Smith Doyle surveyed the ruined arena with a slight frown. He'd replaced the original brick construction with gold-titanium alloy specifically to withstand superhuman combat. Tony Stark had just demonstrated that even advanced metallurgy had limits when facing sustained bombardment.
Next time, adamantium or vibranium, Smith thought wryly. Though acquiring either in sufficient quantities will be... challenging.
Piccolo's abilities included matter manipulation—he could create clothing and simple objects from energy. But reconstructing an entire fifty-meter fighting platform exceeded even those capabilities.
Fortunately, he'd planned for this contingency.
Smith touched the communicator at his ear. "Bulma, arena repair. Now."
"Already on it," Bulma's voice crackled back. "Deploying construction units."
From the staging area behind the spectator sections, a small army of Baymax robots emerged. Their white, inflatable forms moved with surprising efficiency, rolling forward on wheels built into their feet. Each unit carried specialized tools—plasma cutters, welding equipment, material dispensers.
They swarmed over the damaged arena like ants rebuilding a disturbed hill.
Broken metal was cut away and removed. New alloy panels were positioned with millimeter precision. Welding torches flared, creating seams that would hold under tremendous stress. The Baymax units worked in perfect coordination, their AI-driven programming executing Bulma's repair protocols without error.
Within five minutes, the arena floor gleamed like new—seamless, pristine, showing no evidence of the devastation Tony had inflicted.
Eddie Brock returned to the arena's center, looking down at his feet with visible appreciation. "Technology changes lives," he announced to the crowd, his voice carrying theatrical warmth. "And the Universal Capsule Company demonstrates that principle beautifully."
He gestured broadly. "The first match is concluded. Now we move to round two!" His voice rose with building excitement. "Please welcome our next competitors—Thena of the Eternals versus T'Challa, the Black Panther of Wakanda!"
In the Wakandan section, T'Challa rose from his seat.
His father's hand gripped his shoulder, firm and reassuring. "Go, my son. The vibranium will protect you."
Shuri leaned close, her voice intense with conviction. "Show them what the Black Panther can do. Surprise them all."
T'Challa nodded, his throat tight. He'd watched Tony Stark—genius billionaire with flying armor—get dismantled by Xu Wenwu. He'd seen Scouters explode trying to measure Thor's power. He'd heard Eddie's introduction of Thena: four thousand years of combat experience, mistaken for a goddess across multiple civilizations.
What chance did he have?
But he was the Black Panther. Crown Prince of Wakanda. Future king of the most advanced nation on Earth. And kings didn't surrender to fear.
T'Challa pulled his helmet on, the vibranium weave settling into place with a soft hiss. The HUD activated, feeding him tactical data. Then he ran.
His enhanced physiology carried him forward at speeds that would shame Olympic sprinters—one hundred kilometers per hour, the heart-shaped herb's power flowing through every muscle. He reached the arena's edge and executed a perfect front flip, landing in a three-point stance that drew scattered applause.
From a purely human perspective, it was impressive.
Compared to what the audience had already witnessed—flight, energy projection, cosmic artifacts—it was almost mundane.
Tony Stark and Ivan Vanko, however, paid close attention for entirely different reasons. Both had activated backup scanning systems, analyzing T'Challa's suit with professional interest.
On the opposite side of the arena, Thena simply stepped off the elevated platform.
She fell twenty feet and landed without sound, without visible effort. The impact that would have shattered a normal human's legs barely registered. She straightened, golden armor gleaming in the Pacific sunlight, and waited.
The contrast between the two fighters was stark. T'Challa had needed to run and flip to reach the arena. Thena had treated gravity as a suggestion.
Eddie wisely retreated to the sidelines as Smith Doyle appeared between the competitors.
"The rules are simple," Smith said, his voice carrying clearly. "Submission, loss of combat capability, remaining down for a ten-count, or falling from the ring—all constitute defeat." He met each fighter's eyes. "Second match of the Dragon Ball tournament begins now!"
Smith vanished in a blur of speed.
T'Challa didn't hesitate.
He exploded forward, vibranium claws extending from his gauntlets with metallic whispers. The heart-shaped herb sang in his veins, pushing his speed to superhuman levels. The arena floor blurred beneath his feet.
Strike first. Strike fast. Don't give her time to establish dominance.
Thena watched him come, her expression serene. She didn't shift into a combat stance. Didn't manifest weapons. Simply stood, observing his approach with the calm of someone who'd witnessed this exact scenario ten thousand times across five millennia.
T'Challa's jaw clenched beneath his helmet. She's not even taking me seriously.
The distance closed to ten feet. Five. Three.
