Authors Notes

Greetings, readers.

This story is going to focus on the entire Marvel Cinematic Universe, including the shows and other media, but from the perspective of the protagonist, feel free to make any suggestions of the stuff you want to see in the story, and if it is reasonable, I will fit it into the story.

I will be experimenting with a new storytelling technique. The other POVs that are not the main character (Jon) will be told from a third-person perspective; if you do not like this, just tell me in the review section, and I will change back to first-person.

Please feel free to leave a review, as it helps improve the story's quality.

CHAPTER SIX

All eyes on me

Ulysses Klaue

Ulysses Klaue lounged in his chair, reclining with an air of smug satisfaction. The worn leather creaked beneath his weight as he pressed his phone to his ear. "Listen here, bru, you get what you paid for, eh? It's not my problem you didn't double-check your shipment on delivery, my friend. We don't do return policies here. And if you have a problem, bru, you can Voetsek off."

With a flick of his wrist, he hung up, exhaling as he swirled the brandy in his glass. Life was good. No, life was great. He smirked, savoring the thought as his fingers absently brushed against the back of his neck—against the raised, burnt-in brand that forever marked him as a Wakandan criminal. His jaw tightened. Fucking savages. All for a bit of Vibranium. The price he had paid was steep, but looking at the sheer fortune of Vibranium stockpiled before him, he had no regrets.

He pushed himself to his feet and walked over to his desk, pouring another generous glass of brandy. The ship Churchill, his fortress, rested in the waters of the Salvage Yard, just off the coast of South Africa. The rusting hulk of the ship was an ugly thing, but it served its purpose. Here, he was king. And before him, locked away in reinforced containers, was the wealth of an empire.

He took a slow sip. Life really couldn't get better than this.

Then, all at once, it did. But not in the way he wanted.

A thunderous explosion rocked the ship, sending a violent tremor through its rusted bones. Klaue was thrown backward, his glass shattering against the steel walls as he hit the floor hard, his ears ringing. Smoke and dust clouded his vision as the ship groaned in protest.

Blinking rapidly, he pushed himself up, only to see—him.

A figure stood before him, silhouetted by the dim lighting of the cabin. He was clad in a sleek, form-fitting black suit reinforced with what looked like black metal armor, its plates flowing into his form with an almost organic grace. An orange phoenix emblem burned against his chest; his shoulders adorned with angular pauldrons. His face was hidden behind a dark mask, but his curly hair stuck out the top, giving him a wild, untamed look.

The masked intruder cocked his head and leaned in slightly, his voice casual, almost friendly. "Hey, man, listen—I'm gonna need all your Vibranium, okay? Now, make this easy on yourself and just give up. And while you're at it, tell your men to stand down."

Klaue blinked, still dazed. Then he processed what he was hearing the man in front of him sounded young, barely an adult. This brat—this costumed idiot—thought he could walk in here and demand his Vibranium?

A slow, malicious grin spread across his face. He chuckled darkly, shaking his head. "No. No, no, no. You got this twisted, boy. The only person giving up something here is you—your life." He turned toward his men, who had already surrounded the office, their weapons locked and loaded. "Kill this bastard!"

Gunfire erupted. The air filled with the deafening roar of bullets, the muzzle flashes casting wild shadows against the walls.

And the boy didn't move.

Klaue's stomach dropped as the bullets bounced off him. His armor barely even registered the impact. The kid stood there, nonchalant, as if the gunfire were nothing more than a summer breeze.

The soldiers hesitated. Guns clicked as they reloaded, uncertain.

The boy sighed, shaking his head. "Man, y'all are rude. Absolutely no way to treat a guest." He turned his masked face toward Klaue and leaned in again, voice dropping to something far more menacing. "I did give you an easy out. And you spat in my face. So now…" He cracked his knuckles. "Now we do things the hard and messy way, Ulysses."

Before Klaue could react, the kid vanished.

