The Wrath of the Unchained-Chapter 62 - The City that Wept

The sun rose slowly over Kilwa, its golden light washing over the bloodied ruins like a false promise. Almeida was dead, and yet the scars he left behind would not fade so easily. The Nuri flag still flew high over the citadel, rippling in the morning breeze—a beacon of survival in a city that had tasted hell.

Kilwa was quiet, save for the sound of crows and the occasional sob. The air stank of smoke, blood, and rot. The houses, the old underground market tunnels—reeked of death. Bodies, both familiar and foreign, lay strewn across the stone floors. The scent clung to skin and cloth, stubborn and sharp.

They buried their dead in mass graves. There were too many for individual honors. Families wept as they lowered wrapped bundles into the earth. A boy named Musa found his niece under a pile of rubble, her small body limp, her dress stained. He didn’t cry. He just held her and whispered stories they used to share until someone gently took her from him.

The mercenaries and Almeida were burned—no words, no rites. Their ashes mixed with the dirt they had tried to own. The villagers lit the pyres with trembling hands, some with rage in their eyes, others with grim satisfaction. A few spat as the flames consumed them. No mercy for those who showed none.

Amina, once a fisherwoman, took charge. "We wait for no one," she declared, binding a splint with bark and linen. "Lusweti may have saved us, but this is our city. We rebuild it with our own hands." Around her, heads nodded. Hope—raw and tattered—began to breathe again.

Conversations murmured like wind through broken windows. Some whispered in anger, others in disbelief. A few spoke with shame. The truth had shattered their pride: wealth could not protect them. Their gold and stones had done nothing when death arrived. And it was not foreign aid or kings that came—it was the very people they had looked down upon. Warriors from Nuri. Warriors with no shining armor, only steel and soul.

They killed an army with just eleven. No superior weaponry. Just rhythm. Tactics. Courage.

The young men of Kilwa were shaken. Not by fear—but by awe. The name Lusweti rang in their ears like a war drum. His strategy, his fire, his resolve—it had carved itself into their bones.

His name had become myth.

"Khayo Lusweti."

A young man repeated it aloud, tasting the name like fire on his tongue. "He was willing to die for us. For strangers."

Many of Kilwa’s youth had never lifted a blade in earnest. But now they swore oaths in alleyways and amongst the ruins. That if war ever came again, they would not run. Not this time

The burials stretched for days. Names were lost in the rush of grief. Some graves held whole families. Children. Elders. Innocents caught in a war birthed by greed.

The men of Kilwa began to look at their women differently. In desperation, they had all stood together, bloodied and determined. The boundary between strength and gender blurred. They fought for survival, side by side, and it changed them.

In the evenings, stories spread across the city like wildfire. Each person had a version of the battle. Some swore they saw Lusweti cut down five men at once. Others whispered about Irungu moving like a shadow, and striking with thunder. The myths had begun. But they were rooted in truth.

Inside what remained of the town hall, Lusweti sat with his nine surviving warriors. Their wounds were bandaged, but the weariness in their eyes could not be covered. His voice was low, strained.

"We can’t stay here long," he said. "Nuri still fights. Simiyu... he’s holding the line, I know it. But this war has to end."

Oduor, his second-in-command, adjusted the bloody cloth on his shoulder. "We’re barely standing, Lusweti. We need time."

"I know," Lusweti said, leaning forward. "But Kilwa needs us, too. Look at this place." He gestured toward the shattered city through the open doorway. "Burned homes. Collapsed tunnels. Food stores looted. They need supplies, builders, guards."

"And hope," someone murmured.

Lusweti nodded slowly. "And hope."

He stepped outside. The streets were no longer silent. Hammers struck broken beams. Women passed stones down lines like river water. Children sat beside injured relatives, helping to mix medicinal paste—thankfully, Almeida’s dispensary had been well-stocked, and some locals knew how to use it.

Kilwa was wounded, but alive. A city on its knees but not broken.

Several warships had survived, hidden in coves along the coast. A few merchant vessels too, enough to send for aid. Lusweti planned to use them soon.

He knew the hardest part had just begun. The battle was over, but now came the rebuilding. The trust. The future.

But they would not rebuild as before. Not as separate towns and kingdoms. They were now Nuri. One land. One people.

One of the warriors—Mwanga, his leg in a splint—grunted. "How soon can we move?"

"Two days," Lusweti replied, though he knew it was optimistic. "Maybe three. We’ll send a message first. Let Simiyu know Almeida is dead."

Kwena, another of the warriors, exhaled heavily. "We’ve won one war... but the next one is rebuilding this city."

Lusweti nodded. "And we’ll win that too."

Outside, two Kilwan men—former blacksmiths—stood by the remains of their forge.

"Think we’ll ever fix this place?" one asked.

The other wiped soot from his brow, then smiled faintly. "Not today. Not this week. But Nuri’s with us now. That flag—" he pointed to the tower— "means we’re not alone."

And for the first time in generations, Kilwa understood humility.

They had been wealthy. Arrogant. Secure behind walls and coin. But none of that had saved them. In the end, it was strangers who fought for them. A kingdom that saw worth where Kilwa had only seen weakness.

As the sun set that evening, the wind carried the scent of salt and ash. But beneath it... something new.

Hope.

Still, not everyone was convinced. An elder stood by the pyres, arms crossed. "They say we’re part of Nuri now," he muttered. "But whose city will this be when it’s rebuilt—theirs or ours?"

No one answered. Not yet.

But Lusweti heard him. And he understood the weight of what came next.