The Wrath of the Unchained
Chapter 169 - The Ones Who Carry The Sun

Chapter 169: Chapter 169 - The Ones Who Carry The Sun

The morning sun had just begun to crest over the stone terraces of Nuri’s rising capital, casting golden light through the mist-veiled streets. From the palace balcony, the world looked almost still. Below, preparations were in motion—teams assembling, carriages readied, weapons secured.

But in the private chamber above the great hall, two men stood alone.

King Lusweti poured the tea himself—an old habit from simpler times. He handed the cup to Khisa with steady hands, though his eyes betrayed the storm within.

"I have seen you grow from a boy who asked too many questions," Lusweti said softly, "into a man who gives the answers others need. I do not say this often—but I am proud of you, Khisa."

Khisa accepted the cup, silent for a moment.

"You raised me to believe in people," he replied. "Even when they disappoint us."

Lusweti gave a faint smile, but it quickly faded.

"I worry," he admitted, "that we are showing too much of our hand. These weapons, these ideas—too many eyes are watching. We are not the only ones building something. There are forces on this continent who would rather burn the future than be left behind."

Khisa set his tea down.

"I know. But that’s why I have to go."

Lusweti looked at him sharply.

"Our walls are not yet strong. Our enemies not yet known. And you—Khisa, you are not just my son. You are the flame that lights this kingdom’s path. If you fall..."

"I won’t let the fire reach Nuri," Khisa said firmly. "That is my oath."

He stepped closer.

"The people are our strength, Father. Not the weapons. Not the stone. Not even me. If protecting them means showing our hand, then so be it. I would rather lose a secret than lose a child to war."

Lusweti stared at him for a long moment, then placed both hands on his son’s shoulders.

"You were born in a tiny village and only knew peace, without you... I am afraid to think of what would have happened to us. But you have become Nuri’s heart."

"When your mother first placed you in my arms," Lusweti began quietly, "you wouldn’t stop crying. You hated loud sounds. You flinched at strangers. I worried... maybe you weren’t made for this world."

He chuckled softly, but his eyes stayed damp.

"And now," he added, "you ride into the jaws of war, dragging peace behind you like a torch."

Khisa smiled faintly. "I still flinch at strangers."

Lusweti laughed—but it broke halfway.

He stepped closer and grasped his son’s forearm.

"I am not afraid for Nuri. I am afraid for you," he said. "You carry burdens no man should. You make yourself the bridge between old hatred and new hope, but bridges crack, Khisa. They crack under weight, and wind, and fire."

Khisa swallowed, then placed his hand over his father’s.

"I know," he said. "But I’d rather crack trying to hold us all together than stand whole while everything falls apart."

Lusweti didn’t speak. He pulled Khisa into a tight embrace, arms strong despite the years. His breath was ragged near his son’s ear.

"You won’t lose me," Khisa said softly. "I’m not walking into this with only hope. I’m taking the best minds, the best blades, and every lesson you gave me. I carry your voice, your strength, your caution."

Lusweti held him at arm’s length, studying his face—searching for cracks, for wear, for signs of exhaustion beneath the calm.

He found them. And still, Khisa stood.

"You were never mine to keep, were you? As your father, I want to protect you from the world, but seeing you grown up into a leader, makes me so proud. May our ancestors guide you on your journey." Lusweti asked.

Khisa nodded. "It was your guidance that made me the man I am today, without your support and encouragement, we would never have build this kingdom . I came with a storm inside me. Now I have to use it to protect our people."

For a long moment, there were no words between them.

Then Lusweti said quietly, "You are the best of all our ancestors. Go remind the world what that means."

Then he turned, his royal cloak sweeping behind him, and left Khisa in the quiet chamber, alone.

Khisa stood by the window, staring at the morning beyond.

It had been so long since the transmigration—so long since the world he knew had ended.

He exhaled slowly. "Ayaan," he said aloud. "Have I done enough?"

The response was immediate, the familiar voice clear in his mind.

