Chapter 378: The Destruction of Namor's Clan
"Dispatch a team to the island immediately!"
Killian, utterly enraged, bellowed the order at the top of his lungs.
Jack was his only remaining family in the world—the person he cherished above all else.
The two had grown up depending on one another, forging a brotherhood deeper than words could express.
Back then, Killian had been born with a leg disability. Jack had dropped out of school early to support him, even enlisting in the military to provide for him. That debt of love and sacrifice was something Killian could never fully repay in a lifetime.
But fate was cruel. By the time Jack returned from war, he had lost an arm on the battlefield.
Determined to change their fate, Killian poured himself day and night into research, eventually developing the Extremis virus.
Two hours ago, they'd last spoken via satellite phone.
But on the second attempt to call—no one picked up.
A growing dread gnawed at Killian. He refused to believe something might have happened to Jack.
With the plan now in ruins, Killian's gaze darkened with fury. The once-principled man with lofty ideals had vanished without a trace.
Without hesitation, he dialed a signal frequency—making a momentous decision.
Soon, the connection established, and the face of a Black man appeared onscreen.
"So you've finally come around?" the man asked calmly.
"Yes, Black Manta," Killian exhaled deeply, speaking with deliberate gravity. "I'm willing to lead the Extremis warriors and work with you. My condition is access to Atlantean technology."
In truth, the two had been in contact for some time.
But talks had previously collapsed over who would take the lead.
Now, with his previous strategy a bust and Iron Man no longer an option, Killian's only remaining hope lay in non-human technology.
Wakanda, led by the Black Panther, didn't fit the bill.
Its vibranium-based tech lagged behind humanity in the biological sciences.
Only Atlantis, with its ancient and mystical technology, might offer a solution to the defects of the Extremis virus.
And besides, Black Manta made for a fitting ally.
"No problem," Black Manta replied readily. "As long as I get to kill Aquaman, you can have all the Atlantean tech you want."
In reality, Black Manta—David Hyde—had one goal: vengeance against Atlantis. Aquaman Arthur had coldly refused to save his father, letting him drown. From that moment on, with Arthur now king of Atlantis, the entire kingdom became his enemy.
"It's a deal. When do we rendezvous?" Killian asked.
"Don't rush," David replied coolly. "I have something to take care of. I'll contact you soon."
At that moment, Black Manta was aboard a World War II-era submarine, sailing straight toward African waters.
To challenge Atlantis, he couldn't rely on mere human military tech.
Human firepower was laughable compared to Atlantean might.
But after years of research, he'd uncovered an invaluable lead:
During World War II, a group of oceanic nobles had split from Atlantis, remaining hidden near Wakanda's maritime borders ever since.
"Captain, we've reached the designated area," a crewmember reported. "Sonar imaging confirms a sizable structure cluster fifty nautical miles ahead."
David's expression turned grim. "Have the other five subs hold position."
"Prepare to launch the nuclear torpedo."
"Yes, sir!"
In the ocean, direct confrontation was not humanity's strength.
That's why Black Manta had spent a fortune on the black market acquiring a nuclear warhead—mounted on a precision-guided torpedo for a sneak attack.
His goal wasn't just to seize undersea equipment, but to get his hands on vast amounts of vibranium to bolster his forces.
Besides, vibranium was hard currency on the black market—this strike promised massive profit.
The torpedo launched from the sub's bow, its tail outfitted with a triple-turbofan propulsion system.
It wasn't supersonic, but it could hit speeds of 300 knots, and was coated in a special stealth layer—perfect for slipping past defenses.
In a world teeming with high-tech criminals and villains, Black Manta was a heavyweight—commissioning a custom torpedo was well within his reach.
He wasn't a tech amateur either.
That said, his steady decline in modifying Atlantean guard armor might be seen as... consistent with certain stereotypes about Black scientists.
This time, the target of the ambush was Namor's faction.
Over decades of seclusion and growth, they'd mined vibranium and developed high-level technology, living quite comfortably.
But being so close to Wakanda inevitably led to conflict.
Were it not for the fact that they lived in the sea, Wakanda might've launched a full-scale crusade already.
After all, they publicly claimed vibranium as a national resource.
Black Panther had repeatedly reached out to Atlantis to co-launch a campaign against Namor—but was always refused.
The Atlantean royal family's rise to power was already shady business. They had no interest in bringing up old scandals by acknowledging Namor or his people.
So they kept their distance, hoping to avoid the mess altogether.
This refusal had chilled diplomatic ties between Wakanda and Atlantis.
BOOM!
Just then, Allen and Morgan—floating on the sea's surface—suddenly heard a muffled thud from below.
Both clung to the yacht's railing, eyes wide as they stared at the sudden formation of a massive whirlpool ahead.
It looked like the ocean itself had formed a vacuum, with water spiraling downward in a violent funnel.
Most likely, a nuclear torpedo had just detonated underwater, instantly vaporizing part of the sea.
As pressure normalized, water rushed back into the void—creating the whirlpool now seen on the surface.
"Who flushed the toilet?" Allen muttered, brain rapidly analyzing the situation with startling clarity.
After all, that kind of vortex was only seen in a flushed toilet bowl.
Moments later, the whirlpool settled.
"Grandpa, fish are floating up!" Morgan pointed excitedly at the dark silhouettes bobbing on the waves.
"Holy crap, someone's bombing for fish—wait, no, they're bombing people!"
Allen took a closer look and realized those shapes were armored bodies.
A sinking suspicion struck him.
"Don't tell me…"
He immediately steered the yacht closer. Sure enough, they were sea-folk soldiers in full gear.
Then his eyes locked onto one figure with winged ankles.
They pulled him aboard and flipped him over.
It was Namor—whom Allen hadn't seen in decades.
"Is he asleep?" Morgan tilted her head.
"Should be," Allen replied.
Staring at the unconscious Namor, a blush crept over Allen's face. After a moment's hesitation, he gathered his resolve.
"Giving mouth-to-mouth to a guy... this is so embarrassing. But for a friend, I guess I'll sacrifice myself."
He took a deep breath, puckered his lips, and leaned in—
SPLASH!
Right before their lips met, Namor coughed up seawater—right into Allen's face.
"Thank God, my dignity is intact."
Allen breathed a sigh of relief, halting the rescue attempt. Watching Namor slowly regain consciousness, he grabbed his shoulders and shook him.
"Pirate King, wake up! The Navy of Justice is attacking!"
"You are…?"
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