News of the Border Tribe's slaughter flooded back to the capital with the few broken warriors who managed to flee the carnage. From the high balconies of the Royal Palace, T'Challa watched the distant smoke rising over the plains.
"It is impossible," he whispered, his hands gripping the stone railing so hard it began to crack. "The Border Tribe... all those warriors... they are the bravest Wakanda has to offer. How could they fall so quickly?"
He had no more time for mourning. The heavy, rhythmic thud of ceramite boots already echoed through the streets of the Golden City.
Panicked citizens fled like sheep before a storm. The Dark Angels moved with a terrifying, singular purpose. They did not shout or gloat; they simply advanced, leaving crimson footprints on the white stone of the plazas.
When an overzealous citizen attempted an ambush from a rooftop or a narrow alley, they were met with a single, thunderous bolt round. The high-explosive shells didn't just kill; they detonated, painting the walls with the brutal evidence of transhuman efficiency.
The Dark Angels ignored those who fled. They were predators, but they were not wasteful. They only eliminated those who stood in the path of their objectives.
Olsen's First Tactical Squad made straight for the palace. T'Challa, watching from above, felt a cold sweat prickle his skin. He had seen elite soldiers before, but these were different. They were precise, elegant in their brutality, and utterly devoid of mercy.
"Brother, we have to go!" Shuri appeared at his side, her face pale. She grabbed his arm, her voice trembling. "They aren't here for the city. They're here for the throne. Their target is you! We have to evacuate to the mines!"
"No, Shuri." T'Challa's eyes burned with a desperate, righteous anger. "I am the Black Panther. I am the guardian of this land. I cannot hide while my people are harvested. I will face them."
"We are with you, My Prince," Okoye said, stepping onto the balcony followed by a hundred Dora Milaje. Their golden armor glinted, but their faces were grim.
"Okoye, take the King and Queen to the Great Mound," T'Challa commanded, his voice reaching a tone of royal authority. He turned to Shuri, softening for a moment as he touched her shoulder. "Go to the lab. Secure the Heart-Shaped Herb. I will buy you the time you need."
Reluctantly, Shuri nodded and vanished into the palace interior.
T'Challa took a deep breath. He touched the silver necklace at his throat. In a shimmer of purple kinetic energy, the Vibranium nanites surged over his body, forming the sleek, predatory suit of the Black Panther.
"Great Bast, give me strength," he hissed. He sprinted to the edge of the balcony and leaped.
Olsen paused. His auspex picked up a high-velocity signature descending from the palace heights.
BOOM.
The Black Panther slammed into the ground, a shockwave of stored kinetic energy erupting from his landing and forcing the nearest Dark Angels back a step. Amidst the settling dust, T'Challa rose, his Vibranium claws extending with a sharp hiss.
"You will pay a blood price for every life you have taken!" he roared.
Olsen didn't flinch.
"Target confirmed: T'Challa, codenamed 'Black Panther.' Genetic profile indicates level-two enhancement. Suit composition: high-grade Vibranium."
Olsen looked at the young King. Capturing the "guardian" of this primitive tribe was essential for the pacification phase. He stepped aside, gesturing to a figure whose armor was draped in heavy, rune-etched robes.
"Marquis. He is yours. Subdue him, but leave him with enough breath to surrender."
Marquis, the squad's Librarian, stepped forward. His psychic hood crackled with blue static, and his eyes glowed with an unsettling, warp-born light.
"You call yourself a guardian?" Marquis's voice was like grinding stone. "I could crush your spirit and unmake your bones without lifting a finger. Surrender now, and I will grant you the mercy of a quick interrogation."
"I do not yield to monsters!" T'Challa lunged. He moved like a blur of shadow, a leopard crossing the savanna. His claws were aimed at the Librarian's throat, intending to tear through the ceramite and end the threat in a single strike.
But T'Challa's leap was halted mid-air. An invisible, crushing weight slammed into him, pinning him against an unseen wall in the sky.
Lightning danced around Marquis's fingers. "In the name of the First Legion and the Emperor who watches from the Golden Throne, I command you: Repent, heretic!"
With a flick of his wrist, Marquis unleashed a telekinetic hammer. T'Challa was launched backward like a stone from a catapult, plowing a hundred-meter trench through the palace courtyard before slamming through a reinforced wall.
Dazed, T'Challa crawled out of the rubble. He hadn't seen a weapon. He hadn't seen a move. It was as if the universe itself had turned against him.
"Wakanda... Forever!" T'Challa roared, forcing himself to his feet. He triggered the kinetic discharge in his boots, launching himself again. "We will never yield to demons like you!"
The word "daemon" caused Marquis to go unnervingly still.
For a warrior of the Fallen, that word was the ultimate insult. It touched the raw nerve of their thousand-year shame.
Marquis didn't use the Warp this time. He stepped forward with transhuman speed, caught the flying Black Panther by the throat with one massive, armored hand, and slammed him into the flagstones with enough force to crack the foundation of the courtyard.
T'Challa struggled, his suit glowing purple as it desperately tried to absorb the localized pressure.
"You are unrepentant," Marquis hissed, his voice dropping into a sinister, guttural tone. "You lack loyalty. You lack faith. You call the Emperor's chosen 'daemons'?"
He leaned in closer, his psychic hood humming with a lethal frequency.
"I was going to be brief. But since you wish to speak of daemons, I shall show you the Interrogator's craft. You will learn the meaning of 'Repentance,' heretic. I will beat the truth into your soul until you beg for the Emperor's mercy."
Marquis raised a heavy, armored fist. It didn't matter how much kinetic energy the suit could store; the Librarian wasn't just hitting the armor—he was crushing the man inside with the weight of a thousand years of hatred.