Chapter 71 – Lessons from the Wind

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The ocean air rolled in, gentle and unhurried, brushing across the sandy shore of Krakoa. Seagulls wheeled lazily in the sky. The tide whispered to the sand in rhythmic hushes. And on the ground—cross-legged in a patch of soft grass—Jack Hou sat, eyes half-lidded in pure annoyance.

"Haaaaaaaahhh…" he sighed, long and loud, as if trying to let his boredom escape into the clouds. "Where the hell are they? Didn't they say they'd come back to talk with you about something? And, more importantly…"—he plucked at the hem of the shirt—"bring me my clothes?"

Beside him, Krakoa's petal-shaped humanoid form sat stiffly, mimicking his posture, if a being of wind and vine could truly sit. "They did say that," Krakoa replied with a soft rustle of flowers. "The one made of metal had… thoughts. Ideas."

Jack raised an eyebrow. "That guy, huh? Big, caring type. What did he say?"

"He said his name is Piotr," Krakoa answered. "And he told me to be careful. That more groups of people will try to reach the island soon."

Jack stretched out his legs. "Hmph. Smart man. He's not wrong. The more you show up on maps, the more people start acting like you belong to them."

Krakoa tilted its head. "Then I must be ready to defend myself."

"Yeah," Jack said. "But defense isn't just vine fists and root claws, my flowery friend. You're already good at that."

"You said that before," Krakoa replied. "You said I'm good at defending myself."

"Good doesn't mean you can't improve."

That made Krakoa go silent. Its form pulsed, faintly unsettled. Jack leaned forward, his tone softening. "Let's talk about your energy."

Krakoa froze.

"You've been avoiding it," Jack continued. "But it's time. I know it hurts. I know it opens the wound that has barely healed—but if you don't learn how to handle your energy absorption, it's going to keep hurting everyone else too."

"But I didn't… mean to," Krakoa murmured. "I didn't want to take their lives. It just… happens."

"I know," Jack said gently. "That's why I'm going to help you stop it from happening."

Krakoa looked up, hesitant. "But… why didn't it happen with you?"

Jack grinned. "Simple. I've been training to control my energy. Every day. Every breath. Every cell. My body, my spirit—they listen to me. And I want to teach you the same thing."

He stood up, brushing the sand off his legs. "Alright. Lesson one. Let's fix your foundation."

"First," Jack said, pacing like a pantless barefooted kung fu master in an X-Men trainee uniform, "you need to understand what energy circulation means."

He held up a finger. "Everything alive has Qi. Call it spirit, energy, life force—whatever. The point is: it moves. Like water. Like wind. If it moves wrong, it floods or rots. If it flows right, it nourishes everything."

Krakoa nodded slowly. "And… my energy?"

"Your energy's like a hungry root system with no gardener," Jack said. "You're constantly reaching. Absorbing. Because you don't know how to close the gates. You don't know how to guide the flow, so it just eats whatever's nearby."

He tapped his own chest. "Me? I built paths inside myself. Veins, channels. Highways for energy. I can open or close them depending on what I need. That's why even when we touched, you didn't absorb anything. I was guarded."

"I don't know if I can guard myself," Krakoa murmured. "That's what we're gonna learn." Jack pointed to the ground. "Sit. Focus." Krakoa sat again, mimicking Jack's posture. "Now close your eyes, or whatever it is your visual sense is."

"Feel your core," Jack said softly. "Not the vines. Not the leaves. The thing under all of it. The part that aches. That's where your true self lives." Krakoa's form pulsed.

"That ache," Jack continued, "that's the memory of everyone you absorbed. The fear. The guilt. It's raw. It's jagged. And right now, that pain is screaming through your energy channels like a storm with no walls." Krakoa trembled slightly. "But what we're going to do now… is build the walls."

Jack's voice slowed, almost like a lullaby. "Breathe, even if you don't need air. Imagine a current inside you, flowing from the roots to the sky. From the soil to the clouds. Don't stop it—just watch it."

Krakoa's petals quivered. Vines curled. The air grew still.

"Now," Jack whispered, "start shaping that current. Not tight. Not stiff. Just enough to give it form. Think of it like a gentle riverbank. A way for the energy to move where you want it."

