Today, March 11th, 2024, exactly 10 p.m.
Sitting at my wooden desk in the sanctum of my personal study—a bastion of Doom's knowledge—surrounded by towering shelves groaning under the weight of ancient tomes: arcane grimoires from forgotten ages, scientific treatises stolen from the greatest minds of the world, and histories of my nation that recount the rise of empires far grander than the petty squabbles of lesser countries.
I wear only my green tunic, without armor, its folds covering my battered body, and my metal mask remains in place—a constant reminder of the scars life has given me, both visible and invisible. Here, no one intrudes. This is my domain, where even the Doombots stand silent behind the door.
The quill in my hand writes this personal record on parchment with deliberate precision. Doom does not need this, but I did not expect something that would make me understand and reflect so perfectly. The price of divinity.
I, Victor von Doom, am paying dearly for all that I have seized. Power taken from others is never free; it exacts its toll in blood and essence, and now it devours me from within.
This affliction is worse than the scar that marred my face—an injury I have healed time and time again through sheer will and ingenuity, only for it to return, insidious and mocking, as if the universe itself conspires to humiliate me.
This new evil is no mere scar or stain. It is a disease born of cosmic retribution coursing through my veins, recalling my ancient struggles, undermining my strength with each passing day. It began as a subtle weakness—tremors in my limbs during my sessions of world domination—but now it coils around my soul. I feel it through my very being, eroding my vitality like acid upon inferior alloy. Medicine and science—tools I have mastered beyond any mortal—offer no diagnosis, no remedy. Scans reveal anomalies that defy logic, confounding even my most advanced laboratories.
I have delved deeper into the mystic arts, studying further into arcane magic, seeking solutions in every form of sorcery I have learned throughout my life, but nothing suffices.
Among them were the spells within my copy of the Darkhold.
Alongside my books of black, Asgardian, dark, and demonic magic—invocations of eldritch forces that would annihilate lesser sorcerers.
Not even the ancient Latverian spells, dark weavings from the womb of my homeland, passed down by my ancestors through shadowed tomes, can stem the flow.
So during this new period of study, I was forced to devise methods to delay the inevitable, forging new spells and enchantments based on a fusion of the magics I command, granting me borrowed time to secure the future of my empire.
Doom never degrades himself by asking others for help. Stephen and Clea Strange, those meddling mystics with their sanctimonious cloaks.
The Avengers, pretenders to heroism.
Or worse, the Fantastic Four—Richards and his insufferable family, Valeria excluded.
The very thought is pathetic, an admission of weakness unworthy of Doom.
I do not bow before mortals; I stand above them, eternal and unyielding.
No—I face this alone, as I always have.
I know only this: I am dying. And in that knowledge, I find clarity to reflect upon the path that led me here—the triumphs, the thefts, the powers that have scarred my soul as surely as this plague.
My parents, Cynthia and Werner von Doom, Romani wanderers in a land that despised them.
My mother, a sorceress of subtle arts, slain by the Baron's soldiers for her witchcraft when I was but a child.
My father, a humble healer, froze to death shielding me from the bitter winds as we fled persecution, leaving me orphaned in the misery of a gypsy camp.
Those early years forged me in fire—survival, the forbidden lore from my mother's hidden books, a vow of vengeance against tyrants who crushed the weak.
I rose alone through intellect, mastering science and magic alike, a prodigy unrecognized by the world. With the support of my father's friend Boris Karela and the surviving Zefiro clan around me, I met Boris's granddaughter, Valeria Karela—the woman I believed I loved for the first time.
Then I traveled to New York, on scholarship at State University, my first encounter with Ben Grimm and Reed Richards—that arrogant fool—my roommate, whose brilliant mind mirrored mine but lacked my resolve.
I created the machine to contact the dead, my mother, to free her from Mephisto. But my calculations were flawed—so Richards claimed—but I proceeded, and the explosion marked my face forever, casting me out of that institution of mediocrity.
I blame Richards for everything.
Exiled, I journeyed to the mountains of Tibet, where monks taught me the mystic arts and magic, where I met Larin, and where they forged my enchanted metal armor, tempered in dragonfire. I perfected my sorcery under hidden masters, emerging not as Victor, but as Doom, a name that would echo through eternity.
