The Wakandan delegation stood assembled outside their public-facing palace, a carefully orchestrated display of power and tradition. T'Chaka, king in all but the public eye, stood at the center. Beside him: T'Challa in full Black Panther regalia minus the helmet, which he held tucked under one arm; Queen Ramonda in ceremonial dress; Shuri vibrating with barely contained curiosity; Nakia, T'Challa's girlfriend, observing everything with a spy's trained awareness; and six Dora Milaje warriors in full combat readiness.
The whine of approaching engines drew all eyes skyward.
Airbus 2 descended with impossible grace, its vertical takeoff and landing system a masterwork of engineering that made conventional aircraft look primitive by comparison. The sleek craft touched down without even raising dust, landing gear deploying with mechanical precision.
Shuri's eyes gleamed with professional hunger. "That technology shouldn't exist for another decade," she murmured. "VTOL systems require power output and stabilization that current civilian engines can't provide."
T'Chaka kept his expression neutral, but his thoughts mirrored his daughter's. The Fraternity—the organization controlling the Dragon Balls—possessed capabilities that rivaled or exceeded Wakanda's in specific areas. The implications were troubling.
After Wesley and Cross had departed following their last visit, T'Challa had mobilized Wakanda's intelligence network. Within hours, they'd compiled dossiers on both men, traced their affiliations to the Fraternity and the Universal Capsule Company, and begun mapping the organization's global reach.
What they'd found was simultaneously impressive and concerning. A shadowy network with operatives on every continent. Technology that appeared years ahead of public knowledge. Resources that suggested either vast wealth or very effective resource acquisition.
T'Challa had told his parents everything—the Dragon Ball, the tournament, the wish he intended to make. After heated debate in the tribal council chamber, T'Chaka had given his blessing. With the vibranium-weave Black Panther suit, T'Challa could at least protect himself even if he couldn't claim victory.
The aircraft's hatch opened with a pneumatic hiss.
Wesley descended first, followed by Cross. Both men moved with the controlled ease of veteran operators, scanning the assembled delegation with professional assessment.
Wesley's eyes settled on T'Challa and the obsidian helmet under his arm. His expression showed mild interest but nothing more—whatever technological advantages that suit provided, they didn't register as threats to someone bonded with an alien symbiote.
"T'Challa, holder of the Dragon Ball," Wesley announced formally. "The tournament begins today. We're here to transport you and your spectators to the competition venue."
"We're ready," T'Challa replied, his voice carrying the authority of someone who'd been trained for leadership since birth.
Wesley did a quick headcount. "Eleven total including you. That's within the limit." He gestured toward the aircraft. "You may board. Don't forget your Dragon Ball and tournament ticket."
T'Challa produced the gold coin from a pouch at his belt, its surface catching the sunlight. The six-star Dragon Ball he'd secured in a specially designed container—vibranium-lined, naturally, though he suspected it was probably indestructible anyway.
The Wakandan delegation filed onto the aircraft in disciplined silence. Shuri's eyes darted everywhere, cataloguing every visible technology, already planning how to reverse-engineer what she was seeing.
Across the globe, two other pickups proceeded with considerably less ceremony.
Tony Stark arrived at the designated pickup point in his Mark 21 armor, repulsors flaring as he touched down on the tarmac. Pepper Potts and Happy Hogan waited nearby, both looking significantly less comfortable with the idea of attending a tournament where gods and immortals would be fighting.
"Two spectators," Bulma observed, making a note on her tablet. "Not using your full allocation?"
Tony's faceplate retracted, revealing his characteristic smirk. "Quality over quantity."
In New Mexico, Thor stood with considerably more enthusiasm and considerably fewer security concerns.
Jane Foster clutched a tablet loaded with astronomical data and measurement equipment—if she was going to watch her boyfriend fight cosmic beings, she was at least going to collect scientific readings. Darcy Lewis bounced on her toes, treating the entire affair like the world's most exclusive sporting event.
"Two spectators," the gunsmith confirmed, checking his list.
"My companions from Asgard cannot attend," Thor explained, a flicker of regret crossing his features. "The Bifrost remains destroyed. But Jane and Darcy have stood by me through much. They deserve to witness this."
