Just like I thought, she was totally speechless for a moment, clearly unsure how to react.
I mean, when your whole life has been about being a nomad, constantly on the run from the Baron who eventually crowned himself King, you're not exactly equipped to handle emotional situations with grace and poise.
She stared into my eyes for a bit, trying to read me. My eyes are kind of the only part of me you can use to tell if I'm being real or just playing a role.
Not that it helps. Sure, I'm an emotional guy—but this armor? It kinda forces me to be logical, to keep a straight face no matter what I'm feeling inside.
It's weird to explain. Like, I am someone who feels a lot, and sometimes I let that get the better of me. I know I shouldn't waste time reading fanfics or just being lazy when I should be sharpening my skills—but I still do it because, well, feelings.
Now though? It's like I flipped a switch. I still feel things, I know what I like or hate, but the me right now? I'd pick what's right for me over what I feel like doing. And honestly, I don't know if that's a good thing or not because it makes me very robotic.
"They said you've changed. That you want to become a monster like Vladimir," she said, her gaze complicated as hell. "So I came to see with my own eyes."
Her love for me? That's never been in question. It literally got her killed. "So, what's the verdict?" I asked. "What do you see in the man I've become?"
We stood close—like, really close. Just one inch and she'd be touching my mask. "I'm glad I came. No regrets. You've changed, but… I hope it's for the best."
She didn't lean in, didn't hug me, didn't try to kiss me either—and honestly? That's probably for the best.
There are thousands of rebels waiting outside. Larin's here too, and he still calls me Doctor Doom like I asked him to. Me changing my talking pattern can be understandable but if I started getting all lovey-dovey now, it'd completely mess up the image everyone has of me.
Now though, everything led to the original question… I had no idea what to do with her. In the comics during this period Doom kept her out of Latveria 'cause he thought it was too dangerous for her, but danger's relative, right? And by now, that soldier I sent to Vladimir's men should have already infiltrated.
I paused, thinking it over. "So what do you want to do? But heads up—you're not joining the rebellion. It's way too dangerous."
I don't know if she could read any emotion from my mechanical voice, but judging by her reaction, it didn't seem like it.
"You think I'm still the same girl they used against you? You're not the only one who's changed, you know." Her tone had this bite to it, like she didn't appreciate being underestimated.
But I was dead serious about this. Look, this is the Marvel universe. Even if my calculations say she's safe, the margin of error here is basically guaranteed chaos.
There's always some random Kang waiting to appear or some cosmic-level nonsense about to drop. Doom wasn't wrong keeping her out of Latveria.
"Valeria, I mean it. Don't push me on this. I'm not denying your strength—just surviving in this place on your own proves how strong you are."
"But now, just rest. Let me handle the hard stuff. Trust me. Stay put. Think about what you want when this is over. Think about how you can help make sure future generations don't suffer like we did."
I didn't give her time to argue. I had the Doombot escort her out while I silently ordered four more bots to shadow her from a distance. Just in case.
I mean, come on. Woman—there's always some kind of chaos waiting to follow.
What a coincidence—right after Valeria was gone and just before I could step back into my room in the castle, I spotted this old monk walking straight toward me.
From the way he carried himself, all respectful and serious, it was clear he had something important to say. "Master," he said, bowing slightly, "we've just received word from our spies inside Vladimir's army. Everything's ready. They've managed to recruit most of the soldiers."
Yeah, I know—it's kinda wild being called 'master' especially by an old man, but that's just how Larin and the rest of the monks from Tibet address me. Even in the comics, it's always been like that.
I gave him a confident nod and laid down the plan. "Perfect. Gather the others. Tonight, we take control of the country."
He nodded and headed off without missing a beat. As expected, he noticed the slight change in how I talk—after all, I did it on purpose. It's not exactly how the original Doctor Doom would say things—but he didn't question it. That's just how he is. The fact of someone taking Doctor Doom's body is simply impossible to them.
...
(3rd POV)
After Victor gave the order, Larin did what any good second-in-command would do: he went straight to the top dogs of the rebel army to pass the message. Not that it was easy.
Larin might've been Victor's right hand, but to these people, he was still kind of the new guy. Standing among the rebel leaders was Boris, wearing the kind of expression that said, "I've lived through too much for this crap."
Boris wasn't just anyone—he'd been around since the day Victor was born. The man was Valeria's grandfather, a true elder of the Zefiro clan, and one of the few who still carried the weight of the past on his tired shoulders.
