I am Thor

"Who are you? Where am I?" Jean Grey demanded, her tone edged with wariness. Her sharp eyes scanned the barren arena, her mind racing. Just moments ago, she had been at Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters, and now she was here, alone with a stranger.

Thor offered a faint smile, his tone casual. "Beat me, or get beaten to the ground by me. Then you'll know."

Jean frowned, her face tightening with determination. "I can find out now," she said, activating her mind-reading abilities.

Thor didn't flinch. A sharp notification sounded in his mind:

"Alert! Psychic invasion detected. Mental barrier activated."

Jean winced, clutching her head as dizziness overwhelmed her. Her mental probe had backfired, colliding with a defense stronger than she expected. Who is this guy? How does he have such resistance?

She stumbled slightly but quickly regained her footing, her telekinetic abilities flaring as she focused on the arena floor. She attempted to rip it apart to create a defensive barrier—

"Warning! Arena cannot be damaged."

The sudden message in her mind startled her. "What?!"

Before she could recover, Thor sprinted forward, closing the distance between them. With a swift movement, he struck the back of her head with the flat of his hand. Jean's vision blurred as she collapsed unconscious.

"Congratulations! Challenge completed. Reward: Omega-level Mutant Jean Grey."

Thor materialized back in the tavern, cradling the unconscious Jean in his arms. He let out a deep breath, relief washing over him. Good thing she hasn't awakened the Phoenix Force yet, he thought. Choosing her had been a gamble, but Thor had banked on the timeline from "Apocalypse"—where Jean's true power remained dormant for most of the story.

Noticing the patrons' stares, Thor glanced around. Their expressions ranged from curious to judgmental. It wasn't hard to see why—Jean's striking appearance and her unconscious state made Thor look like a less-than-honorable scavenger.

Clearing his throat, Thor muttered, "Nothing to see here," and exited the bar with haste.

Meanwhile, in Wakanda, the battle for the throne reached its devastating climax. Despite moments of advantage, T'Challa's mercy toward his cousin became his undoing. Again and again, he held back, unwilling to deliver a fatal blow. Eric, on the other hand, showed no such hesitation.

T'Challa lay sprawled on the ground, battered and bloodied. The soldiers around them watched in silence, their faces etched with tension. Everyone knew T'Challa was the better ruler, but tradition dictated that the victor claim the throne. And Eric had proven victorious.

Princess Shuri's fingers twitched near her concealed hand cannon, but the queen grabbed her arm and whispered urgently, "No. To interfere is to dishonor the ritual. We must leave this to T'Challa."

Eric stood over his defeated cousin, his short sword gleaming as he raised it toward T'Challa's neck. "This is for my father!" he roared.

Suddenly, a spear blocked his blade.

Zuri stepped forward, his face heavy with grief. "Your father died because of me. If you seek vengeance, let it be on me, not him."

Eric hesitated for a moment, a flicker of doubt in his eyes, but it was quickly replaced by rage. "You and him both deserve to die!" With a vicious backhand, he struck Zuri, sending him sprawling to the ground, blood spilling from his mouth.

"No!" T'Challa's cry was filled with fury, but his broken body failed him. He tried to stand, but his legs gave out beneath him.

Eric grabbed T'Challa by the hair, lifting him like a trophy. "This is your king!" he shouted to the soldiers. "This weakling, this coward—he cannot protect you!"

He hurled T'Challa off the cliff, his body disappearing into the mist below. Eric turned to the crowd, his voice triumphant. "Now, I am your king!"

The silence was broken by the priest, who reluctantly placed the royal necklace around Eric's neck. One by one, the soldiers knelt in submission.

In the shadows, Shuri and the queen slipped away, tears streaming down their faces. They knew they could not stay; any act of defiance now would mean death.

Later that night, Eric awoke in a cold sweat, the visions of the ancestral plane still fresh in his mind. The power of the Black Panther coursed through him now, transforming him into something greater. He rose from his bed, his resolve hardened.

"Burn the rest of the heart-shaped herbs," he ordered, his tone brooking no argument.

The maid hesitated, her hands trembling. "But… that is not our way. It defies our traditions."

Eric's hand shot out, gripping her throat. "Traditions," he snarled, "should have died long ago."

As the flames consumed the sacred plants, a shadow moved in the background. Shuri, cloaked in secrecy, plucked a single heart-shaped herb and slipped away. She had barely made it to the exit when Eric's voice cut through the air like a knife.

"You should have left when you had the chance," he said coldly, stepping into the firelight, his eyes locked onto hers.

Shuri froze, fear gripping her as Eric's sneer deepened.

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