John Wick nodded, understanding family in all its forms. "Board when ready. We'll be airborne in two minutes."
Thor clapped him on the shoulder—a gesture that nearly knocked the assassin off balance despite his enhanced strength—and strode aboard with Jane and Darcy following.
The Australian Outback shimmered with heat as Fox brought Airbus 7 down near the ruined house.
What she found waiting exceeded her expectations.
Ten figures stood assembled in a loose semicircle. Fox recognized Thena and Gilgamesh immediately, but the others were new. Yet they all carried themselves with the same timeless quality.
Smith had briefed her before departing to oversee arena preparations. The Eternals. Ten immortal warriors created by the Celestials to protect emerging civilizations. Five thousand years old, every single one of them.
And they'd all come for Thena.
Fox descended from the aircraft, her gaze sweeping across the assembled immortals before settling on her newfound sister.
A red-haired woman—Sersi, Fox remembered from the briefing—couldn't contain her amazement. "Gilgamesh wasn't exaggerating. She really does look exactly like Thena."
Another Eternal, darker-skinned with kind eyes—Ajak, the healer—studied Fox with gentle curiosity. "Fascinating. In five thousand years, we've never encountered such a resemblance."
Fox kept her expression professional despite the surreal nature of addressing beings older than recorded history. "Thena, holder of the Dragon Ball, the tournament begins today. As a participant, you may bring up to ten spectators."
Thena smiled, moving to stand beside Fox. The resemblance was still jarring—like looking at a reflection that moved independently. "Everyone, let's go."
As aircraft crisscrossed the globe, gathering participants and spectators, the rule explanations began.
On Tony's flight, Melina pulled up a holographic display, professional and concise. "Mr. Stark, I will know read you about the tournament rules."
Tony waved dismissively. "I know the rules. Survived the whole mess last time, remember?"
"The rules have been modified," Melina said firmly.
That got his attention. "Modified how?"
"The tournament will still be held on the island," Melina explained, the hologram showing an aerial view of the facility. "But the format is now one-on-one elimination matches. No preliminary free-for-all."
She gestured, and the hologram shifted to show a bracket system. "Six participants. Seven gold coins total. Competitors are randomly matched. Winners claim their opponent's coin. Losers are eliminated. Continue until one participant holds all seven coins."
Tony processed this, his tactical mind already running scenarios. "So I need to win five consecutive fights instead of just defending my position." He leaned back, a competitive grin spreading across his face. "Good thing I upgraded the armor."
"You'll also need to surrender your Dragon Ball for safekeeping during the tournament," Melina added.
On Wesley's flight, the explanation proceeded more smoothly.
T'Challa listened intently, his tactical training absorbing every detail. The Dora Milaje exchanged glances, already formulating strategies based on the one-on-one format.
"Six matches to claim victory," T'Challa murmured. "Endurance will matter as much as initial strength."
Shuri leaned close. "The medical facilities they mentioned—if they can heal between rounds, endurance becomes less critical. It becomes about pure combat skill and adaptability."
"Assuming the healing is as effective as they claim," Nakia added quietly.
On Xu Wenwu's flight, Selene's explanation prompted the most strategic response.
The thousand-year-old warlord sat in contemplative silence as she detailed the format, his ancient mind already analyzing optimal approaches. His children and commanders listened with varying degrees of attention.
When Selene finished, Xu Wenwu spoke. "Six participants and seven coins. That implies one participant holds two coins."
"Correct," Selene confirmed. "One competitor purchased a second Dragon Ball before the tournament began."
Xu Wenwu's expression showed grudging respect. "Clever. Starting with an advantage." He glanced at Xialing, remembering that she'd held two Dragon Balls in the previous tournament. That opportunity, wasted.
If he'd been permitted to participate last time...
He dismissed the thought. No point dwelling on missed opportunities. This tournament was here, now, and he would claim victory through skill honed over a millennium of combat.
"Who is this two-coin participant?" he asked.
"That information will be revealed when the tournament begins," Selene replied.
Xu Wenwu nodded, accepting the boundary. He'd know soon enough. And it wouldn't matter—two coins or one, every opponent would fall before the power of the Ten Rings.
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