Returning to Latveria, I overthrew the king—a spineless puppet of foreign powers—in a revolution of blood and brilliance.
At last, I claimed the throne, transforming a stagnant nation into a technological utopia under my rule.
But power demanded more.
My dealings with Mephisto began then—the demon lord who held my mother's soul in hell. I schemed, battled, and maneuvered across realms, ultimately rescuing her essence in a catastrophic struggle that cost me dearly, yet marked my defiance even against infernal tyrants.
My legend grew.
My first clash with the accursed Richards came when I lured the Fantastic Four to my castle, seeking vengeance for the scars he indirectly caused.
I captured Susan Storm, using her as bait, and cast Richards, Grimm, and her brother through time to steal Merlin's stones, a ploy to fund my conquests. They escaped, as they always do, but the feud ignited anew.
Then came my alliances and conflicts with Namor, the Sub-Mariner.
Even weddings became battlegrounds.
When Richards dared to marry Susan Storm, I controlled several villains and unleashed chaos upon their ceremony—a symphony of vengeance, though thwarted by meddling heroes, Richards foremost among them.
The thefts, the cosmic powers I seized—each has taken its revenge on my form.
I absorbed the Power Cosmic from the Silver Surfer, binding myself to his board to wield his might against my enemies.
I claimed the Odinforce, becoming a king of gods briefly, commanding thunder and wisdom that should have been eternal.
I drained Wanda Maximoff's life force, fueling my spells with her untamed power, surprising all once more.
And then, the pinnacle: stealing the reality-warping essence of the Molecule Man and the omnipotence of the Beyonders themselves, forging my own world from the ruins of the multiverse.
I was the God-Emperor, reshaping existence.
All of this—seized from gods, demons, and Beyonders—has settled within my soul like poison, weakening me year by year. Doom can feel it.
What I believed were victories were slow corrosions, culminating in this reckoning.
And yet, as I seal my will with Latverian wax, I do not regret it.
Doom does not yield—he endures.
Latveria will prosper beyond me, and in death, I shall mock the cosmos that sought to break me.
The symptoms began two months ago, a faint unease at first: fatigue during a ritual invocation, a fleeting vertigo while surveying my domain from the battlements.
The Doombots no longer function as they should—they present the same symptoms despite being mere clones.
Now the pains intensify, lightning bolts surging through my form, visions that blur the edges of reality. Some spells within me struggle to maintain my stability.
And then, in the haze of my mind, I see him—Mephisto, that infernal charlatan—gazing at me from the pits of hell, his laughter a cacophony echoing across dimensions. He mocks me, as if my dealings with him birthed this curse, though I know better. The demon delights in my decline, but he underestimates Doom; even in death, I will deny him satisfaction.
Now I grasp the irony—standing in the shoes of one who endured the slow creep of mortality with quiet dignity: Boris.
Six months have passed since his death, my faithful retainer, my surrogate father after the loss of my parents, succumbing to cancer in his twilight years.
Boris, who shielded me in the shadows of childhood, who whispered tales of Latverian glory amid the despair of Romani camps.
He withered away in a Latverian hospice, his body betraying him cell by cell, but never wavering in loyalty.
I think, with a bitter edge, that the master now mirrors the servant.
But where Boris faded into darkness, my demise will reverberate through the universe—no, through universes—a cosmic tremor shaking the foundations of reality itself. Heroes will whisper in awe; villains, in envy.
And yet Latveria will prosper for all eternity, a monument to my vision, unyielding as the Carpathians.
Kristoff Vernard, my adoptive son and heir, whom I forged from the ashes of his tragic origins, is next to claim the Latverian throne.
Though disappointed in him—his betrayals, our clashes—I admit, inwardly, a flicker of annoyance akin to a flaw in flawless armor. Impulsive where I am calculated, rash in diplomacy where I wield subtlety like a scalpel.
Yet he alone is capable of filling my shadow, as he always was, trained by Doom himself in sorcery and science under my relentless tutelage.
For I am in control here. Doom always cares for him, despite our differences.
