"Ms. Frost, among this year's invitees to the March Convention, there are a few names that deserve… special attention," Amanda reported, posture straight, tone respectful.
Emma Frost—White Queen, telepath, professional manipulator—accepted the file with one hand, already bored with the idea of the March Convention at Atlas University.
She didn't dislike Atlas.
She just didn't respect it.
Unfortunately, as the White Queen of the Hellfire Club, attending these little academic masquerades came with the job description. Power, after all, required maintenance and appearances.
Atlas University had been founded in 1900. On paper, it was an elite academic institution.
In reality? It was a Hellfire Club farm—free-range, ethically sourced, and carefully curated from behind the curtain.
The process was simple, straightforward and morally questionable.
First, you taught the students that the world was unfair.
Then, you convinced them it needed to be changed.
Finally, you offered them the tools—and the salary—to do exactly that.
Science majors were quietly funneled into Hellfire-affiliated research firms.
Economists, historians, strategists? Think tanks.
Entertainment students? Media empires, propaganda divisions, culture-shaping machines wearing friendly smiles.
Atlas supplied the blood.
The Hellfire Club decided where it flowed.
And yet… Emma barely cared.
From her perspective, anyone truly worth recruiting had already been recruited years ago. The rest were leftovers, late bloomers, or delusional idealists still high on campus speeches.
The only reason she bothered showing up at all was her mutation.
Reading memories was useful.
It told her who was loyal, who was lying, who was thinking about defecting and who might be dangerous enough to become interesting.
"Hm," Emma hummed, skimming the list. "Danny White. Jonathan Jackson. Mark James…"
Her eyebrow lifted slightly. "Edward's son, if I'm not mistaken?"
Amanda nodded immediately. "Yes. He's unaware of the Club—or his father's real network—but he lives up to the family name. Exceptional at building connections. People trust him without knowing why."
"Charming and useful," Emma murmured, making a small note beside Mark's name. "A classic combination."
She continued down the list, unimpressed, until one name made her pause.
"…Nineteen years old. No recorded connections," she said, tapping the page lightly. "That usually means one of two things. Incompetent—or terrifyingly talented."
Amanda leaned in. "Harry Hart."
Emma glanced up. "Talk."
"Mark's close friend. Raised by his grandmother—recently deceased. Socially isolated, but academically absurd. One of the best students Atlas has ever produced. Well-versed in almost everything worth knowing."
Amanda hesitated, then added, "He released a book ten days ago."
Emma's eyes sharpened. "And?"
"With proper promotion, our models predict it will top the bestseller list."
Emma smiled. "Now that's a talent worth knowing about. Buy me his book. Let's see if the hype survives contact with my standards."
Truthfully, she could've just skimmed the mind of literally anyone who'd already read it and been done in under thirty seconds.
But where was the fun in that?
Reading—actually reading—meant anticipation, discovering the small, petty joy of judging an author in real time. And yes, occasionally, she did indulge in interesting books.
Amanda, who had long since mastered the art of understanding Emma without needing extra syllables, nodded smoothly.
"It's already been purchased, Ms. Frost. Listed under this week's entertainment acquisitions."
Of course it was.
With her ability to read and nudge minds like chess pieces, managing companies was less work and more curation.
She simply identified the competent, filtered out the useless, and gently—sometimes not so gently—adjusted motivations as needed.
Loyalty, efficiency, ambition… all very editable traits.
And honestly? She didn't lose sleep over the manipulation. Most people were already lying to themselves. She was just helping them be productive about it.
Naturally, this left Emma with an obscene amount of free time—second only to the Black Queen—which explained the weekly 'entertainment' budget and the alarming number of hobbies she cycled through.
"Alright," Emma said lightly, interest flickering in her eyes. "Bring it to me after dinner."
Everyone knew the optimal reading window: stomach full, brain relaxed, sleep still a respectful distance away. Snacks would make it perfect—but that went without saying. Amanda didn't need the memo.
...
...
...
(Harry's POV)
One underrated perk of becoming a mutant—right after not dying horribly—was the free upgrade to both my body and my brain.
Like, no, I'm not Captain America, I'm not peak human perfection wrapped in patriotic spandex. But I'm comfortably past 'gym bro who never skips leg day', enough that doors now look optional even without using my ability.
