Creating Oasis:Mutant Dawn

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A heavy silence blanketed the royal hall.

King T'Chaka's eyes widened in disbelief. After a long pause, he hesitantly asked, "Mr. Joseph… Surely, you intend to receive the goods before paying?"

Joseph looked genuinely perplexed by the question. "How is that possible?"

His voice was calm, his gaze firm, his tone as righteous as a man who'd never done a dishonest deed in his life.

"This is a transaction," he stated. "Naturally, you must pay and deliver simultaneously. I'm here to purchase Vibranium, not to plunder your kingdom. How can I not pay?"

There was no mockery in his voice, no underhanded threat. Just sincerity.

King T'Chaka didn't respond immediately, but it was clear the question gnawed at him: How would Joseph pay? Could he even afford it?

Joseph smiled, answering the unspoken concern. "As I said earlier, my visit is not solely for purchasing Vibranium. I'm here to promote a technical exchange between Wakanda and the Mutant Nation."

His tone became solemn. "Since Vibranium is the bedrock of Wakandan technology, it's only fair that we Mutants showcase our own technological accomplishments. As long as Wakanda purchases our products, I'll have the capital to buy Vibranium. Simple economics."

Good grief.

The Wakandans nearly gasped aloud.

This so-called King of Mutants had actually come up with a plan to use Wakanda's money to buy Wakanda's own Vibranium. And the worst part? It kind of made sense.

It wasn't impossible.

It was just… baffling.

The younger Black Panther couldn't stay silent. To him, Joseph's confidence reeked of veiled coercion—an arrogant assumption that his strength alone would justify this absurd arrangement. His fists clenched, his expression growing grim.

But before he could speak out, Joseph raised his hand and snapped his fingers lightly.

Suddenly, several glass vials floated into the air, each filled with vividly colored liquids. Alongside them appeared a small, crude straw figure no larger than a palm, clearly handmade but oddly refined in its magical aura.

"These," Joseph began, "are magic potions."

As he spoke, one translucent vial shimmered toward King T'Chaka, hovering inches from his face. The liquid inside sparkled faintly, flashing with pulses of ethereal light.

"This is a healing potion," Joseph explained. "It rapidly restores physical injuries and stamina."

He gestured to another. "This one is a soul potion. It clears the mind, enhancing focus and mental resilience. Ideal for anyone dealing with stress or under pressure from psychic interference."

One by one, Joseph described a dozen potions.

"Physical potion. Boosts your physical tolerance and fatigue threshold."

"Rage potion. Temporarily amplifies strength, speed, and reflexes—at the cost of some side effects after it wears off."

"Frost potion. Grants resistance to extreme cold, highly effective in freezing environments."

He explained them like a salesman in a pitch meeting, except his tone held the weight of a teacher explaining something real—something developed through years of arcane understanding.

What he didn't mention was that all of these were elementary-level concoctions. They weren't the pinnacle of magical alchemy. In fact, Joseph had made these during moments of boredom across a decade of magical experimentation.

But in his narration, they sounded like miracles.

Because, in truth, they were.

Even at their lowest tier, these potions had already surpassed modern scientific capabilities—much like Vibranium had surpassed traditional metallurgy.

"Wait… has the Mutant Nation developed a magical civilization?" King T'Chaka's mind reeled as the implications sank in.

To the outside world, mutants were individuals born with the X-gene, scattered across the globe. They lacked a shared culture, history, or heritage. By definition, they were not a unified people.

But now?

If Joseph's claims were true—if the Mutants had not just organized but created their own civilization, one rooted in a magical framework—then the paradigm shifted.

That wasn't just impressive.

It was revolutionary.

The younger warriors, including Black Panther, were still focused on the impressive effects of the potions. But King T'Chaka saw further.

Joseph wasn't just showing off products.

He was demonstrating the soul of a new nation.

It explained everything—his confidence, his composure, even his title.

A man who calls himself "King of Mutants" without ridicule must have something to back it up.

He wasn't just uniting people through strength. He was planting seeds of a new civilization.

A technological civilization? No. A magical one.

