Chapter 22 - The weight of a Kingdom

Khisa stood at the edge of Nuri, staring at the horizon. The journey ahead would be long, but the mission was clear—convince the neighboring villages that Nuri was not a threat, but a beacon of hope.

His flag fluttered proudly in the wind: a golden sun representing prosperity, a black shield for strength, and red fabric symbolizing the sacrifices made, all set against a deep blue sky, signifying the vast potential of their people. It was no longer just a symbol—it was a declaration.

He turned to his warriors, each one clad in newly forged bulletproof armor, swords and spears glinting at their sides. The painted flag on their armor gleamed in the sunlight, marking them as protectors of Nuri.

"Stay alert," Khisa reminded them as he stepped into the sturdy carriage. "We travel not as conquerors, but as messengers of peace."

The wheels creaked as they moved forward, dust rising beneath the hooves of the horses. For weeks, they traveled, stopping at villages, listening, speaking. The reception was mixed. Some saw them as allies, others as invaders. The stories of Nuri's advanced weapons and growing power had reached far and wide, and not everyone trusted them.

"We have no interest in war," Khisa told one skeptical elder. "We offer knowledge, trade, and protection. You do not have to submit to us—but we ask that you do not fear us."

It was slow progress, but he was determined. Nuri's name would be known not for bloodshed, but for its strength in unity.

While Khisa sought peace, shadows gathered in his absence. Matenje, a former Angwenyi elder, saw opportunity. He moved quietly, whispering to the older generation, fueling their resentment.

"This is not about unity," he told them in hushed tones. "Khisa and Lusweti seek land. Power. They dress it in noble words, but they are no different from the slavers they claim to fight."

The words took root. The elders, many of whom had lost status under Nuri's new ways, felt abandoned.

"We are the ones who built this land," one of them muttered. "Now, the young rule, and we are left with nothing."

"If you stand with me," Matenje promised, "you will have power once more. I will restore what has been taken."

But not all agreed.

Namwamba, an elder of the Abakhore, overheard the whispers. He had seen the change in Nuri, the growth, the hope. He would not let it be destroyed.

He confronted Matenje one evening as the elder gathered his supporters in secret.

"You speak of power, but what of the people?" Namwamba demanded. "You are willing to throw us into chaos just to satisfy your pride?"

Matenje sneered. "You are blind, Namwamba. This is not our way."

"The old way is gone!" Namwamba's voice echoed in the room. "And I will not allow you to poison the future!"

Another elder, an older man with a face carved by time, frowned. "And under you, Matenje? What do we gain? More blood? Another war?"

Matenje's expression darkened.

Before he could respond, Namwamba turned on his heel and marched to the palace. Lusweti had to know.

The moment Lusweti heard of the plot, his rage ignited like wildfire.

"They dare plot against my son in his absence?" he roared, his hand gripping the hilt of his sword. "They would betray all that we have built?"

He stormed through the palace, ready to strike down the traitors himself.

But then—

A voice stopped him.

"Lusweti."

It was Nanjala.

For years, she had stayed silent in matters of war and politics. But today, she stepped forward.

"We cannot let Nuri tear itself apart from the inside," she said. "Killing Matenje will not heal the wounds he has opened."

Lusweti turned, his breath heavy with fury. "What would you have me do, Nanjala? Let him live so he can betray us again?"

"We must show the people another way," she insisted. "Let me speak to the spiritual leaders. Let them guide us toward a path of unity."

The room fell silent.

This was the first time Nanjala had spoken so boldly in the affairs of the kingdom.

And not everyone welcomed it.

A murmur rippled through the crowd. Some of the newer members of Nuri—those from more patriarchal tribes—shifted uncomfortably.

"She speaks for her husband?" one muttered.

"This is not a woman's place," another scoffed.

A few even openly voiced their disdain.

Nanjala stood firm, her eyes unwavering. "I speak because I have seen what silence brings. Our people must not turn on each other. If we do, everything we have built will crumble."

The tension was thick. But before anyone could challenge her further—

Lusweti stepped forward.

"You will not disrespect her." His voice was like thunder.

He turned to face the people.

"You say she has no right to speak?" he challenged. "Then you are blind to the truth. This woman has suffered at the hands of slavers, yet she stands here, not for herself, but for you! She does not seek power—she seeks peace!"

His gaze swept over the warriors, the elders, the skeptics.

"The women of this kingdom are strong. When we were outnumbered, they took up arms to defend their homes. When we struggled, they carried our burdens. And now, some of you would tell them to remain silent?"

He drew his sword and drove it into the ground.

