Okoye's fury burned hotter at Hong Fei's warning. As Captain of the Wakandan Royal Guard, few dared show her such disrespect. Beside her, T'Challa stood with hands clasped behind his back, his expression far calmer though his brow creased slightly as he studied Hong Fei's face.
"Who are you?"
"Does it matter?"
Hong Fei met his gaze without flinching.
"The items are mine regardless."
T'Challa's hesitation wasn't indecision—he waited for his sister's remote analysis. Back in Wakanda, Shuri's fingers flew across holographic displays as she hunted for information. She didn't know Arthur had long since erased all records of Hong Fei's true identity. Those who recognized him needed no introduction; those who didn't would never connect this man to the legendary Dragon King.
"Need more time," Shuri muttered at her screens. "No hits yet—this one's no ordinary mark."
T'Challa remained silent. Okoye held her position. But Hong Fei wasn't about to wait.
He extended his hand toward Okoye.
"Hand them over. Let's keep this civil."
Her answering sneer spoke volumes as she turned to leave.
Hong Fei moved like lightning—one moment still, the next clawing for the box in her grip. Okoye whirled with equal speed, dropping one container as her spear extended from its bracelet form in a silver flash aimed straight for his heart. T'Challa's lips parted, but no command came.
The spearpoint found its mark—or should have. Instead of dodging, Hong Fei caught the vibranium blade barehanded. Okoye's eyes narrowed, her thrust intensifying, yet the weapon froze mid-air, arrested by his grip. Her confidence wavered for the first time.
Hong Fei's leg shot up, knocking the remaining box from her grasp. His foot hooked under the fallen container, sending both skidding across the table.
Okoye recovered fast. With a twist of her wrists, the spear's segmented sections retracted, hidden blades forcing Hong Fei to release his hold. The weapon became a blur as she spun it overhead before driving it toward his chest again.
One palm pinned the boxes to the table. The other struck like a viper—fist meeting spear shaft with a resonant clang that reverberated up Okoye's arms. Before she could react, that same fist hammered into her sternum.
Air left her lungs in a rush. She staggered back, but Hong Fei's hand was already at her throat, lifting her effortlessly off the ground.
"Slow reflexes won't pay the bills."
The entire exchange lasted seconds. His fingers tightened. Okoye's spear clattered to the floor as both hands scrabbled at his unyielding grip.
Two other Dora Milaje abandoned their watch on Ulysses, spears lancing toward Hong Fei's back.
"SCRAM!"
The shout carried physical force, a dragon's roar woven into its timbre. The warriors clutched their ears, wincing in pain. Dozens more Wakandans surged forward.
Hong Fei tossed Okoye aside like discarded laundry. His foot flicked up the fallen spear, sending it whirling toward her airborne form.
That's when T'Challa finally moved.
His eyes tracked the spear's trajectory as he leapt, snatching it midair. Around him, Wakandan warriors scrambled to catch Okoye. In the same breath, the surrounding white operatives drew their pistols in unison. Sensing the tide turning, Ulysses ducked low and scrambled behind Hong Fei.
Hong Fei flexed his arms. The Ten Rings concealed beneath his sleeves snapped free, hovering before him in a whirling barrier. Bullets ricocheted off the spinning metal in a deafening staccato. When the gunfire ceased, the shooters stood frozen, faces slack with disbelief.
A flick of his wrists sent the Rings streaking outward. They found their marks with brutal precision—skulls cracked like eggshells, bodies crumpling mid-stride. Seconds later, the Rings returned to orbit his arms, leaving only corpses in their wake.
The Wakandans didn't advance. Hong Fei's efficiency had rooted them in place, their expressions grim.
"Drop your weapons," he said pleasantly, "and I won't have to kill you."
The smile didn't reach his eyes. Not with bodies cooling at his feet.
T'Challa scanned the carnage before passing the spear to his aide.
"Sir, you'll get what you came for. But Ulysses stays with us."
Hong Fei chuckled, clamping a hand on the smuggler's shoulder.
"If you'd led with that, we might've struck a deal. But now?"
He shrugged.
"Bit late for negotiations."
"What do you want?"
