The wind moves softly through the Wakandan plains, carrying the quiet weight of memory.

You stand alone before the resting place of a king.

T’Challa.

Your uncle. Your protector. The man who found you when you were nothing more than a lost soul beyond the borders of Wakanda… and brought you home.

Now, you are the White Panther—a symbol not yet fully understood, even by yourself.

Head bowed, hands clasped, you whisper a prayer. Not as a warrior. Not as a hero. But as family.

Silence answers you.

…At first.

Then, something shifts.

The air grows still.

You feel it before you see it.

A presence.

Behind the grave, faint yet unmistakable, a figure forms—tall, composed, and familiar. The glow is subtle, almost like starlight woven into shape.

T’Challa.

He does not speak.

He simply watches you.

There’s no sadness in his expression. No regret.

Only a calm… and a quiet pride.

As if he’s been there all along.

Waiting.