The ground beneath them seemed to quiet. Even the wind held its breath. Silence. Then—"I can't." Jack opened one eye. "Huh?"

"I can't… focus," Krakoa admitted. "It tickles. Everything's moving. The trees. The air. The dirt. Your butt."

Jack blinked, then burst out laughing. "Kekekekeke!" His face gleamed with manic joy. "Ohhhh… so this is what the old perv felt like…" He reached to his earring and summoned Ruyi Jingu Bang, which extended with a satisfying shnnnnk! until it was exactly 50 centimeters long—just the right size. Jack twirled it casually, then without warning—WHAP!

He slapped Krakoa's petal-shoulder with the rod. Krakoa recoiled in shock. "Wha—!?" Jack, channeling his best crusty old Taoist impression, barked, "Steady yourself, green mold!"

"Green mold?" Krakoa blinked, offended. "Jack, what are you—?" WHAP! Another slap. This time, across the head. Jack spun the staff and pointed it at him, eyes burning with chaotic glee. "Address me properly! I am your master now!"

Krakoa took a step back. "No, you're not!" The petal-form began to ripple and shift, vines swirling in retreat. Jack grinned wider. "Oh? Defying your master already, huh? Tsk tsk tsk… What an ungrateful disciple."

"You're insane!" Krakoa shouted, turning to flee—laughing the whole time. Jack stood, stretched like a cat, and casually tossed the staff into the air before catching it behind his back. "Ahhh, having this kind of student…" He spun the staff and grinned. "You should be grateful, kid."

And then—he charged. "KEKEKEKEKEKE!!!" His maniacal laughter echoed through the trees like thunder. Krakoa fled through the forest, screaming, petals fluttering like panicked butterflies. Jack chased right after—barefoot, howling, swinging the Ruyi Jingu Bang with terrifying glee.

Every time he passed a tree, he gave it a whack! WHAP! WHAP! WHAP! Krakoa yelped in protest from every tree slapped. "HEY! I feel those, you maniac!"

"That's the point!" Jack shouted gleefully. "Part of the training! Body and soul are one, remember?!"

"You're not training me, you're bullying ME!!"

Jack's laughter echoed even louder. And so began the ridiculous, wonderful, explosive chase of Master Jack and his unwilling student Krakoa, with petals flying, trees trembling, and wild laughter shaking the canopy.

In that moment, no council, no war, no looming crisis existed. Just one madman, a living island, and a lesson no monk in Heaven could ever teach.

…

The hum of a motorcycle engine cut through the morning calm like a blade.

The chrome beast rolled into the Xavier mansion garage, its paint gleaming under the fluorescent lights. The sound—deep, thunderous, proud—echoed through the halls and caught the attention of the young mutants wandering nearby.

Kurt Wagner was the first to appear, teleporting in with a puff of blue smoke. "Woooww…" he said, tail curling in excitement. "New bike?"

Samuel Zachary Guthrie peeked around the corner. "Holy crap, look at that thing! Can you rev it, Mr. Logan?"

Sean Cassidy whistled low. "Isn't that all still stock, though?"

Logan didn't say a word. He just turned the key. Rrrr-rrrRRRRRROOOOAAAARRRR. The engine's growl shook the walls. It was glorious. The kids collectively lost their minds. "Still needs a few tweaks," Logan said, eyes behind his shades.

Gabriel Summers leaned forward, grinning. "Are you kidding? That's already perfect!"

Kurt squinted. "You know, I've seen this kind of bike before…"

Sean snapped his fingers. "It's like the one Johnny Blaze rides!"

Kurt's eyes lit up. "That's it! The Crash Simpson Stunt Cycle Extravaganza!"

The whole group surged forward to admire the machine.

Logan sighed. "That stupid stunt monkey…"

Kurt looked offended. "Hey! He's the great Johnny Blaze! His stunt shows always sell out!"

Gabriel nodded. "Yeah, where'd you get this thing, teach?"

Logan muttered, "Friend of mine offered it to me. If I'd known it was the same kind of bike that cocky show-off rides, I'd have passed."

Kurt knelt beside the bike. "Which part would you modify first?"