No, not vanished—moved. Too fast. A black blur shot through the room, and suddenly, men were flying—slammed into walls, sent crashing into desks, knocked out cold before their fingers could so much as touch a trigger. It was brutal. Precise.

Klaue could barely track it.

One soldier lifted his rifle, only to have the boy appear in front of him and chop him in the throat, ripping his head off. Another tried to aim, but the kid spun, planting a boot squarely in his chest, cratering it, and sending him sprawling across the room.

Within seconds, they were all down.

Then, just as suddenly as he had vanished, he was back—standing in front of Klaue, hands on his hips like he had just finished a light workout. "Well. Now that that little bit of ugliness is over with… let's get you wrapped up for the Wakandans, yeah?"

Klaue's blood ran ice cold.

His mind raced. No, no, no. He knew what the Wakandans would do to him. They wouldn't just throw him in a cell and forget about him. They would make an example of him. He had seen what they did to traitors.

Desperation clawed at his chest. He had to get out of this. Somehow.

"Wait—wait!" Klaue held up his hands, trying to muster his most convincing smile. "Let's talk about this, boy. I could give you whatever you want. You want some Vibranium? How about half? You'd be bloody rich! Just let me go, eh?"

The boy chuckled. Low. Amused.

"But Ulysses…" he tilted his head mockingly, "I'm already taking all your Vibranium. So, uh… I don't really see how that's a bargaining tool."

Klaue's grin faltered.

Panic set in.

He had to think of something else.

Ulysses Klaue's breath came in ragged gasps as he stared at the masked figure standing before him, the boy—no, the demon—who had just single-handedly torn through his men like they were nothing. His mind raced, desperate for a way out, for a sliver of an opportunity to escape this nightmare. His fingers twitched, and he forced a grin onto his face, though it was more a grimace of fear than confidence.

"Okay, boy," he began, his voice oily with feigned generosity. "What if I gave you access to some of my bank accounts, ey? Millions, just sitting there, waiting for you."

The masked figure tilted his head, arms crossed. The emblem of a flaming phoenix emblazoned on his chest seemed to shimmer in the dim light of the ruined ship's cabin. "Millions?" the boy mused, a chuckle escaping his lips. "Nah, I want all of it. Every last account. All the billions you made off Wakanda's pain."

Klaue's breath hitched. How the fuck did this kid know about all of his offshore accounts? That information was buried under layers of security, hidden away in places only he and a handful of trusted associates knew about. This wasn't some cosplay lunatic who got lucky—this was a professional, and that terrified him.

As he scrambled to come up with another angle, movement caught his eye. His right-hand man, Themba, groaned as he pushed himself to his feet, his movements slow but deliberate. Klaue's heart leaped with hope as he watched Themba reach behind a toppled crate and pull out an M72 LAW rocket launcher—one of the many high-grade weapons he had smuggled in from the States. Without hesitation, Themba hoisted the weapon onto his shoulder, his eyes narrowing as he took aim at the boy.

"Good," Klaue thought, a twisted grin forming on his lips. "Die, you little bastard."

With a rapid dive, Klaue threw himself behind his overturned metal desk just as the rocket launched with a deafening roar. He barely had time to brace himself before the explosion engulfed the masked figure in a storm of fire and destruction. The sheer force of the blast rattled the entire cabin, sending Klaue tumbling backward, his ears ringing.

He groggily pushed himself up, shaking his head to clear the haze. A relieved chuckle escaped his lips as he turned to Themba. "Bloody good job, Themba."

Themba grinned, flashing a thumbs-up. "Thanks, boss," he said, his thick African accent tinged with pride.

But the moment of victory was short-lived. From within the smoke, a chuckle—a dark, amused chuckle—sent a spear of ice through Klaue's gut. His blood ran cold.

"No," he muttered, dread seizing his limbs. "No way."

Themba's grin faltered, his fingers scrambling to reload the launcher, but it was too late.

