Old King T'Chaka, tottering with every step, leaned heavily against the scorched walls of his palace. Tears carved paths through the soot on his face. With a voice that was less a plea and more a hollow wail, he cried out to the monolithic, blood-stained warriors standing guard.
"Stop! Please... stop!"
He collapsed to his knees, his forehead pressing into the dirt. "We surrender! In the name of the ancestors... we surrender!"
The once-shining capital of Wakanda was a graveyard of smoke and shattered glass. The screams of the wounded drifted on the wind, a hellish chorus that had finally broken the old king's spirit.
Olsen looked down at the kneeling man, his expression unreadable behind his skull-faced visor. "You should be grateful, Lord T'Chaka. It was only the compassion of my Master that stayed our hands. Ordinarily, heretics who bow to false idols are met with the fire of an Exterminatus. We would have turned this soil to glass and left not even your ashes to the wind."
In the cold logic of the Dark Angels, mercy was an anomaly. Typically, a world that resisted the Imperial Truth was subjected to cyclonic torpedoes or viral bombing. To remain standing, even in ruins, was a rare privilege.
"We will give you the Vibranium!" T'Chaka choked out, his heart tightening. "Everything! Only spare my people. Release the innocent!"
Olsen stepped forward, his three-meter frame casting a shadow that seemed to swallow the old king whole. The pressure of his presence was physical, making it hard for T'Chaka to draw breath.
"This is not a surrender," Olsen corrected him, his voice like the grinding of tectonic plates. "Surrender implies a treaty. This is a conquest. You have been brought to heel by the will of the Emperor, executed through His servants."
This was the lesson that had to be etched into the Wakandan soul. They had to understand, with every fiber of their being, that their era of isolationist pride was over. They were no longer a sovereign nation; they were a sub-sector of a greater machine.
"Yes..." T'Chaka's voice broke. "We... we have been conquered."
With those words, the backbone of Wakanda snapped. The myth of their invincibility, protected for centuries by the shroud and the shield, had been dismantled in less than an hour.
"Take him," Olsen commanded.
The Dark Angels displayed the royal family—the King, the Prince, the Queen, and the tribal elders—in front of the palace gates, bound in heavy irons like spoils of war. A handful of battle-brothers stood guard over the massive plaza, where hundreds of thousands of Wakandans knelt in a silence so heavy it felt suffocating.
When Emrys's flagship descended, accompanied by the S.H.I.E.L.D. Helicarrier, the sight that greeted them was haunting.
On the bridge of the Helicarrier, Nick Fury stood frozen. Tony Stark subconsciously checked his watch. Twenty-eight minutes.
It had taken less than half an hour for Emrys to dismantle the most technologically advanced nation on Earth. The strength on display wasn't just military; it was psychological.
"I think I've made a catastrophic mistake," Fury whispered to himself, a cold jolt of realization hitting his gut. He had planned to use Emrys as a shield against cosmic threats. Instead, he had invited a wolf into the sheepfold—and the wolf had brought his own pack.
Emrys disembarked, walking through the silent ranks of the conquered toward the palace throne.
Olsen stepped forward and knelt, his armor still radiating the heat of battle. "Lord, the heresy has been purged. The Blackwatch awaits your inspection. All objectives are secured."
"You have done well, Olsen," Emrys said, his voice carrying across the plaza. "You have proven that the blood of the First Legion still flows with purpose. You have not failed the Lion's name."
Olsen bowed his head. For a Fallen Angel, such recognition was more valuable than any medal.
"But this was merely the beginning," Emrys whispered as he passed him. "There are far darker battlefields ahead. Remember your vows."
Emrys entered the throne room and sat upon the seat of the Black Panther. He leaned his head on his hand, his eyes cold as he surveyed the kneeling royal family.
"I don't care for long speeches," Emrys began, his index finger tapping a slow, rhythmic beat on the Vibranium armrest. The sound felt like a ticking clock to the captives.
"The Wakandan tribal state is hereby abolished. This territory is now a tithe-state of the Imperium, under the direct stewardship of my House. You are no longer royalty. You are subjects. Do you understand?"
T'Chaka closed his eyes, his face a mask of sorrow. "We... we understand."
"Good. Now, for the price of your survival," Emrys continued. "Because you chose to worship a false deity, you must earn your right to exist through atonement. You will be classified as a Grade-One Special Tithe State."
"Sir..." T'Chaka looked up, his voice trembling. "What does that mean?"
Olsen stepped forward, his voice devoid of pity. "It means that every three hundred solar cycles, you will pay a tithe of ten percent of your total resources—Vibranium, agricultural yield, advanced serums, and trained conscripts for our auxiliary forces.
This is calculated based on what we receive at our docks. If the shipment is short due to transit loss or sabotage, the difference will be extracted in blood from your remaining population."
The weight of the decree hit T'Chaka like a physical blow. A Grade-One tithe was a death sentence for a nation's ambition. It meant they would never again have the resources to build, to innovate, or to rebel. They were being turned into a farm, existing only to fuel Emrys's war machine.
T'Chaka's eyes rolled back, and he slumped into the dirt, unconscious.
"He'll wake up," Emrys said indifferently, looking out over his new domain. "Ensure the first shipment is prepared. I want the Vibranium processed and ready for the forges by nightfall."