In a secluded corner of the ocean depths, several barbarian soldiers kept watch around the perimeter of a warehouse. Suddenly, they all went on guard upon detecting movement, but lowered their weapons when they saw their companions approaching.
The group returned visibly battered, and among them moved Orka.
One of the guards approached him.
"You took longer than you said. Attuma isn't—"
Orka didn't let him finish. His enormous hand closed around the soldier's head, squeezing hard. The barbarian let out a cry of pain and, grabbing Orka's wrist, tried to break free in vain.
"A useless common barbarian like you dares to question me?"
He then hurled him violently against the ocean floor. The blow was so hard that the guard was knocked unconscious instantly. The other soldiers stepped back quickly, watching him with fear, and cleared a path without a word.
Orka let out a grunt and continued forward into the interior of the warehouse.
Upon entering, the atmosphere was chaotic. People moved frantically from one side to the other, carrying weapons, ammunition crates and supplies, while several guards stood watch.
Orka swam through the commotion until he stopped before an enormous metal container, kept suspended by four magnetic devices at its corners that facilitated its transport.
In front of the structure, arms crossed and posture imposing, stood Attuma — the conqueror and leader of the barbarians. Orka approached, but maintained a prudent distance before speaking.
"We couldn't extract the other four Titans," he reported. "We were ambushed by some surface bastards. And as if that weren't enough, their princess appeared alongside an Atlantean — his personal guard, I assume. They were losing, so the Wakandans opened the cages and freed all the beasts so they could flee."
Attuma stayed quiet for a while, processing the information.
"So the 'simple task' turned out to not be so simple."
He turned slowly and fixed his eyes on Orka.
"I accepted you here because you promised to deliver the beasts to me, but before me I see only one."
Orka let out a grunt.
"Although I couldn't bring the others, this one is the most important. It nearly killed Namor himself. It should be enough for you."
Attuma smiled.
"I am not the one who decides that... though, it's true — this one is the most valuable. This one time I will let this enormous failure slide."
He moved toward Orka with a slow, deliberate swim.
"I hope you value my mercy and make sure to correct your mistakes," he declared. "Because I assure you — you will not get another chance."
Orka, gritting his teeth, could only nod at his leader's warning.
Attuma turned his back and moved toward the enormous metal container. As he laid his hand on the cold surface, the cube began to shake violently while a deep, guttural sound resonated from within.
A smile crossed the conqueror's face.
"Don't worry. Very soon, you'll have your revenge."
===
T'Challa observed the soldier kneeling in the center of the cell. It lacked all water, maintaining a pressure adjusted so that someone from the surface could survive without needing a suit.
Kwame, the soldier of the River Tribe, barely managed to stay upright — his body was beaten to a pulp, his teeth broken and his eyes swollen.
"I swear on the honor of my homeland," he articulated with difficulty, barely audible. "We did what we did for our country, on the orders of our king."
T'Challa furrowed his brow. For an instant, his instinct was to deny those words, but he couldn't. After the conversation he'd had with his father, the impeccable image he had held of him had cracked. Even so, he maintained his composure.
"I spoke with King T'Chaka before coming down here," he replied. "My father never gave such an order. We have no reason to attack Atlantis, much less to assassinate their princess."
Kwame raised his head, fixing his bloodied eyes on T'Challa's.
"Our mission was highly classified. The people of the deep have been attacking and overstepping our boundaries, believing their actions carry no consequences. The King charged us with sending them a message."
"What message?" T'Challa asked.
"No one is safe from the fangs of the Panther," Kwame replied in a rasping voice. "No matter how deep in the ocean they hide — our jaws will find their throats."
The prince lowered his gaze to the floor, sinking into silence.
Before, he would have sworn those words were a lie — that his father would never think that way. But now... he was no longer so certain. A bitter doubt crept through him: perhaps, deep down, his father really did have something to do with all of this.
A few steps behind the cell, Princess Shuri and the young hero waited.
"Don't you have some alien that could help us with this?"