The Doombots, built for the event of my potential demise, cannot claim the throne, for this plague affects all that is Doom—every part of me.
Kristoff's right hand will always be my most loyal servant and champion, Zora Vukovic, Latverian to the core despite her Symkarian bloodline. Zora will rise when I am gone, I reflect—a rare spark of approval warming my thoughts.
For the glory of Latveria, for the eternal glory of Doom, she will enforce my decrees with precision, crushing dissent and expanding our borders through intellect and strength.
With Kristoff at the helm, the two of them alone can safeguard my empire—the twin pillars upon which the Latverian legacy rests.
Should anything befall Kristoff and Zora, Valeria Richards—my goddaughter and niece—is next in line for Latveria, decreed by Doom.
In time, she will surpass her father Richards—qualities she already displays.
How will that child react when she learns Doom will vanish from the world of the living?
And how will Kristoff and Zora respond?
They will not be alone.
Larin, my faithful monk with his endless longevity, Petra Karela, Boris's daughter, forever present in their lives, as well as Novak and Gunther, and above all, Doomstadt and Latveria itself.
Doom will watch from hell—with Mephisto as an obstacle—mocking him, battling him for eternity.
Doom does not lament—he plans.
Let the universes tremble at my passing; I shall orchestrate an exit worthy of legend, securing the immortality of my reign.
All shall hail Latveria, eternal in my shadow.
No one may read this parchment.
Doom will know and will crush whoever dares.
-------------------------
Castle Doom, Doomstadt, Latveria
In the dimly lit sanctuary of Doom's personal study, the night enveloped Doomstadt in shadow through the arched window, the capital of Latveria surrounded by the dark Carpathian mountains, some distance from the mountain that held the castle. The moon, the only striking source of light, was framed by several stars that complemented it, forming a twilight befitting the civilization below. Such clear nights were rare during the seasons of rain and fog that plagued these dates.
A short wooden desk stood with a terrestrial globe of Earth as decoration upon it, along with an inkwell and a long parchment as the main centerpiece. Victor von Doom, having already finished drafting his personal writing, sat in his personal chair, his pen resting beside the parchment. The room remained a fortress of intellect and solitude, with shelves of arcane volumes casting long shadows under the flickering candlelight. Clad in his green tunic, metallic mask, and unyielding demeanor, Doom's focus was absolute. With a snap of his fingers, he dismissed the parchment. At least he had vented a little through his writing; his fate was sealed, and he leaned slightly against his desk, contemplating what he was now living through.
Suddenly, a swirling vortex of violet energy ripped open in the center of the room, before the ruler of Latveria, crackling with temporal distortions that warped the air like the heat of a forge. Victor von Doom didn't look at it, but he mentally recognized who it was. From the vortex stepped someone clad in advanced armor of green and purple tones, accented by an ornate transparent blue helmet. His purple boots touched softly upon the stone floor as the portal closed behind him with a resonant hum, leaving behind faint strands of chronal energy that dissipated like smoke. Doom didn't flinch or even look in his direction, remaining centered solely on his thoughts.
"What do you want, Kang?" Doom intoned, his deep metallic voice layered with imperial disdain. "If you've come seeking vengeance for my necessary betrayal during our last encounter, I am not in the mood for your temporal theatrics."
Kang adjusted his gauntlets with an almost casual flourish, his posture relaxed yet predatory, like a panther surveying foreign territory. He stepped forward, his voice refined but edged with the subtle mockery of someone who had seen countless timelines.
"Greetings, Victor, once again—and no, it is not that," replied the time traveler in a low, measured tone, almost a whisper carrying the weight of eons. "The timeline has been affected."
Doom placed his pen back into the inkwell with force, now looking at him with a rare flicker of irritation beneath his mask.
"Speak plainly, meddling chrononaut! Doom has no patience for your riddles tonight." His voice rose like thunder, echoing across the valleys of Doomstadt.
Kang's lips curled into a sinister smile, his eyes gleaming with the amusement of a conqueror toying with a rival. He approached the desk, his fingers lazily reaching for the globe—a meticulously crafted model of Earth—from its place among Doom's artifacts. He rolled it between his palms, the continents glimmering under the candlelight as if he held the fate of worlds in his hands.
