T'Challa thrust out his short spear. Compared to his earlier attacks, this one was much slower.
Erik Killmonger, or rather, Erik Killmonger, unsurprisingly knocked aside the incoming weapon, then struck the short spear in his hand against the edge of the shield, forcing T'Challa to spread his arms and expose an opening where the spear could pierce through. But Erik Killmonger could not follow up with another thrust, because T'Challa turned with the motion and drove out his blade. The short spear that should have advanced slowly suddenly accelerated, forcing Erik Killmonger to dodge quickly to avoid being struck in a vital spot.
Then T'Challa viciously kicked him in the shin, and the shield smashed into his wrist. Erik Killmonger felt his wrist immediately go numb, unable even to grip his weapon tightly. "I know a few little tricks too." T'Challa gave a miserable smile. But his smile soon vanished. Amid the roar of the waterfall, T'Challa said in a low voice, "I'm sorry, cousin. I know my father was not perfect. I'm sorry for what he did in the past. What I said before was not what I truly felt."
"Don't be sorry, T'Challa." Erik Killmonger bared his teeth as he worked his swollen, throbbing wrist.
T'Challa's words did not shake him. Not in the slightest.
He had forced himself onto the most terrifying battlefields, allowing those hellish war zones and the cries that echoed through his mind night after night to temper him into a sharp, resilient weapon. Whenever he wanted to give up his life, he remembered the crimes committed by his father and blood relatives, then forced himself to continue sharpening away his weaknesses.
"We cannot control our own fates, and fate has pushed us to this cliff."
He shook the blood and water droplets from