The Wrath of the Unchained-Chapter 66 - The Ashes and The Seed

The sun rose heavy and slow over the battered coast of Kilwa. The morning light cast long shadows over the rubble that once formed homes, temples, shops, and lives—now reduced to dust and memory. The salty air carried the scent of the ocean, but also the sharp sting of blood and smoke. It was a city on its knees—and yet, it breathed. It lived, just barely.

The returning warriors did not pause to rest. There was no celebration, no feasting, no trumpets—just silence and motion. Boots crunched on broken stone. Voices were low and firm. Hands, rough with calluses, lifted heavy debris, pulling dead men and women from collapsed buildings.

They had been hopeless before—fractured, uncertain, burdened by shame and fear. Yet something in their eyes was different now: a glint of purpose, a seed of belonging. Perhaps they too would find their place in this growing body of Nuri—not as outcasts, not as relics of a defeated past, but as pieces of its future.

That night, as the waves crashed softly against the scorched shoreline, funeral rites were held. Torches lined the beach, flickering like stars come to earth, and every flame was for a soul lost—both in battle and in the purge by Almeida. Elders and spiritual guides led the chants, their voices trembling not just with age, but with pain—grief that stretched deep into their bones.

The people gathered in silence—women with veiled heads, warriors kneeling, children clutching the hands of parents they did not recognize anymore, so changed were they by war. They lit fires for each name spoken aloud, the names of warriors and innocents alike. And as the flames danced, tears fell freely—unhidden, unwiped. Sorrow had earned its place.

It was a sad day at the coast, and the sky itself wept with them—a light drizzle falling, as if the heavens too mourned. But through that mourning, a quiet truth rose: their future was not yet lost.

Weeks passed, and with them came hope—wrapped in wagons and woven baskets. Hundreds of civilians and warriors from the heart of Nuri made the long journey to the coast, through dirt trails and over broken bridges. They brought tools, food, medicines, blankets, and hands ready to rebuild. The coast, which had been a battlefield, would now become a cornerstone of unity.

The people of Kilwa stood in stunned silence as they watched the procession arrive—men and women and children carrying heavy loads with determined eyes and steady feet. They came not to conquer, but to help. And the sight of them broke something loose in the hearts of those who watched.

Women sobbed openly—some sinking to their knees, clutching their chests as if trying to hold the weight of what they felt. Men who had buried their emotions behind walls of pride now looked away, blinking furiously, wiping their faces on their sleeves. They had expected judgment. They had expected to be abandoned. But instead, they were being helped.

A young Kilwan boy, perhaps nine years old, ran to one of the Nurian women and threw his arms around her waist. She dropped the basket she carried and held him tight—not knowing his name, not knowing his story. And yet, in that embrace was the beginning of something sacred.

The women from Nuri moved through the crowd, gently touching arms, wiping faces, offering silent strength. They did not need to speak. Compassion often speaks louder in stillness than in sound.

The supplies helped ease the immediate suffering, but there was still so much to do. Water systems had been damaged. Crops were ruined. Entire neighborhoods had been reduced to ash. Lusweti knew this would take more than aid—it would take vision and planning and structure.

In a makeshift room—once a merchant’s hall—Lusweti sat at a wooden table with Malik and Simiyu. Maps and ledgers were spread before them, alongside several Nuri traders who had come to advise.

He leaned forward, his expression unreadable, and asked, "Tell me—which routes have you used most consistently in the past? What goods move best? What do your people rely on most to live and trade?"

One of the older traders, a man with skin like sunbaked earth, answered slowly. He spoke of routes that hugged the coast, of trade with Arabia and India, of goods like ivory, gold, animal hides, iron, copper, and grain. He also mentioned pottery, salt, woven textiles, dried fish, incense, and medicinal herbs.

Malik added quietly, "Spices are especially valuable. Nuri’s inland herbs have potential to dominate that market if cultivated properly."

