Royal Palace of Zamunda – Three Days Later
The council chamber was a throne room turned battlefield of words. Kings, chiefs, and presidents of the African Union lined the dais — T'Chaka of Wakanda, King Akeem of Zamunda, the Ashanti Golden Stool resting under its guardians, and others from Ethiopia, Mali, Nigeria, Ghana, South Africa. Their robes were not merely garments — they carried centuries of weight.
Opposite them stood their heirs, restless fire embodied: Zuri scribbling notes with hungry eyes, Kamau practically vibrating with the urge to test himself, Erik Stevens smoldering like a blade waiting for its chance to cut, T'Challa quietly watching.
Steel stood between these two generations — one looking for change, the other guarding memory.
Akeem's voice carried. "Steel speaks of armours, beasts made flesh in metal. Let him show us why we should trust him."
Steel extended his hand, neon circuits lighting up across his veins. From a briefcase at his feet, holo-projections bloomed like fire.
A crocodile-themed exosuit clamped its jaws in silence, plated scales shimmering with Adamantite sheen.
A falcon armour unfolded its wings, sharp enough to cut the air itself.
An elephant frame stomped down, its projection shaking the chamber floor with a holographic quake.
Fifty beasts took shape above the circle: crocodiles, falcons, jackals, scarabs, bulls, serpents, gorillas — every corner of Africa's wild given metallic skin. A menagerie of war.
The heirs gasped. Princess Zuri's fingers flew across her tablet, recording everything. Kamau leaned forward, eyes gleaming. Even Erik tilted his head slightly, the disdain in his gaze flickering with curiosity.
But the elders… they frowned.
The Ashanti Golden Stool's guardian, old enough that his hands trembled yet his voice did not, rose. "You would reforge our gods and symbols into weapons."
An Egyptian elder added, his voice dry as parchment, "You call them symbols. We call them ancestors. Crocodile is Sobek. Falcon is Horus. Jackal is Anubis. Every mask you forge is not silent — it listens back."
Another, white-haired and wrinkled like old bark, spat the words. "We have buried enough children in wars. And now you would give them claws, wings, fangs. All in the name of balance? No. It is ambition. Nothing more."
The projections flickered as if the elders' rejection dimmed them.
Steel held his ground, but for the first time his smirk faltered. "These aren't idols. They're tools. If Makino lands tomorrow, if Thanos crosses the stars — your grandchildren's faith won't stop him. But this—" he gestured to the beasts "—might."
The room fractured.
The heirs whispered heatedly, torn between awe and suspicion. The elders sat like stone, their judgment heavy and unyielding. Only King Akeem remained standing, eyes sharp, fire of Sekhmet faint behind them.
Finally, the Asantehene's voice carried again, quiet but cutting. "He speaks well. But words and lights cannot outweigh history. Sekhmet's lions do not bow to the tongue, nor to the hand. They bow to the heart."
Akeem raised his hand. The floor shifted beneath Steel, golden panels sliding open to reveal the arena below. Lion sigils blazed, the air thick with judgment.
"This is why there must be trial," Akeem declared. "You would summon beasts of Africa's soul? Then Africa itself will test you. Before Sekhmet. Before the Union. Before the ancestors who sit behind us in shadow."
Steel glanced up at the elders — their faces unmoved, their eyes harder than any armour he could build.
Killmonger's voice slid like a knife into the silence. "Looks like your shiny toys didn't impress, Steel. Guess you'll have to bleed for them instead."
The heirs leaned forward. The elders leaned back.
And Steel stepped into the circle, the roar of unseen lions already echoing in his ears.