An airport somewhere in Africa. Outside the shabby, dilapidated exit, a group of women in peculiar attire stood in two neat rows. Their physiques were far more robust than the average woman's, showing clear signs of rigorous training. They held silver-white, double-edged spears, their expressions solemn and grave.
Their clothing and weapons—completely out of step with a modern airport and the surrounding crowd—caused passing travelers to stop and stare. Many pulled out their phones to film the scene and upload it to social media.
"Hey! What are those women doing? Why are they carrying spears?" A foreign tourist asked.
"They are the King's Guard of Wakanda," A local African guide answered.
The tourist was even more puzzled. "The King's Guard? But they're all women! Look, I'm not discriminating, but purely in terms of strength, men usually have the advantage. Why would the King of Wakanda recruit a bunch of women as bodyguards?"
The guide explained, "It is a Wakandan tradition. Since ancient times, every King of Wakanda has had a formidable group of women as his personal guard, selected from the various tribes of Wakanda. They swear absolute fealty to the King; their loyalty is the highest of any military unit. Furthermore, these women aren't just chosen for protection—they are also candidates to be the King's consorts."
"Candidates for his harem?"
"Oh my god! They actually play it like that?"
One foreign tourist laughed and said in English, "I get it now. In that case, they shouldn't call them the King's Guard—they should call them the Harem Guard."
"Hahaha..." His companions burst into laughter.
The guide looked embarrassed and stayed silent, but the tourists continued their heated discussion. Thinking the guards couldn't understand English, they leaned on each other, pointing fingers and making crude, disgusting remarks. They failed to notice that the leader of the guard was gripping her spear tighter and tighter.
"I swear, if they say one more word, I will pin them to the ground with this spear," The captain said in Wakandan, her eyes filled with murderous intent.
Knowing their captain was a woman of action, the other guards immediately tried to soothe her.
"Captain Okoye! Please, restrain your anger. There are many eyes on us."
"Yeah. Even if we kill them, wait until the dead of night."
"Public security in the neighboring countries has been terrible lately. It wouldn't be unusual for some robbery-homicide to occur."
Okoye's eyes widened as she hissed, "Good idea!"
*
The guard waited for two hours before a small passenger plane finally touched down. The hatch opened, and Prince T'Challa, dressed in a black suit, walked toward the VIP exit with a face full of grief. Four UN personnel followed behind, pushing a casket on a trolley. All the Wakandans attending the UN General Assembly had perished in the explosion. Without their help, T'Challa wouldn't even have been able to bring his father's body home.
"Prince!" Okoye called out. Seeing T'Challa, she led the guard in a hurried dash toward him.
T'Challa gave her a silent nod. He was in a foul mood and didn't want to talk, even to his father's most loyal subordinate. Okoye understood, bowed respectfully, and stepped aside.
"Thank you. We'll take it from here," The guards told the UN personnel before loading the King's casket into one of the three ordinary vans waiting at the curb. For the funeral procession of a head of state, the setup was incredibly meager—worse than even a commoner's funeral abroad. The convoy pulled away from the airport, heading toward Wakanda.
Infrastructure in Africa is notoriously poor. Shortly after leaving the city, the road became bumpy. Once they left the urban limits, it turned into a dirt track, sending up clouds of yellow dust as the cars passed.
T'Challa sat in the second vehicle, keeping a silent watch over his father's casket. Though several days had passed, he still hadn't recovered from the blow. Two had left on this road; only one returned.
In the passenger seat of the lead car, Okoye watched the scenery change. Fiddling with the grey iron beads on her wrist, she murmured, "Almost there. They should have arrived by now."
About five minutes later, a ripple suddenly appeared in the clear blue sky. As the fluctuations grew more intense, a massive ship materialized. It was large, circular, and flat, sporting a design pulsing with high-tech aesthetics. No country in Africa—nor even the United States—had the capability to build such a craft. It looked like a UFO straight out of a sci-fi movie.
The ship emitted blue flames as it descended to block the middle of the road. The hatch opened, and the three vans drove inside one by one. Once the hatch closed, the ship ascended. At a certain altitude, it activated its reflective panels, becoming transparent until it vanished completely, flying toward Wakanda. This cloaking technology bypassed radar and the naked eye alike—similar to the tech used on SHIELD's Helicarrier.
Half an hour later, the ship crossed several hundred kilometers into Wakandan territory. Externally, Wakanda is a small, impoverished agricultural nation in East Africa. Its per-capita income is at the bottom of global rankings, and its military appears stuck in the last century. Its revenue relies on textiles, farming, and cheap handicrafts.