Logan stood still, hands in his pockets. "Dunno yet."

But even as the kids buzzed with excitement, Logan's face didn't quite match the mood. Behind the glasses, behind the gravel voice—there was distance. Thoughtfulness. A storm he wasn't showing. This, right here—the bike, the banter, the tools—this was how Logan processed things.

The trust broken by Charles Xavier still echoed in the back of his mind. He didn't have the words to express that kind of betrayal. So, he didn't try. He moved. He did. He acted. He opened the mini-fridge tucked in the garage corner—his personal stash. Pulled out a beer. Twisted the cap, popped it off with his thumb, and took a long, quiet gulp.

Samuel blinked. "Uhhh… Teach Logan… it's still morning."

Logan exhaled. "Mind your business, kid."

He stepped over to the tool chest, dragging it closer with his boot. He set the beer on top, rolled up his sleeves, and cracked his knuckles. Then he looked up at the boys. "Alright… you wanna help me take this bad boy apart?"

The kids froze. Then— "HELL YEAH!" in unison.

Logan smiled—really smiled—just a small, tired curve at the edge of his lips. "Alright then," he said, cracking open the toolkit. And just like that, the sound of wrenches, laughter, and revving engines replaced the silence in Logan's heart—even if just for a while.

…

Piotr Rasputin walked with his usual quiet strength—each step steady, purposeful. The hall was quiet in the way only early morning halls could be: soft light through stained glass, distant laughter muffled through stone, a breeze carrying echoes of children training in the distance.

As he passed one of the old corridors, he paused. There, standing utterly still, was John Proudstar—shoulders broad, arms crossed, eyes locked onto the painting of the original X-Men. The oil portrait captured them young, noble, and idealistic—Xavier at the center, hands behind his back, calm and composed.

John didn't flinch. His jaw was clenched, unreadable. Piotr took a step closer, his voice calm but teasing. "You're standing unguarded, warrior. That's unlike you."

John blinked, startled. He hadn't heard Piotr at all. Then a small, tired smile spread across his face. "Well… there's a lot my 'warrior self' never thought I'd need to handle."

Piotr nodded, his gaze drifting to the painting. "Yeah. A lot has happened." A beat passed. Then Piotr said, "I was heading to Golden Peach. You want to come?"

John raised an eyebrow. "Why?"

"We did promise Jack we'd bring him his clothes," Piotr answered, deadpan.

John snorted. "He seemed perfectly content in that ridiculous oversized shirt. But…" He stretched his neck. "I've been thinking. Maybe we should actually look around his territory a bit. Get to know it."

Piotr's brow lifted slightly. "Curious?"

John shrugged. "After what he did… and what Jack represented in the media… yeah."

Piotr nodded once. "Come then. I was about to take the car."

John turned, already moving. "Dibs on driving."

Piotr smirked faintly, pulled the keys from his coat, and casually tossed them to him. The metal door creaked open as Piotr and John entered. They were met by a familiar scene.

Logan, crouched beside his new motorcycle, sleeves rolled up, surrounded by Kurt, Sam Guthrie, Gabriel Summers, and Sean Cassidy. The kids were wide-eyed, asking questions about carburetors, torque, and ignition systems as Logan grunted non-answers between sips of beer.

John whistled low. "Didn't know you were teaching mechanical classes now, Logan."

Logan didn't even look up. "There's no such thing. They're just loud."

The boys grinned. Kurt waved. "We're learning, though!"

Sam chimed in. "Yeah! Teacher Logan says torque is basically muscle."

Sean added, "And power-to-weight ratio makes it go boom!"

Gabriel held up a wrench like a sacred relic.

Piotr smiled politely. "You're in good hands. Try not to break anything… valuable."

Logan gave a snort. "Speak for your own damn SUV, tin man."

John patted the hood of the blacked out-military-grade SUV, already in place near the garage exit. "That's our ride."

Piotr opened the passenger side, sliding in with graceful weight. "Ready when you are."

John slid into the driver's seat, turned the key, and the engine purred like a caged beast. He looked to Piotr. "Let's go see what kind of territory the pantsless criminal philosopher has built." And with that, the SUV rolled out of the Xavier Mansion.

**A/N**

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