of sand. The insignia of the CPG—a crimson eagle over a black shield—gleamed under the midday sun. A squad of heavily armed soldiers disembarked, their rifles aimed, their formations precise.

"STAND DOWN!" a commanding voice boomed.

The remaining Purity Dawn militants hesitated for a fraction of a second before the CPG opened fire. Controlled bursts of energy rounds ripped through the insurgents, cutting down those who resisted. Within moments, the chaos was subdued, the enemies either dead or shackled in restraints.

Striding at the front of the CPG forces was Captain Mikail Whales—a man known for his ruthless efficiency. Clad in reinforced tactical armor, he had piercing gray eyes that scanned the battlefield like a hawk surveying its prey. His jaw tightened as he assessed the destruction, his expression unreadable.

His gaze locked onto Professor Aldric Langley, still standing on the stage, his coat torn and dirtied but his posture unwavering.

"Professor Langley," Captain Whales called, approaching with purpose. "Are you injured?"

Langley exhaled slowly, brushing dust off his sleeve. "No, Captain. Thanks to my students, I remain unharmed."

Stone's eyes flickered to the mutants standing behind Langley—fighters still on edge, their powers humming just beneath the surface. He had dealt with enough mutants to recognize that these were not ordinary civilians.

"You should have reported this gathering to the CPG sooner," Whales said coldly. "This could have been prevented."

Langley offered a diplomatic smile, knowing full well that Whales's presence here was both a blessing and a warning. "With all due respect, Captain, I had permission from the central government itself." He gestured toward the parchment still clutched in his hand, the royal seal of King Ivan of Gallanta glinting under the sun.

Whales narrowed his eyes but did not argue. He had received his orders. King Ivan's decree held weight.

"The CPG will secure this area," Whales finally said. "And you…" He glanced at the wounded, the burning wreckage of the battlefield. "You should rethink whether this place is worth the bloodshed it's already drawn."

Langley stepped forward, his voice unwavering. "It is."

The words hung between them like an unbreakable vow.

Whales studied Langley for a long moment before giving a curt nod. "Then so be it." He turned to his men. "Tend to the wounded—all of them. That includes the mutants."

It was not an act of mercy—it was protocol. But to the mutants present, it was the first time in a long while that authority had acknowledged their suffering rather than causing it.

And so, as the sun set upon Silverwave Beach, the first stones of Hall of M were laid—not in brick and mortar, but in blood, sacrifice, and defiance.