- 1 Month Later - In the Mountain -
Erik sat in the middle of the trees bare-chested, knees folded.
The night was here, filled with the soft, patient breathing of the mountain.
A small knife rested in his hand, his eyes were shut.
His face was the still practiced mask of someone who had practiced calm until it became habit.
For a long moment he simply breathed, counting the slow in and out until the world narrowed to the rhythm inside his chest.
Then, without any show, without a flare of drama.. He made a slice. Not a thing of spectacle — a thin, clean bit of skin taken.
He did not flinch. Heat bloomed along the cut, close and sharp, then settled into a dull warmth. Blood darkened the skin and he let it be.
He did not stare, did not waver. The motion was methodic, almost ritual.
Another mark added to the map of his body.. Another proof he could bear what most would not.
"After one month.." He whispered to the dark, voice low and flat. "I can now, kinda' convince my brain that I'm not feelin' pain. Convince it that I feel nothin'."
The words hung, small and brittle. He tasted iron on his tongue and felt the old, reflexive surge of adrenaline, but he breathed through it. "It's terrifying." He admitted—half to the night, half to himself—because the thing he was learning to command was not only sensation but the parts of him that kept him human.
He learned to shave the panic from the signal, to breathe and refocus.
When he was done he set the blade aside and folded his hands over his knees, returning to the slow cadence of his breath. The new mark stung and throbbed, an answerable proof of the discipline he'd imposed himself.
In the last month, the suffering he put himself through was deliberate and relentless. Where shallow cuts had once been the exercise, he moved on to deliberate scarification—channels that echoed the markings of the original Killmonger.
He wasn't doing it out of reverence — not a fanboy ritual or some sentimental display. The training demanded that he cut himself, if the blade had to bite, he'd at least let the wound mean something. So he made the marks in patterns that echoed the scarification of the people whose story now ran through him: brutal, purposeful marks that read like vows.
Scarification meant more than decoration. In some tribes the marks were proof of endurance, a record carved into the skin that announced you had stared down pain and did not flinch. Erik took that meaning and made it his own.
The training also left his legs a map of burned scars and healed wounds. His body carried the evidence of months of punishment.
Still, he couldn't reach the next step of the training.. To be able to fully rewrite his emotions.
He could blunt the signal, bleed without crying out, summon a chemical shield of endorphins through breath and repetition.
But the deeper currents of feeling did not dissolve so easily.
He had reached his limits!
But Xu Wenwu did not see it that way. To him, Erik's was just afraid.. Afraid of what he might become if he shattered every barrier inside himself. And the man was not entirely wrong.
Am I unconsciously holdin' back? Erik whispered, the words more in thought than in sound.
According to Wenwu, that fear was the single thread tethering him to humanity. It was the only thing that kept him from stepping fully into the abyss, the only thing that kept him, for now, within human bounds.
Erik shook his head, calmly pondering about it.
"Nnh" He muttered to himself after a few minutes. "I can't shut off my emotions!"
He guided the blade to his skin again. The steel bit into flesh with a familiar, clean sting as he carved another scar into his body—another mark in his training.
Blood rolled down his chest in thin red trails, but his expression remained calm, controlled.
"My heart is full of pain… and anger." The knife moved again, cutting a second line beside the first—precise, deliberate.
Shhk.
He barely flinched. Another scar added to the growing map across his body.
"But maybe that's fine." He breathed, voice low but steady. "That pain is there because of love."
"The love I have for my wife. The love I have for my child. For all of those innocent lives crushed by evil men."
He paused, blade hovering over skin. His eyes cold, with purpose.
"I can't ever give that up." He added. "I won't."
He carved the next line with even greater resolve.
"So I'll use it." He growled. "All of it. Because it's not a weakness."
He stared intensely at the blood on the blade, then at the burning marks across his skin.
"It's fuel!"
- Two months later - Still 1995 -
Erik was sitting in the courtyard, casually flipping through the pages of a book.
His eyes occasionally drifted from the words to the sparring session between Li and Feng.
The two were locked in a dance of skill and precision, each movement deliberate, each strike calculated.
Feng, with his long black hair tied back in a ponytail. Wielded a sleek sword with a calm, almost meditative focus.
He stepped forward with a graceful lunge, the blade slicing through the air toward Li.
But Li, nimble and quick sidestepped effortlessly, the two daggers in his hands glinting in the sunlight.
He spun around, aiming a quick slash at Feng's side.
Feng parried the strike with ease, his sword meeting Li's dagger with a sharp clang.
The force of the block sent Li skidding back a few steps, but he quickly recovered crouching low and circling Feng like a predator.
Without missing a beat, Li launched himself at Feng again. This time feinting with one dagger while the other aimed for Feng's shoulder.
Feng anticipated the move, his eyes narrowing as he twisted his body just enough to let the dagger pass harmlessly by.
In one fluid motion, he brought his sword down in a precise arc, aiming for Li's exposed side.
Li barely managed to deflect the strike with his second dagger, the force of the impact reverberating up his arm.
Erik glanced up from his book, watching the exchange with a nonchalant expression.
He couldn't help but notice the contrast between the two.
Feng's composed, almost stoic demeanor versus Li more aggressive, fast-paced style.
Yet despite their differences, both were clearly skilled in their own right.
As the sparring continued, Feng attempted a quick thrust. But Li, with his usual agility, evaded it by dropping low and sweeping his leg out in an attempt to trip Feng.
Feng jumped back just in time, landing lightly on his feet.
They paused for a moment, circling each other, both waiting for the next opportunity to strike.
Erik shook his head slightly, amused by the intensity of their sparring.
"They really goin' at it.." he muttered to himself, turning his attention back to his book, though he couldn't help but keep one eye on the action.
All of a sudden, Erik felt that familiar tingling at the back of his head.
Without thinking, he launched himself to the side in a smooth, acrobatic roll.
As he landed, he caught sight of a silhouette, fist extended striking the exact spot where he had been sitting moments before.
Erik's eyes narrowed as he recognized the figure.
It was Midnight, dressed head-to-toe in black, his face concealed by his habitual mask he always wore.
Midnight straightened up his body from his missed punch.
Erik smirked, brushing the dust off his pants as he rose to his feet. "Ayo!" he said, his voice low and casual. "You tryna sneak up on me or somethin'?"
"You are the only one I can't sneak up on. It's like you got eyes in the back of your head." Midnight said, staring at Erik with a mix of curiosity and intrigue as if trying to unravel a mystery.
"You really got a talent for that sneaky stuff, you know !" Erik said, eyeing Midnight with a grin.
'He's probably got the most potential for hand-to-hand combat.' Erik thought to himself. "But he's even more skilled at blending in, hiding his presence and using shadows to strike. 'He'd make a damn good assassin.'
"So, what's up now?" Erik asked, closing his book with one hand and tossing it casually aside.
Midnight had sparred with Erik countless times in the past, each bout ending with him defeated.
Every time he thought he'd finally cornered him, he would suddenly move faster and strike harder as if he was barely trying before.
Midnight realized he was far from Erik's level, and it only motivated him to push harder.
He knew that the only way to gain an edge would be to catch Erik off guard, but even that never seemed to work.
So, as any savvy fighter would, he raised his hands in surrender tilting his head to the side.
"I give up" Midnight said with a resigned grin.
"You buggin.." Erik said with a grin of his own, starting to walk toward Midnight.
"Well, I had a feeling you were gonna say that." Midnight responded, quickly putting himself on guard.
Without warning, Erik launched himself at the boy initiating their sparring—Or as bystanders often called it, Midnight daily beating.