The sound of the transport skimmer cut through the dawn air like a whispered secret. Beneath it stretched the jewel of Africa — Wakanda — glowing in ribbons of light and color, its skyline alive with impossible harmony. It was a city that existed between worlds: ancient and new, silent yet singing with energy.
Erik sat by the narrow window, eyes following the patterns of the vibranium conduits that ran through the streets like veins under living skin. A part of him — the soldier — mapped the exits, the defenses, the potential choke points. Another part — the fan who had once watched this kingdom from the safety of a theater seat — was quietly overwhelmed.
So it's real, he thought. Every panel, every pulse, every dream someone once drew.
But this wasn't fantasy anymore. It was a kingdom with secrets, and now he was one of them.
The skimmer glided toward the palace terrace, escorted by two smaller crafts. When it landed, the hatch hissed open. Heat rushed in — not just from the air, but from eyes that watched him. The Dora Milaje stood in formation, spears gleaming, their expressions unreadable.
Okoye waited at the front, her posture exact, her tone sharp. "Prince N'Jadaka. Welcome home."
Erik stepped forward, the title hitting him like static. Prince. It sounded wrong in his ears.
"Appreciate the formality," he said lightly, but his gaze held hers — unflinching, assessing. "Didn't expect a red carpet."
Her lips twitched. "We do not roll carpets for ghosts."
He smiled, faint and humorless. "Guess I'm back to prove I'm not one."
Inside, the palace was a cathedral of precision. Light poured through latticework carved from black stone. Holographic patterns shimmered faintly underfoot, reacting to movement like ripples in water. Every detail screamed legacy — the kind that lasted centuries.
Waiting for him at the throne room's edge was Zuri. The old priest's face was lined with memory and regret.
"You return under strange stars, N'Jadaka," Zuri said.
Erik tilted his head. "You mean guilty ones."
Zuri didn't deny it.
They stood in silence, two men bound by history neither could fix.
Erik had dreamed of this moment in another life — except there, it had been a movie scene. Now he was inside it, rewriting it with every breath. The fan in him whispered from the corners of his mind, This wasn't supposed to happen. But Killmonger's instincts silenced that voice: Then make it worth it.
The days that followed were a test of patience.
He watched. He listened. He learned.
Wakanda, for all its perfection, was still human. The council argued in hushed tones. The guards whispered of factions loyal to old kings. The scientists debated over policy versus ethics. Erik absorbed it all, committing names, loyalties, and flaws to memory.
At night, he'd walk the outer terraces, the neon-blue veins of the city pulsing below like a living organism. Each time, he caught his reflection in the glass — a warrior's face that wasn't fully his.
The fan within him — the ghost of the man who used to dream about this place — sometimes surfaced during those quiet moments. You're walking through a legend, the voice said. Don't ruin it.
But Erik always answered back, even if only in thought: Legends are written by survivors.
T'Chaka summoned him after the first week.
The old king was regal even in weariness. His robe of woven vibranium shimmered with soft gold light as he stood before a vast map of Wakanda's borderlands.
"I hope your time here has reminded you that peace is not weakness," the king said.
Erik kept his stance respectful but casual — just enough to show confidence without defiance. "Peace is fine, long as it don't come from fear."
T'Chaka's brow furrowed. "You think we are afraid?"
"I think you're hiding," Erik said, his tone calm. "From the world, from your own people. You built paradise and locked the gates."
The silence that followed was sharp.
"Your father spoke much like you," T'Chaka said at last. "He saw suffering and believed he could heal it by force."
"And you saw him die for it," Erik replied, the edge creeping in despite himself.
Zuri shifted beside the throne, eyes warning him to tread carefully. But Erik had no interest in comfort.
"Maybe he wasn't wrong," Erik said softly. "Maybe he just moved too early."
T'Chaka looked at him long and hard, as if peering into something ancient and dangerous. Then he turned away. "You will remain under supervision, N'Jadaka. Wakanda has given you mercy. Do not mistake it for trust."
"I don't," Erik said. "Trust is earned. I plan to earn it."
When he left the chamber, his hands were trembling. Not from fear — from restraint.
Time moved differently in the palace. Mornings filled with silence, afternoons with ceremonial duties, nights with echoes of voices through the halls.
Erik began building what he called his "web."
A servant girl who cleaned the council floor. A border guard who lost family to traffickers beyond Wakanda's barrier. A technician from the vibranium research wing who admired his military record.
He didn't recruit them. He understood them — made them feel seen. That was enough.
He learned which council members whispered against the king, which engineers resented Shuri's youth, which generals envied Okoye's position.
In three weeks, he could see the palace's hidden anatomy — the skeleton beneath its perfection.
That was when he realized something important: Wakanda's peace wasn't built on unity. It was built on silence.
And silence could always be broken.
