Wanda's eyes blazed with scarlet fire, her hair whipping around her like a queen from a cinematic dream.
Normally, she might have brushed this off. But this pale-faced machine had dared to infiltrate S.W.O.R.D. headquarters—right in front of her. If their director found out, how could she possibly hold her head high?
"You come out—now!"
Her furious cry echoed through the chamber as waves of Chaos Magic surged like a crimson tide into the steel walls. The overwhelming energy twisted itself into a gigantic hand, ripping Vision straight out of the wall despite his altered density.
For the first time since gaining self-awareness, Vision felt something he had never known before—surprise.
Ultron had created him with perfection in mind, and his infiltration protocols were clear: even if discovered, he could simply phase through solid matter, slipping away like a ghost. His density-shifting ability had always been unstoppable.
But Wanda's Chaos Magic tore that certainty to pieces. It ignored the intangibility of his form, yanking him from the wall and slamming him onto the floor like a captured animal.
His body was battered, his synthetic skin shredded. Exposed beneath the damage, bionic alloys sparked with blue arcs of energy, revealing a skeletal framework eerily similar to human bones. A jagged fissure split across his head, electricity crackling at its edges.
Vision writhed, only to discover his worst fear—his prized ability was sealed. He could not shift density. He was trapped, pinned beneath Wanda's will like a lamb awaiting slaughter.
"Who sent you?" Wanda's voice rang sharp, each word punctuated by the glow of scarlet in her eyes.
"Whoa… unbelievable." Spider-Man couldn't hold back a gasp as he eyed Vision's torn frame. "So he's… a robot?"
Vision gave no reply. Deep within his neural network, processes fired, data restructured—yet no matter how he calculated, no solution appeared. He was outmatched. Wanda's power exceeded every projection.
"Yes," Wanda answered coldly. "He isn't human. He's artificial intelligence… but one with true self-awareness. And anything with awareness—" her voice darkened, "—I can read."
She raised her hand, pressing it gently to Vision's head. Chaos Magic poured from her palm, scarlet energy surging into his systems. The jewel in his forehead—the icy blue Mind Gem—flared, resisting her intrusion with a cold, unearthly light.
Wanda's consciousness was instantly drowned in chaos: endless streams of zeroes and ones, tangled algorithms, cascading fragments of corrupted code. It was more overwhelming than any mind she had ever probed. Not even her mastery of hypnosis had prepared her for such raw disorder.
Suddenly, the gemstone blazed with power ten times greater than before. The icy light swallowed Wanda in a storm of blue radiance.
"Uh, guys… that can't be normal, right?" Spider-Man muttered nervously, watching the clash unfold.
"Everyone, get back!"
His Spider-Sense screamed like never before. He leapt, shoving the others behind him just as the chamber detonated in a violent explosion.
Scarlet and blue beams sliced outward like blades, shredding everything in their path. Ceiling, walls, and floor melted like butter under a hot knife. Shockwaves of raw energy ripped through the command center, flattening anyone within reach against the ground.
When at last the blast subsided, the air reeked of scorched metal. Carefully, the heroes rose. The pale, corpse-like android was gone—disappeared. Only Wanda remained, standing amidst the destruction, her breathing ragged.
She frowned, her chest tightening with recognition. That surge of energy… it was achingly familiar.
No—she was certain now. It was the same essence linked to the Ancient Ice Coffin, the weapon that had once plunged Earth into an age of ice during the Nine-Star Alignment.
And if this machine drew power from that ancient relic, the truth was chillingly clear: someone had stolen the Ice Coffin from S.W.O.R.D. and torn the Gem from within it, forging it into Vision's core.
The question was—who had that kind of audacity?
Meanwhile, in Gene's office—
"You are correct," said Doctor Doom, his deep voice steady beneath the shadow of his emerald cloak. His silver armor gleamed, cold and imperious. "Through the guidance of destiny, I found the place of legend. I gained knowledge no mortal could ever dream of. I reached that sacred land buried in mountains and eternal snow. And the moment I stepped within, I heard it—the turning of the gears of fate."
Doom's eyes gleamed with fanatic conviction.
"I knew then that I was the one they awaited. The prophecy had always spoken of me. The monks imparted their lifetime of wisdom… and I surpassed them. I rose above their limits."
A cruel smile touched his lips.
