The sound of breaking metal rang out like a bell.
Nolan's metal fist, wrapped in energy flames erupting from the elbow joint, descended with terrible force. The blow landed on one of the semicircular metal structures with devastating impact.
Metal debris exploded outward. Countless fragments clattered across the floor, scattering in all directions. Sparks died quickly in the damp dungeon air.
The light purple glow that had been flashing with code lines extinguished instantly. The device's hum, constant background noise until now, cut off abruptly. Silence rushed in to fill the void.
One destroyed. Nineteen to go.
Nolan moved methodically, systematically. Each containment device received the same treatment. Fist. Impact. Destruction. The violence was precise, controlled, purposeful.
Until then, Doom, who remained suspended in mid-air by the metal hooks through his shoulders, finally allowed himself to speak.
He exhaled from his mouth, the breath carrying relief and understanding in equal measure. "I know that the secret service organization Leviathan supports the Fortunov family, and I also know that their zodiac agent are all enhanced, but I never knew that they actually have this mysterious technology that can completely block magic..."
His ruined face turned slightly toward Nolan's position despite lacking eyes to see. "If it weren't for the existence of these things, even if I was betrayed by a trusted comrade, I wouldn't be in such a difficult situation."
A bitter smile twisted his mutilated features. The expression was grotesque on that destroyed face, muscles pulling against scar tissue.
Doom tried to lift his fingers. They trembled violently, muscles weak from disuse and torture. But they moved. Back and forth. Small gestures that carried enormous significance.
Power returned.
The invisible force of telekinesis resurfaced, rushing back like water breaking through a dam. Doom's will reached out, grasping the metal hooks that had pierced through his bones.
The restraints broke. Not bent. Not loosened. Simply snapped, shearing apart under pressure that came from nowhere and everywhere at once.
Doom's severely injured body fell. He dropped heavily toward the ground, unable to control his descent. His back hit stone with a dull impact that echoed through the chamber. The sound was meaty, wet, accompanied by a grunt of pain.
However, Nolan, who stood nearby, did not come forward to help.
He simply watched..
Doom groaned, the sound emerging through clenched teeth. His hands found purchase on the cold, wet ground. Fingers splayed across stone slick with his own blood and pus. Muscles trembled. Bones protested.
But he pushed. Forcing his body upward through sheer will. His scarred back straightened inch by painful inch, vertebrae popping as they aligned.
He rose. Broken but unbeaten. Ruined but refusing to yield.
Only then did Nolan drive his power armor forward.
He reached back, accessing the storage compartment built into his power backpack. His armored fingers closed around something small and precious. He extracted a crystal clear panacea, the medical miracle gleaming even in the dungeon's poor light.
Nolan stuffed it into Doom's palm, the hand covered with dried blood and accumulated dirt. His voice emerged calm, matter-of-fact.
"This is panacea. It is a unique super medical method in our team. Your lost eyes and various injuries on your body can be recovered. If you had any hidden diseases in the past, they will be cured by the way."
Doom's expression turned solemn. His fingers closed around the panacea, feeling its coolness against his ravaged skin. His head turned slightly, blind face orienting toward Nolan by sound alone.
"How? are you saying that... you reach a technological level that far exceeds that of Earth?"
The question carried multiple layers. Curiosity. Assessment. The analytical mind of a genius seeking to understand new parameters.
Nolan's response was measured, honest within limits. "Some aspects of science and technology are indeed far ahead of modern times, especially a series of war-related technologies that are beyond the reach of the entire earth."
He turned slowly while driving his power armor, movement deliberate. Leaning over, he picked up a two-foot-long section of the containment device from the ground. Complete enough for analysis. He attached it to the back of his power backpack, securing it for later study.
"However, the level of technology in other aspects is average. Therefore, I have never objected to the use of alien technology. On the contrary, pragmatism that can be used by me is the last word to seek truth from facts."
He paused, checking internal chronometer. "Well, if we count the time, my manpower should have almost cleared the entire castle. Victor, you should recover from your injuries as soon as possible."
His tone shifted, taking on a harder edge. Honesty demanded clarity. "The hard path are ahead. For reasons that both you and I know very well, it is impossible for our team to help you liberate the entire country in an open and honest manner."
Before Nolan could elaborate, Doom's expression normalized. Understanding flooded his features. He nodded vigorously, head bobbing with acceptance.
He took a deep breath, chest expanding despite cracked ribs. His hand rose, bringing the panacea to his lips. He stuffed it into his mouth and swallowed, the motion automatic.
Then he sneered, the sound directed inward at himself. "Haha, I understand, and I also understand your difficulties... In fact, our resistance army still has a series of blood debts that we have to slowly settle with the Fortunov family and Leviathan!"
At this moment, the panacea began its work.
The effect was immediate and intense. Doom subconsciously sucked in a breath of cold air, the involuntary gasp sharp and pained. His entire body tensed.
Regeneration hurt. Flesh knitting, bones mending, organs repairing. The process was biological violence, cells multiplying at impossible rates, tissue reorganizing according to original templates.
His empty eye sockets burned. New structures growing from nothing, optic nerves reconnecting, lenses forming. The sensation was indescribable.
By the time Doom's eyes had fully recovered, along with the basic healing of injuries covering his body, profound changes had occurred.
When he opened his eyes for the first time in what felt like eternity, vision flooding back after enforced darkness, the first thing he saw was Nolan's power armor.
The reaction was immediate. Doom's mouth opened, and obscure terms related to technology poured out. Technical jargon. Engineering concepts. Theoretical frameworks. He tried desperately to discuss the armor's construction with Nolan, questions tumbling over each other.