Okoye found him training one morning, bare-chested and glistening with sweat, striking the holographic dummies that responded with precision attacks.
"You fight like someone who's always angry," she said.
He paused, wiping his face with a towel. "Anger's just focus with a pulse."
Her eyes narrowed. "Focus can turn to arrogance. Arrogance gets men killed."
"Only if they stop learning."
They circled each other for a moment, the air thick with unspoken challenge.
Finally, she said, "You are under the king's watch, not mine. But I will say this: Wakanda does not need another man trying to save it. We already have a king."
He smiled faintly. "Maybe you'll need more than one before it's done."
She left, but her expression lingered — suspicion mixed with reluctant respect.
Erik turned back to the dummy and resumed striking. Harder. Sharper. Each hit timed to the rhythm of his thoughts: This place could be more. It should be more.
Time Skip — Three Weeks Later
The palace was quieter now. Too quiet.
Rumors were spreading — council debates gone missing from the official logs, small shipments of vibranium unaccounted for, digital reports erased from the archives. No one knew who was behind it.
Erik did.
He had begun planting misinformation — small, almost harmless details that didn't hurt anyone, just shifted perceptions. One elder accusing another of dishonor. A report hinting at border corruption.
He wasn't breaking Wakanda apart.
He was testing it.
Each move was like adjusting the tension on a bowstring — learning how far it could bend before it snapped.
And each night, he'd look out from his balcony and whisper to the fan still hiding in his skull:
You wanted to see how heroes are made? Watch.
The first tremor of distrust rippled through the Golden City like a whisper through glass.
Council members began to arrive at meetings late, their greetings shorter, their glances sharper. There were missing files in the archives. Anonymous statements appeared in encrypted channels. One adviser accused another of leaking border patrol routes. The royal court dismissed it all as technical errors — but Erik saw the pattern forming.
He wasn't breaking Wakanda. He was teaching it to see itself.
Shuri was unlike anyone he'd met — sharp, irreverent, brilliant beyond measure. Her lab was a temple of chaos and genius, glowing with blue light and filled with the hum of machines that whispered in languages only she could understand.
When Erik walked in unannounced one afternoon, she didn't even look up.
"If you touch anything without asking," she said, "I'll reprogram your heartbeat."
He smirked. "Guess I'll just stand here and look impressed."
"Good. You're already doing one of those correctly."
He leaned against a vibranium console. "You built all this?"
"With some help," she replied. "Mostly from people who know when not to interrupt."
Her sarcasm bounced off him like water. He wasn't here to charm her — at least, not yet. He was here to learn.
"These systems," he said, scanning the holographic readouts. "They monitor the energy flow of the entire city?"
"Not just monitor. They regulate it. Vibranium isn't just a metal. It's a network. A living code."
That caught his attention. "A living code…"
Her brow lifted. "Don't get poetic on me."
But Erik wasn't hearing her anymore. The phrase echoed in his mind like a key clicking into a lock. Vibranium — the lifeblood of Wakanda — behaved like an organism. That meant it could be influenced. Redirected.
In another life, he'd studied cyber warfare, systems infiltration, pattern recognition. Here, the same logic applied — only the code wasn't binary. It was elemental.
Shuri caught the flicker in his eyes. "You're thinking something dangerous."
He smiled. "Always."
That night, Erik began his first true infiltration — not of Wakanda's physical defenses, but its digital heart.
He started small. Using the lab's public terminals, he traced the vibranium grid's diagnostics, mapping how data moved through the city. From there, he crafted what he called the Ghost Program — a dormant algorithm hidden in the energy lattice, designed to record without triggering alerts.
He didn't steal or destroy anything. Not yet. He simply watched.
Through the Ghost Program, he learned who accessed what, when, and why. He saw that the king's communications were filtered through multiple security layers — all human. That meant human error was possible.
By the end of the week, he knew more about the palace's internal structure than any outsider ever had.
He stood before the city one night, the horizon burning with amber light, and murmured:
> "Knowledge is the first crown. Power just wears it."
The royal council met every month, but this one felt different. The air was thick with quiet tension.
Erik stood at the back of the chamber beside Okoye, watching as the elders debated border policies.
One spoke of opening Wakanda's resources for humanitarian projects in Africa. Another warned that doing so would invite corruption and war.
Erik listened, measuring each word. Then he stepped forward.
"With respect," he said, "you're all arguing over who gets to ignore the world better."
All eyes turned to him. Even T'Chaka's.
"I've seen the world outside," Erik continued. "I've seen what people do for scraps while you sit on miracles. You could feed nations, cure diseases, rebuild cities — but you hide. And for what? So you can call it peace?"
An elder slammed his cane. "You speak with no authority here!"
"Maybe not," Erik said calmly. "But I speak with truth. And truth doesn't need permission."
A murmur rippled through the chamber.
T'Chaka's voice cut through it, low and measured. "You presume to lecture us on morality, N'Jadaka, when your life has been one of violence."
