(I have a Patreon if you want to read the next 10 chapters of this fanfiction then go to patreon.com/7_Night )
What he saw in the water wasn't just a reflection—it was something else entirely.
The face staring back at him had the sharp, flawless features of a model—but not the kind you'd see on a magazine cover. No. A supermodel would be an insult.
The man in the water looked like he had been sculpted by the gods themselves.
White hair, wind-swept and jagged at the edges. Icy blue eyes, intense and glowing with life. A chiseled jawline, smooth, pale skin, and a stare that felt like it could command storms. He looked… otherworldly. Like someone who wasn't born, but crafted.
And yet, it was him.
(image)
That was his face.
The realization hit him harder than anything before. He stared at the reflection, his heart pounding in disbelief. Slowly, he reached up and touched his own face, half-expecting it to shimmer away or change back.
But it didn't.
His fingers pressed against the same high cheekbones. The same sharp chin. The same smooth, flawless skin.
It was still his face.
He stood up slowly, still dazed, and began pulling off his clothes. They didn't fit right anymore—too tight in the chest and shoulders, too short in the sleeves and pants. He dropped them at his feet and looked down at himself, finally taking in the full picture.
The muscles were real.
They weren't bodybuilder-sized, but they were clearly defined—lean, powerful, like a fighter's physique carved from stone. And somehow, it all matched. The proportions, the tone, the strength—it all looked natural, like it had always belonged to him.
And then he realized something else.
He was taller.
Not by an inch or two. No—much taller.
He couldn't tell the exact height without a mirror or comparison, but he was sure he had passed the six-foot mark. Easily.
He blinked in disbelief.
Just this morning, he thought, I was an average-looking, short kid.
Plain brown hair. Five-foot-eight. Nothing special about his build. He was just… normal.
But now?
Everything had changed.
He quickly pulled his pants for a second and saw a dragon instead of the old snake
Everything had changed
And all of it was thanks to his mutant power.
A grin slowly crept across his face. For the first time since everything happened… he smiled. Wide. Real. It wasn't just excitement—it was the feeling of being awake for the first time in his life.
But the feeling didn't last.
Because then he remembered his family.
The smile faded.
A fraud… he thought bitterly. How could they?
He clenched his fists, rage rising like a wave crashing through his chest. I knew they hated mutants—I've always known. But how could they act like that toward me?
They'd seen him—him, their son, their brother—go through something terrifying and life-changing. And all they did was scream, threaten, call the authorities… try to hurt him.
The memory made his blood boil. Dark thoughts flickered through his mind. Maybe I should go back. Maybe they deserve to—
His arm glowed.
The blue markings along his left arm pulsed brightly, glowing even more intensely than before. The warmth was soothing, like the flames themselves were pushing against his emotions, calming the storm inside him.
His breathing slowed.
No… he thought quickly. I shouldn't think that way.
He sat back down on the soft grass, his body still pulsing with lingering adrenaline. He needed to think clearly. He needed to figure out his next step.
What should I do now? he thought.
He couldn't go back home. That was out of the question. Even if his siblings didn't try to report him, his father definitely would. That bridge was already burned.
He sat in silence for a long moment, letting the breeze run across his shoulders. Then, slowly, his mind drifted back to something he read just a few days ago.
The Jean Grey School for Higher Learning.
Westchester.
A place where mutants learned to control their powers. Where people like him could be understood. It wasn't just a school—it was a home. A sanctuary for runaway mutants. That's how the article described it.
He chuckled a little under his breath.
I wished for my life to become more exciting…
And now?
The possibility of joining the X-Men was right in front of him.
But before he did anything else, he looked down at his glowing left arm again.
I should seriously figure out what I can do, he thought.
He quickly started trying things out.
If he really had powers now, he needed to understand them—fast.
He raised his left hand and made a few random gestures, unsure what might trigger something. He pointed at the trees. He gave a thumbs up. Then, with a smirk, he even tried the classic Spider-Man web-shooter hand sign.
