The Xavier School for Gifted Youngsters appeared utterly unassuming, the entire compound seemingly shrouded by flourishing blossoms. The architecture suggested the 1940s, with the only designated recreational space barely larger than a basketball court, clearly a hastily converted area. The single entrance gate accommodated only one vehicle at a time. Outside the gate, rose bushes, winter jasmine, and irises bloomed riotously in the flowerbeds.

In truth, the place had originally been an old residence hastily converted.

Should anyone stand outside the school gates, they would immediately notice an awkward fact: the school's black iron gate was tightly shut. Unless someone opened it from the inside, one could not gain entry except by climbing the wall; there wasn't even a doorbell!

In the distance, a black Volkswagen sedan approached, moving with such silence it seemed to glide over the ground. One might have to press an ear against the hood to catch the smooth, lubricated hum of the engine. This VW Phaeton, priced well over two million RMB, bore the markers of its occupants: understated elegance, luxury, and dignity.

A specially designed door on the car opened, deploying a ramp. A bald elderly man pushed a wheelchair down the ramp. His gaze was firm and wise, possessing the boundless clarity of a sky so blue it seemed infinite. Therefore, when he looked at you, he did not seem diminished by his seated position; rather, he resembled a king surveying his subjects from a throne.

His nose bridge was high, and the nasolabial folds on either side were pronounced, adding a degree of inherent authority to his bearing. His lips, never intentionally pursed, gave him an air of unyielding resolve.

A woman alighted, swiftly steadying the wheelchair and speaking intimately with him. But the old man suddenly noticed the main gate, raised his eyebrows slightly, and smiled: "Jean, it seems we have an unscheduled visitor. Though we are out, surely Scott (Cyclops) and perhaps Ororo (Storm) are already awake... I hope they go easy on him."

As the wheelchair was propelled towards the iron gate, the gate immediately swung open on its own, as if it had never been locked. The old man smiled and nodded at the gate: "Good afternoon, Old Tom."

Then, the woman named Jean pushed the old man toward the corridor, but the elder waved his hand dismissively, pointing toward the adjacent garden. "Our visitor is quite sharp. Unlike the others who came seeking only dollars, he meticulously observed his surroundings before deciding on an infiltration route. Both his approach and method merit applause, bypassing most of our safeguards. Such interesting people are rare these days. Since I happen to be free, let us follow his footsteps and see what we find."

It was no wonder the old man expressed surprise. The Xavier School for Gifted Youngsters was no ordinary place; the traps installed within it were subtle enough that even soldiers trained under the most rigorous special forces protocols might fail to detect or neutralize them.

Jean smiled faintly and nodded, propelling the elder forward. Along the way, the old man continuously smiled and nodded. In the short distance they had traveled, at least three mechanisms remained untriggered, deepening his curiosity about the visitor's identity.

Suddenly, Jean spoke: "Mr. Charles, if I remember correctly, the fountain ahead is where Scott usually practices his abilities. This uninvited guest’s progress should end here... Scott?!"

In the vibrant, multicolored garden ahead, there was an exquisitely constructed marble fountain, much like a meticulously stacked tower of champagne glasses at a reception—delicate and opulent, the water itself drawn fresh from deep underground.

The young Iceman, Scott, enjoyed nothing more than plunging his hands into the clear water, watching the beautiful layers of ice slowly coalesce, freeze, and then melt away.

The garden remained the same, the fountain remained the same, and Scott remained.

The only difference was that the handsome youth who loved dipping his hands into the clear spring lay sprawled on the ground, his exposed skin pale and lifeless... Yet, he did not seem in mortal danger, as the hand resting over his eyes trembled continuously, as if struck by immense psychological shock.

Charles’s deep eyes rippled momentarily, then shifted to an expression of keen interest. "Scott seems healthy, just utterly drained, likely from exhausting his mutant power. Undoubtedly, he engaged the guest, and... truly surprising, the guest allowed him to use his ice, or evaded it entirely, until Scott’s power gave out, and then he simply left."

Jean gasped: "There is someone this powerful in the world?"

Next, by the hearth that Pyro favored most, they found his coat... Pyro himself was deeply exhausted, sound asleep on a nearby chaise lounge, his snores easily audible. Over half his hair had been scorched off, testifying to the ferocity of the preceding conflict.

