The Wrath of the Unchained
Chapter 51 - The Fall of Kilwa

Chapter 51: Chapter 51 - The Fall of Kilwa

Lusweti and his ten warriors were already on their way to Kilwa. Events were spiraling out of control. Almeida’s plans were nearing fruition.

The nobles and ministers of Kilwa had swallowed his lies whole, strutting through the kingdom as if they already owned it. Their arrogance blinded them to the knife at their throats.

Almeida sat in his fortified stronghold, watching the chaos unfold. He had orchestrated all of this without lifting a single finger.

"I really am meant to be a king," he mused, grinning. "Portugal will regret abandoning me. Once I take over this place and drain it of its riches, they’ll come crawling back, begging to make deals with me."

He laughed, the sound hollow and sharp.

Failure was a thought that never crossed his mind. Even so, he would not allow complacency to be his downfall. Overconfidence led to ruin, and he had come too far for that.

He sent his mercenaries to spread through every alley and every entrance of Kilwa, covering all paths of escape. No one would leave this city alive unless he willed it.

Turning to the leader of his mercenaries, he sneered, "Once those greedy fools kill the Sultan, kill them all. Anyone who resists will be enslaved. These people are products—try not to damage the civilians too much. The healthier ones fetch a higher price."

A dark smirk crossed his face, his eyes alight with cruel amusement.

Wazir led the nobles directly to the palace. Sultan Muhammad Ibn lounged in his chamber, a goblet of wine in hand. Drunken arrogance filled his veins. He had convinced himself of his future riches, refusing to consider any other outcome.

"Sultan," Wazir began, voice steady. "How fares the war?"

"Who cares?" The Sultan let out a hearty laugh, sloshing his wine onto the floor. "Malik will win. Those savages pose no threat to the great Kilwa."

The ministers clenched their fists, frustration simmering beneath their skins.

’This is the man we chose to follow? This spineless fool who will do nothing to stop the coming slaughter?’

Wazir exhaled through his nose, his patience gone.

"You really are a fool."

The Sultan’s laughter died in his throat. His eyes, glassy from wine, hardened. The veins in his forehead bulged with fury.

"What did you say, Wazir? How dare you speak against your master?"

Wazir’s lips curled into a smirk. "Your Majesty, your services are no longer needed."

He snapped his fingers. The doors burst open. Portuguese mercenaries stormed in, muskets raised, their cold, dead eyes fixed on the Sultan and his guards.

For the first time, true fear flickered in the Sultan’s gaze.

"Almeida, you bastard! Show yourself!" he roared, struggling to rise from his seat. "You dare betray me? I’ll—I’ll have your head!" His voice cracked, his bravado slipping.

He turned to his guards, eyes wild. "Kill them! Kill them all! Defend your Sultan!"

But the guards hesitated. They were outnumbered, outgunned. Fighting meant death.

"Wait! I won’t fight! Wazir, please, let me go! I have a family!" One of the guards dropped his weapon, his voice shaking.

The others followed, their swords clattering to the marble floor. They fell to their knees, their pride abandoned. Survival was all that mattered.

"Traitors!" The Sultan’s voice cracked with hysteria. "Without me, none of you would be rich! I gave you everything! Your homes, your power! I own your lives! You will regret this!"

The ministers exchanged amused glances. "What makes you think you have any leverage, Muhammad Ibn? Just die already."

The Sultan’s chest rose and fell rapidly. Sweat trickled down his temple. His hands, once used to holding the finest silks, now trembled like a beggar’s.

His gaze flickered to Wazir. "You think Almeida won’t betray you, too? I’ll see you in hell."

A gunshot shattered the air.

The bullet ripped through his forehead. Blood and brain matter splattered onto the velvet seat behind him.

His body twitched once. Then he slumped forward, his lifeless eyes still wide in disbelief.

The nobles and ministers roared in celebration, their voices thick with greed.

"Kilwa is ours!" They turned toward the mercenaries, grinning. "Inform Almeida! The Sultan is dead! We have upheld our end of the bargain!"

But Almeida’s mercenaries did not cheer. They did not lower their weapons. Instead, the barrels of their muskets remained trained on the very nobles who had served them Kilwa on a silver platter.

Wazir frowned. "What is the meaning of this? Lower your weapons. The Sultan is dead."

The leader of the mercenaries took a slow drag from his cigar, his expression unreadable.

"I do apologize," he said, exhaling smoke. "But my orders are to kill all of you."

Silence.

"What do you mean?" Wazir’s voice cracked. "We did what Almeida asked! Kilwa belongs to him now!"

"We had a deal!" another noble shrieked, voice shrill with panic. "The Sultan’s head for our ensured survival!"

The mercenary leader sighed, flicking ashes onto the marble floor. "Once again, I do apologize. But please—die quietly."

A volley of gunfire roared through the palace.

Bullets tore through silk and flesh alike. The nobles screamed, clawing at the air, their bodies jerking as the lead tore into them.

Blood sprayed across the walls. Wazir’s body twisted as a bullet ripped through his throat, his final words lost in a gurgling choke. The ministers collapsed, eyes wide in terror, their expensive robes now drenched in crimson.

Some tried to run. They were gunned down before they reached the door. The mercenaries reloaded with eerie precision, cutting them down like livestock in a slaughterhouse.

Even the former Sultan’s guards, who had surrendered moments ago, found no mercy. Their bodies piled up beside those they had once served.

And so it began.

Kilwa drowned in fire and blood.

Men, women, and children were dragged from their homes, their screams swallowed by the gunfire that painted the streets red.

A mother clutched her infant, sobbing, as a mercenary wrenched the child from her grasp. The baby’s cries turned into a wail before it was silenced by a single gunshot.

A man tried to shield his wife, only for his skull to be caved in by the butt of a rifle. His body slumped to the ground, his blood pooling beneath him. His wife’s shrieks followed—until they didn’t.

The disabled were cut down like animals, their ’defective’ bodies deemed unworthy of captivity.

The air reeked of burning flesh, iron, and fear.

For the first time in their lives, the nobles, merchants, and citizens of Kilwa knew true despair.

Some, in their final moments, whispered a single word.

"Nuri..."

The kingdom of dreamers. A beacon of hope in a night without end.

But there was no light in Kilwa tonight.

Only death.