Boom!
With an earth-shattering crash, a massive crater was blasted open from beneath the rubble as Doom exploded upward, panting as he stood tall again. It was clear—Gene’s previous strike hadn’t just launched him through a skyscraper. The lingering magical energy continued to wreak havoc within Doom’s body, disrupting the flow of his internal magic.
He gritted his teeth, one hand pressed to his side—it was obvious he’d taken serious damage.
Gene walked toward him with that sa calm, composed deanor. He looked completely unscathed, his aura conveying a quiet ssage: "We have all the ti in the world. Let’s take it slow."
Doom’s eyes narrowed as his fists clenched tightly.
Why?
Why was it that even after all he had achieved, he still couldn’t surpass Gene Mason?
He thought that after embracing the power of the dark dinsion, his strength had undergone a qualitative leap—power that he could never have imagined before. But now, the man before him was far more powerful than he had anticipated.
He suddenly recalled that mont in the hell dinsion, when he had stood before the demonic lord phisto—small and helpless, with no clue how to resist. It had been Gene who appeared in ti, wielding a perfect blend of magic and technology. As a re mortal, he battled phisto for what seed like hundreds of rounds.
And phisto... was a true god.
That day, Doom had made up his mind: he would beco just as strong as Gene.
After joining S.W.O.R.D., Doom had imrsed himself in technology and mystic studies, obsessively mastering both. Gene had been generous with his knowledge, guiding him through it all. Doom had believed he was finally catching up to his ntor—maybe even surpassing him with the dark power coursing through his veins.
But this brutal confrontation told a different story.
No matter how hard he tried, Gene always seed several steps ahead. It now seed likely that Gene hadn’t even used half his full strength. He could neutralize any of Doom’s attacks without even breaking a sweat.
Co now, Victor, a seductive voice echoed in Doom’s mind. Your master is not invincible. You simply haven’t truly embraced the darkness. But if you do—if you open yourself completely—you might stand a chance of defeating him.
Yes... maybe that was it.
Half-asures would never be enough. How could he possibly defeat Gene when even Galactus—a god of the cosmos—had been challenged within Gene’s own domain?
Only with true, overwhelming power could he rescue his mother from phisto’s grasp. Even if it ant damning his soul for eternity.
"AHHHH!!"
Doom roared, lifting his arms to the sky as an endless torrent of dark energy poured into him from above.
But before the ritual could be completed, Gene acted. Crimson bands shot out, binding Doom’s arms and halting the flow of power. His magic was instantly cut off, his body frozen mid-channeling.
Two identical Gene Masons appeared before him—clones summoned by his mastery of mystic replication.
Doom howled in frustration, struggling to break free from the red restraints. But it was useless. Even the magic within his body had been sealed.
These were the Crimson Bands of Cyttorak—powerful enough to subdue even gods temporarily. Doom in his current state had no hope of escaping.
"It’s over, Victor. This ends now."
Gene stepped forward, drawing a complex glowing magic circle with a flick of his wrist.
"It’s ti to wake up from this nightmare."
His voice was calm—almost compassionate.
He placed his hand gently on Doom’s helt.
In an instant, darkness swallowed Doom whole.
A cold and crushing silence enveloped the world around him. This... was the inner world of Victor Von Doom.
Anyone who entered would feel the deep isolation and suffocating despair. It was like the bottom of the ocean—lightless, endless, hopeless.
In the midst of that void, a small boy sat curled into a ball, sobbing silently.
Though the world saw Victor Von Doom as a genius—scientist, sorcerer, elite S.W.O.R.D. operative, sharp-minded and unyielding—deep inside, he was just a lonely child.
Suddenly, two icy figures appeared behind the boy, their faces emotionless.
"Victor."
They spoke in unison.
"...Father? Mother?"
Doom’s eyes widened at the familiar faces.
"You’ve truly disappointed ," said Grace Von Doom, her voice as frigid as ever. "Just like I predicted—you’re cold, ruthless, a born destroyer."
"But... Mother, I’ve been trying to save you!" Doom cried desperately.
"Save ?" Grace sneered, as if she’d heard a joke. "If you really wanted to save , why wait until now? You would have co long ago."
"You were just a mistake," said his father, Wernher Von Doom, eyes filled with contempt. "I should’ve let you die on that mountain instead of giving you my coat."
"No! Father!"
Young Doom reached out, trying to grasp them. But his hands found only empty, icy air.
He collapsed to his knees, sobbing.
Above him, two massive crimson eyes opened in the dark.
"Victor Doom... this is your tragic fate," the voice thundered with seductive power. "But follow , and you can rewrite it all. Your parents will return to you. You’ll have the power to make them proud again."
Images of his parents—laughing, alive—began to swirl around those glowing red eyes.
Doom stood up in a trance, gaze hollow, slowly walking toward the eyes.
Then—
A black-gloved hand reached out from the darkness.
"Victor," a voice commanded, filled with steely authority, "pull yourself together. Be a man."
The voice brooked no refusal.
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T/N:
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