The following morning, the atmosphere in the royal palace had shifted from celebratory to clandestine. T'Challa had requisitioned the "Silent Hall"—a subterranean chamber designed for vibration testing, now stripped of all furniture and equipment. It was a white void of polished marble and acoustic dampening, illuminated by a soft glow.
At the center of this empty expanse stood T'Challa. He had shed his royal robes for a simple black tactical bodysuit. Around him, the first ten candidates selected by Okoye stood in a confused line.
Okoye stood by the door, her arms crossed. She had chosen the best: six Dora Milaje and four veteran scouts from the Border Tribe. They were the elite of the elite, yet as they looked at their King—who appeared twenty years younger and radiated a predatory stillness—they looked uncharacteristically nervous.
"Move forward," T'Challa commanded. "Circle me. Close the gap until you can each reach out and place a hand on my shoulders or arms."
The warriors glanced at each other. Touching the King was usually a breach of protocol, but T'Challa's gaze brooked no argument. They shuffled forward, forming a awkward knot around him.
"Now," T'Challa said, his voice dropping into a resonant hum. "Repeat after me. Do not question the words. Do not pause. Just speak."
He closed his eyes. "The Fool that doesn't belong to this era..."
The warriors blinked. One of the Border Tribe scouts, a man named Ayo who had fought off three leopards at once, whispered, "The Fool... that doesn't belong to this era?"
"Louder," T'Challa barked.
"The Fool that doesn't belong to this era!" they chanted, their voices echoing strangely in the white room.
"The Mysterious Ruler above the gray fog..." T'Challa continued.
By the third line—The King of Yellow and Black who wields good luck—the absurdity of the situation began to set in. One of the Dora Milaje, Aneka, fought the urge to quirk an eyebrow. She was a master of the spear, a graduate of the most grueling combat training on Earth, and here she was, huddled in a white room, chanting about mysterious rulers and lucky kings like she was at a high-end spiritual retreat.
"Is this a poem, my King?" Ayo whispered tentatively.
"Focus, Ayo," T'Challa replied without opening his eyes. "The True Creator who embodies luck, deception, and fate."
As they finished the final plea—We pray for the mercy of your gaze—the 'handshake' was completed.
The air in the room felt as though it had been replaced by liquid oxygen. The ten warriors gasped in unison. The Super Soldier Anchor, which had been tethered to T'Challa's soul, flowed through his skin and into theirs.
Aneka felt her heart jump-start. Her muscles, already toned and powerful became as dense as industrial cable. The small scars on her knuckles vanished. Her vision, already 20/20, suddenly allowed her to see the individual fibers in T'Challa's suit.
"By the Orisha," Ayo choked out, looking at his hands. He punched the air, and the sound was like a whip cracking. "I feel... I feel like I could jump over the palace walls."
"Step back," T'Challa ordered, his expression remaining that of a detached high priest. "Next ten."
For the next three hours, the Silent Hall became the strangest assembly line in Wakandan history.
Group after group was ushered in. Each time, the confusion was the same. T'Challa stood in the center, looking every bit the cult leader, surrounded by ten heavily armed warriors who were desperately trying to maintain their dignity while chanting about "The King of Yellow and Black."
By the fifth group, the word had spread among the waiting soldiers.
"He's making us join a choir?" one of the younger Dora Milaje whispered outside the door.
"It's not a choir," Okoye hissed, though even she looked a bit pained by the chanting. "It is a... spiritual induction. Shut up and get in there."
The sixth group featured a particularly stoic captain from the Jabari who had recently pledged loyalty. He looked at T'Challa with deep suspicion as he placed his hand on the King's shoulder.
"The Fool that doesn't belong to this era..." T'Challa started.
The Jabari captain sighed, a rumbling sound. "The Fool... that doesn't belong to this era. My King, is there a dance to go with this? M'Baku will never let me hear the end of it."
"The next line, Captain," T'Challa said, his voice a warning.
By the time the final group—the tenth set of ten—was in the room, T'Challa was beginning to feel the strain of being a conduit for a hundred souls. But as the final "We pray for the mercy of your gaze" of the Honorifics was spoken, the room felt like a pressurized chamber.
The hundred warriors stood in the white room, now perfectly silent. The confusion was gone, replaced by a unified clarity. They were awakened.
T'Challa stood before them, looking at his new Legion of Centurions. One hundred Super Soldiers, their loyalty absolute, their power untraceable by any DNA test or serum-detector.
"You feel the fire in your blood," T'Challa said, his voice carrying to every corner of the room. "You feel the strength that the world has tried to steal for a century. You are no longer just soldiers of Wakanda. You are the Centurions of the Wakanda. You will be the shadow that protects the light."
He turned to Okoye. "General, take them. Train them. They are no longer bound by the limits of human fatigue. I want them ready for deployment by the time we reach the Umbrella Hive."
Okoye looked at the hundred warriors, her eyes gleaming with protective pride. "They will be ready, my King."
As the soldiers filed out, moving with a synchronized grace that was unnerving to behold, T'Challa finally let out a long breath. He looked at Shuri, who had been watching from the observation deck, hiding a smirk behind her hand.
"A cult leader, T'Challa? Really?" she teased over the comms. "I thought you were going to start passing out pamphlets and asking for donations."
"It worked, didn't it?" T'Challa replied, his lips twitching into a lopsided grin. "The price of immortality is a little bit of chanting. I think it's a fair trade."
"Wait until Stark hears about this," Shuri laughed. "He's going to want a robe."
"He already has the ego for it," T'Challa muttered. "Prepare the ship. We have a meeting at the Hive. It's time to show the world our new face."