Right now, Senju Haruto was without question the hope of everyone.
Especially for Okoye.
She was the only one who had survived that war, the only one who had witnessed Haruto's power firsthand. The only one who had looked upon the towering Susanoo and lived to tell of it.
No one understood better than she did: Wakanda's Vibranium technology alone was not enough to stop this demon called Senju Haruto.
They needed something far greater.
Something beyond technology.
Something like the god they had worshiped for generations—the Black Panther.
T'Challa gave a firm nod. It was both an answer to the High Priest Zuri and a declaration of his own resolve.
Zuri studied the young man before him and could not help but feel a swell of satisfaction.
With that, he dismissed the rest of the gathering, keeping only Okoye and W'Kabi as attendants. Together, he led them to the sacred ground of the ritual.
It was a place unlike any other in Wakanda, a cavern steeped in legend.
Here, T'Challa's father and every king before him had undergone the rite to become the Black Panther.
And all of it was made possible by one thing—
The Heart-Shaped Herb.
It was the only conduit to forge a spiritual bond with the Panther God.
It was the key to unlocking divine power.
And more than that…
It was the vessel through which T'Challa would inherit the wisdom and experience of those who had ruled before him.
It would allow him to see with his own eyes the truth of the battlefield.
Okoye and W'Kabi could not hide their unease.
They knew that taking the Heart-Shaped Herb carried risks.
Perhaps everything would go smoothly, and T'Challa would rise from the brink of death as Wakanda's new king.
But there was also the chance…
That he would never wake again.
That he would sleep forever, lost to the world.
Yet they both knew this was their only chance.
Their only hope.
If they wished to defeat Senju Haruto, they had to first understand him.
They had to gain the power to stand against him.
"Don't worry. I won't lose."
T'Challa noticed the worry in his companions' eyes and gave them a confident smile, his voice strong and steady.
At the same time, Zuri, with practiced hands, prepared a fresh dose of the Heart-Shaped Herb.
"May you succeed, Prince."
His voice was deep, resonant.
Though T'Challa was heir by birthright, and chosen by T'Chaka himself, in Zuri's eyes he was still a prince until he passed the final test.
Only then would he be King.
Only then would he be the Black Panther.
Until that moment, he remained a boy at the threshold.
"…Yes."
T'Challa nodded again, reading the weight of expectation in the priest's gaze.
For Zuri knew the truth.
This war could decide Wakanda's very survival.
And he… he did not wish to be remembered as Wakanda's last High Priest.
Silently, though his lips never moved, Zuri prayed to the Panther God, Bast.
He prayed that everything would go smoothly.
That their young King would prevail.
T'Challa drew in a deep breath, his eyes falling on the bowl before him.
The Heart-Shaped Herb shimmered darkly within, the liquid bubbling faintly.
He closed his eyes, parted his lips, and drank it down in one long swallow, not leaving a single drop.
Then, setting the empty bowl on the ground, he let himself fall back, lying flat.
A suffocating force clamped down on his throat, sealing both his mouth and nose.
Though the air was thick around him, he could not breathe at all.
His consciousness grew hazy.
Childhood memories flickered before his eyes like a lantern show—his youth, his growth, fleeting joys and sorrows.
His father, T'Chaka, appeared again and again.
The songs of Wakanda, the cries of birds, the pulse of the land.
The flood of memories stirred his soul, pulling him into warmth—like sinking into gentle waters.
But soon that warmth turned cold.
Colder.
Until it was freezing.
Agony swept over him, so sharp he trembled uncontrollably.
In the real world, Zuri, Okoye, and W'Kabi fixed their eyes on his body, watching every twitch, every shift.
Their hearts pounded with dread, but they were powerless to intervene.
This was T'Challa's trial alone.
No one could fight it for him.
No… there was something they could do.
They could pray.
Pray for their prince to cross the threshold and return.
Meanwhile, in T'Challa's consciousness—within the dreamscape—
A voice began to call his name.
Warm. Familiar.
It eased the pain in his heart.
"Father."
T'Challa tried to respond, his voice trembling.
"Father."
He called again and again, desperate for guidance, for strength.
Suddenly, his eyes snapped open.
And he found himself not in water at all…
But standing in the midst of endless plains.
"…The savannah?"
He turned slowly, the wind brushing against him. From its current came his father's voice.
"Father!"
T'Challa shouted once more, pressing a hand to his knee as he pushed himself upright.
He tried to run, but his legs felt like lead.
Still, he forced himself forward.
And then—
A memory not his own burst into his mind.
He saw it clearly: the Vibranium mines.
A tear in space itself split open, as though linking another world.
From within, a boy stepped out.
He landed on Wakanda's soil.
T'Chaka was there. Okoye, captain of the royal guard, was there. Warriors filled the field.
Everyone he knew.
Everyone but the boy.
T'Chaka spoke to him, but then the stranger unleashed a power beyond comprehension.
With bare hands, he ripped the Vibranium mines from the heart of the earth.
T'Challa gasped, horror chilling him to the core.
Now he understood why Wakanda's technology had failed.
This power… it was beyond reason.
The images raced on.
The boy summoned a colossal Susanoo, raised an army of sand soldiers.
Despair swallowed the land.
Hope was crushed beneath an invisible weight.
T'Challa's breath came fast and shallow, his pupils widening.
He could not see any path to victory.
The boy was too strong.
Too immense.
Like a mountain that no human hand could move.
And if such a demon returned again…
Despair threatened to consume him whole.
But then—
A broad, steady hand gripped his shoulder.
"Child. At last, you've come."
The familiar voice rang out once more.
T'Challa turned, eyes wide, and there stood his father, just as he remembered.
"Father!"
Emotion surged in him.
Though he saw Wakandan warriors slaughtered mercilessly by the sand army, his father's voice was an anchor.
It calmed him, as though carrying magic of its own.
"Come with me, child," T'Chaka said gently.
"The Panther God is waiting."