[Your interventions have altered the projected timeline significantly. Continental trade has shifted. The slave trade has weakened in multiple key regions. Public health, education, and infrastructure have all accelerated. In a previous timeline, five major kingdoms would have collapsed by now. Three remain stable because of your influence.]

Khisa’s throat tightened. "And the people?"

[The people have hope. They question more. They unite more often than they divide. Even if you stopped now, the change would echo for generations. You have not only saved lives, you have changed the way people live.]

He nodded slowly, blinking hard.

"I just wanted to do something. Something that mattered."

[You have.]

Silence followed.

He pressed a hand to the glass. From here, he could see the figures assembling in the plaza.

His team was waiting.

Outside the central hall, three elite units stood in perfect formation.

The Watchers, draped in deep navy uniforms with silver-lined collars and sharp gauntlets, carried compact rifles and carried themselves like ghosts among stone.

The Army detachment, clad in dark red and deep blue with polished brass and high collars, stood at attention with curved sabers and prototype carbines slung across their backs.

And then there was Mkono wa Giza, clad in midnight-black with hooded cloaks, their uniforms absorbed the morning light. Only the emblem of Nuri—a rising sun over rippling water—glinted from their breastplates.

Khisa descended the palace steps as Lusweti joined the courtyard once more.

As the final rays of sun dipped below the hills, a gentle hum began to rise in the courtyard below the capital’s palace.

It was not a military sendoff.

It was something deeper. Older.

A gathering of the heart.

Families of the Shadow Guard, the Watchers, and the army had assembled—mothers wrapped in bright shawls, fathers with calloused hands clasped tightly in prayer. Younger siblings clung to wooden carvings of suns and drums, crafted as charms to carry safety.

The city’s priests and spiritual leaders formed a semi-circle around the main gate. Smoke curled upward from incense bowls. Ancestral songs were sung—not loud, but full of warmth, the kind that seeped into bone and memory. It wasn’t a celebration of war.

It was a prayer for return.

An old woman approached the army’s line, hunched but steady. Her eyes were misty with age, but her hands held tightly to a satchel of folded letters.

"For the ones already in Kongo," she said softly. "From their mothers. From their fathers. Let them know they are not forgotten."

Khisa accepted the satchel with a deep bow, pressing it to his chest.

Another woman stepped forward—this one younger, her voice trembling. "My son is Sarai’s younger brother. I know she is brave... but if she sees this..." She pressed a woven bracelet into Naliaka’s hand, "Tell her we are waiting."

All around them, offerings continued. Simple ones—prayers, sun-carved stones, handwritten blessings tucked in cloth. Soldiers, even the toughest among them, bowed their heads as the priests lifted gourds of water and ash over each regiment.

The king stood before them all.

"You are the face of Nuri," he said, his voice calm but unshakable. "Not because of your weapons. Not because of your ranks. But because of what you carry in your hearts."

He looked each of them in the eye.

"Wherever you go, let them see what a united people can do. Let them hear our message before they ever fear our strength. You are not just soldiers. You are the answer to centuries of silence. Remember who you are. Remember why we rise."

The soldiers bowed in unison.

"Go with light," one priest whispered. "Go with the ancestors at your back."

The final prayer was sung as the moon rose:

"To the fire that shields,

To the shadow that guides,

To the hearts that carry Nuri’s name,

We send you not to conquer,

But to protect.

Khisa mounted his horse, turning back only once to see the crowd—his people—not cheering, but watching with eyes full of trust and sorrow. He could feel the weight of it settle on his shoulders. Not as a burden.

As a promise.

He raised his fist.

"For Nuri."

Then with a signal from Captain Shikuku, the column moved out—carriages in the middle, scouts on both sides, the soldiers flanking them like shadows wrapped in glory.

They rode through the gates of the capital, their banners hidden, their hearts heavy, their purpose clear.

To Buganda. Then to Kongo.

And whatever lay beyond, they would face it as Nuri always had—

Together.