(Killmonger's POV)
Night in Birnin Zana never truly slept.
From the highest balcony of the Golden City Citadel, I watched the pulse of Wakanda ripple beneath me — maglev lanes glowing blue as they curved through the skyline, the faint drone of patrol crafts slicing the air, the soft shimmer of vibranium shields arching like ghostly ribs over the capital. Beautiful. Controlled. Mine.
And yet…
Something rotten moved beneath the surface.
Not an open rebellion. Not yet.
But hesitation. Fear. Whispers.
The kind that metastasized into daggers.
The intelligence reports had piled up for weeks — subtle deviations in tribal council communications, encrypted subchannels bouncing off unauthorized relays, private meetings in secluded plateaus with no official record. Nothing loud. Nothing sloppy. Nothing I could tolerate.
A king didn't wait for betrayal to land on his doorstep.
A king cut the rot out before it grew teeth.
Tonight marked the first night of the Purge.
The air behind me shifted as Okoye approached, her spear tip cold with condensation from the night air.
"Everything is prepared, my king," she said, voice iron-stiff. "Detention teams stand by. The Intelligence Division has secured every exit route. No one will leave the capital without our knowledge."
Her tone was neutral. Too neutral.
Even Okoye was learning to tread differently around me — careful, measured, like she was assessing which version of me the night would reveal.
"Good," I said. "Begin Phase One."
She gave a single nod and vanished into the shadows with that silent, lethal grace of the Dora Milaje.
I turned back to the city.
Below, lights flickered across the magistrate district as covert squads moved in precise, synchronized patterns. No alarms. No sounds of struggle. Doors opened. Lives ended quietly or were taken intact for questioning. A swift, silent incision.
This was how power stayed clean.
Not with mercy.
With precision.
---
The interrogation chamber was a circular vault beneath the Citadel, sterile and humming with vibranium monitors. A single chair sat under a white beam of light. Restraints. Neural dampeners. Pulse scanners.
They brought in the first suspect — Elder S'Bu, council representative of the River Tribe.
A frail man. Wise. Respected.
And a traitor.
He was shaking before they even sat him down.
"My king… there has been a mistake," he whispered, sweat beading on his bald scalp. "I have served Wakanda for fifty years—"
"And in fifty years," I murmured, circling him, "you learned exactly how to hide interference without tripping surface-level surveillance."
His pulse flicked violently on the monitor.
I leaned close enough for him to smell the faint metallic tang of my war paint.
"You rerouted council communications through a proxy network."
"For stability," he gasped. "To keep the tribes from panicking over your… rapid changes."
"Changes you opposed."
"I feared you were pushing Wakanda to war—"
"I am pushing Wakanda to survival."
The difference between us was simple:
He had hope in tradition.
I had certainty in evolution.
I nodded to the operative. The dampener activated with a soft hum — not torture. Just a gentle peeling back of the layers a man hides behind.
S'Bu broke within minutes.
Names spilled like cracked seeds: minor council aides, border officers, a research engineer in Shuri's labs, two intelligence analysts.
None of them major figures.
But all connected to something larger — a silent coalition rooted in hesitation. Fearful of where I was leading Wakanda. Afraid of what they couldn't control.
Good.
Fear was a weakness.
But it was also a resource.
When S'Bu slumped forward, drained, I placed a hand on his shoulder.
"You've served Wakanda long," I said quietly. "But times have changed."
He looked up, eyes red and desperate. "Please… I beg—"
"This isn't punishment," I whispered. "It's pruning."
I motioned.
Two guards dragged him away — not to execution. Not yet.
Old roots taught us more than old texts.
---
Hours passed. Dozens of suspects.
Some lied. Some begged. Some cursed me until they had no breath left.
The monitors recorded everything. Body language. Heart rate spikes. Micro-expression deviations. Patterns mapped, compared, cross-referenced through Wakanda's predictive analytics.
A web emerged.
Not rebellion.
Not yet.
But a network of individuals tied together by doubt, loyalty to a dead king, or allegiance to unchanging tradition.
It was enough.
By the time dawn began pushing a faint silver line across the horizon, the Purge had its first harvest: fifty-seven detainments, twelve confirmed traitors, six missing persons who would be found before noon.
But one file stood out.
A name I didn't expect.
Didn't want to see.
Didn't like seeing.
General Atandwa — Commanding Officer of the Border Legion.
A man who had fought beside T'Chaka.
Who once carried the respect of every warrior along the frontier.
His encrypted channels had been traced to unauthorized message pings near the Jabari border.
That wasn't fear.
That was coordination.
That was intent.
I stood alone in the empty chamber, staring at his file projected in front of me, glowing in sharp blue vibranium light.
A fracture had opened inside Wakanda — deeper than I predicted.
And now I would seal it shut.
Bloodlessly if possible.
Violently if necessary.
I whispered to myself, voice low and controlled:
"The throne does not share air with the unfaithful."
Outside, the first screams of the morning purge began to echo through the distant districts — short, muffled, and quickly silenced.
Good.
Let everyone hear.
Let everyone know.
The king was awake.
And the cleansing had just begun.