CHAPTER 188: CHAPTER 188 - OPERATION ASHFALL

The night was alive.

The Shadows had waited, watched, and prepared — every step, every patrol, every weak wall mapped out in silence. Now, at last, the plan moved.

Kiprop crouched near the edge of the western ridge, the faint glow of the compound flickering below. Zara’s signal flashed once — a small, deliberate spark in the darkness.

It began.

A small explosion cracked through the still air, followed by another, and another — carefully placed charges meant to confuse, not destroy. Sparks danced across the northern courtyard, lighting up panicked faces as servants screamed and scattered.

"Fire! Fire in the stores!" someone shouted.

Within moments, alarm bells clanged through the compound. The Restorers, Soares’ foreign soldiers, rushed out from their barracks. Some tripped over each other in the confusion, their heavy boots pounding against the cobblestones.

"Form lines! Move, damn you!" a commander barked, his accent sharp and guttural.

Maids fled in every direction, clutching baskets, skirts flaring. Smoke rolled across the courtyard, turning torchlight into a blood-red haze.

In his office, Soares sat behind a polished wooden desk, unmoved. The windows rattled from the blasts. He calmly reached for his rifle — a sleek, foreign weapon unlike anything Kongo had ever seen.

"So," he murmured, his lips curling into a thin smile, "they’ve finally shown themselves. The pests that have been following me around."

He loaded a fresh cartridge with a click and stood, adjusting his coat. "Let’s see how long they last."

Outside, gunfire erupted. Shadows darted between buildings, their movements too swift and silent for the panicked guards to track. Every flash of light revealed a different fight — steel clashing against steel, smoke curling through the air like ghosts.

Zara moved like a ripple through smoke, silent, graceful. Her eyes caught movement ahead — a Restorer commander standing by the well, barking orders, his rifle gleaming under torchlight.

When she stepped into the light, his sneer was instant.

"Well, well. They send a woman to fight me? How quaint."

Zara said nothing. She twirled her daggers, the metal catching faint moonlight.

He raised his rifle — but she was already moving. A flash of her wrist sent a knife spinning through the air, knocking the rifle aside before it fired.

"You’ll regret that," he growled, tossing the gun away and drawing his blade. "I’ll make it quick. Wouldn’t want to bruise that pretty face."

Zara smirked. "You talk too much."

Their blades met in a shower of sparks. He swung brutally, wide arcs of strength and arrogance. She ducked low, her movements fluid, weaving between his strikes like water slipping through cracks.

He grew angrier. "Stand still!"

"Why?" she breathed, dodging another blow. "You’re missing beautifully as it is."

He lunged — she pivoted, her blade sliding along his and twisting it free. His sword clattered to the ground. In a heartbeat, she was behind him, pressing her dagger to his throat.

"You should have never pointed your blade toward Nuri" she whispered — and drove the blade across.

He crumpled, his lifeblood soaking the dirt. Zara exhaled slowly, eyes hard.

The taunts meant nothing now. The war of words was over; only ghosts remained.

Across the courtyard, Onyango’s fight had already begun. His opponent, another commander — pale-skinned, eyes sharp with contempt — leveled his rifle, smirking.

"You shouldn’t even be holding that blade," the man sneered. "Your kind were made to serve, not fight."

Onyango’s jaw tightened. "We belong to no one, Nuri will dismantle each and every slave hub in this world. You will never make us bow."

"Big words from soon to be dead slave." The commander sneered.

The rifle cracked — but Onyango was faster, rolling aside as the shot whistled past. He surged forward, closing the distance before the commander could reload. Their swords clashed, the impact ringing through the compound.

"You’ll die on your knees just how it was meant to be!" The commander spat, straining against Onyango’s strength.

Onyango’s blade trembled under the force, but his resolve didn’t. "No," he said through gritted teeth, "I am not dying here today. My blade is the last thing you will see."

He shoved forward, their swords locked. Sparks flew as the steel slid. The commander’s smirk faltered as Onyango’s raw power drove him back step by step.

Then Onyango feinted — a quick twist — and his blade sliced the man’s side open. The commander gasped, stumbled, and swung wildly. Onyango ducked and struck again — clean, precise — ending it with a thrust to the chest.

The man fell hard, his blood dark against the dust. Onyango stood over him, breathing heavy, eyes burning with quiet rage.

He spat beside the body. "That’s for every man who ever called you master."

Kiprop waited.

He was perched above the eastern courtyard, eyes fixed on the door to Soares’ office. The chaos below was the signal — Zara and Onyango’s fights were buying him time.

Every breath came slow, measured. His weapons — twin daggers coated with venom — rested light in his hands.

Then the door opened.

Soares stepped out calmly, rifle in hand. Smoke and screams filled the air around him, but he seemed almost entertained by it. He turned his head slightly, scanning the rooftops — and smiled.

"There you are."

He raised his rifle and fired.

The bullet tore past Kiprop’s arm, grazing him, hot pain flaring instantly. Kiprop dropped down from his perch, landing in a crouch. The commander’s smile widened.

"Fast," Soares said, stepping forward, rifle barrel glinting under the flames. "But not fast enough."

Kiprop didn’t answer. He straightened slowly, blood dripping from his sleeve, his breath steady despite the sting. The two men stood surrounded by chaos — the compound burning, gunfire echoing in the distance, the smell of ash and blood thick in the air.

For a heartbeat, everything else faded.

Just the two of them.

Soares tilted his head, studying him like a man appraising a weapon. "You’re not one of the locals," he said. "Too quiet. Too precise. Tell me does Nuri really train its soldiers so well?"

Kiprop’s expression didn’t waver. "You will have to wait to find out. But, you will not live past today."

Soares chuckled darkly, tightening his grip on the rifle. "You are way too cocky for a mere slave. I will kill you right now, and go right for your prince, Nuri, will not survive the wrath of Portugal."

He fired again — the muzzle flash a brief sunrise in the smoke — but Kiprop was already moving, darting into the darkness, disappearing behind a collapsed pillar. The shot shattered wood, splinters flying.

Silence followed.

Then, a whisper — a shift of air.

Soares turned, rifle sweeping the shadows. "You think you can hide from me, boy?"

A voice came from behind him, calm and low:

"I’m not hiding."

Soares spun, eyes narrowing.

Kiprop stood a few paces away, daggers drawn, the blades glistening faintly in the flickering light. His face was calm, his stance coiled.

One heartbeat. Two.

The next would decide everything.