"Compensation. You came at me first."
T'Challa's eyes narrowed. Hong Fei cut to the chase: "Vibranium. Nothing else."
"Impossible."
"That word means nothing to me."
Hong Fei's gaze flicked to Ulysses.
"I know exactly how much Wakanda's sitting on."
T'Challa's jaw tightened. The smuggler was the only outsider who'd seen their reserves and lived.
"To catch this rat," Hong Fei continued, "you teamed up with CIA trash. Funny—they've got no clue about your stockpile, or they'd have invaded years ago."
"They couldn't."
"True enough."
Hong Fei nodded.
"But I've been civil, haven't I? Could've painted the walls with your brains. So—compensation?"
"I can offer wealth beyond measure."
"Vibranium. Only Vibranium."
"Never."
"I'll pay market price."
T'Challa's headshake was final.
"Wakanda doesn't sell."
Ulysses smirked. Hong Fei backhanded him, wiping the expression clean.
"No wiggle room?" he pressed.
"Name your terms. Money's no object."
The Federal Reserve would cover any shortfall.
T'Challa's patience evaporated. His pupils dilated, voice turning glacial: "Vibranium has no price. What Ulysses stole and sold was a fraction. To us, it's priceless."
Every piece of Wakandan technology hinged on the metal's properties. It was their lifeblood.
And in fact, although the Vibranium mine was vast, it was also finite. To Wakanda, no amount could ever be enough. Logical, wasn't it? Yet they wasted it on relics—like that hammer in the British Museum, or these warriors' collapsible spears.
No one understood Vibranium's power and value better than the Wakandans—but could outsiders truly grasp how deeply they cherished it? Unless, of course, every Vibranium weapon in their hands had been passed down through countless generations.
"I get it," Hong Fei said, raising his palms in a placating gesture. "You guard Vibranium fiercely. No outsiders touch it. I respect that. It's yours by right."
Then his gaze sharpened, locking onto T'Challa's eyes like a blade finding its mark.
"But I need Vibranium. Right now. What do you suggest I do?"
T'Challa needed no further explanation. He exhaled through his nose, stepping forward as liquid-black armor cascaded over his body, forming the Black Panther suit in a heartbeat.
"The solution's simple."
His voice dropped to a growl.
"I'll remove your need for Vibranium."
He lunged. One moment he stood three paces away—the next, his silver claws flashed toward Hong Fei's ribs, close enough to gut him before most men could blink.
Hong Fei didn't blink.
Golden-red energy flooded his arm as he pivoted, palm striking outward. Dragon Power erupted, coalescing into a snarling draconic force that slammed into T'Challa's chest—faster than the Panther's claws could finish their lethal arc.
The claws froze a hair's breadth from Hong Fei's skin.
A dull thud echoed as T'Challa staggered back. The dim vibranium weave of his suit flared brilliant, patterns blazing like struck flint.
Sound-absorbing steel lived up to its name. The Black Panther suit drank kinetic energy, storing every impact for later retaliation. The brighter the glow, the heavier the blow it had absorbed.
Hong Fei's casual palm strike had lit it up like a supernova.
T'Challa's earpiece crackled. His sister's voice came through, tight with realization: "Brother—that's the Dragon King."
Hong Fei.
The name itself carried little weight in most circles. Few knew him personally; his reclusiveness kept his reputation contained.
But Dragon King?
Anyone who'd followed the Battle of New York recognized that title. The man who'd stood toe-to-toe with Thor. The one who'd hurled a nuke into the wormhole, saving Manhattan while obliterating the Chitauri fleet. The linchpin of humanity's first victory against an alien invasion.
History books would enshrine that moment.
Not that Hong Fei cared. Fame meant less to him than the dirt beneath his boots. When he wasn't training or honing his Dragon Power, he stood motionless as a statue, chasing deeper fusion with his energy.
If he'd ever strolled through a city, he'd have heard his name on a thousand lips.
The U.S. government made sure of that. They'd poured resources into mythologizing their superhuman assets—especially the Avengers.
Otherwise, the Avengers' information would not have circulated so widely, as if everyone knew their real names, faces, and life stories by heart.