Leander didn't hesitate as he cleared the final layer of the Golden City's energy shield. He was a streak of black and silver against the vibrant African sky, his mind already halfway to Malibu. He had spent five days underground, and the open air felt like a luxury, but the sensation of being watched hadn't faded.
In fact, it had sharpened.
He hadn't even flown five hundred meters before the hairs on the back of his neck stood up. Behind him, tucked into the slipstream of his flight path, three metallic signatures hummed with a predatory intent.
'Optical camouflage stealth tech,' Leander thought, a wave of disbelief washing over him. 'Do they really think I can't feel the metal? Do they think their "invisibility" works on someone who talks to the atoms of their fuselage?'
He felt a bit speechless. He had been nothing but polite—aside from the casual breaking and entering—and yet Wakanda's response was a bit on the extreme side. He didn't want to hurt them, but he wasn't about to let them think they could shadow him like a common thief.
Leander came to a dead stop in mid-air. He didn't drift; he simply ceased movement, hovering with a gravity-defying stillness. He turned slowly, his Golden Eyes piercing through the refractive light of their cloaking shields. He could see the pilots clearly: three in the lead Royal Talon Fighter, and one each in the flanking Talon interceptors.
The three jets stopped in perfect synchronization, hanging in the sky like ghosts.
In the Wakandan war room, the atmosphere was thick enough to choke. T'Challa's hand was hovered over the tactical interface.
"Father, he's stopped. He's looking directly at the lead ship. He knows we're there. Should we initiate the suppression protocol?"
Shuri burst through the doors just as the question left her brother's lips. Her eyes went from the screen to her father in a flash of panic. "Brother, stop! What are you doing? Are you seriously going to attack him now? After everything?" She ran forward, grabbing the King's arm. "Father, please, he was just eating bread in my lab ten minutes ago! He isn't an enemy!"
King T'Chaka didn't look at her. His eyes were fixed on Leander's projection. He saw the boy raise a hand—not in a wave, but in a command.
Suddenly, the screens in the war room flickered with static. On the external feed, the optical coating on all three fighter jets began to ripple and flake away like dry skin. The advanced polymer disintegrated into fine dust, revealing the dark, menacing vibranium fuselages of the Wakandan fleet.
Leander stood openly in front of the multi-million dollar war machines and beckoned them with a casual flick of his fingers. Come on, then.
T'Challa opened his mouth to speak, but the King beat him to it. A hard, cold decision had finally crystallized in T'Chaka's mind. If this boy was as powerful as he seemed, they needed to know the ceiling of that power now, before he left their reach.
"Attack," the King commanded.
The response was instantaneous. The Royal Talon Fighter's twin sonic cannons surged with blue-red energy, while the two escort jets unleashed a salvo of six vibranium-tipped missiles. The ordinance crossed the distance in less than a second, a concentrated storm of fire and sound meant to erase anything in its path.
To the observers in the palace, it looked like Leander didn't even try to dodge. He stood there, a small figure against the backdrop of the clouds, as the energy waves and high-explosives slammed into him.
BOOM.
The first sonic blast hit an invisible barrier three centimeters from Leander's chest. The resulting explosion was a sphere of violet fire that would have vaporized a tank. Leander didn't flinch. He didn't even blink. The kinetic impact pushed him back perhaps two centimeters, his boots remaining locked in the air.
Then came the missiles.
Leander's Nirvana Golden Wings snapped forward, crossing over his chest like a knight's shield. The first missile struck the wing-tips and crumpled like a soda can before detonating. The subsequent five hit the same microscopic point, their explosions merging into a singular, violent ball of compressed energy—a miniature sun that enveloped Leander's entire body.
The war room fell into a horrifying silence. Shuri's legs gave out, and she sank to the floor, her hands over her mouth. T'Challa's helmet nearly slipped from his numb fingers.
But as the smoke cleared, the "sun" didn't dissipate. It was being pulled inward.
Leander stood with his arms spread wide, his skin glowing with a faint purple radiance. He was literally breathing the explosion, absorbing the raw vibranium energy into his body. His black-and-silver clothes, woven from the very metal they were firing at him, didn't have a single singe mark.
"Impossible," T'Chaka whispered, leaning back into his throne, his face ashen.
