Chapter 32 - The Price of Strength

The forest was their home. For three years, the Shadow Guard had lived, fought, and bled beneath its dense canopy, training in the harshest conditions Khisa could devise. He had abandoned them for weeks at a time, scattering them across the wilderness with no food, no shelter—only their instincts and will to survive. Some nearly perished. Others bore scars they would carry for the rest of their lives.

Yet none had broken.

Among them was Zuberi.

Flashback – Zuberi's Trial

The dense forest swallowed her in darkness. Moonlight barely filtered through the thick canopy above, and every sound sent her senses on high alert. She clutched her bow tightly, an arrow already nocked. The only other weapons she had were two small daggers strapped to her thighs.

Her stomach twisted in pain—three days without food. She had tried to hunt, but her arrows had missed their marks, and the few she did hit had gotten away. Hunger clawed at her mind, slowing her reactions. She had managed to find water, but it was not enough.

Then came the growl.

She spun, eyes darting to the source. A lean, scarred hyena stood a few meters away, yellow eyes glowing in the dark. It was thin, desperate. Just like her.

The hyena lunged. Zuberi dove to the side, rolling through the dirt, her bow slipping from her grasp. No time to retrieve it. The beast snarled and turned, its rotting breath filling her nostrils as it snapped at her. She drew one of her daggers and slashed wildly. The blade nicked its shoulder, but it wasn't enough.

The hyena pounced.

Instinct took over. Zuberi shoved the dagger upward with both hands, catching the beast in the throat just as it landed on top of her. Blood gushed onto her arms, warm and thick. The hyena twitched, then stilled.

Panting, Zuberi pushed the heavy corpse off her. She lay there for a long moment, staring at the sky. The stars above were beautiful, distant, untouched by the struggle below.

She had survived.

And now, she had food.

Khisa trained alongside them, but his own regimen was far more grueling. Each morning, before the sun had fully risen, he stood alone in a clearing, gripping the massive double-bladed axe that had become an extension of himself. A thousand swings a day—no exceptions. His muscles burned, his hands blistered and bled, but he never faltered. Pain was temporary. Weakness was unacceptable.

That night, as they sat around the roaring bonfire, Akumu finally voiced the question that had lingered unspoken for years.

"Khisa," she said, rubbing her sore wrists, "why do we have to train this hard? No army we've faced yet has been this strong."

Khisa stared into the flames, his expression unreadable. Then, he gestured for them all to sit closer. "Because the world is far more dangerous than you realize," he said. "And it's only going to get worse."

The Shadow Guard listened intently as he spoke.

"Soon, even the weapons we wield now will become obsolete, lost to history. But it is what we have, and we must be masters of it. Let me tell you a story—of a man called Genghis Khan."

He told them of the Mongol warlord who had led his army to the gates of China, how his warriors moved like storms and their sheer force shook the earth. How they cleaved through armies and shattered civilizations—not with elaborate weaponry, but with sheer skill, discipline, and brute strength.

The Shadow Guard sat in stunned silence.

Ndengu leaned forward, his brows furrowed. "Wait. He led an army so large that their march caused the ground to shake? That sounds impossible."

Akumu, who sat sharpening her spear, scoffed. "And yet it happened. Can you imagine? Warriors strong enough to cut down a horse in a single swing?"

Zuberi, still bandaging a cut on her arm from her time in the wilderness, shook her head. "No fancy weapons, no tricks. Just raw strength and discipline."

A young warrior named Bakari, a quiet but observant fighter, finally spoke. "And if such men still existed today? What would happen if they came for Nuri?"

The silence was heavy. The fire crackled, but no one spoke.

"Right now," Khisa continued, "if we faced an army like his, Nuri would fall." His voice was grim, unwavering. "But we still have time. That's why I push you so hard. Because the world does not care for the weak. It is up to us to be the best. Each of you will train your own warriors, your families, your children. The knowledge I give you must not be lost."

He looked each of them in the eye. "Write everything down. Keep journals of what you learn, what you see, what you feel. One day, someone will need that knowledge. We are laying the foundation for generations to come."

A heavy silence followed. Then, Zuberi spoke.

"I worry for Nuri," she admitted. "Without you guiding them, they might fall prey to dangers we haven't even foreseen."

Khisa shook his head. "If Nuri cannot survive without me, then we were never meant to thrive in the first place," he said simply. "I gave them the push they needed. Now, whatever challenges they face, they must overcome on their own."

The fire crackled, casting long shadows across their faces.

His words settled like a stone in their chests. They had trained harder than anyone in the kingdom, and yet their leader was telling them they were not enough.

The weight of responsibility sank in. They were not just fighting for today. They were laying the groundwork for a future where Nuri could survive without them.

Zuberi took a deep breath and nodded. "Then we keep training."

The others murmured in agreement.

They had come too far to stop now.

While Khisa was forging warriors, Lusweti sat in the council chamber, surrounded by elders and generals. The discussion was heated.

"We cannot simply march into the coastal regions with an army," General Simiyu said. "We need to understand what we are walking into. I suggest we send a delegation first. Diplomacy could open doors that war cannot."

Lusweti clenched his fists. "I will not negotiate with people who sell their own. That is weakness."

One of the older council members, Elder Wachira, leaned forward. "And yet, you would risk our soldiers' lives before knowing what we are up against? That is foolishness, not strength."

Another elder, Mzee Oduor, scoffed. "Diplomacy? With slavers? Do you think men who profit from suffering will listen to reason? They will lie, stall, and betray us the moment they see an opportunity."

A murmur of agreement spread through the room. Many of the elders had lived through betrayals before—alliances that crumbled the moment gold was involved.

Simiyu sighed. "Not all men are the same. We may find allies among them. We may even find a way to buy back our people without shedding unnecessary blood."

Lusweti exhaled sharply, his jaw tight. He knew Simiyu had a point, but it still did not sit right with him.

After a long silence, he spoke. "Fine. We will send a delegation. But if they betray us, there will be no mercy."

The decision was made. Now, they had to choose who would go.

The fate of Nuri's next battle rested on what this delegation would discover.