Lusweti nodded. "Then we must build a new trade system—one that does not exploit the poor or reward greed. We will establish a central bank in the coming months and introduce Nuru coins into coastal trade. This currency must circulate often and with purpose to hold its value. We will need both market hubs and trusted officials to enforce fairness."

"We have much to do, those we trade with will expect Almeida, we must always remember those are the same people who bought us as slaves. If they refuse fair trade then we take our business elsewhere. Never forget that Nuri has the upper hand here."

The traders left with promises to bring more data and proposals. Lusweti remained with his two generals. The tension in the air was familiar—charged with new possibility.

"We must link the coast to the heart of Nuri," Lusweti said firmly. "Roads must be carved through forest and stone, wide enough for carts and strong enough to withstand rains. We will build rest stops where travelers may sleep and eat. And over time, these stops will grow into towns."

"What about the wild animals? We’ve been through those forests, we know how irritable the animals can be." Simiyu pointed out.

"The wildlife belong to Nuri just as much as the people do, since we plan to coexist with them the least we can do is protect them. We can try as much as possible to avoid their routes, build the roads around the areas, seal them off with fences. We should also put up warning signs. That should deter reckless people. Maybe add a unit to specialise with that, but that will have to wait." Lusweti sighed, exhaustion marring his face.

The coming days will be tough.

"With kilwa now being a part of Nuri, we must restructure the government, to ensure every place is well taken care of, we need a newer more stable structure." Lusweti says.

Malik nodded, but frowned. "There are leaders in Nuri who will not take this well. They may see it as a power grab. Some will resist—even violently."

Lusweti met his gaze evenly. "Let them resist. Change must come, or we will fall apart from within. We cannot rule a growing kingdom with the mind of a village elder."

He placed a finger on the center of the map. "Here. This is where our capital must be—not here on the coast, not back in the hills, but right in the heart, where every voice can reach us, where every part of Nuri feels seen and heard."

Simiyu leaned in. The fire in his eyes mirrored Lusweti’s vision.

"When trade stabilizes," Lusweti continued, "we break ground on the new capital. Until then, the army must be strengthened. Training will double. The weapons left by Almeida will be used, new stronger armor will be crafted. Every day, the enemy grows smarter and more ruthless. We must evolve faster. "

Malik gave a small smile and looked away, remembering a time not long ago when the Sultan of Kilwa had sat bloated on cushions, concerned only with his meals and mistresses. Lusweti, he thought, was nothing like him.

Still, there was a problem, and Lusweti raised it. "Communication. If we cannot speak across distance, we lose time—and time costs lives."

Simiyu answered without hesitation. "We use smoke signals for short distance—quick alerts visible from towers across the coastline. We place scouts at those towers, trained to read and repeat messages in real time. For longer messages or secure content, we use runners—elite athletes carrying coded scripts hidden in plain objects like walking sticks or belt linings. Once we get the rest stops running we can switch messengers in between to make sure they never stop moving. We also employ drummers with preset rhythms—each beat meaning a command or warning. And we teach all units to understand these codes to reduce confusion in the field."

The three men sat in silence for a moment, then all of them nodded. novelbuddy.cσ๓

And so, the transformation began.

The warriors of Kilwa and Nuri trained side by side—blades clashing, sweat pouring onto the dirt of the same fields where they once bled in battle against each other.

Children watched from rooftops, cheering when one of their parents scored a hit on the sparring grounds—laughter returning like the first flowers after a long drought.

One Nurian woman helped rebuild a Kilwan home. The Kilwan woman, whose house it was, wept as she painted the walls beside her.

"You don’t have to do this," she whispered.

The Nurian woman replied, "I do. Because we are the same now."

Two boys—one from each side—worked together carrying wood, joking about who was stronger. Their bond was born not from blood, but shared purpose.

Kilwa had once been shattered by ambition. Now, it would rise by unity. And through the hands and hearts of its people, a new coast was being born.