"What you say… These potions… are they truly that effective?" T'Chaka asked, his voice finally taking on the weight of diplomacy rather than suspicion.

Joseph grinned. "You'll know once you try them."

Without waiting for permission, he gestured again. A few wind blades shot out, cleanly slicing across the arm of a nearby Wakandan guard. Thin red lines of blood appeared.

The woman flinched but didn't cry out. Wakandan warriors were trained to handle pain with discipline.

Before anyone could react, the healing potion uncorked itself, and the liquid shot directly into her mouth.

A gasp escaped her lips. Seconds later, the wounds sealed up before everyone's eyes—blood flow stopped, skin mended, and even the minor fatigue vanished.

The hall went quiet.

They had expected something dramatic… but not something this fast, this portable, and this simple.

Sure, Wakanda had top-tier medical technology. But it still required equipment, surgical rooms, and often, preparation.

This? This was instant.

A vial you could wear on your belt that could save your life in combat.

Suddenly, the Mutant Nation's value proposition no longer sounded like a joke.

Joseph's potions weren't just real. They were useful.

Strategic.

Game-changing.

The Mutant King had their attention now—and their respect.

Especially once he began connecting potion types to real Wakandan needs:

Soul potion? Perfect for researchers maintaining long hours of intense mental focus.

Physique potion? A godsend for the labor-heavy mining tribes.

Rage potion? Ideal for enhancing a warrior's capabilities in the heat of battle.

Frost potion? Essential for expedition teams venturing into colder regions of Africa or beyond.

And then came the real gem.

Joseph lifted the straw figure.

"This," he said, "is a magic prop. A 'substitute straw man.'"

He stuck it to the same guard who had just healed.

Then, without warning, an ice arrow materialized in front of her and shot straight for her throat.

Gasps echoed across the room—but it never hit her.

The moment the arrow touched her, a flash of light erupted from the straw man. In the blink of an eye, the woman vanished and reappeared three meters away, unharmed.

The straw man took the hit—impaled cleanly, crumbling to dust.

For a moment, no one spoke.

Then, like a wave, realization hit the crowd.

This item could save lives.

The kind of life-saving that bypassed armor, defense systems, even Vibranium.

One second you're dead, the next, you're standing somewhere else, alive and ready.

All eyes turned to King T'Chaka. The unspoken question was unanimous: Can we buy it?

Even the skeptical Black Panther stared at his father, eyes alight.

T'Chaka's voice held pride. "Mr. Joseph, forget the potions for a moment. Let's talk about this straw man. How much is it?"

Joseph's grin turned mischievous. "Ten thousand dollars," he said casually—the same price Wakanda had offered for one gram of Vibranium.

T'Chaka choked. "Give me one hundred, then!"

Joseph rolled his eyes. "King T'Chaka, surely you're joking. This is a life-saving tool. Do you think I've got hundreds lying around? And even if I did, would I really sell them for $10,000 apiece?"

He leaned in, voice sharpening. "Would you price the lives of Wakandan warriors at only ten grand each?"

That stung.

Everyone remembered mocking Joseph's prices just moments ago.

Now, hearing the same logic thrown back at them—it didn't feel so funny anymore.

T'Chaka, to his credit, didn't bristle. Instead, he nodded solemnly. "No price is too high for the lives of my people. Mr. Joseph, no matter how many you can offer, and no matter the price—we want them."

But Joseph wasn't done.

He shook his head. "The value of Vibranium lies in its potential for weapons, armor, and technology. But if I'm being honest, I didn't even know about your Vibranium until recently."

He looked up, eyes flashing.

"But this straw man… is a unique magical artifact. There's nothing else like it in the world. Its value exceeds even Vibranium."

He paused, letting the moment settle.

"Which means…"

"Add money!"

A beat of stunned silence.

Then Joseph gave his final offer:

"Only accept Vibranium trades.

Fifty kilograms of Vibranium for ten straw men.

One trade every three months. Only three such trades allowed."

His tone was final. His face unyielding.

Of course, the potions were dirt-cheap to make.

Of course, the straw men had a shelf life and expired after a while.

But did that matter?

Not at all.

Because Joseph had created desire—and now, Wakanda had to pay the price.