Nothing happened.
"…Worth a shot," he muttered.
Then he stopped messing around and just focused—really focused—on his arm. Not on his fingers or his hand, but on the power itself. The feeling that had awakened during the fire, the thing he could still feel humming beneath the surface.
And just like that, blue flames began to form.
They sparked to life, rising from the blackened arm, curling upward like glowing ribbons of smoke. They danced around his fingers, not wild and uncontrollable, but smooth—almost like they were listening to him.
And they didn't hurt. Not at all.
Dante's expression shifted from curiosity to excitement.
He grabbed a handful of dry grass and leaves with his right hand, set them down in a small clear patch of dirt where they couldn't spread, then held out his left arm. A steady flicker of blue fire shot out, landing directly on the pile.
It lit instantly.
But it wasn't like normal fire. It didn't just burn—it devoured. The leaves blackened and disintegrated in seconds, reduced to ash with unnatural speed.
At first, he thought it was just really hot. But the more he focused, the more he could feel it—it wasn't just about heat.
He could sense it burning something more than just the surface.
It was burning life.
Not his own. The fire didn't drain him. It wasn't feeding on his body. But it was pulling from the stamina, the energy of whatever it touched—draining it like fuel and turning it into power.
His eyes widened.
"This fire… it doesn't just burn—it exhausts." he said under his breath. "It burns your stamina, your energy…"
The implications were incredible. Against someone relying on strength or speed, this could wear them down before the fight even got going.
He tried something more—something cooler.
He focused again, trying to will the flames into a shape, maybe a weapon. A sword of fire, or something flashy. But no matter how hard he tried, the flames stayed as they were—moving, flowing, but not taking form.
Apparently, he could only do basic things, like firing the flames—or very specific, advanced actions. Nothing in between.
He knew that instinctively
"Of course," he muttered. "Do all powers come with a manual?"
But even as he joked, he felt something—deeper. There was something else buried beneath the surface of this power. Not fire. Not energy.
Something else.
He focused inward, feeling for that strange weight inside him—the thing that hadn't come out yet. It was like a pressure in his chest, connected not to the fire… but to his very core. Something that didn't belong to this world.
He reached for it.
And in an instant—it answered.
A sharp flash ran through his right arm, and when he looked down, he was holding a sword.
Not just any sword.
It was massive, jagged, and brutal. The metal looked old and worn, shaped like bone and steel fused together, with a skull-like guard and a blade that radiated a quiet, deadly pressure. The moment he saw it, the name echoed in his head.
Rebellion.
(image)
The sword felt perfect in his hand, like it had always been there, waiting.
He stared at it for a second, then smiled.
"That… looks awesome."
He stood up and gave it a quick swing. The blade cut through the air smoothly—effortlessly. No awkward fumbling, no hesitation. It felt natural. Like his body already knew exactly what to do.
Dante took a step back, shifted his footing, and gave the sword a heavier swing. Then another. Then a full-body spin. He flipped it over his back, around his side, one hand to two, then back again.
It was like he'd been training for years.
Then, just to see what would happen, he backflipped near a cluster of trees, landed with ease, and gave a clean, wide horizontal slash.
The trees behind him didn't even react at first.
Then, seconds later, their trunks split in half, sliding down with a delayed crack before hitting the ground.
He looked at the sword, stunned.
"I didn't even swing that hard," he muttered.
Another instinct kicked in—this one sharper, clearer. Like a fact being revealed to him.
His dexterity had been enhanced. Not just boosted like his strength or speed—but pushed beyond human limits. His coordination, his timing, his weapon control—it had all been taken to the extreme.
"Holy shit," he breathed. "I'm a master weapon wielder."
He looked down at Rebellion again, watching the way the weight balanced in his hand, the subtle glow in the blade's edge, the reflection of his own eyes staring back from its steel.
And for the first time since everything started… he felt ready.