"Warning! Critical breach in Sector Four!"
"Unknown atmospheric contacts have bypassed the first energy lattice!"
Piercing sirens and strobing crimson lights shattered the calm of the Great Vibranium Laboratory. On the monitors, streaks of fire tore through the clouds—not graceful ships, but jagged, brutal projectiles screaming toward the earth with the kinetic force of falling stars.
The drop pods, shaped like ribbed iron lotus buds, didn't bother with flight paths. They simply slammed through the outer energy shield, the friction of their descent turning them into white-hot wedges of destruction.
In the eyes of Prince T'Challa and the tribal elders, the sky seemed to be falling. The pods plummeted into the outer districts, the impact shaking the very foundations of the Golden City.
BOOM—!
After a split second of vacuum-like silence, an earth-shattering roar erupted. A visible shockwave surged outward, leveling farmsteads and flattening fields with the indifferent power of a tidal wave.
"The enemy... they're here," T'Challa whispered, his heart tightening. He turned to the four tribal chiefs, his eyes flashing with a sudden, desperate resolve. He raised a clenched fist. "They have brought war to our gates! Now, we unite! We defend our home, and we protect the soul of Wakanda!"
"Long live Wakanda!" the chiefs roared back, their voices like baying beasts.
Because King T'Chaka was still undergoing emergency stabilization, the weight of the crown now rested on his son. T'Challa took a deep breath, crossing his arms over his chest in the traditional salute. "I will be on the front lines with you. The Panther God watches! Our ancestors are with us!"
A few miles above, inside the Sword of Truth, the Machine Spirits of the drop pods sang their final protocols.
The environment inside the pods was a sensory assault—dark, cramped, and vibrating with enough force to liquefy a normal human's organs. But the men inside were not normal.
Olsen checked his wrist-mounted auspex. The mission parameters flickered in his visor:
Secure the Royal Palace: Capture the Princess Shuri alive for extraction.
Mine Integrity: Neutralize all resistance near the Vibranium deposits.
The Great Work: Retrieve samples of the Heart-Shaped Herb.
This was a operation for the Blackwatch First Company—the veterans. Most of these men had served for centuries; they were the elite of the Fallen, warriors who had fought through the Great Crusade and the long, bitter exile.
Inside the shaking pod, a warrior in midnight-black armor stood. He wore a skull-faced helmet and clutched a heavy, iron-bound tome to his chest. He was the Chaplain, the spiritual anchor for the former Dark Angels.
As the pod roared through the stratosphere, the Chaplain's voice rose, a low, mechanical rasp that cut through the thunder of the descent.
"What is your duty?" he demanded.
The question acted like a lightning rod, grounding the warriors' scattered thoughts. They answered in a singular, terrifying chorus.
"To fulfill the will of the Emperor!"
"What is the Emperor's will?" the Chaplain roared, his voice like a hammer striking an anvil.
"That we fight! That we die!"
The ancestral fires, cooled by a thousand years of shame and hiding, were reignited. The "traitor" status they had carried felt like a skin they were finally shedding.
"What is death?"
"It is our duty!"
"Faith is our shield! Hatred is our weapon! We fear nothing! We are the Angels of Death!"
Olsen closed his eyes beneath his helmet. Finally, the shame was gone. They were no longer hunted strays; they were the Emperor's wrath made manifest.
The pod slammed into the ground with a final, violent jolt. The explosive bolts fired, and the heavy hatches fell away like petals of a black iron flower.
"Remember the Vow!"
Olsen shouted as the red light of the auspex detected thousands of heat signatures closing in.
He drew his Power Sword. The blade hissed as its disruption field crackled to life, casting a blue glow over his visor. He stepped out into the swirling dust and heat of the African plains.
"For the Emperor! For the Lion!"
Nearly a hundred Space Marines stepped into the light of the sun, their massive shadows stretching across the Wakandan outer city.
The Border Tribe, who had been ordered to hold the line, began to form their energy barriers. They interlocked their vibranium-weave cloaks, creating a shimmering wall of blue light, ready to reap the invaders with their sonic spears.
But as the tribe leader looked upon the giants emerging from the smoke—black-armored monsters with skull helmets and bolters the size of cannons—a cold, primordial dread took hold of his heart.
These were not the "outsiders" they had studied. These were things out of a nightmare, and they had not come to talk.