General Simiyu sat in the command tent, his fingers tapping an impatient rhythm against the wooden table. The coup in Kilwa had changed everything. The war, once fought for a city, now seemed pointless. But without undeniable proof, Malik would never lay down his arms. And until then, Nuri had no choice but to fight.
He exhaled sharply. "What to do?" he muttered, his eyes narrowing at the map before him. The pieces were all there; he just needed to make the right move.
Two nights passed, and the night of the ambush arrived. The air was thick with tension, the kind that made warriors grip their weapons tighter, whispering silent prayers to the spirits of their ancestors. Tonight, the mercenaries would learn what it meant to cross Nuri. The rightful source is N0veI.Fiɾe.net
Simiyu, sword at his waist, strode into the darkened forest, whistling a leisurely tune. The scent of damp earth and blooming flowers filled his senses, a deceptive contrast to the storm of violence brewing beneath the night sky. He bent slightly, brushing his fingers over a wild rose, inhaling its scent—one last moment of peace before blood was spilled.
A crack of thunder in the distance masked the sound of approaching footsteps. Then—
"Well, well, well. Look what we have here."
A deep, guttural voice cut through the night. Simiyu’s muscles tensed as he straightened, his gaze locking onto the figures emerging from the shadows. The moonlight glinted off metal—guns, dozens of them.
A smirking mercenary leveled his firearm at him. "I wouldn’t do that if I were you," he sneered, seeing Simiyu’s hand inch toward his sword. "I might accidentally pull the trigger."
Simiyu clenched his jaw. Twenty men, heavily armed. But he wasn’t alone. Not really.
"What are you doing in our camp?" he asked, voice cold as steel.
The mercenary chuckled. "A little birdie told us the great General likes to take night walks. We figured we’d do the world a favor and put you down like the dog you are. After all, without a leader, armies crumble."
Simiyu’s lips curled in disgust. "Nuri is protected. Even if I fall, another will take my place. We will never break."
Laughter erupted from the mercenaries. "You are naive, slave," the leader spat. "Your people are nothing but products. We will sell them to the highest bidder. And while we’re at it, we’ll have some fun with your women."
Simiyu’s blood turned to fire. These men deserved no redemption, no mercy. Only death. His hand tightened around his sword’s hilt. "Coming here was the biggest mistake of your lives. As long as we draw breath, Nuri will stand. And this... this is your last night."
A sharp whistle sliced through the air. Then chaos.
Arrows rained down from the trees, piercing flesh with sickening precision. The mercenaries barely had time to scream before warriors of Nuri descended upon them like spirits of vengeance.
Simiyu lunged forward, his blade a blur of silver under the moonlight. His first strike tore through a man’s throat, hot blood spraying across his face. He pivoted, parrying a wild swing from another mercenary before driving his sword deep into his gut. The man gasped, eyes wide with terror, before crumpling to the ground.
All around him, Nuri warriors clashed with the invaders. The mercenaries, caught off guard, scrambled for their weapons, firing blindly into the trees. Gunshots cracked through the night, but the warriors of Nuri moved like shadows, slipping between trees and striking with ruthless efficiency.
A warrior beside Simiyu let out a strangled cry as a bullet tore through his shoulder. Snarling, another Nuri soldier yanked the wounded man to safety before diving back into the fray, his twin daggers flashing like fangs.
Duarte was a storm of steel and fury. His daggers found flesh with each precise movement, his expression hardened with resolve. A mercenary recognized him and roared in rage.
"You disgusting traitor! I’ll kill you!"
Duarte’s gaze burned. "The Duarte you knew is dead. I am now a warrior of Nuri, and just like my people, I will not fall to the likes of you."
His dagger plunged into the mercenary’s chest. The man choked, eyes wide, before Duarte shoved him aside like filth. The battle raged on, steel clashing, men screaming, blood soaking the earth.
One by one, the mercenaries fell. When the last man gurgled his final breath, Simiyu wiped his blade on a fallen enemy’s cloak.
"Is that all of them?" he asked, his voice steady despite the fresh wounds littering his body.
Duarte, breathing heavily, shook his head. "Not yet. Around thirty remain, not far from here. They’re waiting for good news."
Simiyu’s eyes gleamed with cold calculation. "Then let’s give them exactly what they want."
Duarte nodded, sheathing his daggers. He trekked toward the remaining mercenaries, his steps slow, deliberate.
"General Simiyu is dead," he called out, his voice dripping with false triumph. "We can head to Nuri now."
The leader of the remaining group squinted at him. "Where are the others? I heard gunfire."
"They went ahead," Duarte said smoothly. "Got too excited about the women and gold. I came to get you."
The mercenaries exchanged greedy grins, their earlier wariness melting away. "Alright then," one chuckled. "Come on, men. Our prize awaits."
They followed Duarte blindly. Their greed, their arrogance—these would be their final sins.
When they reached the rendezvous point, the laughter died in their throats. The bodies of their comrades lay scattered like broken dolls, blood soaking the ground.
Arrows hissed through the air, finding their marks. The mercenaries howled in agony as steel bit into flesh. Warriors of Nuri emerged from the darkness, blades glinting under the moon.
Gunshots rang out. The mercenaries, desperate, fired wildly. But the warriors of Nuri knew the forests too well. They moved like ghosts, striking from the shadows, dodging bullets with practiced ease.
Simiyu was a force of nature. Blood dripped from his armor, but he never faltered. He cut down a mercenary with a brutal slash, then spun, driving his sword through another’s chest. His warriors saw him, their general, standing tall despite his wounds, and they fought harder.
The last mercenary dropped to his knees, shaking. "Please—" he whimpered.
Simiyu’s blade silenced him.
Breathing heavily, he turned to his warriors. "Gather our fallen. They will be buried with honor. This war is almost over. Hold fast, and we will emerge victorious."
The warriors roared in response.
Simiyu placed a firm hand on Duarte’s shoulder. "Thanks to you, we were able to take care of this threat. You have my trust. Earning your place among Nuri’s people will take time, but if even you can be redeemed... perhaps all is not lost."
Duarte bowed his head. "Tomorrow, we speak to Malik. He must surrender."
And if he refused? Simiyu’s grip on his sword tightened.
Then Malik would fall, just like the rest.