The boy blitzed out of the smoke like a phantom, his armor charred and battered, his right pauldron missing, with his shoulder exposed—but he was still standing. Still alive. And now furious.

In a blur of motion, the boy gripped Themba by the throat and hoisted him off the ground like he weighed nothing. The henchman gagged, his legs kicking frantically as his hands clawed at the fingers locked around his windpipe.

"Now," the masked figure said, his voice dangerously calm. "Why would you go and do something stupid like that, ey?"

Before anyone could react, the boy's grip shifted. His right hand gripped Themba's shoulder while his left twisted at his neck—and then he pulled.

Klaue let out an involuntary scream of horror as a sickening, wet rip echoed through the cabin. Blood sprayed in all directions as Themba's head was torn from his body, his spine still attached. His limp corpse crumpled to the floor, crimson pooling around it.

Klaue's stomach churned violently. He had seen death. Had caused death. But this? This was something else. Something monstrous.

The boy turned, floating just slightly above the ground, his fists clenched at his sides, his entire presence radiating fury. His mask did nothing to hide the rage burning in his eyes.

"I tried to be nice to you fuckers, give your men a quick death," he growled, his voice laced with pure venom. "But clearly, violence, pain and death are the only things you understand."

With a casual flick, he tossed Themba's severed head and spine toward Klaue. It slammed against the wall behind him with a sickening splat, exploding into a mess of blood and brain matter. Klaue recoiled in revulsion, his body trembling.

The boy stepped closer. "Now," he said, his tone deadly calm. "Give me all your bank accounts. Every detail. Or I swear to the gods above, you won't have to worry about the Wakandans—because I'll rip you limb from fucking limb."

Klaue flinched, his breath coming in shallow gasps. What the fuck was this kid? A demon? A nightmare sent to drag him to hell? He had no choice. No way out.

With trembling hands, he raised them in surrender. "A-Alright," he stammered. "I'll do it. Just… just don't kill me."

He reached for a sheet of paper and scrawled out his passwords and banking details, his fingers shaking so violently that his writing was barely legible. He swallowed the lump in his throat and held it out toward the boy—no, the Phoenix.

But the Phoenix didn't take it. He merely tilted his head. "Prove it," he ordered. "Open them on your computer."

Klaue hesitated, but one glance at the bloodied mess that had been Themba convinced him otherwise. He quickly obeyed, logging into his accounts, confirming every detail, every transfer. When he was done, the Phoenix stepped forward and closed the laptop with a snap.

"You've been a great help, Ulysses," the boy said, his tone almost mocking. "But, unfortunately, I lied. I'm still taking you to the Wakandans."

Klaue's stomach plummeted. His eyes widened with rage and panic. "But you promised!" he roared. "You said if I helped you, you'd let me live!"

The Phoenix chuckled. "And I am letting you live. Letting you go free, on the other hand?" He shook his head. "Nah. Ain't gonna happen."

Klaue felt his knees go weak. There was nothing he could do. No way to fight this. No way to escape.

The Phoenix loomed closer; his presence overwhelming. "Say goodnight, Klaue."

Before he could react, a single flick to his forehead sent Klaue spiraling into darkness.

Maria Hill

Maria Hill moved swiftly down the long, sterile corridor of the SHIELD headquarters, her heels clicking sharply against the polished floor. She had started the day expecting routine reports and standard debriefings, but that expectation had been shattered when the intelligence report had landed on her desk. Now, gripping a tablet filled with disturbing footage and classified files, she hurried toward Director Fury's office, her mind racing.

Something had happened off the coast of South Africa—something that sent a ripple of fear through men who were trained killers. Footage had captured a lone figure soaring through the air at supersonic speeds, carrying what appeared to be a massive storage container as though it weighed nothing. And there was only one person she knew who fit that profile.

Jonathan Miller.