Legion didn't respond. He stood still, his gaze fixed to the left and then upward, as if he were seeing something that wasn't there. Shuri called to him again, but when she saw he wasn't responding, she jabbed an elbow into his ribs.
The hero jumped and looked at her in surprise.
"What? What happened?"
"Are you paying attention or not?"
"Yes, of course, it's just..." Legion cleared his throat. "I've been thinking about a couple of things and got a little distracted."
Shuri raised an eyebrow behind her helmet, though she didn't dwell on it.
"As I was saying," she pressed, ignoring his excuse, "don't you have some alien that could give us a hand? Because this Kwame character keeps going in circles and isn't telling us anything concrete."
Legion shifted his gaze toward the cell where T'Challa was interrogating the soldier, letting out a quiet "hmm."
He took a quick sideways glance at his watch, then looked back at Shuri and shrugged.
"Unfortunately, I don't have an alien that reads minds or makes people spill the beans more easily, so..." he said, leaving the sentence hanging in the water with a resigned gesture.
Shuri made a face behind her mask and nodded.
She moved a little closer to the cell bars, straining to hear T'Challa's conversation carefully.
The young hero watched her move away for a moment, when he suddenly felt a chill run down his spine upon hearing a voice whispering directly into his ear.
"Come on — why are you lying? That's not what a hero would do. Why don't you tell her there is a way? In fact, you already used it before... remember? With Kouki, after our little game, he sang like a happy little bird."
Legion furrowed his brow, clenching his jaw as his gaze swept the corridor quickly. There was no one nearby, but the feeling of being watched was becoming suffocating.
He decided to clench his fists and ignore the sound.
"So now you're ignoring me?"the voice continued, with a mocking and wounded undertone that sent a stab through his temples. "That hurts my feelings deeply. After everything I did for you — is this how you repay me?"
Legion closed his eyes for an instant, trying to block the voice. However, his mind, treacherous as ever, couldn't help but wonder.
Helped me? How the hell were you supposed to have helped me?
"Come on — you can't seriously believe the cameras in New York wouldn't have caught you that very first time you transformed. Did it never strike you as odd that not once, not a single time, did a camera catch you right in the middle of changing?"
Legion looked down at the floor, feeling a wave of nausea.
The voice didn't stop, taking on a tone of feigned sympathy.
"Or all those times when the situation was getting the better of you — how do you think you kept going? Do you seriously not remember? Well... I suppose it's inevitable. After all, I myself had to make a few adjustments to that thick skull of yours to keep it functioning properly."
Legion scanned the corridor, his eyes moving with a growing anxiety.
What the hell are you talking about? Stop saying nonsense. I'm not a ten-year-old you can scare with a couple of eerie sentences. I know perfectly well who you are — it's not going to work.
The voice let out a little laugh.
"Then tell me... who do you think I am?"
Legion furrowed his brow.
El'Terhor. And it doesn't matter what you do or say — I'm not going to let you out. You're not escaping from this watch, or from me.
The voice erupted in a laugh that resonated through Legion's skull, loaded with mockery.
"I suppose that was to be expected. After all, that was Ghostfreak's identity in the show, wasn't it? But you're wrong, muchachito. I am not El'Terhor."
At that precise instant, Legion looked up and reality distorted. The corridor, the sound of T'Challa's voice in the background — everything dissolved before the spectral presence that materialized right in front of his face, floating in the void.
"I am you."
"Sir?"
SID's voice yanked him abruptly out of the trance.
"Your vital signs became erratic suddenly. Did you see it again?"
Legion nodded slowly.
"Yes... It's spouting nonsense trying to confuse me."
"You must not listen to it," SID warned immediately. "If possible, avoid interacting with it as much as you can. The less control or validation you give it in your mind, the less capacity it should have to affect you."
Legion nodded, though he let out a frustrated sigh as he glanced sideways toward where Shuri was.
"I'll try," he murmured, "but it's difficult when the damn thing can also hear what I'm thinking."
