CHAPTER 156: CHAPTER 156 - THE NET TIGHTENS

It had been weeks since the Shadow Guard had received their mission: root out spies attempting to infiltrate the growing Kingdom of Nuri.

From their hidden base nestled in a mist-veiled forest between mountains, Naliaka and Ndengu directed the effort like two hands of the same mind. Sixteen Shadows had been deployed across Nuri, each commanding fifteen of the Mkono wa Giza. Some went to the capital, others to the border towns swelling with new arrivals, and many were stationed at the ports—now crowded hubs where merchant ships and freed people alike arrived daily.

Only fifty agents remained at the base, guarding the brain of the operation.

Inside the command chamber, a broad room of timber and stone lit by oil lamps, the air was thick with unspoken tension.

Naliaka, seated at the map table, brows furrowed, scanned the most recent field updates. Across from her, Ndengu paced slowly, arms folded.

"Well... so far, we haven’t found anything truly noteworthy," he said, exhaling. "A few suspicious travelers, some inconsistencies in speech or tokens—but nothing solid. It’s harder than we thought. We’ve got too many people flowing in and out of Nuri each day."

"That was always going to be the challenge," Naliaka replied, not looking up.

Ndengu moved to the window slit, gazing out over the courtyard.

"Still... I’m not convinced we should’ve sent so many into the field. Two hundred and forty Mkono wa Giza. The base is almost empty. If something were to happen here—"

Naliaka finally looked at him. "You’re worried."

"Of course I am. We’re exposed. We spread our wings wide before knowing the winds."

She smiled faintly. "Spoken like a soldier."

She stood, joining him at the window, both their eyes resting on the forest beyond.

"But Khisa taught us something else," she continued. "The best time to sharpen your blade is during peace. This mission gives them experience—without stepping into enemy territory just yet. They’ll stumble. But better they stumble here than when the real storm comes."

"Some of them are just sixteen," Ndengu said quietly. "Barely more than children."

Naliaka turned to him.

"When we were sixteen, we were on our first journey outside Nuri. We endured sleepless nights training and learning from Khisa. That pain shaped us. If Khisa did not push us as he did back then, we wouldn’t have survived Abyssinia.

Remember how tough our mission was, we had to be undercover for months, watching, waiting. Seeing all those faces we couldn’t help, a lot of them died right in front of us. We almost died even more times at sea. Those situations were harder than anything we could experience in the forests.

If we coddle these recruits, we send them to their deaths unprepared."

He nodded, the tension leaving his shoulders. "You’re right. We’ll push them. Carefully. For Nuri."

"For Nuri," she echoed, placing a hand on his arm. "And for the ones who’ll come after."

A knock echoed at the chamber door.

"Enter," Naliaka called.

A runner stepped in, breathless, holding a scroll sealed in grey wax.

"Report from Watch Point Twelve," he said, handing it over.

Naliaka cracked the seal, reading quickly.

Her brow lifted. "Interesting."

Ndengu turned. "Suspicious activity?"

"Not exactly. A recruit under Shadow Wasike—name’s Sefu—started experimenting at the Northern Gate. Too many strangers coming in. They couldn’t keep up."

"Understandable," Ndengu muttered. "That’s the busiest corridor in Nuri right now."

"So Sefu came up with an idea—clay tokens, colored by district. Red for locals. Green for verified workers and traders. Black for unknowns. Quick visual system. He even rotated in control questions at checkpoints. Anyone who answered wrong was flagged."

"And?"

"They caught two. One had a token from the quarry district but didn’t know the animal sigil hanging at its gate. Said ’lion.’ It’s an owl."

Ndengu chuckled. "Clever. That’s... very clever."

Naliaka walked over to the map table.

"Imagine this system refined. Formalized. We rotate the questions weekly. Assign symbols per district. Traders get date-marked tokens. Locals get permanent ones. We add visual distinctions by region—different edges or holes drilled into the token itself. A visual language anyone can read, but hard to fake."

"We’ll need better material," Ndengu added. "Clay breaks. Wood can be carved. What about horn or branded wood for longer-term identification?"

"Ink-stamped cloth strips for government officials, maybe," Naliaka mused. "Shell discs for port traders. We can expand it as we grow."

Ndengu straightened. "But we can’t roll it out ourselves. This is too big. We need permission."

"I know." She crossed to the desk and began writing swiftly. "We’ll send scrolls—one to King Lusweti, one to Prince Khisa. The identification system has already proven effective. It’s time they decide how wide we cast the net."

"Khisa will love it," Ndengu said, grinning. "He’s always preaching about fairness and systems. And the King... he’ll agree if it strengthens the kingdom."

She handed the scroll to the runner. "Deliver these immediately. Duplicate the letters at the scribes’ tent before dispatch."

The runner bowed and left.

Silence returned.

"It’s working," Ndengu said softly.

"Yes," Naliaka agreed. "The net is tightening."

They turned back to the map, marked with towns, gates, rivers, and new roads being built day by day.

Below the surface, the city breathed—and the shadows watched.

***

He had expected a village.

Maybe a walled town, if the stories were true.

But this—this was a kingdom.

He stood at the edge of the construction zone, hiding in the shadows of a fig tree, and stared.

