Walking to the cliff's edge, Erik Killmonger extended his right arm, holding M'Baku out over the abyss.
The Jabari chief dangled above the thousand-foot drop. If Killmonger released him, he would plummet to his death. Even the mighty "White Ape" would be reduced to nothing but broken flesh.
Yet M'Baku's eyes showed no fear. A true warrior does not fear death.
But Killmonger had no intention of killing him this way. Casting a glance at the Jabari warriors gathered by the pool, their faces grim, he turned back to M'Baku and locked eyes with him.
"Yield. Your people need you."
The words struck M'Baku harder than any blow. His expression faltered, and he looked toward his tribesmen. Without him, the Jabari had no leader. They needed him alive.
His defiance melted into acceptance. Meeting Killmonger's gaze, he ceased his struggle and spoke.
"I surrender."
…
With M'Baku's defeat, the final challenger had fallen. The ceremony was complete. Erik Killmonger was now King of Wakanda.
But the rites of ascension were not yet finished.
In Wakanda, the first act of kingship was to receive the blessing of the Panther God. The new king would consume the Heart-Shaped Herb, strengthening his body and sending his spirit to the ancestral plane to commune with those who came before.
Deep within the vibranium mines lay the sacred garden where the Heart-Shaped Herb grew. There, the ritual was performed.
As Chen Mo remembered, Killmonger lay in the earthen pit, drank the crushed herb's juice, and was buried beneath the soil by the priests.
Minutes later, he burst from the ground, gasping for air, reborn.
To Chen Mo, the ritual seemed primitive. He doubted burial was necessary for the herb's power. More likely, the tradition had begun when the first Black Panther, thought dead, was buried after consuming the herb, only to rise healed and empowered. The miracle became ritual, preserved through the ages.
Though Wakanda's technology was unmatched, its political and cultural systems remained bound by ancient customs. To decide succession through combat was, to Chen Mo, little more than child's play.
It was not surprising. Only decades earlier, Wakanda had been a tribal confederation, its vibranium used merely for weapons. Contact with the outside world revealed the true value of their resource.
When small amounts of vibranium leaked beyond their borders, outsiders prized it beyond measure. Wakanda began selling limited quantities, using the wealth to send their brightest minds abroad. Those students returned with knowledge, and with vibranium's aid, Wakanda advanced at astonishing speed. In mere decades, they surpassed the world's greatest powers, rivaling even Hydra in certain fields.
Yet their rapid rise was uneven. Technology flourished, but their institutions lagged behind, leaving a distorted foundation.
This imbalance, however, worked to Chen Mo's advantage. It allowed Killmonger to seize the throne with relative ease—something impossible in a more established nation.
Chen Mo's plan had succeeded. His loyal Hydra warrior now ruled Wakanda. With Killmonger as king, Chen Mo's influence extended over the most advanced nation on Earth.
After consuming the Heart-Shaped Herb, Killmonger's body, already five times stronger than an ordinary man thanks to the Super Soldier Serum, grew even more powerful—seven times the human norm, nearly equal to Chen Mo's own physical strength.
But raw strength was only part of the equation. Chen Mo's combat experience and mastery far outstripped Killmonger's. Though the new king was a hardened warrior—trained as a Navy SEAL, blooded as a mercenary, and seasoned by countless battles—he was still no match for Chen Mo.
Chen Mo had conquered Europe, destroyed the werewolves of the Underworld, and refined his skills through endless combat. His martial arts, honed by battle and enhanced by his superior mind, had reached a level Killmonger could never hope to achieve.
Even with the serum's boost to his intellect, Killmonger lacked Chen Mo's mental strength and learning capacity.
In swordsmanship, the gap was even greater. Chen Mo's style, rooted in the Holy Cross techniques of the Middle Ages and enriched by the centuries-old mastery of Alexander Corvinus, had reached perfection. His blade work was so refined that even he found little room for improvement.
In hand-to-hand combat, Killmonger might endure for a time. But once Chen Mo drew the King's Sword, the fight would end in a single stroke.
Killmonger, now strengthened, rose from the pit. Chen Mo caught his eye and gave a subtle wink.
"Everyone, step back."
"Yes, Your Majesty!"