Strangely, despite the poverty, the King never seemed interested in progress. Wakanda doesn't participate in international trade, refuses foreign aid, and doesn't even issue tourist visas. No one knew why. The locals farmed and herded, living primitive lives.
On the ship, Okoye walked up to T'Challa and whispered, "Prince, we are home."
T'Challa finally perked up. He stood and walked to the cockpit. Through the massive glass, he saw the natural beauty of Wakanda: rolling mountains and lush greenery. Suddenly, the ship tilted, diving straight toward the side of a mountain.
Everyone's eyes widened. A small smile finally played on T'Challa's lips. "I never get tired of this view."
The ship didn't crash. It passed through the mountain as if it were nothing, emerging into a hyper-modern sci-fi city. High-rise buildings were packed tighter than those in Manhattan. Maglev trains hissed through the air, traveling between skyscrapers. On the ground, citizens dressed in traditional clothing lived happy, bustling lives. They didn't have smartphones, yet they watched TV, video-chatted with family, and paid vendors—all using the grey iron beads on their wrists.
The barren mountains were a high-tech illusion designed to deceive the world. The sci-fi world inside the veil was the real Wakanda. Wakanda's secret lies in Vibranium, the world's most precious metal. It was used in aerospace, industry, military, medicine, and textiles. On the black market, Vibranium cost $10,000 per gram—if you could even find it. In Wakanda, it was everywhere. While Captain America treated his shield like a priceless relic, the entire city of Wakanda was built of the stuff. Even common kitchen knives were forged from it.
With a monopoly on Vibranium, Wakandan technology, military, and medicine were unrivaled. They could cure cancer with ease, and because the state was so wealthy, all citizens enjoyed free healthcare.
The ship eventually landed at the palace. T'Challa and Okoye stepped out, followed by the guard carrying the casket. At the entrance, the elders of the six tribes were waiting. While the King held immense power, the Tribal Council acted as both a check and as his ministers. Beside them stood T'Challa's mother and his sister, Shuri.
In Wakandan culture, death is not the end, but a starting point—the soul meeting the Panther God. But for the family, the loss was still agonizing. Seeing the casket, T'Challa's mother and sister broke down in tears.
T'Challa, silent until now, steeled himself. With his father gone, he was the pillar of the family. He stepped forward, hugging them and whispering comforts.
An elder stepped forward. "Prince, the King's soul has wandered for too long. We believe he should return to the earth soon."
"I agree," T'Challa said. "We will hold the funeral tomorrow."
The next day, King T'Chaka was laid to rest. A procession of thousands marched to the mountains—the burial ground of Kings. After the ancient rituals, T'Chaka was buried. T'Challa prayed his father's soul would find the eternal grasslands.
The following day, the 6 elders gathered to discuss the succession. T'Challa attended with his mother. While Wakanda follows agnatic primogeniture, a successor must be recognized by the elders and survive a ritual combat challenge where any eligible person can challenge for the throne.
"T'Challa," An elder began, "Before we discuss the throne, we must talk about the bombing."
T'Challa nodded.
"Our spies have confirmed that the Joker Organization is responsible. Specifically, a high-ranking executive: Franklin Clinton."
"I thought as much," T'Challa said. "Only his abilities could have controlled the helicopter like that."
"There were others," The elder continued. "John Wick and Harley Quinn. The latter is the wife of the leader, Jason. Attacking them means total war with the Joker Organization. Their strength is formidable—their executives alone can topple nations. Are you truly prepared for total war?"
T'Challa gripped the armrests of his chair. He looked at his grieving mother and sister.
"My father was murdered by the Joker Organization. As his son, I must have vengeance. Even if the Council disagrees, I will take their heads alone."
The elders whispered among themselves before nodding in approval. "Excellent! You have spirit. A true son of T'Chaka. We Wakandans love peace, but the murder of our King is an unforgivable insult. But according to law, only the King can mobilize the army for war."
"Then I want the challenge ceremony held tomorrow," T'Challa declared.
"Tradition dictates you wait, but these are special circumstances," The elder replied. "We support your decision."
T'Challa's eyes lit up. He hadn't expected the conservative elders to break tradition for him. "Thank you."
"Rest well, Prince. The challenge begins tomorrow."
As the elders filed out, T'Challa stood alone with his mother and Shuri, his blood boiling with the need for revenge.
.
.
.
.
You can read advance chapters and view R-18 images of the characters on pat reon page.
pat reon.com/GreenBlue17
500 power stones.
Top 100. All time.