Marvel's New Magneto

That day, Erik and Hank had a long conversation late into the night.

Hank gave Erik a tour of his workshop, pointing out key equipment and introducing some familiar faces—like the chubby Nick and the young Mariano.

They were regulars, always willing to lend a hand. Despite their constant arguments, they were good-hearted people and highly respected in the mutant community.

Hank's workshop mainly served mutants. Some had incomplete genetic awakenings, leading to defects that made life difficult. For them, Hank's serum was a lifeline. Originally developed decades ago to suppress his own mutation, the serum had once helped a young Professor X numb himself enough to walk again. But it came with risks—overuse could have the opposite effect, making mutations permanent. Hank himself was proof. Who would have guessed that this burly, blue-furred beast was once a refined young researcher?

Others, like Nick, had been forcibly modified by outside forces. Nick's story was tragic—once a passionate young man who idolized Magneto, he was captured by the infamous General William Stryker. Used as a test subject, he was transformed into a living weapon, his body sprouting blades of alloy. He managed to escape, only to be abandoned by his own people. Normally, he looked human, just with a metal skeleton, but when his powers went out of control, his bones would tear through his flesh, causing unbearable pain. The serum helped suppress these episodes—without it, he might have ended his own suffering long ago.

Then there were those who had no defects but simply wanted a normal life. These individuals kept their distance from the mutant community, coming and going in secrecy. Even though they avoided their own kind, Hank still welcomed them, offering his help just as he did for the others.

After learning all this, Erik's respect for Hank grew even further. In his eyes, the Beast had surpassed even Professor X—Hank was someone who truly dedicated himself to helping mutants.

Looking around the workshop at the well-maintained microscopes, precision centrifuges, and sterilization equipment, Erik could see the sacrifices Hank had made. Unlike Charles Xavier, who came from wealth, or Magneto, who wielded power recklessly, Hank had built everything through sheer determination and effort.

Hank opened a case and took out a uniform. "This is for you. The professor had it made."

"Yellow?" Erik asked. It was different from the standard X-Men suits, which were black with orange trim. This one was bright yellow with black accents.

"Yes, yellow." Hank unfolded the jacket, his expression turning nostalgic.

"This was our original design. The first time we went on a mission, Charles, Erik, Raven, Alex, Sean, and I all wore these. We were young and full of ambition… but after that first mission, Erik and Charles parted ways, and Raven followed him. We never wore these again. Later uniforms abandoned the design, though Charles and I kept our originals."

"Recently, when Charles asked me to order new uniforms from Stark Industries, I had a thought—why keep the same old design? We needed a change! When I told Charles, we both immediately thought of this one. Believe it or not, that night, we stayed up talking like old men reminiscing about the past. We decided this was the right choice.

"Black represents the suffering mutants have endured. Yellow symbolizes our undying hope for the future. We need to return to our roots, not repeat past mistakes."

Hank handed Erik the uniform. "I didn't ask for your opinion, but I truly hope you'll like it."

"I do," Erik said, accepting it with both hands.

At that moment, a silent understanding passed between them—a responsibility, handed down from one generation to the next.

"I will fight for those who cannot fight for themselves."

"I swear to protect my brothers and sisters."

"I will help those in need."

"I will stand against injustice."

"I will face oppression with courage."

A knight's vow he had once heard echoed in Erik's mind, resonating like a solemn bell. He whispered it aloud, feeling something within him shift.

The crimson memories of his past didn't fade, but they became clearer, no longer weighing him down. This was an awakening—an acceptance of his past and a step toward something new.

Hank watched the young man before him, sensing his transformation. Erik was emerging from the shadows, moving toward the light. Whatever worries Hank had left finally disappeared.

"Alright, enough heavy talk. You've been cooped up in the academy for too long. Go explore the city," Hank said, handing Erik an ID card. "I got your papers sorted. Westchester is full of beautiful, confident women—you never know what kind of adventure you might have."

He winked. "Now, put on the suit and go have some fun. I'll clear it with Charles. Enjoy your time before you officially join the team, kid."

---

Erik didn't go into the city. Instead, he found a quiet bench by a nameless river and sat down.

For a former high-rolling traveler, aimless wandering felt meaningless.

He had once strolled the Champs-Élysées, surrounded by queens and princesses, painting their lips in rich colors. He had looted Antwerp's finest diamonds like a common bandit. He had led armies, bent empires to his will, and made nobles bow.

Losing that status didn't matter.

Getting a second chance at life—to right his wrongs—that was the greatest gift.

Protect those who need protection. Destroy what must be destroyed.

With that conviction, Erik sat by the river, listening to the water and the distant calls of birds. Before he knew it, the night had passed.

By dawn, the riverside came to life with morning joggers. Young women, full of energy, passed by, casting curious glances at him. Their beauty was refreshing, and for the first time in days, the weight on his heart lifted.

A new life deserved a new outlook.

I will paint a masterpiece on this blank canvas.

He thought it.

And then, someone else said it aloud.

"I will paint a masterpiece on this blank canvas!"

A man with a mustache, holding a sketchpad, announced dramatically, making the girls around him giggle.

"I am an artist, not a playboy! I only wish to capture beauty on paper, to preserve it forever! When we grow old, we'll look back at these paintings and remember our youth." He leaned lazily against a tree, trying to charm the women.

"Right, and next you'll ask for our numbers?" one of them teased. "We're not falling for that. We know you just want to get us into—"

"Easy now," he interrupted, raising a hand. "I'm deeply hurt by your suspicion!"

The girls laughed and jogged away.

"Old man?" he muttered, clutching his chest like he had suffered a mortal wound. He slumped against the tree, making the leaves rustle.

Erik smirked. It was an amusing scene—classic flirt meets savvy girls. He was about to leave when the man suddenly pointed at him.

"Don't move!"

The mustached artist grabbed his sketchpad and started drawing rapidly.

Erik, curious, stayed put. A husky flopped down beside him, panting happily.

He scratched the dog's head, and it leaned into him, wagging its tail.

The owner—a woman in a tight sports outfit—stood nearby, watching the sketch with amusement.

The artist worked fast. When he finished, the woman chuckled.

"I'll give this to you," he said, tossing the sketchpad to Erik. "Remember, this is a Tony Stark original. Keep it safe—it'll be worth a fortune one day."

Then, with a grin, he wrapped an arm around the woman's waist and walked off.

Erik flipped the sketchpad over.

He burst into laughter.

The drawing?

A lonely park bench. A husky lying beside it.

But Erik?

He wasn't in the picture at all.

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