Leander's expression shifted from boredom to a cold, focused irritation. He raised his hands, and with a sudden, sharp squeeze of his fingers, the two escort Talon Fighters were yanked forward as if caught in a localized gravity well.
"No!" T'Challa yelled as he watched the escape systems of the jets activate. The two pilots were ejected, their flight seats hurtling toward the ground below.
With the pilots clear, Leander turned his attention to the aircraft. He clenched his fists, and the sound of groaning metal echoed through the Kimoyo communication channels. The two ultra-high-tech fighters began to buckle and fold. Wings snapped and retracted into the fuselages; the vibranium hulls crumpled like tinfoil.
Under the pressure of Leander's will, the two jets—the pinnacle of Earth's secret technology—were crushed into dense, metallic balls. Then, with a series of fluid, artistic gestures, Leander began to reshape them.
The metal stretched and elongated. He added intricate, spiraling patterns and razor-sharp edges. Within seconds, two massive, thirty-nine-meter-long blades—styled after the iconic Zangetsu from the stories he'd read—hovered in the sky.
Leander casually swung his arms, and the giant swords whistled through the air, their massive surface area creating gale-force winds that tossed the remaining Royal Talon Fighter around like a leaf.
With a final, sharp snap of his fingers, the swords ignited with golden light and shot forward, slamming into the Wakandan energy shield with the force of a falling meteor. They disintegrated into charred scrap upon impact, a final, clear message of what he was capable of.
Then, he reached out his hand, and the two ejected pilots—who were still falling—were caught by an invisible force and pulled back up. He placed them gently on the roof of the Royal Talon Fighter, their feet sticking to the smooth hull as if magnetized.
Leander offered a small, mocking smile to the cockpit of the lead ship, then turned and ignited his wings, disappearing into the horizon at Mach 10.
Just as he reached the outer perimeter of the camouflage layer, a final multi-functional transport aircraft rose to meet him. Leander stopped, his face darkening with genuine anger. "I've had enough games today," he muttered.
But instead of weapons, a massive holographic projection of King T'Chaka appeared in the sky before him.
"Respected Mr. Hayes," the King's voice boomed, but it wasn't the voice of a conqueror. It was the voice of a man who had seen the end of the world and was trying to negotiate. "I offer my most sincere apologies for this... test. It was a moment of weakness and fear. I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive Wakanda."
Leander's wings hummed, the purple light at the tips pulsing.
"Wakanda wishes to offer you more than just an apology," T'Chaka continued. "We wish to offer you our friendship. You are a unique power in this world, Leander. If you are willing, you could become our first official diplomatic ally. Our resources, our knowledge... they could be yours."
Leander's expression softened, the anger replaced by a tired sort of amusement. "No need for the titles, King T'Chaka. I appreciate the gesture, but I'm just a kid from New York who wants to keep his family safe. I bear you no ill will, but let this be the last time you try to 'test' me. It's bad for the upholstery."
With a sharp flap of his wings, Leander broke through the simulated sky of Wakanda, the sonic boom shattering the clouds as he headed for Malibu.
Back in the war room, T'Challa stood trembling with a mixture of rage and shock. "Father, why? We could have sent the Panther Guard! We could have used the sonic dampeners!"
"No, T'Challa," T'Chaka said, his voice old and weary. "We could have sent every warrior in this nation, and all we would have achieved is a mountain of corpses. I thought our walls made us strong. I thought our metal made us invincible. But that boy... he is the metal. He is the evolution of everything we claim to be."
The King looked at his son, his eyes grave. "He alone is enough to resist a nation. Confrontation would be suicide. We can only hope for his goodwill now. This 'attack' was my way of proving to the Council that we cannot fight him. Now, they will listen when I say we must be his allies."
He looked at Shuri, who was slowly standing up, her eyes fixed on the empty screen where Leander had been.
"Shuri," T'Challa said, his voice tight. "We need stronger equipment. We need to rethink everything."
Shuri didn't look at her brother. She was looking at the data on her Kimoyo beads—the recording of Leander absorbing a vibranium explosion. "He didn't just survive it, Brother," she whispered. "He liked it. We aren't building weapons for a war... we're building toys for a god."