"Oh come now, Victor, don't pretend. You, of all beings, involved in timeline alteration? It's almost poetic." He leaned slightly forward, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur. "I know of your sickness… and the death that approaches. A disappearance that ripples consequences through your precious nation, and Earth itself."
Doom remained silent, his masked face unreadable, though his gauntleted fists tightened subtly on the desk, the metal groaning under the pressure. The air thickened with unspoken tension, the weight of his restrained fury palpable.
"In the near future of this timeline, and in several alternate futures I've glimpsed, your death ignites chaos. Various nations—power-hungry vultures like Russia, the United States, even remnants of Hydra—compete for control of Latveria, carving it up like conquered spoils". Kang mocked, a short, taunting bark of laughter escaping him as he rolled the globe with exaggerated care, spinning it lazily with the flick of a finger.
Doom now stared at him intently. With deliberate slowness, Kang stopped the globe's rotation and circled around the desk, leaning close to Doom's metal face, mere inches away, his breath a whisper against the unyielding mask. His eyes locked onto the slits where Doom's unseen gaze burned.
"Would you like to know who rises victorious in that fractured timeline? The one who claims your throne as his own?" Kang asked with mocking relish.
"I suspect I already know, insufferable would-be lord of time." Doom's voice emerged like abrasive steel, calm yet laced with poisonous certainty.
A tense beat passed, the two titans of intellect and ambition staring one another down. Then, Doom's tone darkened further, every syllable a promise of annihilation.
"I hate you, Kang." Doom said it sinisterly, staring into the traveler's white eyes with a gaze that could kill.
"Oh, Victor…" Kang met his stare defiantly, laughing at what was to come.
"I will kill you… slowly. Breaking your helmet against my fist will be a pleasure," the monarch declared with pride.
"Oh, Victor… I'll do it first—with your mask." Kang straightened, his sinister smile widening into one of genuine delight, the shadows of his helmet emphasizing the predatory gleam in his eyes.
For a moment, the study hung in silence. Then, unexpectedly, both erupted into laughter. Doom's was a deep, resonant boom, echoing against the stone walls like the toll of a governor's bell, mixed with dark irony and unshakable arrogance. Kang joined in, his sharp, cackling laugh carrying the madness of infinite wars—two rivals sharing a rare, twisted camaraderie born of mutual respect and eternal enmity. The sound filled the room, a harbinger of schemes yet to unfold, as the candle flames danced wildly in response.
///
Victor von Doom, always the master of his domain, straightened his posture beneath his green tunic, his metallic mask betraying no emotion as he regarded his uninvited guest. With a subtle gesture of his hands, fingers tracing arcane sigils in the air that glowed faintly with emerald sorcery, he conjured a pair of crystalline goblets and a bottle of Latverian vintage wine from thin air. The bottle materialized with a soft thrum of displaced atmosphere, its label engraved with the von Doom crest, a relic from his private cellars aged for centuries through mystical preservation. The goblets floated briefly before gently settling on the desk, and Doom poured the deep crimson liquid with deliberate elegance, the wine swirling like blood in a chalice.
"I rarely entertain temporal pests like you." Doom intoned, his voice—a resonant baritone filtered through his mask—carrying the weight of imperial command. He extended a goblet toward Kang, the gesture blended with calculated hospitality, a predator offering a momentary truce in the midst of the hunt. "But since you insist on invading my personal sanctum for the third time, partake. It is a vintage worthy of conquerors—or those who fancy themselves as such."
"How kind, Victor. One could almost forget our mutual vows of annihilation." Kang the Conqueror arched a brow beneath his ornate helmet, his sinister smile lingering as he accepted the glass without hesitation. He lifted the goblet in a mock toast, the wine catching the candlelight like fractured timelines, before taking a measured sip.
The two titans stepped away from the desk, gravitating toward the center of the room, where the stone floor bore faint scorch marks from past arcane experiments. They stood facing one another, the arched window behind them framing the nocturnal expanse of Doomstadt, its lights flickering like dim stars under Doom's iron rule. The air hummed with latent energy, a palpable tension between two beings who had danced along the edges of eternity.
