The officer in charge studied the figure standing before him like a spear driven into the earth. The man's face was hard and cold, his expression carved from stone. A luxurious cloak draped over his shoulders, black leather gloves covered his hands, and yet—his eyes held no warmth, no flicker of emotion. It was as if this man had been stripped of humanity itself.
"Sticking your nose where it doesn't belong, outsider?" the officer asked. He wasn't angry. In fact, his lips curled into a smile touched with curiosity.
He had served under the Baron long before the tyrant seized power. Back then, he was merely another hired blade. But now—now the Baron was King of Latveria. With foreign political backers, endless funding, and cutting-edge weaponry, his rule was ironclad. Those who had followed him in his early days, like this officer, now lived with unchecked arrogance.
No one dared oppose them. Those who tried had long since been reduced to ashes in the crematorium.
The soldiers closed in from all directions, encircling the young man without waiting for orders. They knew exactly what was expected. Grinning with sadistic anticipation, they flexed their fingers around their rifles. Compared to tormenting an unarmed gypsy child, this prey stirred a far greater bloodlust.
But the young man's gaze swept over them like a winter gale. His eyes were devoid of life—pure ice, merciless, unflinching.
And then it happened, all in an instant.
The soldier nearest him suddenly screamed, his body split clean in half as if carved by an invisible blade. His torso and legs toppled to the ground separately, his sneer frozen on his face even in death. Another was hurled backward as though seized by an unseen giant, his body smashing into a wall with bone-shattering force, crumpling into a mangled heap.
As for the officer—his end was the most horrifying. Dark emerald flames burst across his body, a hellfire that seemed to burn not just flesh, but soul. His screams tore through the square as he clawed at his own skin, trying desperately to smother the flames. To his terror, the fire had already seeped inside him, igniting him from within. The crowd could only watch as the officer was reduced to ash, nothing left, not even a shred of cloth.
The scene silenced all. Onlookers, moments ago gawking with detached indifference, now shrieked and fled in terror. Never in their lives had they witnessed such horrific deaths—soldiers of Latveria, snuffed out like insects.
No one wanted to be around when the Baron's wrath descended.
The young man cast one final, indifferent glance at the gypsy boy still crouched on the ground, stunned into silence. With his hands folded calmly behind his back, he carried himself not as a mere wanderer, but like a sovereign—like the rightful ruler of Latveria.
Gene stood nearby, watching Victor von Doom's display in silence. Only after the last flame died did Doom stride to his side.
"I wasn't saving the boy," Doom said curtly, his voice tight, eager to clarify. "Those idiots simply offended me."
Gene's calm eyes studied him. "Or was it because that gypsy boy reminded you of yourself as a child?"
Doom's jaw tightened. His childhood in Latveria was the darkest time of his life. Here, he lost both his parents. Here, his innocence was stolen by cruelty and blood. If not for soldiers like these, perhaps he might have known happiness.
He snorted, his tone biting. "These people are nothing—numb, stagnant, worthless. A swarm of flies buzzing without purpose. They have no value."
Then his gaze flicked toward Gene. "In fact, most life on Earth is the same. Sometimes I wonder—how did this planet manage to produce beings like you and me? It's a miracle Earth doesn't deserve."
Gene regarded him quietly. "Victor, we may see farther than others, we may know more—but it doesn't change what we are at our core."
"Perhaps."
Doom did not truly agree, but he did not argue further. His attention was fixed on his goal.
Leading Gene through twisting streets, Doom eventually brought him to a crumbling industrial district. "What I do now isn't just revenge," Doom said, his voice carrying the weight of destiny. "It is a proclamation. A declaration to all of Latveria—their rightful monarch has returned."
"And the fool who squats on my throne will soon hear his own death knell ring from within his castle. I will see him drown in fear, suffering every waking moment. I will make him taste despair one drop at a time."
Gene shrugged. He didn't comment on Doom's obsession.
They slipped through a narrow alley into the shadow of a warehouse. Armed guards stood watch, assault rifles in hand.
"Who are you?" one barked, lifting his weapon nervously, as though the steel in his hands might grant him courage.
"I have an appointment," Doom said calmly. "Tell Kafsky that Doctor Doom wishes to see him."
The guard hesitated, then spoke into his radio. A moment later, the warehouse doors groaned open.
Doom entered without a glance back.
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T/N:
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