"Take back the throne that's yours."
With that, the vial vanished. Saitama set T'Challa down.
"What did you just make brother drink?" Shuri asked, curious.
"Some body-enhancement medicine. Should heal wounds too," Saitama said.
"Medicine?"
Shuri's eyes widened, fascination overflowing.
"What did he do?!"
"Damn it—grab him!"
"We never should've let an outsider interfere!"
W'Kabi and the hawks roared. A number of soldiers surged forward to seize Saitama.
Saitama merely looked at them, dead-fish eyes drifting over the line. He felt no urge to act. They were humans—no need to make a fuss.
"Stand down! The fight isn't over!"
T'Challa pushed himself up with a low growl, stopping the soldiers. A pained grunt broke from him—what Saitama had poured down his throat was bizarre: cool at first, then, in his gut, a blazing fire.
Even a Panther-hardened body reeled. He felt like a skiff in a storm, ready to capsize at any time.
But he endured.
Erik sneered. "A defeated man. So what if you can still stagger around? I'll just kill you again and—huh?"
His words jammed. Before all their eyes, the wound in T'Challa's abdomen knit shut—visibly, rapidly.
Impossible. His Panther power had been stripped. Even with the Black Panther, you only got strength, speed, reflexes—nothing like this obscene regeneration.
"This power…?"
T'Challa stared at his own body, stunned. Lava-like fissures traced across the injury, sealing it until his skin was perfect again—no scar at all.
"Die!"
Sensing danger, Erik lunged, trying to crush T'Challa under the momentum. His spear flashed straight for T'Challa's head.
Maybe wounds can close—but let's see you regrow a skull.
"Erik…"
Grief tightened T'Challa's chest. He hadn't expected such cold blood. If not for his father's brother—if not for family—Erik should have died the moment he set foot in Wakanda.
His mercy had birthed this disaster. One soft thought could consign Wakanda to ruin.
Vibranium weapons unleashed, a global arms race ignited—great weapons never bring peace, only slaughter.
History had already proved it.
In the age of blades, a few thousand dead was a "great war," tens of thousands a national catastrophe.
Now?
In an age of hot weapons, any city crisis could wipe out tens of thousands, even millions. A world war—hundreds of millions, billions—perhaps the end of Earth.
Strength does not equal peace. T'Challa knew that. Erik was blinded by hatred.
The spear stopped inches from T'Challa's brow—caught in his bare hand.
Erik's eyelid twitched hard. T'Challa had seized the razor point, and it felt like he'd hit steel—he couldn't force it in at all.
What kind of joke—?
"Erik…"
T'Challa sighed, astonished by his own strength. He flicked the short spear almost lazily—and Erik shrieked as he and the weapon were hurled ten meters, water exploding where he crashed into the river.
"What—?"
"What just happened?"
"How did T'Challa's strength jump like that?"
"Erik got tossed?!"
The royals gaped. T'Challa himself stared at his palm, then glanced toward Saitama—who only looked back, calm as ever.
A blessing… from Saitama?
T'Challa's heart pounded. He understood the weight of what he'd been given. The power in him now faintly surpassed his post-awakening Panther state.
"He cheated! T'Challa cheated!" W'Kabi bellowed, ordering the troops forward.
"The challenge isn't finished! You have no right to command them."
Okoye stepped in, the edge of her energy spear leveled at W'Kabi's head. One more step, and she would put it through him.
Warriors froze, praying Erik could somehow win.
But now? Only a miracle could save him.
T'Challa bent his knees and leapt—soaring over ten meters in a single bound, landing beside Erik. Lightning-quick, he clamped a hand around Erik's throat and lifted him into the air one-handed.
"N-no—! I was wrong—I was wrong! Brother, don't kill me! Don't—!"
Erik screamed, terror-struck. For all his prowess, he was merely a "soldier king"—still fundamentally human.
But after drinking TX—an advanced serum devised by Bruce Banner and Dr. Brunner that fused the Extremis virus with a super-soldier solution—T'Challa's physiology had surpassed Captain America's tier.
A small superman, in truth. If he donned the vibranium Panther suit with this body, the result would be terrifying.
And yet—mercy remained T'Challa's fatal flaw.
Back then, Erik's father—T'Challa's uncle—had smuggled vibranium. During the arrest, he'd even ambushed another core royal, forcing the Black Panther of that day, T'Challa's father, to kill him.
However deserved that end was, guilt still weighed on T'Challa's heart. So even now he held back, again and again.
As expected—he loosened his grip at Erik's tearful pleas.
Pfft.
A soft, vicious sound. No one knew when a jade-green dagger had appeared in Erik's hand, but it plunged straight into T'Challa's heart.
"You—?!"
T'Challa's eyes flew wide. Scalding blood spilled from the wound—and turned black.
Poison.
The skin around his heart darkened fast.
"Heh-heh-heh… Kill you, and the victory is still mine. Even if Wakanda riots, with W'Kabi behind me I'll be king. You'll be history… my stepping stone."
Erik laughed madly.
"Erik… I'm… very… disappointed."
T'Challa's face tightened with pain. He grabbed Erik's wrist.
Erik's expression shattered. The heart he'd pinned perfectly—the blackened flesh around it—was… healing again?
Impossible!
Pfft.
T'Challa ripped the dagger free, closed his eyes, and drove it into Erik's heart.
The toxin raced outward like wildfire—
(End of Chapter)
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