Doom swirled his own wine, the aroma of the liquid—rich with notes of dark berries and ancient oak—wafting through the vents of his mask.
"Enough games, Kang. Speak of this future you dangle like bait on a hook. Precise details, unvarnished. What occurs after my departure?" Doom asked, fixing Kang with an unblinking gaze, his voice firm yet probing.
Kang savored another sip, his eyes glinting with the predatory delight of a time-worn desert creature revealing fates. He paced slowly in a half-circle around Doom, his cape whispering across the floor, keeping a respectful yet intrusive distance.
"Ah, the great Victor Von Doom, always the strategist, demanding the full chronicle. Very well. Your death, Victor, strikes like a cosmic hammer—difficult for the so-called heroes to process. They mourn in their hypocritical ways, whispering of your 'complex legacy' in their sanctimonious halls. But the true devastation falls upon those closest to you, your family—if one can call it that—and the loyal souls of Latveria. Valeria Richards, your precocious goddaughter, is shattered. At her tender age, she buries herself in tomes of politics, diplomacy, and statecraft, poring over Latverian edicts and global treaties in a futile attempt to honor your shadow, Victor. She excels, of course—her intellect surpasses even Richards—but youth binds her, leaving her adrift in grief and unfulfilled resolve." Kang spoke normally.
He paused, measuring Doom's reaction, but the masked ruler remained statue-still, his goblet untouched in his hands.
"As for Kristoff, his leadership crumbles like sand in the bureaucratic winds of the U.N. The nations of Earth—those petty empires of glass and greed—refuse to recognize Kristoff as your successor. They see no von Doom lineage in him, no shared blood to legitimize his claim. U.N. assemblies become farces, delegates mocking Latveria's 'pretender adoptee.' And the heroes? They remain idle, bound by their own sanctimonious laws. Their intervention would brand them as international criminals meddling in sovereign affairs. They wring their hands—Richards most of all—torn between old enmities and reluctant respect, but they do nothing as the vultures circle." Kang continued, his tone dipping into a graveyard timbre.
"What absurdity is this? I named Kristoff as my heir in every Latverian decree, recorded and signed by the U.N. Explain yourself, or I will wrench the truth from your temporal hide." Doom's voice cut like a blade, fury restrained. From nowhere, he began to feel mild pains in his body.
"Oh, Victor, always so literal. The crux lies in the blood—or lack thereof. Kristoff shares no von Doom essence; he is not your biological progeny. The world demands a true heir of your line, not some adopted facsimile. Without that, your safeguards unravel like a poorly woven spell." Kang chuckled darkly, a sound like grinding chronal gears, as he took another sip.
The reply Doom heard from Kang struck directly, carrying a sinister edge, his words dripping with malevolent curiosity even as a sharp pain pierced Doom's chest—a symptom of his affliction flickering like a warning ember. He felt the weakness, a hollow ache in his heart, but instinctively channeled a thread of dark magic through his veins, shadows coiling within him to numb the pain, reducing it to a whisper. His mask hid any grimace, his posture unwavering. "Intriguing and infuriating. Say more, Kang. Leave out no detail, lest I reconsider this truce."
Kang's expression grew somber, his playful demeanor shifting to one of calculated seriousness as he set his goblet on a nearby pedestal, the wine half-drained. He crossed his arms, the shadows of his helmet deepening the gravity in his eyes. "I would rather not delve deeper, Victor. Some futures are poisons best left untasted; you would not wish to know this in full."
Doom's temper ignited like sorcerous wildfire. He slammed his own goblet against the desk with a resounding crack, shattering it, wine spilling like blood across the surface and staining the edges crimson. His voice rose, echoing through the stone walls. "Speak, infernal pretender! Doom commands it—hold nothing back, or face my wrath here and now!"
"Very well, since you insist. In secret, beyond your watchful eyes, the United Nations—reinforced by alliances with other global powers—has forged a clandestine treaty or conspiracy against you. A pact of shadows, Victor. It stipulates that upon your death or permanent disappearance from this plane, Latveria falls under U.N. administration, regardless of any heir you designate. The nations orchestrated this knowing your vulnerabilities: they are aware you have no child of your own blood—or so they believe. It is a web spun in boardrooms and embassies, far from the reach of your Doombots." Kang said, holding his gaze toward Doom, unyielding, his voice dropping to a grave whisper carrying the weight of inevitable doom.