Buildings rose from the earth like stone trees—some two stories high, some with scaffoldings still hugging their sides. Roads of compacted brick stretched in every direction, flanked by wheelbarrows, carts, and workers from dozens of tribes. There were banners with the rising sun crest of Nuri. And behind it all, a thrum of movement, order, and strength that made his stomach tighten.

The spy from Kongo, known only as Mbuta to his handlers, had entered Nuri quietly. A week ago, he had posed as a runaway craftsman—slipping in with a group of refugees escaping inland raids. His Swahili was broken, but his Portuguese passable. He kept his head down. Learned what he could.

And he was terrified.

"This place is not what they said it would be," he whispered in his mother tongue.

A young porter passed by, balancing bricks on his back while humming a tune from the coast. Women wove fibers into rope near the road. Boys kicked a ball of leather near a drainage trench. Soldiers marched past on patrol. No chaos. No famine. No fear.

Just work. Just growth.

Just power.

He made for the side alleys, sticking to shadows, pretending to inspect a wall here, a sack there. But something about him drew attention—the way he didn’t meet anyone’s eyes, how he slowed at street signs, and how he never spoke unless spoken to.

That’s when a Watcher noticed him.

She had been stationed at the edge of the southern quarter. Young. Thin. Quiet-eyed. But sharp.

She watched the man double back past a checkpoint he’d already passed. Watched him pause to watch guards. Watched him freeze when asked his district token.

She stepped aside, quickly writing down the details to send to her superiors.

"Suspicious. Dark tunic. Green scarf. Moving east."

Then she moved to intercept him.

Mbuta felt it before he saw her. A shift in the air. Someone was onto him.

He bolted.

Shouts rang out behind him.

He dodged through market carts, over fish baskets and fruit crates, into narrow paths between unfinished houses.

Two more Watchers appeared, cutting him off on the left. Another from the right.

He ran downhill, past the brick-makers, past a half-built bathhouse, lungs burning. Then suddenly—

He stopped.

Before him, the land opened.

An immense training ground.

Rows upon rows of soldiers moved in precision drills—hundreds of them, sweating and grunting under the weight of iron and shield. Their weapons gleamed like polished fire. They moved in perfect rhythm, stomping dust into thunder.

At the far end, siege weapons were being tested, guns that sounded deadlier than those he was used to. Soldiers moving with unified precision, lound targeted bomb like sounds.

Closer still, recruits practiced formations against mock charges, using tactics Mbuta had only seen in old Portuguese manuals.

His blood turned cold.

"This... is not a village. I have to reach M’banza whatever it takes."

He turned to run—but the Watchers had formed a half-circle behind him. Among them, several Mkono wa Giza in grey cloaks were arriving, fast and silent.

He was trapped.

Then one of them stepped forward. A woman, her hair in tight coils, her eyes bright as cut obsidian.

A Shadow Guard. Zuberi.

She stepped through the silent half-circle of Watchers and Mkono wa Giza, her cloak catching the wind, her eyes locked on the man crouched in the dust before her.

"So... you are the suspicious individual our soldiers found," she said, her voice cool but composed. "How did you get here?"

The man—Mbuta—tensed, his eyes scanning the faces around him. Too many. No escape.

He was ready to fight. Ready to die. But desperation overruled pride.

He dropped to his knees, hands trembling, shoulders shaking.

"Home... burned by slavers," he stammered in broken Swahili. "Heard this place... safe."

Zuberi watched him closely.

"Then why did you run?"

"Scared," Mbuta choked out. "Thought... you kill me. Please... spare me."

In his heart, he begged—Please believe me. I don’t want to die. Not yet.

There was silence.

Then Zuberi nodded slightly, glancing at the Watchers and Mkono surrounding her.

"I apologize," she said, her tone shifting, almost warm. "Sometimes... my people act too quickly. We are cautious. Forgive them."

She stepped forward, offering him a hand.

"Please, enjoy Nuri. You are welcome here. I can help you find work, if you still need it."

Mbuta quickly bowed his head.

"Thank you. Already... working. Construction site. East sector."

Zuberi smiled faintly. "Good."

She turned to her soldiers.

"He’s no threat. Let’s move."

With a rustle of cloaks and sandals, the patrol melted away. Zuberi was the last to go. As she turned, Mbuta collapsed fully into the dirt behind her, shaking with relief.

He had survived.

But as the group descended the hill, one of the Mkono wa Giza turned to her.

"You just let him go? After he saw all this?"

Zuberi didn’t hesitate.

"Exactly," she said. "He’s seen the training grounds. Our soldiers. The discipline. The weapons. He’ll carry that home like fire in dry grass."

Another Mkono frowned. "That’s dangerous."

"It’s a gamble," Zuberi agreed. "But a strategic one. If Kongo sees what he saw, perhaps they’ll think twice. Perhaps we can avoid a war altogether."

She paused.

"And if not... we’re ready."

There was silence as her words settled.

Then she smiled again—this time, like a hunter.

"Send word to Naliaka and Prince Khisa. Tell them this: We’ve found our gateway into Kongo."

She laughed softly, her voice fading into the wind.

"And the lion has just taken the bait."