"As long as I rule, the women of Nuri will have the right to speak, to fight, and to lead. If any man here would challenge that—then come forward now."

Silence.

Slowly, the murmurs faded. Some still disagreed, but none dared voice it openly.

Nanjala exhaled softly. Lusweti had given her more than just protection—he had given her a voice that could not be taken away.

And with that, Nuri Kingdom took another step forward.

The sun was at its peak when Khisa's caravan rolled across the open plains. His warriors, clad in bulletproof armor and armed with swords and spears, rode alongside the carriage, their sharp eyes scanning the surroundings.

Then—

A blur of movement.

The whistling of spears cutting through the air.

"Ambush!"

Khisa barely had time to react before the first spear struck the carriage, its tip lodging deep into the wood. Warriors leapt from behind the tall grass, their bodies adorned in red shúkàs, their faces painted with ochre. They moved swiftly, their spears and shields raised as they let out piercing war cries.

The Maasai.

Khisa's warriors moved with deadly precision. They had been trained in formation-based combat, unlike the Maasai warriors, who relied on speed and individual skill.

A shield wall formed. Spears deflected. The fight was over in moments.

Khisa stepped out of the carriage. He had expected resistance from some villages, but not outright hostility.

"Hold your ground!" he ordered, raising a hand before his warriors could retaliate further. The Maasai warriors lay subdued, weapons knocked from their hands, their breath ragged.

Khisa stared at them, their defiance still burning

A voice echoed in his mind.

[New Language Detected: Maasai. Learning Process Initiated.]

Khisa's mind flooded with new words, their meanings stitching themselves together like a puzzle. Within moments, he understood.

He stepped forward, speaking in their tongue.

"Take me to your camp."

The warriors froze.

They had attacked a foreigner—yet now he spoke as if he was one of them.

After a long silence, one of them nodded.

The Maasai camp was alive with cattle, women in beaded jewelry, and warriors sharpening their weapons. The moment Khisa arrived, he was met with cold, unimpressed gazes.

The elders sat before him, their expressions unreadable.

"Speak, boy," one of them said, barely looking at him.

Khisa inhaled deeply. He was used to being underestimated. But now was not the time for pride—he needed their respect.

"I am Khisa Lusweti, ruler of Nuri Kingdom." He gestured to the warriors behind him. "We come in peace. We only fought because we were attacked."

One elder scoffed. "A child playing king."

Laughter rippled through the crowd.

Khisa's jaw clenched.

"Your people know only their own ways," he said. "You refuse to listen because I am young. So let us speak in a way you will understand."

He turned to the warriors.

"Send me your best. I will face him."

The laughter died.

A towering Maasai warrior stepped forward, his spear tapping against his shield. His name was Olomunyak, a seasoned warrior, his body marked with scars of past battles.

Khisa stepped forward, rolling his shoulders.

He was no longer just a strategist. He had been training.

Olomunyak lunged first, his spear thrusting toward Khisa's chest.

Khisa sidestepped, twisting his body to avoid the blow. Although he was not a master of the sword yet, his prowess was enough to deal with that warrior. He adjusted his grip and struck at Olomunyak's shield.

The clash of metal rang through the air.

For minutes, they fought—spear against sword, shield against raw agility. Olomunyak was strong, but Khisa had something more: the system's knowledge.

A calculated feint, a swift strike—

Olomunyak's spear flew from his hands, landing in the dirt. Khisa's sword hovered just inches from his throat.

Silence.

Then—Khisa pulled back. He would not kill him.

The elders stared in stunned silence. This young ruler, this foreigner, had defeated their best warrior.

Finally, one elder leaned forward. "You have our attention."

Khisa dusted off his hands and faced the elders.

"I came here to offer friendship," he began. "Nuri is growing, but we do not seek to conquer. We seek unity."

The elders exchanged glances. "You would have us leave our land?" one asked, insulted.

"No." Khisa shook his head. "I invite you to Nuri if you ever wish to join us. But I came here for another reason."

He leaned in, his expression serious.

"There are forces coming that you do not know of—slavers. They take men, women, children. They do not care for your traditions or your warriors."

The elders murmured.

"We have not seen these slavers," one said. "Why should we fear ghosts?"

Khisa sighed. They did not believe him.

"Then I will not force you," he said. "But if trouble ever finds you, remember my words. Nuri will stand for you if you call."

The elders did not speak, but their silence was no longer out of disrespect.

It was consideration.

Khisa nodded. "May the sun watch over your path."

And with that, he turned, his warriors following behind as they resumed their journey.

As they rode away, one of his men spoke.

"They didn't believe us."

Khisa glanced back at the distant Maasai village.

"They will."