I'd slept two hours after my conversation with Mark, yet here I was, wide awake, fully charged, running on mutant energy and unresolved ambition.
Truth be told, I never planned to sink real time into the entertainment industry. That was never the endgame, kingdom-building is. Everything else is just side quests—useful ones, sure—but still side quests.
And honestly, my mind was already moving past the present. I'd begun compiling the list. The kind of people you don't recruit—you acquire, preferably before history does something dramatic with them.
Any publicly known genius? I already had them bookmarked mentally. Tony Stark would've been nice. Ideal, even.
Unfortunately, he hasn't been kidnapped yet, hasn't stared into the abyss of human cruelty from a cave in the desert. Still in his 'weapons are cool' phase.
Then there's Reed Richards. Easily one of the most brilliant minds alive—and also, somehow, one of my least favorite humans.
I respect the brain. I resent… everything else. The ego. The moral gymnastics. Hard pass, even if the math checks out.
Susan Storm? Now she was interesting. Smart, composed, terrifyingly competent. Johnny and Ben, though… great guys, probably. Just not exactly 'founding pillars of a sovereign state' material.
And anyway, none of them even have powers yet. Premature shopping is how you get disappointed.
Victor Von Doom, though? Now that was a thinker. Our ideologies aligned disturbingly well—which was precisely the problem.
Doom doesn't follow. He replaces. If I ever put him under my banner, he'd smile politely while building his own faction, just waiting for the day I slipped, which is a hard pass.
Luckily, not everyone worth recruiting was locked behind destiny and plot armor. Some were… available. Like Dr. Bruce Banner.
There'd been news a while back about a possible green mutant sighting smashing things. Seriously—this timeline is already messed up. Might as well take advantage of it.
There was also Peter Parker and Gwen Stacy. According to the intel I'd managed to dig up, they were thankfully not babies but actual teenagers.
Which meant the eternal New York 'friendly neighborhood menace-to-crime' was already jogging toward his destiny. Of course, that destiny came with fine print—could be Spider-Man, could be Ghost-Spider, could be some multiversal remix nobody asked for but still has to deal with.
Still, Peter Parker's intellect? Undeniable. The kid's brain is a walking Nobel Prize speedrun. And somehow—miraculously—he was also one of the more recruitable geniuses on the list.
Socially awkward, morally stubborn, emotionally responsible to a fault. Basically, a nightmare for villains and a dream for long-term nation-building.
Then there were the high-tier adults: Dr. Erik Selvig. Dr. Helen Cho. Maya Hansen. The 'I could change the world but I'm busy being ethically conflicted' crowd. The problem? None of them were easy picks.
People like that don't just join you because you smile nicely and promise a better future. You need blueprints, leverage, proof and vision. Probably a TED Talk and at least one morally questionable PowerPoint presentation.
Still, I was confident. One way or another, I'd pull it off.
—Knock. Knock.—
My thoughts were rudely evicted by the sound at the door. I glanced over.
"Looks like Mark's already here," I muttered, standing up. "Great. Let's hope today includes meeting at least one great beauty. Preferably the type with that dangerous aesthetic."
I opened the door. It was Mark. He froze for half a second, then squinted at me like I'd just betrayed him on a personal level.
"Wow, man," he said. "Did you start hitting the gym behind my back or something?"
I closed the door first—the old house I'd inherited from my grandma, currently my biggest asset though more probably not for long. My copyright for Death Note may be already more expensive than this.
"Please," I said, rolling my shoulders. "I've always been the athletic type. Uni just kidnapped my soul, and my book finished the job. Now that I finally have free time, what else am I supposed to do? Meditate? Touch grass?"
I paused, then added helpfully, "I'd recommend it to you too. Might partially counteract the long-term damage caused by your… lifestyle."
Mark snorted. "Wow. Rude."
Truthfully, I wasn't planning to hide the whole mutant thing from him forever. That secret had an expiration date. With how high-profile my future kingdom was going to be, it's simply impossible.
But now wasn't the time. I wanted control first. Enough power that if the truth ever slipped—accidentally or otherwise—I could protect the people I cared about without hesitation. Secrets are safer when you can enforce them.
(END OF THE CHAPTER)