This year, the winter is exceptionally cold.
Walking through the dark alleys of Budapest, the lonely man thought so.
Ever since his wife and daughter perished in the sea of flames, every winter, during the season that required chopping wood and lighting fires, he would instinctively reject the flames and wander the midnight streets like a ghost.
Snowflakes and cold winds were not as cold as the ice within his heart, and his hatred was different from that of ordinary people.
If ordinary people's hatred was like a volcano or raging flames, incinerating everything when it erupted.
Then his hatred was an iceberg standing steadfast in his heart, ancient and unchanging, hard as steel.
Years have passed since the event, but he still can't forget everything; he became an Avenger, seeking his enemies everywhere.
The villagers who killed his wife and daughter have all been killed by him, but the culprit who killed his parents long ago is still at large. Klaus Schmidt, the Hydra executioner manipulating the death camp, remains a mystery.
Maybe it's a pseudonym, but it is the only clue the man holds in his hands.
All these years, he kept searching for that person within the scope of Europe, using superpowers to make money, maintaining his livelihood.
But most of the money was donated to compatriots who needed it more, while he lived a simple life, wearing only old clothes, a ragged hooded cloak, and carrying a small bundle.
He didn't help his fellow Germans but rather his fellow Mutants.
Indeed, the world is unfair; he found that many Mutants shared the same tragic fate as him, sparking his contemplation.
Are Mutants really just monsters? Inferior beings?
No, Mutants possess various powerful abilities; they ought to be superior. The persecution and abuse are just distorted fears of the weak towards the strong.
He found his path, a way to prevent tragedy from recurring in the world, a mission as a pioneer to unite the strong ones, awaken them, and secure a place for Mutants in the world.
He said Magnus is already dead; from that day forth, the only thing alive is the Magnetic King.
He has very strong abilities, and his past experiences make him empathize with his people's pain; he is willing to avenge them too, asking for no reward.
His activity range is currently limited to Europe, where most Mutant persecutions stem from various experiments during World War II, turning him unconsciously into a famous Hunter. In every city, he digs three feet into the ground to find and kill the post-war hiding enemies.
Of course, this also made him a wanted criminal. It's just that the Europeans who suffered greatly wouldn't want to arrest such a Hunter; the so-called wanted notices are merely a formality.
Not to mention there isn't even a name or code on the wanted notice; even the photo is just a black blob, capturing someone like that would be a ghost.
But even so, hatred still pushed the Magnetic King to wander like a ghost. It wasn't just his hatred; he carried too much pain from his compatriots.
He could not stop; unless all these aggressors were tortured to death, the innocent deceased compatriots could not rest in peace.
Now, it was another deep winter, and following a clue, he arrived in Hungary's capital. Stepping on the snowy streets, even his weathered face carried some smile.
This was the closest he ever got to Klaus' trail, because he learned from his compatriots' help that a researcher once experimenting on him in the camp was hiding in this city.
Back then, Dr. Klaus Schmidt was the main scientist overseeing various experiments, and after the Empire's defeat, would his trusted hands know his whereabouts?
Thus, the Magnetic King had some expectations, hatred piercing his heart with pain, impatient to know the answer.
The midnight street was nearly deserted, and he soon reached his destination, stopping and raising his head to observe the beautiful building before him. It was a cinema converted from an ancient theater.
Destructive neon lights and billboards were embedded in the Roman-style building's exterior walls, ruining its aesthetic appeal.
Moreover, the film currently showing was a supposed Hollywood blockbuster, a soap opera about dying for love, trash produced by Stark Pictures.
The poster showed Howard with a sleazy smile, holding the leading lady, gazing into the distance; yet another instance of him attempting to play-act reality.
Howard Stark, currently America's most famous scientist, and the most degenerate Little Bee; even while in Europe, the Magnetic King frequently sees things related to him.
Such as new guns, new bombs, and various Mutant-persecuting items...
Compared to this, beside the Stark poster, the new Wilson Film production "You Who Cure Apes" was more appealing to the Magnetic King. The name seemed to promote animal protection?
The Magnetic King knew during the most difficult times a few years ago, many of his compatriots survived owing to Wilson Supermarket spread across Europe, its boss very low-key, but the Magnetic King had a good impression of him.
Despite knowing the cheap food produced might not be fresh, and when supermarkets have clearance sales signify nearing food expiry, initially affording only small cakes, they got more filling compressed biscuits, what's there to complain about?
Upon glancing at the black-and-yellow W logo again, the Magnetic King expressionlessly pushed open the cinema door and walked inside.
"Welcome, one ticket?"
The ticket counter held a gaunt man; he didn't seem old enough to make a living selling cinema tickets but was doing it.
The Magnetic King looked at the steel barricade; the small window separating the ticket area from the hall felt like a prison. Behind the ticket area, a small room with shadows moving about, probably the man's family living with him.
After all, cinemas operated late, requiring door guards, bringing family was more convenient.
"Nice cinema; is it yours?"
The Magnetic King asked in fluent German, taking several bills from his pocket and pushing them inside the window.
Upon hearing German, the once-downward-looking man cutting tickets froze, then clipped the ticket, pushed it through the glass panel, and took the money.
"Um, I can't understand; here's your ticket."
He answered with a smile using Hungarian, his glasses almost sliding off his nose.
"No, I know you speak more than just German; you know seven other languages. You taught me back then." The Magnetic King took the ticket, inhaled the hall's slightly cool air, expressionlessly stuffed it back into his pocket: "If you hadn't taught me Russian, maybe I wouldn't have faced all that; perhaps it's destiny's choice."
"You...who are you?"
The ticket buyer tried to recognize the young man before him, but he couldn't.
This unexpected guest seemed youthful, but his eyes, God, held no sign of life, only the cold winter night.
"I am Max Eisenhardt; maybe you forgot this name, but I gave myself a new one, you can call me Magnetic King."