When Dragon Balls Descend Upon Marvel

Hearing his father's reasoning, Wesley curled his lip. His mind drifted back to the days when he, Smith Dole, and Fox had walked in and out of the Continental Hotel together.

Back then, Smith Dole wasn't yet the Chief. But whenever they identified black assassins, Smith went straight for them, pulling the trigger and blowing their heads apart.

Why target black assassins first? Wesley remembered Smith Dole's words clearly:

"They're all trash, but this kind of trash deserves priority cleansing."

Whenever a mission brought both an Asian and a black assassin, Smith always eliminated the black one first.

So Wesley couldn't fully agree with his father's "neutral" words. He was deeply curious—what exactly was so special about this so-called T'Challa? Was it simply because he lived in backward Africa?

From the information online, Wakanda was described as impoverished, so poor it constantly needed global aid and charity. Yet, strangely, it always refused United Nations assistance.

Soon, Wesley and Cross arrived outside the fake "royal palace" that Wakanda presented to the outside world.

Glancing at the Dragon Radar, Wesley muttered:

"The Dragon Ball's inside. It's got to be with their prince."

He moved to negotiate with the guards for an audience with Prince T'Challa.

······

Inside the palace, T'Challa wasn't the least bit bothered by the fake royal palace, nor by its obvious differences from the true Wakandan palace.

This façade was just a mask, a symbol designed for the outside world to see.

A guard stepped into the chamber, bowing.

"Prince T'Challa, two Americans have come, claiming to speak of the Dragon Balls."

At first, they hadn't cared. But when one of the visitors casually took down an entire squad of guards, their tone changed. Dragon Balls were clearly important to their prince.

T'Challa's eyes lit up at the mention. He had been wondering when the organization behind this so-called "tournament" would reveal itself. Apparently, they had come quickly indeed.

So… was it the Dragon Ball itself that had let them locate him?

Shuri had scanned the orb herself and found nothing—just extreme hardness. No trackers, no tech.

"Bring them in," T'Challa ordered.

The guards led Wesley and Cross into the palace.

Wesley was unimpressed—just as the internet described, poor, desperately poor, with none of the gravitas of a true ancient palace. And yet… in the guards' eyes he saw pride. These men didn't shrink before American power. They showed no fear.

In the great hall, T'Challa dismissed his men, then addressed them directly:

"You have come for the Dragon Balls. What is your purpose?"

Wesley took out a golden coin, the emblem of the Dragon Ball Tournament.

"We are staff for the Dragon Ball Tournament. We're here to deliver your ticket and confirm a few details."

T'Challa narrowed his eyes.

"So the Dragon Ball carried a tracking mechanism I could not detect."

Wesley didn't deny it. He just smirked.

Seeing Wesley's arrogance, T'Challa frowned.

"So… the hosts of this Dragon Ball Tournament are American. Interesting."

But Wesley's tone grew cold:

"T'Challa. Answer me now. Will you compete for the championship and the right to a wish?"

T'Challa heard the change in tone but was unshaken. He was the Black Panther, prince of the most technologically advanced nation on Earth, and he had every right to be confident.

"These Dragon Balls—how do they grant wishes?"

"Is the dragon real?"

"Or is it your organization behind the curtain, fulfilling them for the winner?"

"And that memory that appeared in my mind when I touched the Dragon Ball—how did you do it? What trick was used?"

Cross shifted uncomfortably, ready to interject—when Wesley snapped.

From his body, the symbiote surged, forming a massive blue hand.

"Bang!"

It smashed into T'Challa, hurling him to the floor, blood spilling from his lips.

The Heart-Shaped Herb had given T'Challa strength, yes—but without his Black Panther suit, he was no match. One strike floored him.

Wesley blinked, surprised.

"Didn't die? Figures. No Dragon Ball holder is ordinary."

If T'Challa were just a regular man, that blow would've left him broken, if not dead.

"Now, will you answer properly?" Wesley growled.

Coughing, blood on his lips, T'Challa forced himself up. No more dismissive questions. These men were extraordinary beings. That blue hand—what power was it?

"I, T'Challa, will participate in the Dragon Ball Tournament," he declared firmly.

Satisfied, Wesley flicked the golden coin at him.

The force of the throw was immense—T'Challa staggered back several steps before managing to catch it. His hands stung red.

Wesley sneered.

"Sometimes, people only get honest after a beating."

T'Challa's face darkened. Rage burned beneath the surface, but he said nothing, outmatched by their overwhelming strength.

Wesley folded his arms.

"That coin is your ticket—and your proof of identity."

"Now, listen carefully. I'll explain the rules of the Dragon Ball Tournament…"

······

(End of Chapter)

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