"I need soldiers," Victor von Doom said bluntly, wasting no time with pleasantries. "Veterans with unwavering will and extensive combat experience. I want you to select a unit—its members may rotate, background is irrelevant, but they must meet those criteria. Whether from poor families or the landed elite, they must possess a deep understanding of Immortal City's ideals. When they rotate off the front lines to rest, they should be able to pass on both their skills and their convictions to fresh recruits. This needs your approval."
Doom's tone carried a faint note of irritation at having to seek consent. As Regent of Immortal City, he was technically above such procedural constraints, but he had his reasons. Here, he was also Supreme Commander of Latveria's military. Until Immortal City's ideology took firm root, emphasizing his regent status risked alienating Latverians. Once minds were unified, Immortal City and Latveria would be indistinguishable—no "us" and "them." But for now, that unity was still distant. Much of the propaganda work still had to be handled by Immortal City's own personnel.
With the spread of The Unified Truth and the rollout of ideological training for soldiers and civilians, narrow nationalism would be replaced by the less narrow—but still unapologetically militant—ideal of human supremacy. Doom believed the process would accelerate with time.
And he wanted it done quickly—before Solomon's patience wore thin and he resorted to brute force. Doom understood that the cause would inevitably be paid for in blood, but he wanted to see as little Latverian blood spilled as possible. The ideal they shared was the same, but if Solomon was wholly enslaved to that ideal, Doom still allowed himself a measure of personal sentiment.
Sofia did not agree immediately. She removed her peaked cap and set it on the long table crafted by refugee artisans, but kept on the long coat of Immortal City's Discipline Corps—an unspoken declaration of her position.
"Can't the propagandists do it?" she asked. "The Master has sent so many of them—have they failed?"
"Propagandists aren't soldiers. And even among them, few have any real battlefield experience to pass on. George, the current Chief Propagandist, is skilled in counterinsurgency, not large-scale positional warfare. His knowledge is only useful to special operations squads. Soldiers don't see them as their own. Waiting until the recruits are already in the trenches to have commissars step in is too late."
Sofia nodded, tucking a strand of dark red hair behind her ear. "I'm aware the casualty rate among new soldiers is high. But it's still within Immortal City's acceptable range, and the pensions distributed in camp aren't enough to trigger inflation. The City and the Master are doing everything possible to keep Latveria's civilians fed. As long as the economic plan is followed, they will prosper."
She spoke from experience—growing up in a place of scarcity, where after the Soviet Union's collapse Siberia's supply chains broke down completely, she had hunted to feed her people despite being the daughter of the Lost City's prophet. She knew how much food meant to Latverians. Before she left, the Interior Ministry had briefed her in full on Immortal City's economic measures in its core territories. Inflation meant hunger; hunger was something Immortal City would never allow.
But Doom waved the point aside. "I know all that, and I know how much effort the City has poured into this economic system. But my concern isn't the economy—it's manpower. Latveria's population is small. Even with Immortal City's armor providing decent protection, our strategic goals are vast. We are too few. Whether defending a village or storming a fortress, we are always outnumbered. Latveria's terrain is ill-suited to heavy armor. At this rate, we'll be drowned in the enemy's human waves."
"There are women in the camp, aren't there?" Sofia said evenly.
Beneath Immortal City's rhetoric of humanitarianism and empowerment was a pitiless logic: no matter the blood cost, humanity must break gravity's shackles and reach the stars. All technological development served the singular goal of building ships to sail the void, and those ships would need fuel—fuel in the form of labor. Everyone, whatever their station, would be sacrificed to the future of the species. Those without value as thinkers would serve as machine-thralls.
No one was exempt. Not Solomon himself, not even the vaunted mystics of Kamar-Taj. That was why Latveria had to be remade, why the less aggressive and expansionist Wakanda had to fall.
"Organize the healthy women, train them, form an all-female regiment. They may never have power armor like the Sisterhood, but they can still take up rifles and artillery," Sofia said. Her tone was matter-of-fact, as if lives were just numbers. Only the tight press of her lips betrayed anything human in her.
Before his death, the prophet Jacob had spoken to her alone of a night in Byzantium when Solomon, gazing at the dark sky above the palace, had revealed his dream. Jacob had trembled with awe and taken the charge upon himself—preserving the vision for a thousand years, gathering believers, waiting for the war that would cross time itself.
When she learned the truth of that faith, Sofia had been lost in a whirlpool of doubt. She had not understood Jacob—until she had seen Solomon's preparations with her own eyes, read his chosen books, and witnessed the prophecies. Then she had called her people to be The Unified Truth's staunchest supporters. For it was the best blueprint for uniting humanity beyond blood ties, harnessing its aggression to save itself.
However dark and brutal the future, even if humanity had to gnaw bark to survive, the species must endure and fight. Survival of the species came before dignity. Once survival was secured, once science leapt forward and production expanded, once humanity dominated the ecologies of every intelligent species in the galaxy—only then could the free and equal future described in The Unified Truth come to pass. Many would refuse to accept that cruelty; others would foolishly think themselves privileged to escape the cost. Either way, the road ahead would be paved with corpses.
To carry out this plan required foresight, vast knowledge, relentless execution, courage in the face of despair, unwavering ideology, pure altruism, and a soul and body untouched by age. Such a person existed only once. Sofia knew it, and Jacob had named him only as "the Emperor."
The man before her now was the Emperor's chosen executor.
"The ideal in The Unified Truth demands everyone's effort. Even women must bleed—there are no exceptions. Take them out of the workshops and make them fight for their own future. If they choose self-rescue, the Master will aid them." She added, "As Discipline Officer, I must also warn you: the war criminals we've captured will not be executed. The Ministry of War and the military courts will decide their fate. If you've read today's materials manifest, you'll have noticed the large shipment of cybernetic parts and bio-mod components. We need labor. Machine-thralls are the solution. Latverians must grow accustomed to them. They've already accepted psykers—this will be no harder."
Doom was silent for a moment, then sighed and nodded reluctantly.
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