The vast African savanna stretched endlessly.
A jeep roared across the plains.
Inside, Hawk gripped the wheel with one hand while glancing into the rearview mirror. A cheetah sprinted after the vehicle, closing in fast. With his other hand, he held a phone, speaking casually with Gwen, who was still in California visiting UC Berkeley.
Today marked Gwen's fifteenth day in Berkeley.
And Hawk's very first day in Africa.
Why so late?
Fifteen days earlier, when he'd been at Paris Airport, ready to transfer onto a flight to Africa, the news came in: rebel forces had seized the airport.
A grim update.
And worse—this happened three times.
Each time Hawk rebooked to another small country's airport near Wakanda, rebels struck there too.
It was as if the region had its own twisted matchmaking system.
In the end, four neighboring African states around Wakanda all plunged into chaos.
Still, after the setbacks, Hawk finally made it.
He smiled faintly. Some storms on the road, but the result is what matters.
"RAH!"
The cheetah behind him leapt, slamming onto the jeep.
Hawk ended the call with Gwen, turned, and smacked the beast's skull with one open hand. The predator yelped, flying off the roof and tumbling to the ground, stunned.
Satisfied, Hawk pressed the accelerator and sped on.
Ahead lay Wakanda.
To outsiders, it was a poor tribal state, a patchwork of clans. At its core, though, ruled the Golden Tribe, with King T'Chaka at its head.
On the surface, Wakanda looked primitive—appearing at the UN only to beg for aid. In truth, it secretly hoarded vibranium and grew stronger in silence.
Hawk knew better.
The jeep screeched to a halt outside a small "village" of thirty or so tents.
Tribesmen emerged: lean, malnourished-looking, carrying wooden spears. The eldest, holding a decorated staff, approached and greeted him in flawless English.
"Outsider, welcome to Wakanda. Are you here to trade?"
The clan acted well—their job was to fool foreigners, pose as a starving people selling cattle or sheep.
Hawk smiled. "Yes."
"Yesterday, Shaning merchants bought more than a hundred head of livestock. We have about fifty left. How many do you need?"
"A ton."
The elder blinked. "…What?"
"A ton of vibranium," Hawk said calmly.
The man froze. His companions exchanged confused glances. "Vibranium? What's that?"
Hawk checked the time on his phone, then looked the elder in the eye.
"It's four o'clock now. You have until seven tomorrow morning. Either you hand it over, or I go in and take it myself. And if I go in… the consequences are on you."
Without another word, he returned to the jeep, reclined his seat, folded his arms, and closed his eyes.
Outside, the Wakandans exchanged uneasy looks. One opened his mouth to whisper, but the elder silenced him with a sharp glare.
Later, they retreated to a tent, resuming their act as simple tribespeople. Children peeked curiously at the jeep.
Their performance had fooled the UN for years. Aid money poured in, convinced Wakanda was impoverished.
But Hawk wasn't fooled.
Night fell. The tribe lit bonfires, laughing and singing, eyes constantly flicking toward the jeep.
They whispered in English, careless:
"He's still in there?"
"Yes."
"Switch to Wakandan!"
"Relax, he can't hear us from that far."
"Still lying down?"
"Since afternoon, hasn't moved."
"Where's Lunn?"
"He went home."
Hawk's lips curved faintly in the dark. He'd heard everything. He let them play their little game, while his consciousness sank into the cosmos within. Between the Dragon and Phoenix constellations, the elusive Sixth Sense shimmered before him.
Dawn.
Hawk stepped out, stretched, checked his phone, then began his daily regimen: ten thousand punches.
In a nearby tent, two Wakandans peeked through a hole, whispering about the strange outsider boxing the air.
Soon, footsteps approached—the elder, Lunn, returned with more warriors, ready to drive Hawk away.
But just then, another jeep appeared on the horizon.
Its driver came into view.
Bruce Banner.
…
(End of Chapter)
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