A SHIELD quick reaction force had been deployed to the scene, expecting to contain a situation involving wounded mercenaries. What they found instead was something far grislier. Survivors had been too terrified to speak, their eyes hollow with fear. A few mercenaries had been brutally killed, one with his head brutally torn from his shoulders; the body left in a pool of blood. Whatever had transpired there, it had left even hardened killers shaken to their core.

Reaching Fury's office, Maria didn't hesitate. She swiped her security card, entered upon his prompt, and wasted no time getting straight to the point.

"Director, we have an issue."

Fury barely looked up from the paperwork on his desk, his single eye locking onto her with the sharp intensity he was known for. "What kind of issue, Hill?"

Maria tapped on her tablet, bringing up satellite imagery and a paused video clip of the flying figure. She placed it on Fury's desk, angling the screen so he could see.

"Three hours ago, our satellites detected rapid, high-speed movement off the coast of South Africa," she began. "Upon review, we confirmed that it was an enhanced individual who matches the profile of Jonathan Miller."

Fury's expression didn't change, but Maria could see the way his fingers interlocked, his mind already processing the implications. She continued, showing the images from the QRF's findings—injured mercenaries, dead bodies strewn across the ship's deck, and the horrifying remains of the one who had been decapitated.

"We sent a quick reaction force to investigate," she said, her voice steady but laced with urgency. "They found several mercenaries seriously wounded, one of them—" she hesitated, then swiped to the image of the mutilated corpse. "—one of them was found like this. His head had been ripped clean off, his spine removed."

Fury studied the image before shaking his head, muttering, "Goddamn." He exhaled slowly and leaned back in his chair. "Do we have any intel on what went down?"

Maria folded her arms. "The survivors refused to talk. We had them interrogated, but they're scared out of their minds. Whatever happened on that ship, it was enough to break them."

Fury rubbed his chin. "And you think the Miller kid was responsible?"

Maria hesitated for a moment before answering, "I don't know, sir. I don't want to jump to conclusions before we have all the facts."

Fury scrolled through the footage, his gaze landing on the grizzly remains once again. He frowned. "What the hell did this guy do to deserve this?" He shook his head. "Is the kid really that much of a loose cannon?"

Maria took out another file and placed it on the desk. "Sir, these mercenaries… most of them are on international watchlists. They're wanted all over Africa and beyond. War criminals, arms dealers, human traffickers. Some of them have participated in genocides, forced children into becoming soldiers, committed atrocities beyond belief."

Fury glanced up at her, his fingers steepled. "And you think that justifies him flying in and tearing them apart, Agent Hill?"

Maria's jaw tightened. "I'm saying it puts things into context."

Fury leaned forward, flipping to the next image—a still frame from the footage, capturing Jonathan mid-flight, gripping a large container as if it were weightless. "What was in that container?" he asked.

Maria sighed. "We don't know yet, sir. But we have reason to believe he took it to his base of operations."

Fury's eye remained locked on the image. "He has a Safehouse?"

Maria nodded. "Yes. He likely took it to the one place he considers safe—the warehouse he and Penelope Burns purchased, according to the contractors who helped set it up, it seems they have created a mix between a workshop and a lab."

Fury tapped a finger on his desk. "I want eyes on them. Send agents, but tread carefully. The last thing we need is to push a potential asset into becoming an enemy. We've already seen what he's capable of."

Maria nodded. "Understood, sir. Are we still considering him for the Avengers Initiative?"

Fury pondered that for a moment before shaking his head. "Not yet. I want to meet him first, get a read on him."

Maria hesitated, then asked, "Okay, should we add him to the Index?"

Fury was silent for a moment, then finally said, "Not until we get a full evaluation. We need to know exactly who—and what—we're dealing with." He exhaled and then added, "For now, get me his father. I think it's time for a conversation with agent Miller."

Maria gave a sharp nod, turned on her heel, and exited the office, already making preparations in her head. This was just the beginning.