===
For what felt like hours, the Prince of Wakanda attempted to untangle the web of secrets surrounding the man's mission.
However, every question hit the same wall — Kwame, with split lips and his gaze fixed on the void, repeated over and over his unbreakable loyalty, insisting that every act, however cruel, had been necessary for the good of his nation.
"I did it for Wakanda," the soldier murmured for the umpteenth time.
Shuri, who had been watching the scene up close, let out a huff of frustration and stepped away from the bars. The helplessness burned in her blood.
"This is a damn waste of time," she declared, turning sharply toward where Legion should have been to ask him for an alternative. "Legion, this is clearly a brainwashing situation — do you have any idea of what—"
She stopped mid-sentence. Her eyes swept the corridor, searching for the hero, but the place was empty. Legion had disappeared.
====
The heavy carved stone door slid open, allowing access to a chamber that overflowed with ostentation.
In the center, dominating the room, an immense bed loaded with silks and underwater adornments served as the resting place of King Thakorr. The elderly man looked frail — his body, consumed by illness, barely visible beneath the blankets, with a fine drip tube running to his arm, marking the rhythm of his labored breathing.
Four royal guards stood watch over the chamber. In unison, they bowed with a firm hand on their chests the moment Namor crossed the threshold. The Prince of Atlantis raised his palm — a brief gesture commanding his men to stand down.
"Withdraw. I will look after my grandfather. Take five minutes, then return."
The soldiers nodded in silence and left the room, leaving Namor alone with the monarch.
As he approached the bed, the prince's expression softened, revealing a crack in his imposing emotional armor. He observed the face marked by years and felt an unbearable weight in his chest.
He sat on the edge of the bed and sighed, letting the memories wash over him.
Barely five months earlier, Thakorr still retained that vitality that defined him — a strength unnatural for his age.
Then, as if a shadow had settled over him, everything began to unravel. First he lost his appetite, then a deep lethargy took hold of his senses, and finally, words became stuck in his throat until they disappeared entirely.
Two months had passed since he fell into that deep coma that seemed to drain the life from him day by day.
Namor lowered his gaze, feeling the world around him accelerating toward disaster. Tensions with the surface nation were growing, the enemies of Atlantis were moving in the shadows, and the pain from his mother Fen's murder remained an open wound.
"You have to wake up, Grandfather," he whispered. "The times are dark and Atlantis needs its king more than ever. The people search for you, but I... I need you."
The silence of the room, broken only by the faint hiss of the medical equipment, was his only answer.
But soon, the atmosphere in the chamber shifted suddenly. Namor caught an unusual vibration in the water — a displacement characteristic of a body. He sprang to his feet like a coil, his face hardening into a mask of fury.
"You dare come here? To the resting place of the King of Atlantis? You are truly seeking death."
Before him, the space seemed to distort and five figures materialized. The Wakandan soldiers deactivated the camouflage on their suits, revealing weapons aimed directly at the sovereign. One of them, with a firm voice, spoke.
"It is our duty to protect Wakanda. We will not allow your plans to continue. Before you bring destruction to our land, we will end your life."
Namor smiled.
"You underestimate me if you think you can kill me that easily."
"Perhaps it will be difficult, yes," another soldier replied, adjusting his position. "But you won't be able to finish us all and protect your grandfather at the same time."
Without warning, the five opened fire in unison.
Powerful sonic waves traveled through the water, directed at the prince. Namor reacted on instinct — his hands moved, drawing the water around him to forge a liquid shield that enveloped both himself and Thakorr's bed.
However, the soldiers' plan was far more complex.
A sixth soldier appeared from the shadows, carrying a specialized harpoon. The vibranium tip vibrated at a deafening frequency, loaded with kinetic energy. The projectile shot forward at high speed, piercing Namor's shield as if it were paper and burying itself deeply in his chest.
The prince let out a muffled groan as he spat blood — the impact was devastating. The force of the blow made his shield collapse instantly, letting the sonic waves hammer his body. Namor was sent flying backward, directly toward where his grandfather lay.
