The following morning, the atmosphere in the Royal Palace had shifted from the jubilant celebration of the King's return to something far more clandestine. T'Challa had requisitioned the "Silent Hall," a massive subterranean chamber originally designed for high frequency vibration testing of raw vibranium. It had been stripped of all furniture, sensors and equipment, leaving a white void of polished marble and acoustic dampening panels, illuminated only by a soft glow from the ceiling.
At the center of this empty expanse stood T'Challa. He had shed his ceremonial royal robes for a form fitting black tactical bodysuit that accentuated the statuesque definition of his new physiology. Around him, the first ten candidates selected by Okoye stood in a confused line.
Okoye stood by the blast door, her arms crossed over her chest, her face a mask of iron discipline. She had chosen the absolute best: six senior Dora Milaje and four veteran scouts from the Border Tribe. They were the elite of the elite, warriors who had stared down death a dozen times, yet as they looked at their King, who appeared twenty years younger and radiated a predatory stillness that made the hair on their arms stand up, they looked uncharacteristically nervous.
"Move forward," T'Challa commanded, his voice calm but filling the acoustic void. "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, eyes wide. Touching the King without invitation was a breach of protocol ingrained in them since childhood. But T'Challa's gaze brooked no argument. They shuffled forward, forming an awkward knot around him.
"Now," T'Challa said, his voice dropping into a resonant hum that seemed to vibrate in their chests. "Repeat after me. Do not question the words. Do not pause."
He closed his eyes, centering the anchor within his soul. "The Fool that doesn't belong to this era..."
The warriors blinked. One of the Border Tribe scouts, a man named Ayo who was famous for having fought off three leopards with a wooden staff, whispered, "The Fool... that doesn't belong to this era?"
"Louder," T'Challa barked, his eyes snapping open. "With intent."
"The Fool that doesn't belong to this era!" they chanted, their voices echoing strangely in the white room, a disjointed chorus.
"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 utter absurdity of the situation began to set in. One of the Dora Milaje, Aneka, fought the violent urge to quirk a skeptical eyebrow. She was a master of the vibranium spear, a graduate of the most grueling combat training on Earth and here she was, huddled in a white room, touching her King's bicep, chanting about mysterious rulers and lucky kings like she was at a high end spiritual retreat for tourists.
"Is this a poem, my King?" Ayo whispered tentatively, sweat beading on his forehead.
"Focus, Ayo," T'Challa replied, closing his eyes again. "The True Creator who embodies luck, deception and fate."
The warriors repeated the line, their confusion warring with their duty.
"We pray for your grace. We pray for your blessing. We pray for the mercy of your gaze."
As they finished the final plea, the 'handshake' was completed.
The air in the room felt as though it had been instantly replaced by liquid oxygen. The ten warriors gasped in unison, their backs arching. The Super Soldier Anchor, which had been tethered to T'Challa's soul, flowed through his skin and into theirs like a lightning strike.
Aneka felt her heart jump start, beating with a new rhythm. Her muscles knit themselves tighter, becoming as dense as industrial cable. The small scars on her knuckles from years of sparring vanished in seconds. Her vision, already 20/20, suddenly sharpened, allowing her to see the individual micro weaves in T'Challa's tactical suit.
"By the Orisha," Ayo choked out, staring at his hands as if they belonged to a stranger. He punched the air, a simple test reflex and the sound was like a whip cracking… a sonic snap caused by the sheer velocity of his fist. "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, though he felt the drain of the transfer. "Next ten."
For the next three hours, the Silent Hall became the most high stakes assembly line in Wakandan history.
Group after group was ushered in by a stone faced Okoye. Each time, the confusion was the same. T'Challa stood in the center, looking every bit the charismatic 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 in the corridor.
"He's making us join a choir?" one of the younger Dora Milaje whispered, clutching her spear.
"It's not a choir," Okoye hissed, though even she looked a bit pained by the repetitive chanting echoing through the door. "It is a... spiritual induction. Shut up and get in there."
The sixth group featured a particularly stoic captain from the Jabari tribe, a man who worshiped the Gorilla God and viewed technology with suspicion. He had only recently pledged loyalty to the throne. He looked at T'Challa with deep suspicion as he placed his heavy 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 of long suffering patience. "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 if there is dancing."
"The next line, Captain," T'Challa said, his voice a low warning. "Or you can explain to M'Baku why you are the only one who gets tired."
The chanting continued.
By the time the final group… was in the room, T'Challa was beginning to feel the mental strain of acting as a conduit for a hundred souls. But as the final "We pray for the mercy of your gaze" resonated off the marble walls, the room felt like a pressurized chamber.
The hundred warriors stood in the white room, arranged in perfect formation. The silence was absolute. The confusion was gone, replaced by a unified clarity.
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 without the need for amplification. "You feel the strength that the world has tried to steal for a century. You are the Centurions of the Golden City. 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. Push them until the ground breaks. 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. She saw the potential for a violence that could end wars before they began. "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, rolling his shoulders. He looked up at the observation deck's glass, where Shuri had been watching the entire spectacle.
"A cult leader, T'Challa? Really?" she teased over the private comms channel, her voice thick with amusement. "I thought you were going to start passing out pamphlets and asking for donations to the Church of the Fog."
"It worked, didn't it?" T'Challa replied, his lips twitching into a tired 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. And a hat."
"He already has the ego for it," T'Challa muttered, walking toward the exit. "Prepare the Royal Talon Fighter, Shuri. We have a meeting at the Hive."