Doom stood unmoving, his masked face a void of expression, but beneath the armor his mind raced like a storm.
"The treaty's clauses are ironclad. No adopted child, no close relative, no trusted confidant, no loyal servant, no third party—none may ascend if you perish. Only your eternal survival or the emergence of a biological heir, here and now, could nullify it. Without that, the pact activates, and Latveria is divided like a conquered relic. A masterstroke by those lesser minds, do you not agree? They struck your weakest flank—your lack of progeny." Kang continued, his words precise and relentless.
Doom's gauntleted fists tightened at his sides, metal groaning under the pressure as veins of arcane energy flickered along his arms, a subconscious surge of his lingering powers. The room seemed to grow colder, candle flames bending as if in response to his suppressed rage.
"A clever move," Doom admitted through clenched teeth, his voice a low growl. "But one that underestimates the ingenuity of Doom."
"Indeed. They know you have no children, Victor. It is the crack in your otherwise impenetrable armor." Kang said, taking a slow sip as he watched Doom's reaction with detached interest.
Doom's silence stretched, swollen with calculation, before he voiced his next inquiry, his tone bound with icy demand. "And what of my inner circle? Kristoff, Zora, Larin, Petra—what fate befalls them in this fractured timeline?"
Kang drained the last of his wine, setting the empty goblet on the desk with a finality that mirrored his words. He stepped back slightly. "Banished—all of them. Exiled from Latverian borders as common dissidents. The U.N., empowered by the treaty, shows no mercy; they are irrelevant footnotes in the grand seizure. The victorious nation that rises from the fray enforces their expulsion with brutal efficiency. Kristoff rallies what forces he can, Zora schemes in the shadows, Larin prays to forgotten gods, and Petra navigates the diplomatic wreckage… but it avails them nothing. They wander as outcasts, their loyalty to you a curse in that new order."
Doom fell silent again, his exposed fists tightening once more, the weight of Kang's revelations settling upon him like a shroud. The study felt smaller, the night beyond the window darker, as the two conquerors stood at the heart of the room, the air thick with the promise of diverging paths and unyielding vengeance.
"This, Victor, this entire debacle, is a conspiracy woven to defeat you. They know you are invincible, a colossus towering above their fragile nations. That is why they seek to erase every trace of you from Earth—to extinguish the threat you pose to their delicate order." Kang said calmly.
Doom's right hand gripped the wine bottle, the liquid inside trembling as his rage rose like a barely-contained volcano. With a sudden, violent motion, he hurled the goblet at Kang, the glass arcing through the air like a comet trailing crimson droplets. Kang, always the master of temporal flow, dodged with supernatural grace, not a flicker of surprise crossing his features as the goblet shattered against the stone wall, fragments scattering like broken stars across the floor. Wine stained the ancient carpet, pooling like blood in the candlelight.
"That's what I thought." Kang's lips curled into a smug smile, his eyes gleaming with the satisfaction of a provocateur who had achieved his intent.
Silence descended—heavy and suffocating—stretching on for several minutes.
The only sounds were the faint crackle of candles and the distant hum of Doomstadt's nocturnal machinery beyond the arched window.
Doom remained immobile, his armored silhouette a monolith of barely restrained fury, his thoughts a tempest of pride and paranoia.
Kang, unperturbed, approached the desk and lowered himself into the high-backed chair carved with Latverian motifs, its wood creaking under his weight. He crossed one leg over the other, his posture exasperatingly casual, as though he owned Doom's very sanctum of power.
"You need a child, Victor. A true heir of your blood to anchor Latveria's future. Only then can you thwart this betrayal." The time traveler broke the silence, his voice now measured, almost paternal, though laced with his characteristic cunning.
"Doom requires no child of his blood for Latveria to prosper. My will is iron; my decrees eternal. Kristoff and Zora will suffice—my empire will stand firm under their stewardship, blood or not." Doom's head snapped toward Kang, the eye-slits of his mask burning with invisible fire. His voice was a low growl, each word forged in defiance.