Nolan understood part of it. The basics. Surface-level concepts his training had covered.
But as Doom's questions increased, the difficulty also increased exponentially. Advanced metallurgy. Servo-mechanism efficiency ratios. Power distribution algorithms. The genius mind was operating at full capacity, seeing implications Nolan couldn't follow.
Nolan's head began to ache. Finally, he simply spread his hands, palms up in a gesture of helpless surrender.
All questions should be left to the Tech-Priests in the team, he explained. Raditus would love this. The servo skull and Doom would have endless topics to discuss.
Doom, who was smiling slightly, didn't press further. He simply blinked his newly restored green eyes, the irises bright and clear. Then nodded to Nolan with understanding.
The intellectual connection could wait. Survival took priority.
Soon after, Nolan drove his power armor toward the exit.
Doom followed, having found a dark green cloak somewhere in the dungeon. He'd pulled it around his shoulders, concealing the worst of his still-healing injuries. The fabric was old, musty, but functional.
The two walked toward the dungeon entrance in silence. No words seemed necessary. The understanding between them had transcended mere conversation.
After successfully arriving at the castle's front hall, yellow lights revealed the scene.
The Stormtroopers had returned to their original positions. Their ceramite shells were splattered with scarlet blood, fresh and still dripping. The armor told stories of violence conducted with professional efficiency.
Yet on the ground near them, an unexpected sight awaited.
A white-haired old man knelt there, wearing a silk nightgown that seemed absurdly delicate given the circumstances. His posture spoke of fear and desperate hope for mercy.
At this moment, the old man's eyes tracked Nolan's approach. Then shifted to Doom following behind. Recognition and terror warred across aged features.
Nolan's communication device crackled to life. Reports from Osprey and the others flooded in simultaneously. The white-haired man was the top executive of the Fortunov family in Satellite City No. 3. One of the branch relatives. Decision-maker. Torturer. Guilty.
Nolan originally wanted to interrogate him. Extract information about the Fortunov family's broader structure. Knowledge was power.
But he suddenly noticed something that changed his mind.
Since Doom showed up, those newly restored green eyes had locked onto the old man. Staring. Unblinking. The expression on Doom's face had frozen, becoming as stiff as ice that could never melt.
History existed here. Recent, painful history.
The white-haired old man, as the highest officer in this facility, had clearly participated in Doom's torture. Perhaps enthusiastically. Perhaps with relish.
The calculation was instant. Information could wait. Justice was immediate.
"Doom, he's yours." Nolan's voice carried absolute calm, the statement delivered without hesitation.
Doom, receiving Nolan's approval, took a deep breath. His chest expanded fully, savoring the moment. Permission granted. Vengeance authorized.
He stepped forward slowly. An uncontrollable smile spread across his lips, the expression growing more ferocious with each passing second. Joy and cruelty merged into something terrifying.
Doom leaned over slightly. His hand extended, fingers not quite touching the old man. But they didn't need to.
Invisible force gripped the white-haired man. Lifted him. Hoisted him high into the air like a puppet on strings no one could see.
The old man's mouth opened, ready to beg. To plead. To offer bribes or information or anything that might buy mercy.
Before he could utter a single word, a howl erupted. Louder. More ferocious. The sound filled the chamber, bouncing off stone walls.
But it came from the old man's throat. Not in speech. In agony.
His limbs began to tear. Not quickly. Not mercifully. Bit by bit, Doom's invisible telekinetic power ripped them apart. Muscles separated from bone. Tendons snapped. Skin tore.
The arms went first. Pulled from sockets with wet popping sounds. Then legs, twisted and wrenched until they came free.
The bloody limbs discarded onto the ground very casually. They hit stone with meaty thumps, still twitching with residual nerve impulses.
The torso remained, held aloft. The old man still lived, shock preventing immediate death. His mouth moved soundlessly, vocal cords destroyed by screaming.
Then fire came.
Wisps of hellfire erupted from Doom's palm. The flames carried the smell of sulfur, acrid and choking. They swept out with purpose, reaching for the dying man.
The fire wrapped around what remained of the white-haired old man. Not normal flame. Something else. Something that burned hotter, darker, fed by more than mere combustion.
In the blink of an eye, flesh consumed completely. The torso burned, reduced from living tissue to scattered black ashes that drifted downward like grotesque snow.
The ashes settled on stone. All that remained of a man who had thought himself powerful.
Doom's expression remained solemn throughout. His chin raised slightly, posture straightening with new purpose.
He turned, green eyes finding Nolan's helmet eyepiece. His voice emerged measured, formal, declaring transformation.
"The lackeys of the Fortunov family who have been ravaging Latveria for countless years! I am the leader of the resistance, Victor... No, the ideal Victor has died in that dungeon..."
He paused, letting the declaration settle. Then continued with absolute conviction.
"From now on, I am the 'Doctor Doom' of the 'The Guardians of Terra'!"
The name rang out. Not Victor. Not the revolutionary idealist. Something new. Something forged in pain and tempered in vengeance.
Doctor Doom.
Nolan, who had remained silent throughout the execution, drove his power armor forward. He raised his hands to his helmet, seals disengaging with soft hisses. Lifting it free, he held the ceramite shell in the crook of his arm.
A pair of cyan wolf eyes looked down at Doom who stood close at hand. Nolan's lips pulled back, baring snow-white fangs in what might have been a smile or a promise of violence.
"Welcome to my team... Doctor Doom, Victor von Doom!"