Ulysses Klaue

A sharp voice cut through the haze of unconsciousness. "Wake up, sleepyhead."

Ulysses Klaue's eyes snapped open, his body jolting instinctively as he realized something was horribly wrong. His stomach twisted—he was weightless, the wind roaring past his ears. He was flying. Panic surged through him as he looked down, the endless stretch of golden grasslands far below sending his mind into a spiral of terror. He craned his neck, looking above him, and there he was—the Phoenix.

The boy, no, the creature, the thing that had torn through his men like they were nothing, was holding him aloft with a crude harness. Klaue's mind raced. Had he stolen the vibranium? How had he moved it? Klaue had witnessed firsthand the raw, terrifying strength of this being, had seen him rip a man's head from his shoulders with grotesque ease, but even then—lifting a container of vibranium out on his own? It was impossible. No, he had to have help.

His thoughts were interrupted as the flight began to descend. Klaue looked up and felt his breath hitch in his throat. The border of Wakanda stretched out before them, the land of the Border Tribe, the warriors who stood vigilant against intruders, the gatekeepers of the fabled hidden kingdom.

Fear slithered into his gut, cold and unrelenting.

"Please—" he began, his voice raw with desperation. "Listen, you don't have to do this. Whatever you want, I can—"

The Phoenix didn't respond. He didn't even acknowledge Klaue's pleas. Instead, he descended smoothly, landing with unnerving grace as if gravity itself bent to his will. The sun had begun to dip below the horizon, casting long shadows across the land. Klaue swallowed hard. He didn't know how long he had been out.

A group of Wakandan warriors was already approaching, their movements purposeful, their expressions unreadable. The man at the forefront studied them before his gaze locked onto Klaue, recognition dawning on his face. He spoke in Wakandan, his voice thick with both reverence and command.

"NguKlaue lowo? Makabongwe uBast. Wena apho, hamba ubize uW'Kabi namadoda amakhulu, ubaxelele ukuba uKlaue ubanjwe ngumntu angamaziyo."

One of the warriors peeled away, running back toward their settlement, while the rest turned their attention to the Phoenix. One of them narrowed his eyes and demanded, "Ungubani?"

The Phoenix smirked slightly, tilting his head. "No names for now," he said in a calm, yet commanding voice. "You can call me the Phoenix. I respectfully wish to see W'Kabi, if possible."

Klaue stiffened. This kid—this monster—knew their names? Who was he? Could he be one of them? No, impossible. He didn't sound Wakandan, His armor wasn't vibranium; it had to be American-made.

The wait felt like an eternity to Klaue, though he knew only minutes had passed before two men approached—one young, his face twisted in barely concealed fury, and the other older, with a gaze like stone.

The younger man—W'Kabi, Klaue assumed—stopped abruptly, his expression morphing into something almost euphoric. His eyes locked onto Klaue, and he let out a reverent murmur.

"Makabongwe uBast, namhlanje ndiphindezela ubawo. Klaue, uya kunqwenela ukuba uzibulele xa ndigqibile ngawe."

Klaue frowned, frustration flaring within him. He had never bothered learning their dialect—never needed to. But W'Kabi's tone told him enough. He was in deep.

Then W'Kabi turned to the Phoenix, suspicion creeping into his voice. "While my thanks are in order, how did you know to come here, colonizer? Who told you of us?"

The Phoenix chuckled; the sound unsettlingly casual. "Now, now, Uncle W'Kabi. Is that any way to treat your long-lost nephew?"

Silence fell like a hammer. The Wakandans exchanged glances, uncertainty flashing in their eyes. W'Kabi's confusion was palpable. Klaue felt the world tilt beneath him.

Nephew?

No. No. It wasn't possible. Was he lying? Bluffing? How?

W'Kabi turned to the elder, whose eyes had gone impossibly wide. His voice was urgent, demanding. "What is the meaning of this? Speak! Thetha!"

