Gunpowder Plot

The moment he heard the unfamiliar voice, Bonucci reacted at once. One hand swiftly moved toward the alarm button beneath the desk, while the other reached for his waist.

Had those damned old nobles finally decided to make a move against him?

That thought flashed through his mind before a burst of searing pain overwhelmed his senses. The figure beneath the dark green cloak moved even faster, and a blinding arc of electricity streaked past, leaving half of Bonucci’s body numb.

The mysterious intruder calmly removed the pistol from the prime minister’s waist. A steel arm clamped around his neck and dragged his slightly bloated body into the adjoining rest room of the study as though hauling a stray dog.

"Tut, tut. What refined taste…"

Doom saw the many BDSM implements hanging on the walls. Handcuffs, ball gags, whips, and the like were merely child’s play; there were also various sadomasochistic toys he had never heard of or seen before. It seemed that Latveria’s prime minister never forgot to add some spice to his life while attending to affairs of state.

Doctor Doom, draped in a dark green cloak, took down a cat-o’-nine-tails and examined it in his hand. His hollow gaze fell upon the prime minister, who had been thrown onto the soft bed, before the whip cracked across Bonucci’s body.

Unlike the prime minister’s usual BDSM amusements, Doom was anything but gentle. Before the cat-o’-nine-tails became widely used as a pleasure device, it had been used for flogging. European fleets during the Age of Sail generally did not carry dedicated execution whips, so they improvised, making the condemned person cut off a section of rope, unravel its front end while leaving the rear intact. The unravelled end became the lash, while the rear served as the handle.

Since the frayed portion of the rope separated into nine thin strands, this whip was called a "cat-o’-nine-tails." Most people who received more than three hundred lashes would be whipped to death.

Doom silently struck him ten times. Unable to bear the pain, Bonucci howled and begged loudly, "What do you want? Money or anything else, I can give it to you! If you’re here for that crate of weapons-grade plutonium… I-I can immediately revoke the warrant for your arrest!"

This madman in an iron mask continued whipping him without saying a word. He neither interrogated him for information nor made any demands. In the silent, oppressive atmosphere, the prime minister, whose psychological defenses had remained strong until then, could only be the first to beg for mercy.

"I don’t want anything." The hoarse voice carried a hint of mockery.

Doom tossed the cat-o’-nine-tails aside. He stared at Bonucci, whose heart was filled with fear, then removed the black glove from his arm, revealing a steel palm where metal covered flesh and blood.

A sharp sizzling sound suddenly burst through the air. Blazing white currents coiled and flickered around his fingertips like tiny snakes. Bonucci watched in astonishment. He had heard of superpowered individuals before, but he had never experienced anything so directly.

"History quiz time, Mr. Prime Minister. What day was November 5, 1605?" Doom asked softly.

"The Gunpowder Plot!" Bonucci, who had studied history and literature, searched his mind for the answer.

He was a smart man. The strange, crazed figure before him was clearly beyond his ability to resist. Rather than refuse to cooperate and endure even more pain, he might as well appear obedient and seek a chance to survive.

"Bingo." Doom nodded in satisfaction. "Guy Fawkes, that bold madman, attempted to blow up England’s Capitol Building and kill James I and his family during the opening ceremony of Parliament."

"Unfortunately, the plan was exposed. He was arrested and executed across from the Capitol Building—hanged first, then beheaded, disemboweled, his entrails burned, and finally quartered."

"But today, the real Gunpowder Plot will be reenacted in Latveria."

"What exactly are you trying to do?" Confusion overwhelmed fear, and Bonucci asked in a trembling voice.

Doom did not answer. He reached toward the electrical switch, and a series of crackling explosions echoed through the air. A continuous stream of electricity seemed to be drawn toward him, flooding into his body. His dark green cloak billowed violently, as though whipped by a gale.

Then the lights abruptly went out. In the darkness, Bonucci heard the guards calling out. Roughly half a minute later, eight highly trained personal bodyguards smashed open the study doors.

