Rodrigo was one of the best trackers in Almeida's forces, but he was quickly realizing that experience in Europe or even the forests of Brazil meant nothing here. The land of Nuri was different—wilder, more ancient, more ruthless. It did not welcome outsiders; it swallowed them.
His eyes remained locked on the faint traces of the lone messenger's path—broken branches, hoof prints, disturbed soil. The trail was clear, yet something gnawed at him.
Why is he moving so fast but leaving so many signs?
Rodrigo frowned. It was almost too easy. And that was when he noticed it—the silence.
The jungle, once alive with the chirping of insects and distant cries of animals, was now eerily quiet. A deep primal instinct kicked in, warning him. His hand tightened around the hilt of his sword as his horse slowed to a cautious walk.
Then, a shadow shifted in the trees.
Before he could react, a snarling leopard launched itself from the foliage, claws extended, fangs bared. Rodrigo barely managed to jerk his body to the side, avoiding a killing blow, but the beast's claws ripped through his shoulder, sending him crashing to the ground. His horse reared up in panic before bolting into the darkness, leaving him alone.
Pain shot through his arm as he scrambled to his feet, drawing his sword. The leopard circled him, golden eyes flashing in the dim moonlight, its tail swishing in irritated hunger. It hadn't expected its prey to be armed.
Rodrigo swallowed, blood trickling down his arm. The messenger had done this on purpose.
Kibet had disturbed the natural balance of the jungle, driving its predators into Rodrigo's path. It was a brilliant, ruthless tactic—one that had worked perfectly.
Rodrigo would have admired it, if he wasn't about to be torn apart.
The leopard lunged again. This time, Rodrigo didn't try to dodge. He lunged forward, using its own momentum against it, driving his blade into its chest. The beast let out a furious snarl, twisting violently before collapsing in a heap.
Rodrigo gasped for air, his body shaking from the adrenaline. He had won. But as he looked around, the realization sank in.
His horse was gone. His supplies were scattered. He was bleeding.
And he was still miles away from his target.
Kibet had won this round.
Meanwhile, Duarte and his team were growing increasingly frustrated. The Nuri warriors were good—too good. They should have been easy to track, but every time the spies thought they were closing in, the trail twisted, doubled back, or simply disappeared.
"This is deliberate," one of Duarte's men muttered.
Duarte exhaled sharply. Of course it is.
The Nuri warriors never spoke of Nuri. Not once. Not even casually. It was as if their homeland did not exist. They spoke in vague terms, kept their conversations meaningless, and laughed often—as if they were nothing more than a band of aimless travelers.
But their movements spoke otherwise.
They wanted to be seen, but only when they chose to be seen.
Duarte clenched his fists. The Sultan might be foolish enough to underestimate these men, but Duarte was beginning to respect them. And that infuriated him.
"Keep moving," he ordered. "We will find their weakness."
But deep down, he wondered—was he hunting them? Or were they hunting him?
Jabari had seen suffering before. He had walked through villages burned to the ground. He had seen men and women bleed out in the mud, their last breaths stolen by the cruel hands of fate. He had seen his own parents slaughtered like animals in the wild.
This once great Kingdom was rotting from the inside.
The wealth was there—grand palaces, golden jewelry, fine silk garments—but it was a mask. The rich walked with their noses high while the poor lay in the gutters, forgotten, starving, and broken.
The worst was the children.
Jabari had seen them huddled in the shadows, thin, scared, watching the streets with hollow eyes. They didn't beg. They knew it was useless. Instead, they waited for scraps, for anything left behind by the nobles who walked past them without a second glance.
It was the silence that broke him.
They didn't cry. They didn't wail. They had already accepted their fate.
That night, as he told the others what he had seen, Jabari's voice cracked.
"They have tunnels, running beneath the city," he said. "Kilwa has a bloody history. Takeovers, coups, betrayals. Some Sultan long before this one must have built them as a way to escape."
Mshale's eyes darkened. "If there is a way out, there is a way in."
Jabari nodded. "And it's not just that. There are nobles who hate the Sultan. They see him for what he is. They despise the trade of human flesh. They don't want foreign rulers dictating their future."
Rehema's eyes gleamed. "Potential allies."
Jabari exhaled. "Maybe. But they're scared. No one moves against the Sultan unless they're certain of victory."
"Then we will make them certain," Mshale said firmly.
"Jabari, we need maps of those tunnels, leave no stone unturned. Every corner of it should be accounted for."
"What about the warships and merchant vessels?" Rehema asked.
"It is about time Nuri gains a naval fleet." Mshale smiled.
Outwardly, Mshale and his warriors seemed unbothered by the insults hurled their way.
They smiled. They laughed. They acted like they didn't care.
But inside?
Inside, they cursed every noble who sneered at them.
They were warriors, men and women who had fought for their people, who had bled for something greater than themselves. And yet, here, they were treated like dirt beneath the Sultan's feet.
If only they knew.
If only they knew what Nuri was.
If only they knew that Nuri was rising—that it would one day drown their arrogance in its strength.
But for now, they played the game.
For now, they endured.
Because soon, Kilwa would learn.
The Sultan of Kilwa was a fool—but a dangerous one.
He sneered at Mshale's people, but in the back of his mind, he was restless. He hated that the name 'Nuri' was being whispered in his streets. He could feel the air shifting.
But he was overconfident. He believed that Kilwa was untouchable, that his enemies were insignificant pests. He laughed at Mshale's people, dismissed them as insects buzzing in the wind.
And yet, Almeida did not laugh with him.
Almeida knew better.
He never told the Sultan his real plan.
While the Sultan prepared for war, Almeida sent his own men—disguised as refugees, merchants, wanderers—toward Nuri.
Not as spies. Not as invaders.
But as saviors.
They would whisper in the ears of the people. They would speak of the invaders headed their way. Strike doubt into their hearts.
They would say that only they can help fight off this new enemy.
Once the people of Nuri see him as a savior, they will just hand over their lands to him at the same time completely crushing the Sultan and taking Kilwa as well.
Why waste time waging a war when he can let both sides kill each other while he reaps the benefits.