The Wrath of the Unchained-Chapter 59 - Chains Break

The sun above Kilwa’s coast was hidden behind thick smoke and chaos. Gunfire roared in every direction, screams echoing over the crash of waves. The streets were slick with blood, and bodies—mercenary and Kilwan alike—lay broken on the sand and stone. Buildings burned, smoke snaking into the sky like the spirits of the dead ascending.

Lusweti pushed forward, flanked by Irungu and Oduor. His hands trembled with exhaustion, blood seeping from gashes along his forearms and thigh, but he would not stop. Not now. His breath came in short, burning gasps, but he gripped his sword tighter, moving like a storm, cutting through anyone who tried to halt him.

His men followed with equal resolve—some limping, some holding wounds closed with trembling hands, others dragging the dead out of the way to clear a path for their commander. They had long ceased to fight for survival. They were fighting for history.

The people of Kilwa watched in awe. For the first time in generations, they had taken up arms—not just the warriors, but the weavers, the cooks, the fishermen, the daughters, and even the elderly. Spears forged from farming tools. Blades passed down from ancestors. And at the center of it all, Lusweti moved like a god of war. The whispers grew:

"Lusweti... Lusweti... Lusweti..."

He had become a symbol—more than a man. His bloodied form wading through fire and death, fighting for a people that had long been abandoned.

Almeida stood atop the governor’s balcony, watching the unraveling of his empire. His face twitched, jaw clenched tight, and one eye bloodshot from sleeplessness. The rifle in his hand trembled—not from fear, but rage.

"This was mine!" he shouted to no one and everyone. "They promised me Kilwa! I was supposed to be a king! And now—now some savages burn it all to the ground?"

His hands trembled violently. He slammed a fist into the stone rail.

"I bled for this place! I bribed the right men, killed the wrong ones! My own country laughed when I asked for a fleet—called me a dreamer! A clown! And now—this?!"

He gripped his musket and sword. "No more. I will end this. With my own hands."

Storming down the stairs of his crumbling mansion, Almeida burst into the streets. He shot a fleeing mercenary in the back, then turned and gunned down a Kilwan boy holding a kitchen knife.

"Useless pawns! All of you! Worthless!" he spat, stepping over corpses, clothes stained with soot and ash. "You couldn’t hold a gate if it were nailed shut!"

His path carved in blood, Almeida finally came face-to-face with Lusweti in the shadow of a burning monument.

Lusweti’s blade was slick with blood, his breath shallow. Scars both old and new layered his chest and arms. A fresh one crossed his brow, dripping into his left eye.

The people of Kilwa watched from behind ruins and craters. Their protector had reached the heart of the monster.

Almeida spat at the ground, his lips curling in disgust.

"You think you’ve won, boy? You think a crowd of dirt-covered savages with pointy sticks are going to build an empire?"

Lusweti stepped forward, his voice low but iron-clad. "A man like you was never going to win. You have no people. No roots. Just greed."

"You’re just a dog that learned to bark like a man," Almeida growled, throwing his musket aside and charging with a howl of madness.

Steel clashed. Sparks flew. The air between them thickened with sweat and rage.

Almeida fought like a desperate man. His technique was erratic but brutal. He struck at Lusweti’s ribs, slicing shallow wounds. Lusweti stumbled, the pain sharp—but in the haze, flashes danced before his eyes.

He saw his Kingdom praying to their ancestors for him.

He saw, his warriors bravely head to the battlefield with no hesitation.

He was himself as a young warrior in his first battle.

He saw his father’s hands wrapping his fingers around a wooden training blade.

He saw his son, Khisa grinning wildly as they wrestled in the sand.

He remembered Khisa’s determination to make Nuri a reality, to forge a kingdom so strong no one would be able to shake it.

He heard Nanjala’s voice—You must endure.

He parried a wild swing and drove his elbow into Almeida’s throat. The man gasped but recovered, slashing again.

Around them, the mercenaries began to panic.

"This is a slaughter!" one screamed.

"I’m not dying for this bastard!" another dropped his weapon and fled.

A third knelt in surrender. "Please—I didn’t know it would be like this."

But others still fought, some out of fear, others loyalty. Some simply had nowhere to run.

Irungu and Oduor fought beside the Kilwan fighters, forming a perimeter. The Kilwans yelled chants of their ancestors. Women carried wounded men on their backs. Elderly men hurled stones from rooftops. The drums began to echo again—no one knew who beat them, but they swore they heard them.

"Lusweti... Lusweti... Lusweti..."

The whispers grew to chants. The chants to roars.

Almeida screamed in rage. "I was supposed to be king! You hear me?! You don’t get to win! You can’t win!"

His face twisted into something grotesque. His strikes became wild, powerful—but desperate.

Lusweti’s sword met him again and again, each clash louder than the last.

"You built your throne on corpses," Lusweti said through clenched teeth. "You ruled through chains. But chains break."

Another blow. Another flash of steel.

"Your mistake," Lusweti said, stepping inside Almeida’s guard, pressing the blade to his throat, "was thinking kings are made from crowns. But I was forged in fire."

With one final motion, he drove the blade through.

Almeida gasped, staggered, then crumpled into the dirt.

Silence fell.

Then came the cheers.

Not just cheers. A howl of relief. Of freedom. Of victory hard-won and paid in blood.

The people of Kilwa rushed forward. Some wept. Others knelt before Lusweti. Children clutched their mothers. Warriors embraced. Even the wounded smiled.

In that moment, Lusweti was no longer just a warrior. He was legend.