The Wrath of the Unchained-Chapter 68 - The Weight of Hope

The year according to the Gregorian calendar is 1551. It has been nine years since Khisa transmigrated.

The war between Kilwa and Nuri had ended the previous year. The once-thriving coast was now a place of slow recovery—charred villages being rebuilt, graves freshly dug, and scars hidden behind hopeful eyes. Lusweti, King of Nuri, had remained behind at the coast, ensuring the healing process was not just physical, but spiritual and political as well.

Construction of the road to Nuri had begun. Dust rose each morning as laborers cleared paths through rocky ground and dense thickets. From both ends—coast and capital—they worked tirelessly, building what would become the lifeline of trade and travel. Children had finally returned to school, their laughter slowly returning to village paths. Trade resumed cautiously, though not without confusion. Arab and Indian traders, long familiar with the bustling markets of Kilwa, were taken aback by the sight of its fractured glory.

Lusweti met them personally.

"Trade will continue," he assured them, his tone calm but firm. "Let not the flames of war scare you off. Nuri stands strong."

He made a polite yet pointed request—they were to bring news from beyond the shores, updates from distant lands. Lusweti wouldn’t trust them blindly, not yet, but information was a form of armor. Whatever they shared could buy Nuri time to prepare. Before they left, he asked one final thing.

"Tell the world," he said, "that Nuri is a haven. For the lost. For the broken. For those who seek redemption."

He never mentioned the vast resources buried in Nuri’s soil. Gold, iron, fertile lands—they were Nuri’s secret, and another war would break them if it came too soon. His people needed peace. They needed time to heal and grow strong.

Lusweti summoned General Malik to his office, a stone chamber lined with maps, weapons, and scrolls from across the region.

"We need to bolster our defenses by the water," he said. "The merchant vessels and warships we captured from Almeida—those are gifts we can’t ignore. We need trained sailors."

"No one knows these waters better than our fishermen."

Malik frowned. "Do we really have the time to train a navy? We’re stretched thin. Rebuilding efforts are still underway. People are exhausted."

"Complacency will be our downfall," Lusweti said sharply. "Let the people rebuild. What I need from you is a powerful naval force. We don’t need thousands—we need the best. Men who can map every reef, every current, every hiding spot. Those ships are worthless unless we can use them to their full potential."

Malik rubbed his temples. "I’ll double the training. Select only the most promising. Whatever happens—we’ll be ready."

He left for the newly built naval base, a cluster of docks and barracks now bustling with recruits learning the ropes—literally and figuratively.

Lusweti sat back and sighed, rubbing his eyes.

’I miss my wife and daughter. I need to finish quickly and go home.’

Moments later, Adan entered. He was the overseer of reconstruction and civil planning—sharp-eyed, lean, and always carrying parchments filled with diagrams and notes.

"My king," Adan said, bowing slightly. "I come with updates."

"Tell me there’s good news," Lusweti replied wearily.

Adan smiled faintly. "Some. Construction of houses is progressing steadily, especially with reinforcements from central Nuri. We’ve started using layered clay bricks mixed with ash—they’re stronger and retain heat better during cold nights. The road construction is advancing well. Both ends are meeting faster than expected. With a little luck, it’ll be complete within the year."

He unrolled a parchment showing detailed sketches.

"The artisans are helping too. Everything we sell bears the Nuri emblem—we’re building not just roads, but reputation."

Lusweti nodded, pleased. "I need a handful of blacksmiths—the best you have. Have them dismantle the weapons we took from Almeida. I want to know how they work and how we can improve them. We’ve enough metal to experiment."

Adan hesitated, then spoke. "My king, forgive me, but I worry we’re spreading too thin. We’re asking builders to be blacksmiths, teachers to be medics, traders to be diplomats..."

"We must build faster than our enemies can rebuild," Lusweti said. "Better armor, better weapons. Assume they’ve improved too. We also need more doctors, better shipwrights. Our carpenters are skilled, but a navy needs masters. Use the traders—ask them for knowledge, barter for blueprints if we must."

Adan sighed, but nodded. "As you command. I’ll begin assembling teams."

As Adan left, Lusweti whispered, almost with a smile, "If only you were here, Khisa... My burden would lessen. If you die out there, I swear I’ll kill you myself."

Far from the coast, Khisa sneezed violently atop his horse.

"Someone must be talking badly about me," he muttered, rubbing his nose with the back of his hand.

The Shadow Guard rode in tight formation, blades gleaming under the noon sun. Days had passed since their last skirmish, and their silence was one of purpose. They moved like shadows, swift and quiet, each heartbeat trained to anticipate the next threat.

Suddenly, a bloodcurdling scream pierced the silence—sharp, desperate, female.

"Go!" Khisa barked, and they sprang into action.

They galloped hard, dust clouds rising behind them. The scent of burning wood hit them first. Then came the smoke—thick, black, choking the sky.

As they neared, a scene of horror unfolded: a village aflame, men in headscarves dragging women into carriages. Swords flashed in the sunlight. Muskets were slung across their backs. Dead men littered the ground. Children wailed. Flames devoured a central hall, roaring like a beast unleashed.

Khisa didn’t hesitate.

He leapt from his horse and, in a blur of motion, swung his massive axe. The blade hummed through the air, slicing through the nearest rebel’s neck. Blood sprayed across the dirt, steam rising from the warm crimson in the midday heat.

"Formations!" he called.

The Shadow Guard responded instantly.

Archers pulled back their strings with calm fury, letting arrows fly like hawks. The air filled with the sharp twip of arrows and the thudding collapse of bodies.

Naliaka became a blur, her twin daggers flashing silver. She darted between rebels, her feet barely touching the ground. Her blades sliced through tendons, throats, soft bellies—her expression unreadable, focused.

One rebel turned to fire his musket, only to collapse with a dagger buried in his eye.

Ndengu roared like thunder, his massive club swinging in wide arcs. Skulls cracked like coconuts under his blows. He stood like a wall, bloodied and immovable, shielding the villagers behind him.

The scent of blood mixed with the acrid smoke. Screams echoed between buildings. Rebel muskets fired but missed—the Shadow Guard was too fast, too practiced. Steel clanged against steel. Horses neighed, panicked. Somewhere, a pot shattered.

Khisa fought like a demon unleashed. He cleaved through three men in a single spin, his cloak whirling like a storm behind him.

The rebels began to falter, shouting to one another in fear.

"Who are they?!"

"Monsters!"

The villagers watched in stunned silence. Were these strangers their saviors—or just new conquerors?

Once the last rebel fell, Khisa stepped forward. His armor gleamed dark with blood. His voice boomed with authority.

"I am the Prince of the Kingdom of Nuri. My name is Khisa Lusweti. These are my guards. We are not here to harm you."

His words cut through the smoke, steady and grounding.

"Help us put out the fire. Help us save what we can. After that, we will speak."

The villagers hesitated—but his voice held something unshakable. They moved.

The fires were doused. Buckets of water passed hand to hand. The Shadow Guard helped too. There was no rest, not yet.

And as the smoke thinned and silence settled, one thing was clear.

Nuri had arrived. And it did not fear war.