Governments have a lot of pet peeves—paper jams, budget meetings... But the number one thing that grinds their gears, universally? A power they can't control.
And mutants? Yeah, they're basically the ultimate control-fail.
One can imagine some kid has a bad day, wakes up with the ability to shoot lasers from his eyeballs, and bam—there goes the local Starbucks. No warning, no permission slip, just vibes and structural damage.
And among these walking, talking human glitches, two names give every agency cold sweats. One is, obviously, the world's most-wanted terrorist—basic stuff.
But the other? That would be Charles Xavier. The guy who makes Big Brother look like a nosy neighbor.
Thanks to Cerebro, he can pretty much mind-surf the planet. He's in your head, reading your diary, editing your memories, maybe making you forget where you left your keys—all from the comfort of his manor. Hiding? He's already in your thoughts.
So, naturally, every three-letter agency in the U.S.—SHIELD, CIA, FBI, you name it—has him on their watchlist. It's basically a national hobby at this point.
And of course, he knows. The man reads minds; you think he doesn't notice the eight black vans outside? But being the 'benevolent' king of mutants, he lets it slide. If watching him 24/7 makes Uncle Sam sleep better at night, fine.
"Director," Hill's voice cut through the gloom of Fury's office. "Xavier and Jean Grey left the school via the Blackbird. Couldn't track it—stealth tech is way ahead of ours. Best guess is they're still Stateside."
Nick Fury didn't even blink. His mind was already racing through a dozen worst-case scenarios. Charles hadn't left his ivory castle in almost a year. This wasn't a casual Starbucks run.
"Understood," Fury sighed, the sound of a man who knew he was playing chess against someone reading the rulebook over his shoulder. "Have our inside contact at the school ask around. If it's not some world-ending secret, Charles might throw us a bone."
He said it. He didn't believe it. If Xavier wanted them to know, the jet wouldn't have gone ghost mode in the first place.
But getting a spy into Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters? Please.
Between the literal telepath headmaster and the psychic powerhouse student who hears your inner cringe, it's less espionage and more psychological suicide.
Unfortunately for Fury, mutants were becoming a full-time migraine. The kind no amount of aspirin, whiskey, or "top-secret clearance" could fix.
They were uncontrollable, unpredictable, and—worse—political kryptonite. Every government on Earth treated the idea of a SHIELD mutant team like some cursed word you're not supposed to say out loud.
And then there was Magneto.
Magneto wasn't just a problem—he was the problem. A walking middle finger to modern warfare. Guns? Hehe. Missiles? Big toy. Nuclear deterrence? Congratulations, you just handed him a fidget spinner.
And of course, he came with a pack of mutant extremists who genuinely believed humanity was a bug waiting to be stepped on.
Short term? Yeah, Magneto was the biggest threat on the board.
Long term? Fury didn't even hesitate.
Charles Xavier.
Sure, Professor Smiles-and-Wheelchair was benevolent now. Big emphasis on now. But Fury had lived long enough to know that "good intentions" had a bad habit of turning into mass graves.
All it took was one bad day, one philosophical snap, one "for the greater good" moment—and suddenly ninety-nine point nine percent of humanity was staring at walls, drooling quietly.
And the scariest part?
Fury had no plan for that.
Not Plan A. Not Plan X. Not even a dusty "break glass in case of apocalypse" file hidden under his desk.
Sure, he was technically safe. Skrull tech, fortified house, SHIELD HQ wrapped tighter than Fort Knox on steroids.
But what did personal safety matter if Charles decided the planet needed a hard reset and turned the human race into decorative furniture?
That was why Fury was obsessed—borderline unhealthily—with creating a team specifically designed to handle threats that governments physically couldn't. Problems too powerful, too weird, too politically radioactive to solve with committees and press conferences.
The only issue?
The team didn't exist.
Not in reality, anyway, just in his head. A hypothetical lineup of people who didn't actually answer their phones—or exist at all.
And now, time was running out.
Either Fury stopped waiting for the perfect pieces and played the hand he had… or he kept waiting and let fate, chaos, and one very polite telepath decide humanity's future.
And Fury hated gambling.
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(Harry's POV)
"Okay, now I need to take the first step, but first of all, what kind of vibe am I even going for here?" I muttered to myself, clicking my pen against a fresh notebook page. My couch was now Mission Control.
Basically, the world's super-people seem to fall into two main camps.
Camp A: The Outlaws. Your Magnetos, your random terror cells—folks who treat the legal system like a pesky Terms of Service agreement they just scroll past and ignore.
Camp B: The Law-Abiders. The X-Men, the Avengers, the Fantastic Four—the glorified neighborhood watch with better uniforms and way higher property damage bills.
The pros of the outlaw life are kinda glaring. Budgeting? Not a thing. Running low on cash for, say, a team pizza night? You don't buy pizza. You acquire pizza. The whole "funding" issue becomes a creative exercise.
Need a secret base? Hello, abandoned luxury bunker. Need tech? A quick, persuasive chat with a billion-dollar R&D lab. With my specific skill set, let's just say logistics become less of a hurdle and more of a… suggestion.