"I became their Lord."
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Doom had once followed Gene's advice—to seek out the lost temple hidden among the mountains and blizzards, where fate itself would be revealed. There, he had found the monks. There, he had found his destiny.
Now, in Gene's office, the atmosphere was calm, almost deceptively so. Gene sat in his chair, fingers steepled under his chin, eyes fixed steadily on his protégé.
"So," Gene said evenly, "if you've managed to return here alive, I can assume you've succeeded."
"Of course." Doom's voice carried its usual controlled calm, yet beneath that composure burned unmistakable pride. "I've spent every waking hour in study, forsaking sleep, forsaking comfort. Others might not understand, but you do, Gene—I have mastered everything they had to offer, and made it my own."
He stepped forward, brushing past the obstacles between them, his armored figure gleaming. The silver mask of his helmet caught the light with a faint glimmer of excitement.
"You cannot imagine what those monks preserved over centuries. Knowledge beyond human grasp. They were like you, Gene—fusing sorcery with science. Their designs, their creations—if an outsider were to glimpse them, they would think they had stumbled into a dream made real."
"Perhaps," Gene replied calmly, "you'll show me someday."
"Oh, I will. There are many things I intend to discuss with you, because you're the only one in this world capable of understanding. To speak to anyone else would be like speaking to cattle. But not now." Doom's voice sharpened, his presence hardening like tempered steel. He stood taller, a reflection of the ambitious student Gene had once introduced to the arcane path—only now, that drive had returned fiercer, honed to a razor's edge.
"As prophecy foretold, I have become their master. I know what comes next. That is why I came back to you. My first step forward… is Latveria."
The course of history was shifting back onto the familiar tracks of the comics—Doom, having embraced his destiny, now sought to claim his homeland. With his newfound arcane might fused with cutting-edge science, he would rise to seize Latveria's throne and transform the obscure, impoverished nation into a technological superpower.
"So you intend to take control of Latveria?"
"Yes." Doom's reply was cold as winter steel. "Or rather, reclaim what is mine. That man murdered my father and mother, and now sits content on a stolen throne. I will make him understand that every sin demands its price."
"And what you seek most right now," Gene asked, "is Latveria. So your reason for coming here… is to ask for my help?"
"No. Taking Latveria will be my work alone. I will prove to you that I am capable of it. Yes, I have questions only you can answer—but before I ever ask for your aid, I will prove I am worthy of it." Doom's eyes gleamed behind the mask, voice resonant with determination. "That is why I invite you—no, I implore you. Come with me. Witness it. Witness me take back what was always mine. Witness me seize my destiny."
His words were laden with pride and conviction, but also with the unspoken bond of trust between student and master. Like a scholar returning from a pilgrimage, eager to show his teacher what he had learned, Doom all but vibrated with urgency.
"Very well, Victor." Gene finally rose from his chair. His voice carried a rare edge of anticipation. "Show me. Show me just how much you've grown."
Far away, in the bleak lands of Latveria, in a ragged, poverty-stricken town, a young boy ran for his life. His small frame darted through crumbling alleyways, chased relentlessly by armed soldiers.
His foot caught, stumbling. He crashed to the ground. The soldiers were on him instantly.
A sharp crack echoed as the boy was hurled into a pile of garbage, then dragged out like a discarded carcass. Military boots slammed into his frail body again and again, each blow landing with savage force. The boy curled tight, arms and legs shielding his most vulnerable parts, but it was no use. Pain lanced through him with every strike, burning, crushing, making his insides feel as though they were tearing apart.
The townspeople watched, but no one intervened. No one even flinched. Such scenes were daily occurrences in Latveria. The victims were always the same—the Romani. Their suffering drew only cold indifference. To most, the Gypsies' lives and deaths meant nothing.
But today was different.
As the soldiers vented their cruelty on the boy, one of them suddenly felt a heavy, gloved hand settle on his shoulder. A black gauntlet.
Before he could even turn, raw power surged through him. His body was lifted like a ragdoll and hurled dozens of meters away, crashing to the ground in a heap. He lay still, unmoving, as if struck down by the hand of a god.
The brutality ceased. The other soldiers froze, staring at the figure who now stood before them.
In this era, who would dare interrupt the will of the military? To them, it was unthinkable—laughable.
And yet, someone had.
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