Kang tilted his head, his smile sharpening like a blade honed on a spider's stone.
"Do not deceive yourself, Victor. They cannot withstand the machinations of the U.N., not without a legacy of your own creation. And, according to my… limited knowledge of your personal life," Kang said, leaning forward with a conspiratorial glint. "I believe you have a child with this woman named Amara Perera. Whether in this timeline or others. Perhaps you could—"
"That child never came to be. A miscarriage, insolent interloper. Do not speak of wounds you cannot comprehend."
Doom cut him off, stepping forward with predatory intent, his cloak billowing as he closed the distance until he loomed over Kang, his masked face inches from the time traveler's.
"My apologies, Victor. I meant no disrespect toward your loss. But the truth remains the same—you need a partner, a child, before your time runs out. Without one, this treaty will bury your legacy." Kang's expression softened briefly—a rare flicker of genuine sympathy, or a masterful facsimile—crossing his features.
"Is this not merely another of your conspiracies, Kang? Are you not manipulating me for your own inscrutable ends, twisting time to serve your ambitions? Doom is no pawn in your temporal games!". Doom's hands clenched, blood seeping from his palms, his voice a hiss of accusation.
Kang sighed—a long, theatrical exhale carrying the weariness of one who had waged wars across millennia. He rose from the chair with deliberate slowness, brushing past Doom without looking at him, the purple armor clinking softly.
"Think what you wish, Victor. I am here to help you, not deceive you. Believe it or not, the truth festers like your illness." He stopped at the center of the room, turning toward Doom with a smile that danced between sincerity and malice. "There is, perhaps, some truth in your accusation. I am never without my own designs."
Doom's silence was a storm gathering force, his fists trembling with the urge to unleash his sorcery. Kang's smile widened—a final taunt—as he raised his hand, fingers snapping to summon a swirling purple portal crackling with chronal energy. "I depart, Victor, before we resort to blows again. You know you are in no condition to face me now—your illness advances even with your own treatments. Reflect on my words. Your empire depends on it."
Doom glared at the pestilence before him, ready to speak, but—
"I almost forgot to give you this." Kang tossed a purple scroll toward Doom, pulled from within his green-and-purple suit. Von Doom caught it with one hand, eyeing it with deep suspicion.
With a violet flash, Kang vanished with a sinister smile, the portal collapsing in a rush of displaced air that sent the candle flames dancing wildly. Doom stood alone in the study, the shattered goblet and bottle glinting at his feet, the carpet soaked with wine, the desk stained—a testament to his fleeting loss of control. The pain returned within his body, but his spells kept him upright.
His thoughts churned—a vortex of fury, grief, and cold calculation. The treaty, the conspiracy, the absence of a true heir—it was a trap woven by lesser minds, but he could not ignore it. The scroll in his hand seemed to speak volumes without being opened.
"Latveria shall endure, and Doom shall outwit even the machinations of time itself." Victor Von Doom thought silently.
///
Victor Von Doom sitting once more at his newly cleaned desk, the candles burning and the moonlight from the window illuminating his personal space, he opened this new scroll from Kang. Despite his distrust, he saw that inside there was a written white sheet decorated with the UN logo. The secret decree, according to Kang's words, was real. He looked at it, and it read as follows:
UNITED NATIONS SECURITY COUNCIL RESOLUTION 5013-B
"On the Stabilization and Succession of the Sovereign State of Latveria"
Date: February 18, 2024
Classification: Restricted
Status: Approved
Preamble
Recognizing that Victor Werner von Doom, alias Doctor Doom, sovereign ruler of Latveria, possesses capabilities that present an unprecedented threat to global security, stability, and the geopolitical balance of power.
Noting that conventional military confrontation with Doom is classified as unsustainable:
1. Due to his command of arcane forces.
2. His technological advancements exceed all known limits.
3. His established history of defeating or neutralizing militaries, nations, superhumans, and cosmic threats affecting the planet.