T'Challa struck, vibranium claws slashing in a pattern designed to overwhelm defenses—high, low, center, feint, real strike. Techniques drilled into him since childhood, enhanced by superhuman reflexes.
To his perception, the attack was blindingly fast.
To Thena, it moved in slow motion.
She shifted her weight fractionally, her torso rotating just enough to let the claws pass millimeters from her armor. In the same fluid motion, golden energy materialized in her hand—a double-edged sword forming from nothing, perfect and deadly.
The blade swept horizontal, catching T'Challa mid-strike.
CLANG!
The energy sword struck the vibranium suit with a sound like a church bell. T'Challa's momentum reversed instantly, Thena's five-thousand-year-old strength launching him sideways.
He flew ten feet, hit the arena floor, and tumbled another five before his claws caught metal, arresting his momentum.
The audience gasped. Even expecting Thena's dominance, the sheer speed of the exchange shocked them.
Above the arena, the holographic screens replayed the sequence in hundred-times slow motion. T'Challa's strike. Thena's minimal evasion. The sword materializing from pure energy. The devastating counter.
"Did you see that weapon just... appear?" someone shouted.
"Energy manipulation," Karl Mordo murmured, his mystic senses analyzing what he'd witnessed. "Similar to construct creation in the mystic arts, but the source is different. Not dimensional energy. Something older."
Among the vampires, Marcus leaned toward Selene. "If you'd faced her in the last tournament, would you have won?"
Selene shook her head slowly. "I won because Tony exhausted his ammunition in the first round. If he'd fought conserved, used his bombs strategically..." She gestured at the arena where T'Challa was struggling to his feet. "I couldn't survive that kind of power. Not then, not now."
Marcus smiled. "Luck is part of strength."
"So is knowing when you're outmatched," Selene replied.
T'Challa rose on shaking legs, grateful that his helmet hid his expression.
Too fast. Too strong.
Without the vibranium suit, that single blow would have killed him. The energy blade had struck with enough force to pulverize bone, rupture organs, tear flesh. The suit had absorbed and redistributed the kinetic energy, spreading it across the entire weave.
But T'Challa still felt it—the thunderous impact, the momentary helplessness of flight.
And Thena had been holding back. He knew it instinctively. That strike was a warning, not an execution.
I could surrender, T'Challa thought. No shame in yielding to an immortal warrior with four thousand years of experience.
Except there was shame. The shame of giving up without truly testing himself. The shame of returning to Wakanda having quit the moment things got difficult.
I am the Black Panther. I do not yield.
T'Challa charged again.
Thena's expression showed the faintest flicker of approval. Courage in the face of overwhelming odds—that was worth respecting.
She didn't bother manifesting a weapon this time. She simply ran to meet him.
Thena accelerated from standing still to combat speed in two steps. The distance between them evaporated.
T'Challa saw her coming, saw her fist drawing back, and tried to dodge.
The punch arrived first.
BOOM!
Thena's fist connected with T'Challa's midsection. The vibranium suit absorbed most of the impact, but "most" still left enough force to launch the prince backward.
T'Challa's feet left the ground. He flew across the arena floor, tumbling, unable to arrest his momentum. His claws scraped across the gold-titanium surface, leaving deep gouges in metal that should have been nearly indestructible.
Ten parallel scratches marked his path, each one a testament to vibranium's hardness.
Tony and Ivan saw the gouges and nodded to each other, confirmation wordless. That suit was definitely vibranium. Nothing else could mar gold-titanium alloy so easily.
T'Challa finally stopped near the arena's edge, his claws dug deep into the floor.
Thena walked toward him slowly, her posture relaxed. "Surrender. You fought with courage. That's honorable. But you're outmatched."
T'Challa pushed himself to his feet, every muscle screaming protest. His breathing came hard and fast inside the helmet.
"Even outmatched..." he said, his voice steady despite the pain, "I will fight. A Black Panther does not quit."
In the Wakandan section, Shuri grabbed her father's arm. "She's going to hurt him."
"I know," T'Chaka said quietly. "But watch his spirit. Watch how he stands."
On the arena floor, Thena's expression shifted to something almost sad. She'd seen this before—warriors who refused to yield despite impossible odds. Sometimes it was admirable. Sometimes it was tragic.
"As you wish," she said softly.
Thena's concern about Mahd Wy'ry episodes made her want to end this quickly. The longer the fight continued, the greater the risk of losing control. Better to finish it now, cleanly.
"I'll escort you from the ring personally."
She moved.
One moment Thena stood fifteen feet away. The next, she was directly in front of T'Challa, her fist already traveling toward his face.
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