The horror of crashing into the old man returned his sense of urgency. With his lungs burning, he forced his ankles to react. The small wings began to move, beating desperately.
Namor summoned one last mass of water, creating a dense column that acted as an emergency brake, managing to stop himself just centimeters from the bed — preventing the old man's inert body from suffering so much as a scratch.
"We will free Wakanda from the danger of your existence," the group's leader declared, as the soldier who had fired the harpoon began manipulating his weapon's mechanisms to reload.
Namor let out a guttural growl. The pain in his chest was a fire, but the adrenaline — pure and savage — kept him on his feet.
As the attackers positioned themselves for a new discharge, the prince made a violent gesture with his hand. The water in the chamber responded to his will, enveloping the five mercenaries like an invisible claw. Then he closed his fist with force and, instantly, the fluid's pressure began to compress their bodies.
One of the soldiers, desperate, managed to squeeze the trigger before being crushed. The sonic discharge struck Namor directly, forcing him to lose concentration for a second. The water's grip gave way, but Namor was already in motion. He closed the distance in a heartbeat, throwing himself at them at high speed.
He grabbed two of the invaders by the throat and lifted them, squeezing with all the strength left in his arms. The vibranium-reinforced suits withstood the punishment without yielding. The soldier in his right hand laughed.
"Vibranium is resistant, wouldn't you say?"
"It is," Namor replied before slamming one soldier into the other.
Without releasing the one still in his grip, the prince drew one of the fallen sonic pistols through a pulse of water.
"It's one of our best-kept secrets," the prince said. "But Atlantis has access to far more vibranium than we ever told Wakanda, and we know this material's weaknesses perfectly."
Behind the visor, the soldier's eyes opened in horror.
Namor aimed the sonic weapon directly at his captive's chest and pulled the trigger. The precise frequency caused the armor to begin fracturing — the structural integrity device failed, and in less than a second, the immense pressure of the ocean floor crushed the soldier's body. The death was instantaneous — an explosion of blood that stained the water.
The four remaining soldiers opened fire, but Namor was no longer there.
Despite the harpoon running through his torso, the prince moved with speed, the small wings at his ankles beating hard as he dodged the sonic waves that reduced the room's furniture to splinters.
Then he fired again. The weapon's recoil was devastating. The waves struck the four mercenaries and their suits collapsed under the abyssal pressure, ending their lives in the same brutal manner as the first.
The prince let the weapon fall, gasping, blood pouring from his wound. His gaze swept the room, searching for the sixth man — the one with the harpoon. Only to freeze upon seeing him: the last soldier was standing directly before Thakorr's bed, the loaded weapon aimed straight at the elderly king's chest.
"Do you think you can threaten an entire country without consequences?" the soldier snapped, his index finger grazing the trigger.
Namor furrowed his brow, the pain in his torso intensifying.
"The way I see it, it is Wakanda that threatens Atlantis," he replied through his teeth, trying to ignore the burning.
The soldier let out a laugh distorted by his helmet.
"You think we don't know what you're planning with that damned crystal?"
Namor opened his mouth to reply, but a groan of agony escaped his lips. The harpoon lodged in his chest continued to vibrate, emitting a constant sonic wave that caused spasms throughout his entire nervous system.
"Do you like that toy?" the attacker mocked. "Princess Shuri designed it in case some 'big, angry green threat' ever came calling on our country. How did she put it? It never hurts to be prepared."
"The old man has nothing to do with this," Namor growled. "You want me — so don't you dare—"
"Your people have underestimated us for far too long," the warrior cut him off coldly. "Now you will learn that no matter how deep in the ocean you hide..."
Namor tried to summon the water, desperate, but the harpoon acted like a parasite, severing his connection with the environment.
"Sooner or later, our fangs will find your throat."
The prince waited no longer.
He launched himself forward with the last of his energy.