The Phoenix smirked. "Nah. I've said enough. I'll let you stew on that." He gestured toward Klaue dismissively. "I brought this idiot to you because I thought you deserved to settle the score with him, and avenge your father. But our transaction is done. I'll be leaving now."

The Wakandans instantly tensed; their weapons raised in an unspoken command. W'Kabi's voice was firm. "No. You will not be leaving until we get answers."

Laughter, rich and unbothered, spilled from the Phoenix's lips. "You know, my mother always told me you people could be forceful." He sighed dramatically. "It was really a blast seeing you, Uncle, please pass my greetings to aunt Okoye. I truly have to go, goodbye."

Before they could react, the Phoenix's form blurred—as he shot into the sky. A cone of air formed around him, as a deafening boom split the air and he vanished beyond the horizon, leaving nothing but stunned silence in his wake.

A slow chuckle broke the tension, and Klaue's grin widened as he saw the unsettled looks on the Wakandans' faces.

"What do you find funny, thief?" W'Kabi snapped, his voice a razor's edge.

Klaue sneered. "That boy—your little mystery—stole your precious vibranium from me." He shook his head, reveling in their uncertainty. "So now you're going to have to go after him, to bring him to justice, and let me tell you something—you and your warriors don't stand a chance. He will tear you apart if you try. And I'll enjoy every second of it."

The warriors exchanged uneasy glances, the weight of his words pressing upon them. W'Kabi turned to the elder, his voice lower, uncertain. "What do we do, Elder?"

The elder's face remained unreadable, but his voice carried quiet resolve. "We take this to the king. We must decide our next move carefully."

W'Kabi gave a solemn nod, then turned his attention back to Klaue, his gaze burning with loathing. "And him?"

The elder barely spared Klaue a glance, his disgust evident. "Do as you wish with him."

A slow, predatory smile spread across W'Kabi's face. He lifted his spear and, without hesitation, swung it in a brutal arc. The side of the weapon connected sharply with Klaue's temple, and the world dissolved into darkness.

W'Kabi

W'Kabi stood in the grand council chamber of Wakanda, his arms crossed as he faced the assembled elders. The tension in the room was thick, an unspoken weight pressing upon them all. Across from him, the River Tribe Elder's expression was skeptical, his gaze piercing as he addressed W'Kabi directly.

"What do you mean this man claimed to be your nephew? Is he Wakandan or not?" the river tribe elder demanded, his voice carrying the sharp edge of disbelief.

W'Kabi inhaled sharply, his jaw tightening. "No, he is not, Elder" he replied firmly. "He showed no War Dog markings, and his armor was clearly not made of vibranium. He was… an American."

The council chamber, adorned with intricate carvings and vibrant tapestries, seemed to darken slightly as the weight of this revelation settled over them. The elders murmured among themselves, their hushed voices a mix of confusion and intrigue.

For most of the meeting, Elder M'Kathu of the Border tribe had remained silent, a pensive look on his weathered face. W'Kabi had noticed his unusual quietness and couldn't help but wonder what thoughts were running through the older man's mind. Was there something he knew? Something he wasn't telling them?

As W'Kabi pondered this, his eyes briefly flickered toward his wife. She stood in her regal stance beside the king, her spear held firmly, her posture unshakable. By her side, the prince, T'Challa, his closest friend, observed the discussion intently. When W'Kabi's gaze met his wife's, she gave him a small, knowing smile—one he returned, though his mind was still racing.

It was the Mining tribe Elder who finally broke the silence. "Elder M'Kathu," he said, leaning forward, "Is there anything you wish to share? You seem to be awfully quiet."

All eyes turned toward M'Kathu. The aged elder seemed to pull himself from his thoughts, inhaling deeply before speaking. "I think I know who this mystery man claiming to be W'Kabi's nephew is."

W'Kabi straightened instinctively, his entire body tensing as anticipation flooded his system. This was the answer he had been searching for since the moment the boy had flown away.