Moving further on, the destruction here was considerably worse. A building had collapsed, the cause of which was all too familiar to Jean: the uncontrollable overflow of Cyclops’s powerful destructive beams. Cyclops himself sat nearby, head bowed, fingers tangled in his hair, looking utterly dejected and listless.

Seeing Jean and the man in the wheelchair, he said nothing, merely pointing ahead.

That location was a rather ordinary room, yet famous because it was where the headmaster of the Xavier School, Professor X, Charles Francis Xavier, usually met with his friends.

This seemingly plain little room was reportedly the frequent meeting place for the powerful Magneto, Erik Magnus Lehnsherr. Beyond him, legends suggested figures like Iron Man and Black Bolt had graced this spot. It was even rumored that the Illuminati was founded here.

Therefore, those who could enter and sit in this room were invariably figures of great renown.

As for someone who sat there uninvited, truthfully, this person seemed to be the only one in history to have achieved such a feat.

Professor X smiled, an expression of mild interest crossing his features. He glanced at Jean, shook his head subtly, signaling her to release the chair, and then propelled the wheelchair forward himself—a gesture of respect. Upon hearing the quiet whir of the chair, the person waiting in the reception room had already risen a step ahead of them.

The person was merely a young man, yet his demeanor was neither servile nor arrogant, marked by impeccable courtesy and an apologetic smile. "Mr. Charles, my name is Sailor. I am deeply sorry for meeting you in such a presumptuous manner, but I truly have my reasons for having to do this."

Mr. Charles looked at Fang Senyan and smiled gently. "There is a mysterious haze around you... is that a barrier of fate? If so, then I should be the one apologizing. However, before our conversation begins, I have one question that greatly intrigues me. My three students, while not the strongest, have very few known weaknesses that prevent their defeat without harm to them. Yet, you do not strike me as someone possessing immense mental power."

Fang Senyan smiled slightly. "The answer isn't very surprising, Professor. My tolerance for impact is simply quite high. I am like a punching bag; people tire of hitting it when their strength is gone, and naturally, they give up."

"That analogy is flawed," Professor Charles chuckled. "You are quite strong."

Fang Senyan’s expression grew grave, and he sighed. "No matter how strong a person is, they are insignificant before the wrath of nature, Professor Charles. Are you aware that the Earth is facing imminent destruction?"

Fang Senyan broached the subject immediately, and Professor Charles’s face tightened as well. "Yes, I am aware, but I have found that assertion difficult to credit."

Fang Senyan spoke earnestly and sincerely. "Professor, I cannot reveal my origin, but please examine a portion of the memories in my mind. I know you are capable of it. The coordination of the vocal cords and the tongue can lie, but memory cannot. However, my memories also contain many powerful restrictions. Please be careful, or I fear the backlash from those restrictive zones might harm you."

Professor Charles stiffened but knew the gravity of the situation. He looked directly into Fang Senyan's eyes without hesitation. For Fang Senyan, barely a second seemed to pass, but Professor Charles appeared visibly pale, swaying slightly, covered in sweat. He immediately pressed a button on his wheelchair.

Instantly, Jean rushed in, her gaze sharp and wary toward Fang Senyan. She only relaxed after the Professor shook his head, pouring him a glass of water.

Silence descended upon the room. After a pause, the Professor slowly spoke, "The memories I just witnessed... were they the future?"

"Yes," Fang Senyan confirmed cleanly. "A future I saw with my own eyes."

"How terrible..." Professor Charles murmured. "My stubbornness has cost me the last chance."

An idea sparked in Fang Senyan's mind. "What chance?"

Professor Charles took a deep breath. "A year ago, a friend also conveyed similar information to me, but I didn't believe him and chose to stand aside. However, he didn't give up and has continued his tireless efforts. I hear he has made new breakthroughs and has maintained contact with me. Sadly, I simply never fully trusted him."

Fang Senyan pressed earnestly. "It is not too late, Professor. I am not here alone; our combined strength is considerable! Enough to bring about a miracle in the next ten-plus days!"

Professor Charles shook his head slightly. "It is too late. Because today, I was leaving to attend his funeral. He died in a traffic accident last week." (To be continued)