Recognizing that Doom's greatest vulnerability does not lie in his person, but in the instability of Latveria, a nation whose government depends solely on his continued survival. Acknowledging that Latveria lacks a constitutional line of succession, possesses no biological heirs, and has no recognized partner or queen, leaving the nation at risk of catastrophic collapse upon the possible departure of von Doom from the world. Despite his power, someday he will have to pay for his wrongdoings.
Affirming that regional destabilization would affect Symkaria, Transia, Hungary, Romania, and all territories of Eastern Europe.
Therefore, the United Nations Security Council issues the following directive:
Article I - Succession Stability Mandate
1. Victor von Doom must formally establish a biological line of succession to ensure governmental stability within Latveria.
2. Adoptions such as that of the young Kristoff Vernard, artificial intelligences known as Doombots, magically constructed duplicates, clones, or state-designated representatives will not be recognized by the United Nations as legitimate heirs or rulers.
3. Only a biological child, produced through a recognized union, qualifies for international recognition as Doom's successor.
Article II - Requierement of Royal Marriage
1. Victor von Doom must, within a reasonable timeframe, enter into a legitimate marital union.
2. Such union must be validated by:
. An independent UN observer.
. A neutral international legal body.
3. The spouse must not originate from:
.Latveria
.Symkaria
.Transia
.Hungary
.Romania
.Serbia
.Atlantis
.Genosha
.Wakanda
This restriction is imposed to prevent forced, coerced, or politically compromised marriages within the region.
Article III - Heir Confirmation
1. During the marriage, the spouse must provide evidence of pregnancy, which will be verified by an independent international medical panel.
2. Such pregnancy shall serve as proof of succession, ensuring continuity of governance.
3. Failure to produce a biological heir will render the union non-binding for purposes of political recognition.
Article IV - Consequences of Non-Compliance
If Victor Werner von Doom refuses or fails to comply with this directive:
1. The United Nations will not recognize any successor he names.
2. Latveria shall be designated as a leaderless state, open to humanitarian intervention, occupation, or trusteeship under international mandate.
3.All Latverian assets, treaties, and diplomatic privileges will be suspended. Doom's sovereignty shall be considered null until a legitimate biological heir is identified.
Article V - Signatories
The following nations, by signature of their authorized representatives, affirm their agreement with Resolution 5013-B:
Permanent and Primary Signatories (signed)
1. United States of America
Signed: Ambassador Helen Jackson
2. Russia
Signed: Minister Sergei Volkov
3. France
Signed: Envoy Margaux Deschamps
4. United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland
Signed: Sir Alistair Pembroke
5. Japan
Signed: Ambassador Hiroshi Tanaka
6. Canada
Signed: Minister Olivia Harlow
7. Germany
Signed: Envoy Klaus Hartmann
Each signature appears in deep black ink, engraved with the diplomatic seals of the respective nations.
Closing Declaration
This resolution has been enacted in the interest of:
1. International peace.
2. Prevention of regional collapse.
3. Protection of the populations of Eastern Europe.
4. Ensuring Latveria does not fall into chaos in the event of Doom's disappearance.
Failure to comply shall be interpreted as an act of negligence endangering the global community.
Written and signed by Antonio Guterres.
The decree remained atop Doom's desk, its pages trembling under the weight of his exposed right hand. For a long and deadly moment, the only sound was Doom's fingers crushing the edge of the document.
A cold emerald aura erupted around him, the unmistakable pressure of Victor von Doom's fury. Doom rose slowly from his personal chair.
His masked face betrayed no emotion, but the space around him distorted from the intensity of his power. When he spoke, his voice resonated like thunder trapped in iron.
"They dare. They dare to dictate the fate of Doom." The ruler of Latveria roared in fury. He stared at the decree as if it were a living being he could destroy by glare alone. He extended a hand; green sorcery ignited at his fingertips.
"To imagine that Doom's throne can be shaken by signatures and soft-spoken diplomats."
A low hum vibrated through Doom's personal chamber. The document lifted and hovered before him, trembling like prey caught in the gaze of a predator.
"Let the UN remember this well: nations fall. Empires crumble. But those who seek to bind the will of Doom… shall be remembered only by the dust into which their bones will turn."