M'Kathu exhaled slowly before continuing. "Before my brother died, his eldest daughter took on a War Dog assignment. While on that mission, she fell in love with an American man and became pregnant with his child. My brother… in his anger, in his pride and shame, exiled her." He paused, his voice thick with something between sorrow and regret. "I believe that we just saw one of her children, Elders."

A wave of gasps rippled through the chamber. The revelation stunned the room into a heavy silence.

W'Kabi's heart pounded in his chest. His mind reeled as the implications settled in. The boy—that boy—was of Wakandan blood. His wife's nephew, his nephew.

He turned his gaze toward Okoye and saw the shock on her face. She rarely let her emotions slip, but this? This was different. She never spoke of her sister, W'Kabi knew that. It was a painful topic; one she had buried beneath her Royal Guard duties. He also knew that she had always regretted how things had ended between them—how she had never been able to make things right.

It was T'Challa who finally broke the silence. His voice was measured, thoughtful. "If he is of Wakandan descent, we should aim to bring him home. The boy should not be punished for his parent's crime."

The King's expression darkened for the briefest of moments, but it was fleeting—so quick that only the most observant would have caught it. W'Kabi noticed. Why did that bother him? he wondered.

The Mining Elder leaned forward. "And what of the vibranium he took from the thief, Klaue?" he pressed. "Do we just leave him with it? Or should we take action?"

The King straightened in his seat; his authority unmistakable. "We should send a team to retrieve the vibranium and the boy for questioning," he declared. "He must answer for the theft, and punished if found guilty."

W'Kabi's thoughts flickered to Klaue's words—the eerie confidence with which he had spoken of the boy's power. They would all die if they tried to attack him.

Steeling himself, W'Kabi spoke up. "My King," he began, "my men and I witnessed the boy's strength irfirsthand. He is powerful. I fear that the Black Panther and the Dora Milaje will not suffice." He let the weight of those words sink in before continuing. "If I may suggest a solution—bring the boy in peacefully.

We cannot afford to antagonize such a powerful force. Who's to say he is the only one in his family with such power? His other siblings could be just as strong."

The room fell silent.

But W'Kabi wasn't just speaking from a place of caution. Deep down, he felt a sense of gratitude toward the boy. He had done what even the King and Prince had failed to do—he had brought Klaue to justice. And beyond that, W'Kabi saw something else—an opportunity.

If the boy, his mother, and his siblings were brought back into Wakandan society, under the Border Tribe, it would elevate their standing within the kingdom. The power of such a bloodline could shift the balance of influence and power.

His wife's sharp gaze lingered on him, studying him closely. She knew him too well. She was already trying to decipher his motives. He simply smiled at her and turned back toward the King.

The King exhaled through his nose, deliberating. Finally, he spoke. "We shall watch from afar, for now," he decided. "But if the boy decides to sell the vibranium for personal gain, we will be forced to intervene." His gaze shifted to Okoye. "Post a War Dog to monitor the situation."

Okoye bowed deeply. "It shall be done."

With that, the council was dismissed.

As W'Kabi left the chamber, he quickened his steps, catching up to M'Kathu. "Elder," he said, lowering his voice, "it would be wise to do everything in our power to bring back Amahle and her children. We must push to have her exile lifted."

M'Kathu nodded solemnly. "That is not the issue," he murmured. "The issue is whether she wants to come back. My brother, in his foolishness, had her exiled—not the King. If the King had issued the exile, he could have reversed it, and she might have willingly returned. But we—her own family—cast her out. That is not something easily forgiven."

W'Kabi frowned but nodded in understanding. "But, Elder… if she didn't want to come back, why did the boy reach out?"

M'Kathu's expression was unreadable. He seemed to be lost in thought before finally speaking. "Maybe the boy is simply breaking his mother's rules. All children his age love to defy their parents."

