Khisa's muscles burned as he pushed through his training drills. The morning air was crisp, the sound of wooden weapons clashing echoing across the field. He and his closest friends—Ndengu, Naliaka, and a few others—were now fourteen, their bodies lean and hardened from years of relentless practice.
"You're getting stronger," Ndengu remarked, wiping sweat from his brow.
"So are you," Khisa smirked, dodging Ndengu's strike and countering with a quick jab.
The sun was high as Khisa wiped the sweat from his brow, his muscles flexing with the effort of grinding limestone into a fine powder
Limestone had the potential to change everything. Bricks took months to set properly, slowing down construction, but if they could create cement, their buildings would be stronger and faster to build.
Ayaan proved herself to be invaluable as always, without her Khisa could never achieved so much in so lityle time.Lime mixed with clay and heated properly could form a binding agent that could hold structures together even in floods.
His first attempts had been failures, the mixture either too weak or too brittle. But today, as he poured water over his latest batch and watched it harden smoothly, he felt hope. "This might be it," he muttered.
Naliaka walked over, picking up a small hardened sample. She knocked on it. "Feels strong."
"We'll need to test it," Khisa said. "If it works, our buildings will last for generations."
Later that night, Khisa sat in his now reformed hut, it's was much better than before but the comfort of the 21st century is unmatched, discussing the future with Ayaan.
"We're growing fast," Khisa said. "Trade is increasing, but we still rely on bartering. If we introduce a currency, we can control the value of goods."
[Currency is powerful. But it's also dangerous. If we're not careful, it could create greed, corruption, and class divisions.]
"We'll need to make sure it doesn't," Khisa said. "It should be something backed by our resources—gold, salt, iron. Something real, not just promises."
[And we'll need a symbol. Something to represent our kingdom to the world.
Khisa had already been thinking about that. A flag. A coat of arms. A banner that would be recognized across lands. He pictured a bold insignia—something that spoke of strength, unity, and freedom.
"I'll design something," he said. "Our warriors will carry it into battle. Our traders will wear it. Nuri Kingdom will be known far and wide."
Beyond the training fields, Nuri Kingdom was thriving. Roads stretched between villages, sturdy homes replaced old mud huts, and their horses were no longer just for the elite warriors—they had become a cornerstone of daily life. Merchants now traveled in sturdy carriages, drawn by strong steeds, offering goods that no other village had.
But progress came with consequences.
The first body arrived at dawn.
A trader's son, no older than eighteen, tied to the back of a horse, his wounds deep, his belongings stolen. By midday, two more bodies followed, each carrying the same message—Nuri was not welcome.
The great hall was filled with cries of grief.
"My son!" A woman sobbed at Nanjala's feet. "He only wanted to see what was out there! He never hurt anyone!"
Another man, his eyes red with sorrow, grabbed Lusweti's arm. "You promised us safety! Where was the army? Where was the protection?"
Lusweti, jaw clenched, said nothing.
In the center of the hall, the spiritual leaders gathered, their faces grim.
"This new way," one of them said, voice deep with age, "is a path against the ancestors. Trade is a temptation. It brings greed, strangers, and now death."
Murmurs of agreement rippled through the crowd.
Lusweti stood, his presence commanding silence. "Are we to shrink from the world like cowards? Hide behind old ways while the slavers grow stronger?"
"Would you have us run headfirst into death instead?" an elder countered.
"Perhaps we should answer blood with blood," a warrior barked. "Burn their villages, take back what they stole!"
Shouts of agreement rose.
Khisa watched carefully. Fear and rage had turned the people against their own vision. If this moment spiraled, they would abandon diplomacy before it had a chance to work.
He stepped forward.
Nuri's expansion wasn't without bloodshed. The traders, using horses and carriages, had traveled far to spread the word of Nuri's prosperity, but their message was met with fear and hostility. Some villages saw them as slavers in disguise, believing that Nuri's advanced weapons and armor came from dealings with foreigners.
"If we kill them," Khisa's voice cut through the noise, "then we become exactly what they believe us to be—monsters no better than the slavers."
The warriors glared at him, some shaking their heads.
"You speak of unity," one of the elders scoffed. "But you are a child. You do not understand the cost of betrayal."
Khisa held their gaze. "I understand that they fear us because they do not know us. We are new, powerful, and growing fast. Fear makes people act recklessly. But if we retaliate, we confirm their worst fears. We drive them deeper into the arms of the slavers who already control them through terror."
Silence.
"Then what do you propose?" Lusweti finally asked.
Khisa took a breath. "We take an army—not to fight, but to protect the traders. I will go with them, speak to the people myself. Show them that we are not conquerors, that we have something to offer."
Murmurs of unease.
"You would put yourself in danger?" Nanjala's voice was tight with worry.
"Yes."
Lusweti exhaled sharply. "You are too important."
"If I do not go, this cycle of fear and violence will never end," Khisa countered. "Let me prove that we are different."
The tension hung heavy.
Then, Lusweti sighed. "You will have an escort. And if anything goes wrong, we pull you out."
Agreement, but begrudging.
The room slowly shifted. The anger cooled, the sorrow remained. But there was hope. A chance that this path might work.
Over the past four years, education had transformed the kingdom. The children, once unable to read or write, now spoke multiple languages. Dutch, Kiswahili, and the native tongues of various tribes had been incorporated into daily teachings. The former slave, who now went by the name Mshale, had become a respected teacher.
Young scribes documented trade agreements, while mathematicians calculated harvest yields. Boys and girls alike were learning ironwork, medicine, and architecture. Knowledge had become Nuri's greatest weapon.
Khisa watched a group of children reading aloud from clay tablets, their voices steady and confident. This was their future.
And he would do everything in his power to protect it.
Meanwhile, the army had reached a turning point. Through relentless experimentation, Khisa's blacksmiths had finally succeeded in creating bulletproof armor—a mix of layered leather, iron plates, and reinforced textiles that could absorb musket fire. It was costly to make, but once perfected, every soldier was equipped.
"They will expect us to fall before their bullets," Lusweti said, admiring the armor. "They will learn otherwise."
Beyond military advancements, Khisa turned his attention to a different resource—water.
"The land is fertile, but drought will come one day," he told the engineers. "We need wells."
Wells were dug across Nuri, ensuring clean water for every village. It was a simple act, but one that solidified the kingdom's stability.
As Khisa prepared to depart on his diplomatic journey, he knew one thing—Nuri Kingdom was no longer just surviving.
It was growing into something unstoppable.