Erik's eyes went wide. He stared, dumbfounded, at the black blade lodged where his heart was.
Why did his opponent's strength suddenly spike so high? He couldn't resist it at all.
Blood slid down the dagger and over T'Challa's hand—quickly turning pitch-black. Erik was hoisted by his own petard; that dagger had been prepared to assassinate T'Challa. Now it had been used on himself.
"I cannot hand Wakanda over to you."
Pain flickered across T'Challa's face, but his eyes were clear. At last, he saw his "brother" for what he was. Mercy has no place in command—that old saying wasn't wrong.
If he hadn't been merciful before, he wouldn't have lost to Erik, and Wakanda wouldn't have come within a hair of catastrophe.
A cold sweat broke across T'Challa's back. Fortunately, Saitama had been here—and on good terms with him—pressing a strange bean into his hand that healed all his wounds.
Given a second chance, if T'Challa still couldn't harden his heart, it would mean he truly wasn't fit to be king. But he chose wisely.
With a gentle push, Erik—stabbed by his own poisoned knife—plunged off the waterfall and vanished from sight.
For a heartbeat the royal onlookers were silent. Then the cliffs erupted.
"Magnificent! King T'Challa!"
"Long live the King!"
"Wakanda forever!!"
Even Okoye, captain of the royal guard, couldn't help cheering. She had no wish to obey the orders of a tyrant like Erik. With T'Challa's victory, the nation could rejoice.
But one man was anything but pleased.
W'Kabi—the Minister of Defense, who controlled all Wakanda's forces aside from the royal guard.
T'Challa rarely pursued wars of aggression, and his standing with the military had waned. If there were no wars, then everyone would know the king's name—but not the minister's. W'Kabi preferred backing the aggressively expansionist Erik. Only war could quickly build prestige, win military merit—even a path to the throne.
"This violates our traditions! T'Challa used dishonorable means!"
W'Kabi's voice cracked across the cliffs, not loud but cutting the cheers to silence. Faces turned—angry, doubtful—eyes settling on him.
"What are you saying, W'Kabi? This was a royal challenge to the throne!" the Queen Mother stepped forward to rebuke him…
"T'Challa, you just killed Erik with a dagger—and it was poisoned! That is not our tradition! And earlier, that bald man gave you something to drink—I suspect it was a banned stimulant!"
Murmurs rose.
"He's right. Otherwise how did Erik lose so suddenly? Something's fishy!"
"We demand a new Challenge Day!"
"T'Challa's actions stain our traditions—he's unworthy to be king!"
Different shouts burst from the crowd. These were plants—already paid and ready to howl on cue.
"A rematch? No! I say a man like this is unfit to rule—T'Challa, step down!"
W'Kabi thrust his arm up, voice ringing with righteous fury. Even the Queen Mother took an involuntary step back. Behind him, a mass of supporters roared their approval.
W'Kabi understood well: if Erik couldn't defeat T'Challa, his own odds in single combat were vanishingly small.
So a better path remained—force T'Challa off the throne.
(End of Chapter)
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