Everything seemed to slow down — he watched the soldier's finger sink into the trigger and the second harpoon fly free. Namor raised a hand, creating a sheet of water before his grandfather, but the projectile pierced through it, striking the old man directly in the chest.
Thakorr, who had been in a deep coma for months, opened his eyes wide. A weak, agonized moan escaped his lips as the cold metal pierced him.
"NO!" Namor's cry tore through the water.
He reached the soldier in the blink of an eye, tore the weapon from his hands, and seized him by the throat with superhuman force.
"For Wakanda!" the man whispered just before being slammed against the floor with brutal violence.
Namor didn't stop. His hands closed around the armored neck, his muscles tensing to their limit, the veins in his neck and temples standing out under the pressure of his own fury. The metal began to let out a shriek, groaning under the prince's grip. Deep cracks ran through the vibranium. The soldier, in a final act, drove a vibranium dagger into Namor's side, but the prince didn't even react.
The sound of the metal collapsing was like a glacier splitting. With a final crack, the armor gave way and Namor squeezed until the soldier's neck was crushed. Blood stained the water a deep, ravenous red, bathing Namor's face as he remained there, breathing with difficulty.
"No..." The voice — old, raspy, loaded with a supreme effort — broke the silence of the room.
Namor snapped his face upward, his hands still stained with blood.
The door opened — the royal guards burst into the chamber, but upon seeing the scene — the carnage, the blood floating in the water, the body of their monarch pierced through — they stopped dead, eyes wide.
Namor didn't see them. He ignored everything that wasn't the old man before him.
He approached Thakorr, taking his trembling hand with gentleness. The old King's eyes, clouded by the long coma, struggled to focus — concentrating all his remaining will on the grandson looking back at him.
"Don't... don't trust..." Thakorr managed to whisper. "They... are here... B-B—"
With a final flash of strength, the old man squeezed Namor's arm, as if trying to transfer one last warning.
The prince watched him, holding his breath, his own chest bleeding and his soul torn — feeling the life drain from his grandfather's fingers.
There was a sigh, a final spasm in Thakorr's hand, and then absolute silence reinstated itself in the chamber. The old man's eyes lost their light, his hand slid inert and fell with a soft murmur against the silk sheets.
King Thakorr was dead. And in Namor's gaze, as he released his grandfather's body, something inside him broke. The confusion dissipated, replaced by an absolute coldness — a darkness that promised the surface world would pay for every drop of that royal blood.
The soldiers remained motionless, their eyes lost between the inert body of their former monarch and the wounded prince, sunk in grief.
One of them, overcoming the stupor, approached Namor cautiously and, with a broken voice, barely managed to say:
"My prince..."
Namor didn't respond immediately. He remained hunched, one hand resting on his grandfather's bed, while the blood of the attackers mingled with his own.
After a few seconds, his figure began to straighten.
With one motion, he seized the harpoon that remained lodged in his chest and yanked it from his flesh, casting it to the floor with contempt — the weapon resonating against the ground — then did the same with the vibranium dagger in his side.
The open wound, deep and bleeding, began to close almost immediately thanks to his physiology, though the trace of pain in his eyes remained intact.
Namor turned his torso, facing his guards.
His gaze no longer held any doubt or trace of the diplomacy he had forced himself to maintain before — only the implacable determination of a monarch who has declared war.
"Diplomacy died here alongside my grandfather... I order the immediate arrest of every surface dweller. Without exception. All of them."
The guards, upon hearing the order, set aside their grief and assumed a martial posture — nodding firmly, aware that this command marked the beginning of a new era.
=====
Legion roamed the corridors of the base, moving back and forth, trying to distract himself from the voice tormenting his mind.
"Everything I have done has been for our benefit. I have defended you, contained you — I forced you to keep going even when you couldn't anymore. Are you really going to keep questioning me?"
Legion shook his head, trying to expel that whisper, but his mind couldn't help but respond.
You've been playing with my head.
The voice let out a sigh, almost condescending, loaded with feigned pity.
