The Wrath of the Unchained
Chapter 163 - The Blade in the Dark

Chapter 163: Chapter 163 - The Blade in the Dark

The city breathed as if nothing were wrong.

M’banza-Kongo’s temples stood serene in the rising sun, their stone facades kissed by early morning prayers and the slow clang of copper bells. Children still played in narrow alleys, merchants still opened their stalls, and incense curled lazily from the inner courtyards of shrines. But for Zara and the others, the illusion of peace was unbearable.

They moved with care.

The search for a trustworthy priest had begun two days ago. And already, it was clear—most had chosen their side.

Sarai kept a rotating watch near the central cathedral, where gold-trimmed robes passed too easily between Portuguese soldiers and senior clergy. Taban observed smaller parishes tucked between the merchant compounds, while Faizah and Kiprop spent hours posing as devout pilgrims, offering alms and watching reactions. Mwinyi worked the back streets, listening for names whispered with respect—or caution.

Zara met a dozen priests. She smiled, bowed, pretended to ask for prayers for sick parents and distant husbands. But beneath every word, she studied eyes. Looked for fear. Or worse—loyalty.

Corruption stank like old blood. And it clung to too many collars.

It was on the fifth day—beneath a hollow fig tree at a shrine just outside the city—that they found him.

Father Nzuzi.

He was old but not frail, tall but stooped. His robe was clean but patched with age, and he wore a wooden crucifix carved by his own hand. He did not flatter the nobles. He did not bow to the guards. And he had once been arrested for giving sanctuary to a runaway girl—sold into slavery by her own uncle.

They watched him for another day.

He did not disappoint.

The shrine sat beneath the wide canopy of a sacred fig, its roots curled like old fingers around cracked stone. Zara approached slowly, her hood drawn low, sandals wet from rain-slicked mud. The shrine was quiet—no bells, no choir, only the slow drip of rain through the leaves.

She didn’t enter at first.

Instead, she watched.

Father Nzuzi knelt alone at the altar, lighting a single taper. His face was half-lit, the flame painting gold across the dark hollows of his cheeks. He moved like a man with time—unhurried, focused, unaware he was being studied.

But he was.

Zara shifted her weight, about to step forward...

"You are not here to pray," he said calmly. "And you do not belong here."

"I came with a truth that may kill us both," she replied.

His gaze did not waver. "Then come inside. If death is coming, we may as well greet it sitting down."

Inside the shrine, they met with him in silence.

Bit by bit, she laid it out—carefully, not all at once. She told him of soldiers in shadows, of whispers traded for blood. Of a king too closely guarded to speak. Of scrolls soaked in corruption. Of a coup already coiled like a serpent.

He said nothing for a long while.

Then: "You realize what you ask of me?"

"Yes."

"It is worse than I feared," he said.

Zara leaned forward. "Will you help us?"

Father Nzuzi opened his eyes. "I have served three kings. Buried two. I have watched this city rise and fall through whispers and chains. I swore long ago: if Kongo was to fall, it would not be through my silence."

Taban exhaled slowly. For the first time in days, hope felt like more than smoke.

Meanwhile – At the Kongo-Buganda Border

Onyango crouched beside a cooking fire, reading the report by the flickering light of dawn. The scroll was heavy with ink—Faizah’s precise hand, Zara’s field notes, Mwinyi’s coastal intelligence, Sarai’s stolen names. Together, they painted a single conclusion:

The coup is imminent.

The royal family is in danger.

Kongo is days from collapse.

The Portuguese mean to use it as a spearhead to isolate Nuri.

His jaw tightened.

He had led his small squad on the spy missions in Nuri, his job was easier since they returned from Abyssinia, but this... this was different. This was a call from behind enemy lines. And it demanded more than caution.

He turned to the young courier beside him. "You’ll take this to the second outpost. Use the jungle path. No delays."

The courier—barely seventeen, but fast and sure-footed—nodded and tied the scroll beneath his tunic.

"Tell Shani to prepare a full report for Prince Khisa. He needs to know everything."

"And the other?" the boy asked.

Onyango held up the second scroll.

"This one is for the Kabaka."

It would take time—days, perhaps more.

The Kabaka was buried in his court’s chaos, balancing nobles, warlords, and whispers of rebellion. But he needed to see this—because if Kongo fell, the flames would reach Buganda next. And then Nuri.

Onyango mounted his horse, scroll tucked deep within his cloak. Behind him, four Shadow Guard agents readied their gear. His small team—skilled, silent, deadly—would flank him as he crossed into Buganda.

He could not afford to fail.

Back in M’banza-Kongo

Father Nzuzi stared at the shrine’s dusty altar.

"If we move too quickly, they’ll kill the king before we reach him," he said. "And his children are scattered across the compounds. Some are guarded. Some are not. The palace has eyes everywhere."

"Then we need somewhere to take them," Faizah said. "Somewhere no one would think to look."

"The catacombs," the priest murmured. "Under the southern chapel. They were sealed after a fire twenty years ago, but I kept the keys."

Zara looked up. "They’re safe?"

"They are forgotten. That is safer than guarded."

Plans took shape slowly. Each piece fragile, every choice a risk.

They would stage a quiet kidnapping. The king first—then the queen, then the children.

They would rely on the few loyal attendants left—those Father Nzuzi still trusted.

The family would be hidden in the sealed catacombs while Nzuzi leaked news of the king’s "illness" to the clergy, to stall movement in the palace.

Meanwhile, the rest of the team would intercept two key assassination targets from Sarai’s list—nobles whose death would clear Lumingu’s path.

It was madness.

Six people. A city on edge. And a plan stitched together with hope.

But it was all they had.

As night fell again, the city grew quiet—but for the Shadow Guard, the fire inside only burned hotter.

They had no army. No royal backing. No reinforcements yet.

Just a few allies. A priest. And a ticking clock.

But they were not broken.

They were Nuri’s blade in the dark.

And they would not let Kongo fall—not without a fight.