T'Chaka's blood boiled. He was the King of Wakanda, the Black Panther, the living avatar of the Goddess Bast. To be struck down like a common criminal in his own house was an insult that demanded a reckoning in blood.
"You arrogant bastard! I will not let your shadow fall over my people!"
With a roar that echoed the ancestral drums of his lineage, T'Chaka pounced. He was a blur of black and silver, moving with the predatory grace that had defined his line for generations. "Wakanda bows to no one!"
But his path was blocked by a mountain of ceramite and muscle.
T'Chaka quickly realized the terrifying disparity in their strength. Even with his Vibranium-woven habit absorbing the kinetic energy of the strikes, he was being dismantled. Olsen had spent centuries breaking through the kinetic shielding of xenos war-beasts and traitor-engines; a single man in a high-tech suit was merely a minor obstacle.
With cold, mechanical efficiency, Olsen caught T'Chaka mid-lunge, twisted his joints into a painful lock, and threw him—hog-tied and gasping—at Emrys's feet.
"You have no honor!" T'Chaka spat, his voice thick with rage and the unique dialect of the Golden City.
Emrys didn't even look down. He merely adjusted a cufflink. "Olsen, strip him of his regalia. Lash him to the external bridge struts. Signal the capital: they have one hour to surrender their Vibranium stockpiles, or I drop their King from forty thousand feet."
Even Nick Fury, a man whose soul was built on necessary evils, felt a chill. "Isn't that... excessive? Even for us?"
"Excessive?" Emrys glanced at him. "It's efficient. We are breaking a symbol, Director. When a god is seen shivering and naked in the wind, his followers tend to lose their fanaticism."
Fury sighed, rubbing his temple. "I just hope you understand the kind of hornets' nest you're kicking. If they don't break, they're going to glass this ship."
"Don't worry, Director," Emrys said, walking toward the hangar. "This battle doesn't require S.H.I.E.L.D.'s participation. You're just here to witness."
An hour passed. On the bridge of the Helicarrier, the Avengers watched the monitors in grim silence.
"He looks like a common villain," Tony muttered, gesturing to the projection of Fury delivering the ultimatum.
"We're all villains now, Tony," Steve Rogers said, his gaze fixed and cold. "If the cost of saving the world is one king's dignity, then it's a price I'm willing to pay."
Suddenly, the monitors flickered. Fury's face paled as he stared at the external cameras. "Something's wrong. Check the hostages."
A team of agents rushed to the outer deck, only to find the struts empty. The ropes had been cut with molecular precision, and the figures they had been watching were nothing more than sophisticated hard-light holograms.
"They're gone," Hill reported, her voice trembling. "They infiltrated the ship, bypassed our internal sensors, and extracted the King right under our noses."
"I knew it," Fury hissed, slamming his fist into the console. "Their tech is too far ahead. We never had them."
"Don't panic," Emrys's voice crackled over the comms, steady and amused. "I never expected them to surrender for a hostage. I just needed the hour to bring the Sword of Truth into low orbit."
Above the Helicarrier, the sky itself seemed to fracture. A massive shadowy outline began to blot out the sun—not a ship of steel and wires, but a gothic cathedral of war, kilometers long, adorned with golden statuary and arched macro-cannons.
Emrys sat in the command throne of the frigate, watching the sensors. "Beautiful, isn't it? A masterpiece of Martian engineering."
In the arming chambers below, the air was thick with the scent of sacred oils and incense. Olsen stood upon an iron dais. After centuries of exile, he was finally undergoing the Rites of Armament.
Galahad, the Tech-Priest, moved with mechanical precision. He chanted the Canticles of the Omnissiah as hydraulic arms bolted thick plates of black ceramite onto Olsen's frame.
Leg-greaves. Breastplate. Power-pack.
Finally, Galahad placed the helmet over Olsen's head. On the right shoulder pad, he fixed a crimson 'Iron Halo'—the medal of supreme valor. On the left, the Terminator Cross. These were the honors Emrys had restored to the Fallen, a bribe of glory to secure their eternal loyalty.
"Olsen," Emrys's voice echoed in the marine's helmet. "I have given you back your name. I have given you back your soul. Do not fail me."
Olsen gripped his blessed bolter, the weight familiar and holy. "For the Emperor. For Redemption."
The launch sequence initiated.
From the belly of the gothic warship, a dozen drop-pods screamed toward the Earth like vengeful meteors, trailing plumes of fire. They didn't aim for the outskirts; they aimed for the heart of the Golden City.
The Blackwatch had arrived.