He could still remember it all like it happened yesterday—every moment leading up to Cynthia's death, Victor's mother—the heartbreak, the blame, and the hole in the ground he buried her in with his own hands.
The rest of the Zefiro? Yeah, they turned on Victor's parents fast. Forget the times they risked their lives to save the clan—once Cynthia died, it was pitchforks and whispers.
Boris, to his credit, tried to keep things from boiling over. He even suggested that Victor and his father leave the clan, hoping it would prevent the situation from spiraling.
And then came little Victor—four years old, fury in his eyes, and a mouth full of threats. The kid told them straight: Kick us out, and I'll become worse than my mother ever was. I'll burn this clan to the ground. Blood and vengeance, unlike anything a child should say.
You'd think a bunch of grown adults wouldn't be intimidated by a toddler, but that day? They blinked. All of them. Because Victor didn't just say it—he meant it. And so, they let him and his father stay.
Turned out to be the best decision they ever made. Victor grew up, and every time the Zefiro were in trouble, he was there.
Saving their hides so many times that, at some point, no one even noticed when he became their de facto leader. He never asked for the position—he became it. And now?
Well, if they had kicked him out back then, the Zefiro clan wouldn't exist today. And if they tried to do it now, they'd probably be ash in the wind before they finished the sentence.
But that didn't mean the elders weren't nervous. Boris especially.
Because with Vladmir on the verge of being overthrown, and Victor firmly in control… some of them whispered that they might be trading one tyrant for another.
Victor had that vibe, you know? The kind of guy who didn't just like control—he needed it, and he needed it perfect.
Still, what choice did they have? The rebellion was already in full swing. The die was cast. Whether they liked it or not, Victor was the leader of the Zefiro.
All they could do now was hope that somewhere, buried under all that ambition and strategy, was still the same heart that wanted to lead his people—not rule over them.
After getting Larin's orders, the rebel leaders sprang into action. There was a real sense of this is it in the air. The ultimate showdown. The final boss fight.
Most of them didn't have any military training, but they made up for it with sheer willpower and the kind of coordinated chaos that only desperate people can pull off. You could almost believe they had divine guidance, the way everything fell into place.
And honestly? They weren't wrong to believe in something bigger. These folks were ready to die if it meant a better life for their children, or at least the possibility of one. They wanted their kids and grandkids to grow up in a world where freedom wasn't a fantasy.
Victor eventually came out to inspect things and looked... surprisingly pleased. Well, mostly. His expression did sour a little when he spotted some twelve-year-olds carrying actual guns like it was normal.
But he didn't say anything. What was there to say? The damage was done. All he could do now was make sure their futures weren't defined by war. No more trauma. No more blood-soaked childhoods. Not if he had anything to say about it.
And so, with Victor at the front, the rebel army marched. Step by step, they closed the distance to King Vladmir's castle. They all walked with the conviction that today would be the day it all ended.
Of course, the king wasn't clueless. He knew what was coming. The rebellion had spread like wildfire, and even with all his power, there was no stopping it.
When the rebel army appeared on the horizon, Vladmir watched from his high tower as his guards stood at attention… and then parted.
They let Victor through.
No resistance. No last stand. Just a quiet, terrifying surrender.
That's when it hit Vladmir: it was really over.
He turned to his captain, a man loyal to the bitter end. "Find me your fastest horseman," Vladmir said, his voice low. "And bring my sons to me. Now."
"Of course, my king," the captain replied without missing a beat, already turning on his heel to obey.
Once alone, Vladmir sighed. A long, heavy exhale. He stared out at the horizon and muttered, "My rule may fall… but my bloodline will endure. Rudolfo and Zorba will ride tonight. They must escape this doom."
A noble plan. A desperate one.
Too bad Victor was already three steps ahead.
You don't survive this long in Victor's world without reading the playbook. And in this case, he'd read all the comics. He knew every trope, every twist. The 'get the kids out before the fall' move?
Yeah, not happening. Victor had Doombots stationed all over the castle. In fact, he was counting on Vladmir trying something like this.
Now, Victor wasn't the type to wipe out a bloodline out of pure spite—but he wasn't exactly above dealing with a threat. And Vladmir? He wasn't just a threat. He was number three on Victor's personal hate list. Right behind Mephisto… and Reed Richards.
Which meant?
No one was escaping tonight.
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