"Hey, don't talk to me like that — I had no other choice. Every time you tried to block my DNA, every time you looked for ways to lock me away or erase me, I was forced to intervene. I had to distract your mind with more urgent things: the disasters of the outside world, other people's crises — or simply showing you specific memories to divert your attention whenever you were getting too close to me."
The hero stopped as he felt a hand come to rest on his head.
"After all," the voice concluded, "nobody likes being blocked and imprisoned. Or would you have reacted differently if you were in my place?"
The echo of its laughter reverberated through the walls of his skull.
How much... how much do you know?
"How much do I know? Well, the world is very large. There will always be someone watching, someone who knows even your deepest secret... wasn't that how the saying went?"
Legion felt the voice coupling to his own way of thinking, merging with his own internal voice — it was becoming difficult to distinguish who was who.
"I already told you, and I hope this time it sticks... You and I... are one."
The young man blinked, shaking off the dizziness. As he turned, the cold of the metal from a dozen rifles aimed at him brought him back to the harsh reality of the corridor.
"Freeze!" the lead guard bellowed. "By direct order of King Namor, you and your companions are under immediate arrest. Do not even think about moving."
Legion furrowed his brow. His pulse, already racing, began to hammer hard.
"Well, how convenient, wouldn't you say?"the voice hissed inside him, with a mocking and excited tone. "It would be a perfect occasion to transform into Ghostfreak, wouldn't it? You could pass right through those walls, see the fear in their eyes when they realize they can't touch you... Come on — just say it. What time is it?"
Legion ignored the whisper, though the temptation to give in and press the dial was a weight pulling at his arm.
"Listen... I don't know what's going on, but this is a mistake. Prince Namor gave us permission to be here — we all want the same thing: peace."
"Peace... what a pathetic word. They're ready to fire. If you don't move, death will do it for them. Are you going to let them chain you up like a dog, or are you going to let me out to play?"
=====
HEYYYY, HOW'S EVERYONE DOING? HOPE YOU'RE ALL WELL!
AS I MENTIONED, WORK HAS BEEN COMPLICATED, BUT I'LL TRY TO GET BACK TO THE USUAL SCHEDULE — IT'S JUST BEEN TOUGH, AND ON TOP OF THAT THESE LAST FEW CHAPTERS HAVE BEEN DIFFICULT TO WRITE.
IT SEEMS GHOSTFREAK HAS LEFT HIS SHYNESS BEHIND, AND IT ALSO SEEMS HE'S BEEN TRYING TO CONVINCE OUR HERO OF A FEW THINGS — AND POSSIBLY CONFUSE HIM TOO.
WE ALSO WITNESSED HOW HUNTER'S SOLDIERS TRIED TO ASSASSINATE NAMOR, RELYING ON A WEAPON SHURI DESIGNED FOR A VERY ANGRY GREEN GENTLEMAN — AND, FAILING THAT, ENDED UP TAKING THE LIFE OF HIS GRANDFATHER, WHICH CAUSED THE PRINCE'S FURY TO EXPLODE.
I WONDER WHAT WILL HAPPEN IN THE UPCOMING CHAPTERS — WE'RE QUICKLY APPROACHING THE END OF THIS ARC, AND THERE ARE STILL SEVERAL THINGS LEFT TO SEE.
WE HAVE PATREON, SO IF YOU WISH, YOU CAN DONATE VOLUNTARILY TO SUPPORT ME:
patreon.com/EmptyTag
AS ALWAYS, I APPRECIATE ALL YOUR COMMENTS AND YOUR SUPPORT.
TAKE CARE OF YOURSELVES, KISSES 😘
POSTSCRIPT: REGARDING THE NAME GHOSTFREAK AND SO ON, I LEFT IT TO THE SPANISH TRANSLATION. PLEASE ALLOW ME THIS DETAIL, IT'S JUST THAT I LIKE IT BETTER.
REMEMBER, IF YOU SEE ANY ERRORS, PLEASE MARK THEM.