The law-abiders, though? Different grind. They're playing life on the official servers, with all the rules turned on. No money? Tough luck, no rob-bery. Hope you like fundraising car washes.
But in return, you get that tasty government tacit understanding. You're not public enemy number one; you're a strategic asset. Sometimes you even get a cool jet.
"Hell of a headache," I sighed, staring at the page. Objectively, the outlaw path was just… more efficient. Fewer bureaucratic speed bumps. Maximum freedom. Minimum accountability. Aesthetic? Unapologetic chaos.
And let's be real—my opinion of the governments and militaries around here, this world specifically, is hovering somewhere between "utter contempt" and "mild, disgusted nausea."
They're a bunch of control-obsessed, power-hungry clowns playing with toys they don't understand. I've seen their type before.
It makes you think. Back in my past life, why did I consume so much fanfic and those insanely specific web novels, especially the ones tagged Kingdom Building?
It wasn't just for the drama. Deep down, past all the cynicism, wasn't it a craving for a blank slate?
A place where you could build something from scratch without being choked by nonsensical laws, corrupt officials, or the soul-crushing worry about rent and groceries?
A place where the rules you followed were the ones you chose to make, because they actually made sense?
And now… here I am. In this world. With these abilities. Maybe it sounds arrogant as hell, but the math is kind of adding up.
So the question isn't really "Outlaw or Law-Abider?" is it?
The question is… why wouldn't I just build my own kingdom and be the one who sets the damn law?
"Alright, blueprint mode: activated," I announced to the empty room, scribbling in my notebook with the kind of energy usually reserved for planning a festival heist. "Primary Objective: establish my own sovereign entity. A kingdom, a country, a vibe-state—semantics. We'll workshop the branding later."
The main goal was now a bold header on the page. Felt official. Felt real.
"Now, to avoid this just being a delusional bullet point, we need supporting objectives. Side quests," I narrated, tapping the pen. "The starter pack for nation-building, if you will."
I started a sub-list.
"Side Quest #1: Acquire Real Estate. Can't be a king of my mom's basement. Side Quest #2: Recruit Population. Gotta have subjects/citizens/ride-or-dies who won't sell me out for a sandwich. Side Quest #3: Secure Resources. Food, drip, tools, fries… the basics. A kingdom running on instant noodles and hope is just a really committed cult."
My brain, now in hyperdrive, zoomed in on the real estate problem. And instantly, it pinged the most obvious, broken, utterly cheaty option: the mirror space.
Technically, it's prime property. An entire dimension in my pocket. I could just… declare it the realm. Get a bigger mirror as a gateway, expand the borders, problem solved.
It's the ultimate gated community. Once the connection is established, lore-wise, even if the physical mirror gets smashed, the realm should persist as long as a fragment exists. My own personal pocket universe. Very exclusive. Very meta.
The perks are insane. Full environmental control? Check. Manipulate light, tweak the temperature—I could have a beach district next to a ski resort. Ultimate privacy? Unparalleled security? The HOA would be me.
But then the vibe check failed. A kingdom… inside a mirror?
I slumped back.
"That's just a fancy prison with extra steps," I groaned. "Or the plot of a deeply mid isekai."
The logistical nightmares started playing like a bad movie. What if the mirror gets atomized? Poof. There goes the national archives, the treasury, everyone's game files—everything, gone with a cosmic sneeze.
My entire sovereignty, contingent on a shard of glass not ending up in a landfill. That's not a kingdom; that's a high-stakes game of keep-away.
And don't even get me started on isolation. Every novel I've ever read screams that closed-off economies and xenophobic kingdoms have one ending: collapse. A realm needs flow. Trade, new ideas, annoying tourists to complain about.
But then I remembered the context. Mutants. We have people who can open portals, warp space, and literally terraform planets. "Closed borders" is a suggestion when your chief architect can rearrange matter with his mind. We could literally export our bad weather.
My brain was officially smoking. I'm a jack of all trades, master of… well, law, technically. I know enough about everything to be dangerous, but not enough about anything to be an expert. Except, apparently, legal loopholes and spite.
A slow, inevitable smile spread across my face. The solution was so obvious it was almost elegant.
"If I'm the visionary—the 'idea guy'—then I don't need to be the expert. I just need to find the experts who are as disillusioned with this dumpster-fire world as I am."
I wrote it down with a flourish. Mission One: The Talent Raid.
"Objective: Locate and recruit a historian who's tired of watching the world repeat its worst mistakes, and an economist who's fed up with the whole 'infinite growth on a finite planet' grift. Find the brilliant, jaded minds who already know the current system is a scam."
The plan crystallized. I wouldn't just build a kingdom. I'd outsource the foundational trauma. Let them draft the constitutions, the economic models, the five-year plans.
They can have their dream canvas; I'll provide the security clearance, the resources, and the absolute freedom to cook. My job isn't to do the math. My job is to find the people whose life's work is proving why the old math sucks, and give them a blank whiteboard.
Now that felt like a proper first step.
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