CHAPTER 197: CHAPTER 197 - THE CLASH OF KINGDOMS

The two armies clashed like thunder splitting the sky. Spears glinted beneath the pale sun, and the roar of war drums filled the air. Khisa was at the front, leading the charge with a staff in hand — not to kill, but to disable. His movements were precise, fluid, almost dance-like; each strike swept through opponents without malice, breaking weapons instead of bones, knocking men aside instead of piercing their flesh.

Behind him, the Shadow Guard surged forward, their formation holding despite the chaos. Dust rose around them like a storm cloud, swallowing the horizon. The clang of metal, the screams of the fallen, and the pounding of feet merged into one terrible rhythm, the heartbeat of war.

At the same time, King Nzinga, General Kazadi, Baraka, and a small unit of elite Kongo scouts slipped through the dense brush flanking Lumingu’s main camp.

"We must hurry," Nzinga said, his voice low but urgent. "The longer we take, the more my people die."

Baraka nodded sharply. "Leave that to us."

He signaled his scouts with a hand gesture. swift, silent. The men melted into the shadows, their faces painted with ash to break their outlines. They were ghosts of the jungle silent feet and sharp eyes. One scaled a tree to mark enemy movements, another slipped behind tents to disable alarm horns. They communicated with soft bird calls, moving like a living current.

Baraka himself led Nzinga and Kazadi through a narrow path between the sentry lines. "They’ve doubled the guards near Lumingu’s command tent," he whispered. "We’ll circle wide, take out the watchers first."

As they advanced, Khisa’s battle raged on and somewhere among the chaos, death was hunting him.

Hidden behind a veil of smoke and screams, the Restorer watched. His eyes glinted like those of a predator that had waited too long.

"Finally," he whispered, leveling his musket. "My prey is here."

He had joined every major battle, always one step too late, always finding the aftermath and no trace of Khisa. But today, fate had delivered him into the heart of the storm.

He aimed, but the battlefield betrayed him, soldiers collided, the ground shook, a warhorn blared. The shot went wide, striking a shield instead of Khisa’s chest. Cursing under his breath, the Restorer drew his strutted dagger, its curved edge catching a glimmer of light, and began cutting his way through the fray.

Khisa did not see him coming. His focus was on his men, his movement, his nation’s survival.

Then pain exploded in his side.

The dagger buried deep, twisting once before vanishing back into the smoke. Khisa staggered, blood seeping through his armor. The world around him slowed. For a heartbeat, the sounds of war faded, replaced by a deafening silence.

He fell to one knee, clutching his stomach, confusion clouding his mind.

"Ole..." he gasped, his voice faint.

Ole Samoei turned, horror striking his face when he saw Khisa’s blood spill into the dirt. "Khisa!" he shouted, cutting through enemies as he sprinted toward him.

Khisa collapsed fully, his body limp. Ole caught him just before he hit the ground. "No, no, no! Stay with me!" he begged, voice trembling. "We can’t lose you here. Not now."

He called out to nearby soldiers, his throat raw. "Get the medics! Now!"

They carried Khisa to the rear lines, Ole running beside them, heart pounding. Every step felt heavier. If Khisa dies here... Nuri dies with him, he thought. The weight of that truth crushed him. He had promised to protect him, to be his shield. And now?

In the medical tent, panic reigned. The head medic barked orders while fumbling for his tools. "Boil water! Bring the cleanest cloth we have! Quick, the wound is deep!"

Another medic tore open Khisa’s tunic. The wound was ragged, bleeding fast. They sprinkled crushed kamundele leaves, a rare coagulant herb, but the pouch was nearly empty.

"We’re running out!" one cried.

"Then use marula sap," the head medic snapped. "It’s not as strong, but it’ll have to do!"

Their hands trembled as they worked, sweat dripping down their brows. Every second felt stolen.

"Please," the head medic whispered, his voice breaking despite his efforts to stay composed. "Please don’t die on me, Prince Khisa."

Ole stood at the entrance, fists clenched so tightly his nails drew blood. He had seen many men die — but not him. Not the one who changed everything.

Outside, the war thundered on. Inside, the flickering lantern light trembled over Khisa’s pale face as his life hung in fragile balance.

***

As they crept closer to Lumingu’s command tent, King Nzinga’s thoughts grew heavier with every step. The jungle around him seemed to breathe — each rustle of leaves whispering doubts, every distant cry of war echoing his fears.

Khisa’s words replayed in his mind like a stubborn echo: "It’s not too late to change your policies and build your kingdom. Your people will follow if you show them your dedication."

He had dismissed it at first — the optimism of a younger man, one untouched by the cynicism of kingship. But now, as the flames of war lit the sky and the cries of dying men filled the air, he understood what Khisa meant. The rot wasn’t just in Lumingu’s betrayal — it was in the foundations of Kongo itself. Greed had festered in their courts, arrogance had blinded their vision, and dependence on foreign wealth had made them slaves in all but name.

He slowed for a moment, staring through the trees at the faint outline of Lumingu’s tent. "Perhaps this is what he meant," Nzinga murmured to himself. "That our true enemy is not the man we fight, but the chains we cannot see."

General Kazadi noticed his pause. "Your Majesty?"

Nzinga straightened, gripping his sword tighter. "Nothing," he said quietly. "Just thinking of what comes after this battle."

Kazadi frowned. "Victory, I hope."

"Victory is not enough," Nzinga replied. "If all we do is win, only to fall into the same traps again, then we’ve already lost."

As they resumed their advance, Nzinga’s resolve hardened. The path ahead would be brutal, the old guard in Kongo would resist change, the merchants would curse his reforms, and his nobles would whisper treachery. But he saw now what Khisa had been trying to teach him: survival was not strength, unity was.

He glanced toward Baraka and his scouts, fearless and disciplined. Nuri breeds men of purpose, Nzinga thought. If Kongo is to rise again, I must do the same for my people.

And so, beneath the canopy of war, King Nzinga made a silent vow.

He would rebuild Kongo from the ashes, not as a kingdom bound by greed and foreign hands, but as a nation of strength, honor, and freedom.

Whatever it took.