W'Kabi remained silent, considering that possibility.

As their conversation ended, W'Kabi stepped outside, inhaling the crisp Wakandan air. The day had been full of surprises, but he welcomed them.

Because deep down, he knew this was only the beginning.

Daniel Whitehall

The haunting strings of Richard Wagner's Die Walküre drifted through the dimly lit office, each note swelling and fading like the rise and fall of an empire. Daniel Whitehall sat reclined in his opulent leather chair, the scent of aged wood and fine whiskey permeating the air. His fingers, smooth yet eerily cold, delicately held a photograph extracted from a thick, classified folder. He studied it intently, his piercing gaze tracing every detail of the mysterious figure captured mid-flight.

The man in the image was clad in a sleek, black bodysuit, accented with streaks of vibrant orange. He moved with breathtaking speed, captured in a blur, as he carried a metallic container—one of great significance. Whitehall tapped a finger lightly against the photograph, narrowing his eyes. "Who are you?" he murmured to himself, the question barely more than a whisper, but laden with intrigue.

The image had come from one of his embedded double agents within S.H.I.E.L.D., a valuable informant who had risked much to smuggle this intelligence out. The report attached to the photograph confirmed what Whitehall already suspected—the container belonged to none other than Ulysses Klaue, the notorious arms dealer and smuggler of vibranium. HYDRA had dealt with Klaue in the past, and Whitehall knew the man's operations well. But now, this enigmatic figure had disrupted everything, stealing something of immense worth and vanishing into the unknown.

Whitehall's lips curled downward as he recalled his recent interrogation session. He had managed to capture one of the surviving mercenaries from Klaue's ship—a pitiful, trembling wretch who had seen the masked man firsthand. Whitehall had used every method at his disposal, every art of persuasion and torment he had mastered over decades, but the man's heart had given out before yielding any real answers. A regrettable loss, but not an unexpected one.

And so, he was left with only this—a single photograph and a flood of unanswered questions. His mind whirred, calculating the implications of this man's existence. He was not merely an interloper. No, this figure was something more. The destruction left in his wake, the precision of his actions—it all pointed to an individual of extraordinary power. Whitehall exhaled slowly, his gaze darkening.

Had this been years ago, his curiosity alone would have driven him to uncover every secret about the masked man. But now? Now, this man was not just a puzzle to be solved. He was a threat. A threat to HYDRA's domination. A threat to Whitehall's carefully laid plans.

But threats could be turned. Bent. Reforged.

A slow, sinister smile crept across Whitehall's face. Perhaps he does not yet realize where his true allegiance should lie. The thought sparked something deep within him—a vision, grand and terrible. If this man's power could be harnessed, molded to serve HYDRA, then their super-soldier project would be unstoppable. An army of men like the one in the image. Soldiers of unparalleled might, sweeping across the world, reshaping it in HYDRA's image.

The idea was intoxicating.

But first, they had to identify him. And then… persuade him.

Whitehall's expression remained unreadable as he flipped through the rest of the folder's contents. The data S.H.I.E.L.D. had on the masked man was sparse—disappointingly so. The files hacked from Agent Maria Hill's computer contained no name, no origin, only scattered intelligence on his extraordinary abilities. Clearly, Director Nick Fury and his team were just as interested in this man. That, in itself, was telling. If Fury wants him, then he must be important.

Whitehall leaned back, his fingers steepled beneath his chin. "Fury cannot be allowed to claim this asset," he murmured. His voice, calm and deliberate, carried the weight of a man accustomed to absolute authority. "If he does, then we will be forced to take… corrective measures."

He exhaled through his nose, formulating his plan.

For now, he would watch. Observe. Let the masked man roam free, unknowingly playing into HYDRA's hand. When the time was right, they would reach out, extend an offer—a chance to stand beside the future rulers of the world. And if he refused?

Whitehall's smile was cold as ice.

Then HYDRA would crush him.