The Wrath of the Unchained-Chapter 122 - Before the Fire

The sun hung low as Khisa, Tadasee, and their entourage finally arrived back in Assab. Dust clung to their cloaks, and the sea breeze offered little comfort. But the tension that followed them all the way from Gondar had shifted—there was a quiet confidence in their gait. ƒгeewebnovёl.com

The bait was set.

Whispers would reach the traitors soon enough. A web of rumors, forged alliances, and false vulnerabilities had been carefully sown. Now, they just had to wait for the trap to spring.

Khisa stood at the edge of the rebuilt harbor, watching merchant ships arrive with goods and secrets. He turned to Tadasee, his voice low.

"Now we see who comes hunting."

Northern Abyssinia — Outside the Adal Camp

General Mekonnen sat atop his horse, staring across the gorge at the final Adal stronghold. Tents dotted the cliffs, black flags snapping in the wind like defiance incarnate.

His officers reported skirmishes at night—sharp, sudden, and deadly. The Adal warriors were not retreating. They were cornered.

But so was Mekonnen.

His troops were bone-tired. Their faces hollow, their uniforms ragged. And yet, when they passed another burned village, when they buried another child or saw a woman who had lost everything—they straightened their backs.

"This is it," Mekonnen said, pulling his sword. "We finish it here. No running. No retreat. Not for them, not for us."

A thousand weary voices cried out as one.

Nuri Kingdom – Government District, Ntuka Province

In Ntuka the newly named province, once a quiet farming region of the Abakhore, the newly painted walls of the community hall glowed in the evening sun. Inside, the first local elections were underway—small but fierce debates, passionate speeches, and even heated arguments.

Lusweti hadn’t slept more than three hours in days. He moved like a storm, bouncing between departments and regions, pen in hand and advisors in tow. The economy was growing rapidly, thanks to the Merchant Association’s smooth systems.

A once impossible dream—foreigners trading directly with locals without theft or exploitation—was now not only possible, but normal.

Nuri was becoming something real. Something powerful.

Voices from the Ground

"I remember when this land was mud and fire," said Mzee Waluchio, one of the original Abakhore villagers. He sat outside a brick home shaded by a wooden awning, children playing around him. His left hand was wrapped in a leather brace—an old war wound.

"I remember our battle with the Angwenyi, when we had to fight against hundreds, the overwhelming victory was incredible. A young ten year old boy running around the battle field leading seasoned warriors. " he chuckled.

"Why did we even allow a child to lead us so easily? Maybe it was the ancestors telling us to follow his lead.

"We thought Khisa was mad. A boy, talking about dreams and roads. But look at this. Look at these children—they don’t fear hunger. They laugh!" He chuckled, shaking his head. "I still think he’s mad. But maybe that’s what we needed. I have seen enough development to last me a life time. I will leave the rest to these young ones."

Not far away, another voice echoed through a bustling trade hub—this one belonged to Amina, a young woman from Kilwa. Her hennaed hands were busy selling woven sandals to a pair of foreign traders.

"Where I came from, we were told Nuri was a land of foolish dreamers. That they would be easily crushed under our might. Then the war happened, our people were slaughtered in the streets. Our homes burned to the ground, when King Lusweti marched here to save us, I thought we would have to be subservient to a new ruler. But here I am. No one’s taken my language, my food, or my faith. Instead, I have a home. My sister is in school. I send money to my mother. Who would’ve thought?"

She smiled, wide and real.

"Now I fight anyone who tries to break this peace. Even if they call themselves kings."

Assab — That Night

Khisa stared into the fire. Around him, Faizah sharpened her blades while Tadasee cleaned his rifle. Ndengu, massive and silent, played a game with two local children using river stones.

The trap was ready.

Mekonnen would fight his last battle.

Nuri would vote its first leaders.

And the world?

The world was watching a kingdom no one expected to rise.

But rise it did.

The Slave Ship — En Route to Nuri

Salt air stung Tiriki’s nose as he leaned against the wooden rail of the merchant ship Zarrin. The sails creaked overhead. He could hear the clinking of chains below deck—twelve slaves, shackled and silent.

He hadn’t spoken since they left the coast.

The marketplace in Massawa still haunted him.

Fawzi had strutted through the slave pens like a man browsing a fruit stall. The thickset merchant—half-pirate, half-smuggler—had a booming laugh and a foul tongue. His gold earrings flashed with every barked order.

"This one’s too weak! Get me something with teeth!" he shouted, shoving a thin boy aside. "I’m being paid handsomely. Don’t waste my time with half-dead cargo!"

Tiriki had clenched his jaw, saying nothing. He had to keep his cover.

He walked through rows of human beings—some beaten, some freshly captured, others crying silently into their knees. Fawzi joked with the slavers, haggled over prices, insulted everyone. Tiriki simply watched.

He was meant to watch.

But the sickness gnawed at him.

Later that night, as they boarded the ship, Fawzi leaned toward him, chewing a sliver of dried mango.

"You’ve got quiet eyes, Nuri-man," he said. "Let me guess. You hate this."

Tiriki’s heart stopped for a moment.

But Fawzi laughed, slapping him on the back. "Don’t worry. I hate it too. But money speaks louder than my disgust. That’s the truth of the sea."

Tiriki said nothing. He couldn’t afford to.

Now, on the waves, he stared at the horizon, feeling filthier than the salt stuck to his skin. Every wave lapped like guilt.

The slaves were bound in silence. And so was he.