Erik met his gaze. "Sometimes peace needs violence to wake it up."
The silence that followed was heavy.
He bowed slightly — enough to show restraint — and walked out.
But as he passed Okoye, he caught the faintest glint of something in her eyes. Not approval. Not yet. But curiosity.
That night, Erik found the royal archive chamber — a restricted sanctum that held holographic memories of past kings and ancestors. The room was silent, cold, its walls covered in ancient glyphs that pulsed faintly when touched.
He stood before the projection of his father, N'Jobu — younger, alive, full of conviction.
The hologram replayed his last words to T'Chaka: "The world is suffering, and you stand by watching."
Erik whispered to the air, "You were right, old man. You just didn't have the tools."
He knelt and placed his palm on the vibranium floor. Through his Ghost Program, he began linking his personal energy signature to the archives — embedding himself into Wakanda's record, invisible but permanent.
If anyone searched for him, they'd find nothing. But his imprint would remain — a new ghost in the bloodline.
Time Skip — Two Months Later
Wakanda was no longer the same.
Small political fractures became visible. The Border Tribe questioned isolationist policy. The Mining Guild pushed for export expansion. Even within the Dora Milaje, quiet discussions arose — about what it meant to serve blindly.
None of it could be traced back to him. That was the art.
Erik had become a shadow catalyst — pushing people to confront what they already feared.
Still, something inside him stirred uneasily. He had come here as both invader and believer. Each day, the line between the two blurred.
He'd walk through the capital's lower districts, where children played beside floating trams and street vendors sold light-reactive cloths. These people weren't villains. They were proud, joyful, alive.
And he wondered: Was he freeing them — or just setting fire to paradise?
Shuri caught him staring out over the city one evening.
"You look like a man carrying ghosts," she said.
He turned slightly. "Maybe I am one."
She studied him. "You talk like someone who's seen too much. But you don't act like someone who's done healing."
He laughed softly. "Healing's a luxury."
"Not here. Not if you ask for it."
He looked at her, really looked. The brilliance in her eyes wasn't just intellect — it was belief. A belief that technology could redeem humanity. That innovation was hope.
And for a moment, Erik felt the weight of what he was doing.
He said quietly, "You ever wonder what would happen if Wakanda shared all this?"
She frowned. "You mean give away our power?"
"I mean give away your fear."
She had no reply.
That night, he deleted the Ghost Program's most invasive logs — the ones that monitored her lab. He couldn't explain why.
T'Chaka grew suspicious.
Okoye reported unusual data spikes in the energy grid. The council demanded answers. And when the archive systems began misbehaving — flickering, whispering echoes of long-dead kings — the old king ordered a security lockdown.
Erik knew it was only a matter of time before they found traces of him.
So he moved first.
He planted a false data trail pointing toward the Border Tribe's server networks — subtly implicating M'Karu, the tribe's outspoken elder. The discovery sent shockwaves through the council.
While they investigated each other, Erik erased the last fragments of his Ghost Program, leaving behind only silence.
Zuri confronted him later in the gardens. "You play with things you do not understand."
Erik smiled faintly. "I understand enough. You all built a dream and forgot what dreams cost."
Zuri's gaze softened. "And what will you do when your dream costs lives?"
Erik's voice was quiet. "Then I'll pay."
It came to a head during the midsummer council meeting.
Evidence of corruption — much of it manufactured by Erik — forced T'Chaka to hold a public trial of inquiry. Nobles turned on nobles, tribes accused one another, and faith in the throne began to tremble.
Erik stood at the periphery, silent, watching the kingdom devour itself.
When the king finally spoke, his tone was heavy. "Wakanda must remember who she is."
Erik answered softly, "Maybe she's just remembering for the first time."
The room froze.
For a long moment, the king said nothing. Then, slowly, he dismissed the council.
As they dispersed, T'Chaka's eyes lingered on Erik. There was no anger in them. Only recognition — as if he finally saw the inevitable.
That night, Erik stood before the vast balcony overlooking the Golden City. The wind carried scents of metal and rain, the hum of vibranium beneath his feet alive like a heartbeat.
He whispered, "Every king was once a rebel."
Behind him, the door opened. Okoye entered, silent but deliberate.
"You've changed things," she said.
He didn't turn. "Change is good."
"It is also dangerous."
He finally faced her. "So am I."
For a moment, neither spoke. Then she said, "Whatever you are planning… remember, Wakanda will not fall quietly."
He smiled, a slow, cold curve. "I'm counting on it."
As she left, Erik looked up at the night sky — the stars reflecting faintly in his eyes. The fan inside him — the man from another world — whispered, You're becoming him.
And Killmonger, fully now, whispered back:
> "No. I'm becoming better."
The city pulsed beneath him like a living god, unaware that its future had just been rewritten.