M'Baku struggled to open his eyes and glanced toward the tribesmen and warriors he had brought with him. At last, he weakly patted T'Challa's thigh, signaling his surrender.
"ROAR—!!!"
The instant M'Baku yielded, thunderous cries erupted from all the tribes watching the duel. They imitated the victory calls of wild beasts, celebrating the birth of Wakanda's new king.
Lucas took out his phone and captured the moment of T'Challa's victory. His phone was filled with countless rare and bizarre photos—vampires, Thor's hammer, Quinjet fighters, and the like. But the most important collection was his record of Marvel's iconic moments, along with a fair number of unflattering shots of superheroes getting beaten up or embarrassing themselves.
Lucas treasured the phone like a priceless artifact, keeping it stored in his personal space. He rarely used it for anything else—only photography.
Tony was equally swept up by the raw passion of the fight. This kind of primal, physical clash was exhilarating, igniting every ounce of masculine adrenaline. Compared to this, modern warfare felt hollow. It lacked the collision of flesh and will, the confrontation of bodies and spirit. Modern wars were little more than killing for the sake of killing, long stripped of any respect for life.
No wonder so many people despised modern warfare. Combat that ignored strength, skill, and resolve had no meaning—only slaughter. After all, when even a three-year-old child could gun down a burly adult with a firearm, what was left besides indiscriminate killing?
"I hereby declare—T'Challa has successfully inherited the throne!"
The High Priest raised both hands and proclaimed loudly, holding aloft a necklace made from black panther fangs.
Before all witnesses, he placed the necklace upon T'Challa's chest. From that moment on, T'Challa officially became the King of Wakanda. Once the coronation ceremony was complete, he would rightfully sit upon the Black Panther Throne within the royal palace.
"Your Majesty!"
Voices rang out in unison. Wakanda had gained a new king—young, brave, and formidable.
"Wakanda forever!" T'Challa cried, crossing his arms over his chest.
"Wakanda forever!!" the people echoed, mirroring his gesture.
Everyone returned to the palace, where the old king, T'Chaka, had been waiting. He had witnessed T'Challa's valor from beginning to end through a live projection transmitted directly into the palace.
As the ship landed, T'Challa descended amid the crowd. T'Chaka stood at the palace gates, and the moment T'Challa stepped down, the guards on either side dropped to one knee.
Overcome with emotion, T'Challa embraced his father.
"Father! I did it!"
Tears welled in his eyes. In this moment, he had grown into a king—not merely a son.
"T'Challa," T'Chaka said solemnly, "from this day forward, Wakanda is entrusted to you. May you, under the blessing of the Panther God, lead Wakanda to even greater heights."
He took up the ceremonial sword and scepter that symbolized kingship and personally fastened the sword at T'Challa's waist.
T'Challa knelt on one knee, raising both hands above his head.
"T'Challa," T'Chaka continued, his voice no longer gentle but stern and resolute, "once you receive this scepter, you are the King of Wakanda. From this day on, you are no longer merely a son, nor a brother—you are the ruler of an entire nation. You will shoulder the fate of Wakanda itself. Are you prepared?"
"I am prepared to become King of Wakanda," T'Challa declared, arms crossed over his chest, eyes burning with resolve like a panther poised to strike.
"I swear it in the name of the Black Panther."
Only then did T'Chaka nod in satisfaction and place the scepter into T'Challa's raised hands.
The succession ceremony was now largely complete. One final step remained—earning the acknowledgment of the Panther God.
Soon after, T'Challa was led into Wakanda's secret cavern. Deep within the cave grew countless purple flowers, each bearing a crystalline violet fruit at its center, glowing with an otherworldly sheen.
This was the Heart-Shaped Herb.
Every Wakandan king, upon ascending the throne, drank the juice of this sacred plant to commune with the Panther God, gain its approval, and obtain physical abilities beyond those of ordinary men.
Inside the underground cavern, several elders tended to the Heart-Shaped Herbs. This was a sacred forbidden place, opened only during a king's ascension. Aside from the caretakers, no one else was permitted to enter.
T'Challa lay atop a mound of red sand at the center of the cavern, ready to consume the herb.
The High Priest approached, holding a small bowl filled with the violet liquid.
"May the Heart-Shaped Herb guide you to the Panther God," he intoned, bringing the bowl to T'Challa's lips.
After drinking the potion, faint violet light traced along T'Challa's veins. His consciousness slowly faded, and he slipped into darkness.
"May the glory of the ancient ancestors endure," the High Priest said.
He scattered a handful of red sand over T'Challa's body. Then several children, already prepared, began shoveling sand over him. Scoop by scoop, they buried him completely before stepping back.
T'Challa's consciousness sank deeper and deeper—until he found himself standing upon a vast, open savanna. Above him, the sky shimmered with hues of blue and violet.
Before him stood a towering tree, its branches filled with countless black panthers. Their glowing eyes fixed upon T'Challa below.
One panther leapt down from the tree. Its movements were so graceful that it made no sound upon landing, as light as a falling feather.
The panther slowly transformed, taking the shape of a woman.
She circled T'Challa with interest, even leaning in to sniff him lightly.
"So," she said lazily, her voice tinged with allure, "you're the current King of Wakanda, little one?"
"Yes…" T'Challa replied softly, not daring to meet her gaze, his head lowered.
"Hmmm… doesn't look like you're quite ready to be a king yet," she murmured.
She lifted his chin, her golden eyes locking onto his.
T'Challa froze, too intimidated to speak. He had imagined the Panther God as majestic and awe-inspiring—never as languid as a woman just awakened from sleep.
"What are you afraid of?" she asked.
Her fingers traced across his face, sending a strange ticklish sensation through him. Still, he didn't dare move.
"Let me take a look," she said casually.
Ignoring his consent entirely, she pressed a finger to his brow. In an instant, light flared once more in her eyes.
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