A glimmer of hope ignited in the prime minister’s eyes. He had no idea what this mysterious freak intended to do, but with hundreds or thousands of security personnel throughout the palace, what could even a superpowered individual do?

Scorching bolts of electricity shot forth like spears, knocking down the arriving bodyguards one after another. Doom dragged Bonucci through the corridors as the flickering lights swayed overhead. From time to time, an electric flash erupted, piercing entire teams of security personnel and filling the air with the stench of charred flesh.

In Doctor Doom’s eyes, this so-called tightly guarded security was nothing more than a flimsy fence. At most, it could keep out wild animals and children; it posed no threat to him whatsoever.

Amid the blaring alarms, Doom strolled as though in his own garden, bringing Bonucci to the top floor of the Prime Minister’s Palace. Of course, their progress had been so effortless partly because the security agents, concerned for the prime minister’s life, had not employed heavy weaponry.

"Sniper One in position…"

"Ensure the prime minister’s safety…"

"Locate the intruder…"

"Await orders!"

A string of commands was issued. Through his scope, the sniper saw the terrorist holding the prime minister hostage. A savage, grim iron mask covered his face, and his entire body was concealed beneath a dark green cloak.

All he needed was the order to fire. The sniper would pull the trigger, and a 7.62×54mmR rifle round would pierce the man’s head in an instant.

On the rooftop of the Prime Minister’s Palace, Doom seemed utterly unaware of it all. He lifted Bonucci with one hand, using him as a shield, and asked in a low voice, "Mr. Prime Minister, do you like symphonies?"

His mind full of terror, Bonucci nodded instinctively. It was the first time he had encountered such a madman, and he could not guess his purpose at all.

"Then do you prefer Schubert or Mendelssohn? Or Liszt? Tchaikovsky?"

"…Mozart."

"Good. I happen to like this greatest of Europe’s classical musicians as well." Doom tapped the copper pipe on the rooftop and murmured as if speaking to himself, "Play Symphony No. 40 in G minor."

Melodic yet tragic music suddenly thundered across the entire city, broadcasting from every radio and television station. Resentful and impassioned, bold and violent, it seemed to voice life’s helplessness and the bitterness in one’s heart. Its feverish, exhilarating emotions also carried a faint shade of melancholy.

"You must be terribly curious why I brought you here, and what it is I actually want."

Doom led Bonucci to the edge of the rooftop and looked down upon the bustling city immersed in the grand symphony. His hoarse voice was tinged with melancholy. "Mr. Prime Minister, do you know? My greatest childhood dream was to move into the city and no longer live in the slums."

"You…"

"The day I received my university recommendation, you personally commended me. Before all those reporters, you called me Latveria’s ‘Star of Tomorrow.’ After I achieved success, the people of my hometown even gave me this iron mask, inscribed below with ‘Latveria’s Glory’—surely you remember now."

Bonucci’s eyes widened in shock, and he forced a name from his throat. "Victor Doom… is that you?"

"Of course it’s me." A trace of coldness bloomed beneath the mask. "I have returned to this land to bring it hope for rebirth. But before that, some obstacles must be cleared away."

"I know the sniper is in the building across from us, ready to blow my head apart at any moment. But Mr. Prime Minister—beneath this mask is more than flesh. It is something beyond your imagination."

The symphony neared its end, its mournful minor melody drifting through the night sky, its lingering notes echoing on.

"Thank you for that crate of weapons-grade plutonium. I made a few small modifications, then left it in your room."

Doom’s voice suddenly turned cold as he enunciated each word. "Latveria will surely convert to the Doomsday Cult. Your death will bring peace."

A blinding white light erupted from the Prime Minister’s Palace like a surging tidal wave. The dark green cloak snapped in the wind like a fluttering banner.

P.S. Haha, the free period is over, so I can happily browse the review section again. Esteemed readers who want to throw bricks at me, roar away~