The royal dining hall was set—worthy of a king. Even though it was "just dinner," the spread was extravagant, with so many dishes that even the servants ferrying plates seemed to come in squads. And all of it was for three people: Saitama, Shuri, and King T'Challa.
"What's with her today? Why did she suddenly have them prepare this much food?"
Fresh from a meeting, T'Challa frowned slightly as he strode into the spacious hall.
By habit, his dinners were simple—no different from an ordinary household. Since inheriting his late father's will, he'd ruled with diligence, not indulgence. As for Shuri? His sister basically lived in her lab—about as "tech nerd" as it gets.
But today felt… off.
T'Challa decided a quick lecture on royal restraint was in order. Then he saw the bald man absolutely demolishing a whole roast—and Shuri carving, plating, and saucing at his side like an attentive sous-chef—and his expression… changed.
"Someone, bring more dishes. Make absolutely sure tonight's dinner is abundant!"
The famously frugal king gave a decisive order, and Okoye, the escorting guard, could only roll her eyes.
"Hello, Mr. Saitama. I'm T'Challa of Wakanda. It's an honor to have you in our country."
The Black Panther approached with a warm smile.
The bald slacker, however, was very busy with the roast. Shuri kept handing him prepped bites, and he kept eating—like a well-oiled machine. It looked… domestic.
Okoye's temper twitched. Was this man really going to ignore the king speaking to him?
"This is Mr. Saitama, Okoye—recognized as the strongest man on the planet."
T'Challa lifted a hand, stopping her from snapping. His eyes lingered on Saitama with something like awe.
Strongest on Earth?
Even Okoye, steady as she was, drew a sharp breath. From other mouths, she wouldn't buy it. But from T'Challa—serious, rigorous T'Challa—she trusted it.
She had seen Saitama brutalize those armored rhinos, sure—but "strongest on Earth" felt like another tier entirely. Yet the king spoke so plainly…
"Mr. Saitama, after dinner, would you mind advising me on combat?"
Since acquiring the Panther suit, T'Challa's combat power had climbed to the level of Captain America—stronger in some ways.
"That won't do, brother. I already asked Lord Saitama—after we eat, he's coming to guide my research!" Shuri puffed her cheeks, play-pouting.
"Uh… research?"
T'Challa was speechless. "Guide research" sounded like a pretext. He worried his daring sister would make their guest… unhappy.
"I already agreed to Shuri's request. I'm afraid it'll have to be next time."
Mouth full of oil, the bald slacker answered earnestly. You eat someone's food, you give them face—Saitama lived by simple rules.
"No problem at all. We have time. Mr. Saitama, please do stay in Wakanda for a while."
No way was T'Challa letting this go. Based on intel from the U.S., Saitama was at least "nation-class" combat power—one man equal to one country. T'Challa very much wanted this bridge built.
Saitama ate like a natural disaster. The servants staggered back and forth, gasping for breath just from the hauling.
Per their agreement, after dinner he headed to Shuri's lab.
It looked like sci-fi come alive—layers of holograms everywhere, more advanced even than Tony's setup. Tony's current Mark armor still required external carriage and a "cover and activate" deployment; the Panther suit, by contrast, just needed the tooth necklace—an ultra-thin combat weave with tougher defense than the Mark line, and it absorbed kinetic energy.
On that point alone, Wakanda's tech had already pulled ahead of Iron Man.
Shuri spent nearly the whole night running tests on Saitama—she even tried to draw a little blood for study. Being a gentleman, Saitama… humored her.
Result: next morning, T'Challa—who'd been waiting outside since early—watched a panda-eyed Shuri shuffle out, face scrunched like she'd been wronged, with Saitama ambling along behind.
"What happened?" T'Challa asked.
"Saitama is a total monster. He's so strong that even a vibranium needle couldn't pierce his skin. Half the readings blew past my instruments' limits. His physical data isn't human anymore. It's… obscene."
Shuri slumped. It wasn't that Saitama wouldn't cooperate—Child Emperor had paid him for similar tests before, and they'd hit the same wall. Even lying perfectly still, they couldn't break his defense.
A monster.
A monster that keeps getting stronger every day.
"Uh…"
T'Challa had expected him to be strong—but not this strong. Sweat pricked his brow… and his fighting spirit burned hotter. He turned to Saitama, eyes bright. "Mr. Saitama, would you advise my combat today?"
As a courteous guest, Saitama agreed.
Cough, cough. "Advise" was… simple. Saitama didn't really "teach." Per T'Challa's suggestion, he wanted Saitama to attack him at full power—so T'Challa could see his own limits.
Brother, do you… not understand what "apocalypse" looks like?
T'Challa had supreme confidence in the Panther suit and his agility. Even if he couldn't beat Saitama, vibranium's energy-absorption should at least keep him safe… right?
Result:
Saitama obviously did not go all-out. If he had, forget T'Challa—how many in Wakanda would still be alive?
He simply threw a normal punch—then pulled it back just before impact.
Crack… crack…
Metal screamed. T'Challa froze. His vision abruptly brightened, and a cool draft washed his face.
Crack-crack-crack…
From the head down, the Panther suit—vibranium's tight combat weave—fractured and fell away in glittering shards.
All from the pressure of the punch's wind.
Saitama wasn't who he used to be; he could rein in his power now, dumping the force the instant it touched the suit—and even then, the "strongest alloy" shattered.
"Want to keep going?" Saitama asked seriously, fist raised.
T'Challa's mouth twitched. His teeth ached.
(End of Chapter)
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