CHAPTER 193: CHAPTER 193 - THE RED SMOKE

The dawn came heavy with mist and silence.

Boots pressed into wet earth, rifles glinted faintly in the dim light as the army of Nuri and Buganda moved in careful ranks across the valley floor.

Ahead of them, the scouts of Nuri, ghosts in tan cloaks, moved through the fog like whispers, rifles slung low, eyes sharp.

The only sound was the rhythmic crunch of their steps and the faint clatter of metal on leather.

Khisa rode near the rear command line, his gaze fixed on the distant ridge. Ole Samoei had already gone ahead with the vanguard, a hundred of Nuri and Buganda’s finest, his task clear: locate the enemy, engage, and hold the line until the main force arrived.

Hours passed beneath the gray sky before it came — a sudden burst of red smoke curling upward in the distance.

The signal.

Khisa’s hand clenched. "They’ve found them," he murmured. Then, louder: "Advance!"

The horns sounded — a deep, guttural bellow that rolled across the valley like thunder. The army surged forward, Bugandan war cries tearing through the mist as shields locked and spears leveled. The men of Nuri moved with practiced rhythm, a different kind of energy — quieter, controlled, deliberate.

Then the world broke open.

A roar split the air — a flash of orange and black as a Nuri charge detonated along the ridge. The ground shook violently, dirt and smoke erupting skyward. Screams followed — the enemy lines thrown into chaos, their formation shattered before they even saw who struck them.

From the haze, Ole Samoei led the charge.

He moved like a storm given flesh — sword flashing in arcs of steel, every strike clean and fatal. The Nuri soldiers followed, their rifles barking in disciplined volleys, smoke and fire rolling across the field. When their bullets ran low, they advanced with short spears and machetes, moving as one body, one pulse.

Buganda’s warriors joined moments later — fierce, loud, unstoppable. Their spears glinted like lightning under the sun, and the ground quaked with their charge. But beside the organized gunfire of Nuri, their approach looked almost ancient, raw and wild, a clash of old and new, muscle and metal.

Explosions punctuated the field, Nuri’s grenades and smoke bombs tearing gaps in the enemy ranks, filling the air with dust and confusion.

The enemy stumbled, choking on the smoke, blinded by the noise and fire.

"Hold the flank!" Ole Samoei bellowed over the din, cutting through two advancing soldiers with a single swing. Blood spattered his armor, his breath sharp and even. He caught a thrown spear midair and snapped it across his knee, driving forward without hesitation.

"Reload! Keep the line tight!" shouted one of his lieutenants. The Nuri riflemen moved with precision, two ranks firing, two ranks reloading — a seamless rhythm honed through endless drills.

Behind the line, chaos of another kind unfolded.

The medical corps, a mix of Nuri healers and Bugandan medics worked under tents hastily pitched behind the rise. The smell of iron and herbs filled the air.

Men screamed, some clutching limbs, others staring blankly at the sky.

Healers moved swiftly, bandaging wounds, stitching flesh, forcing bitter mixtures between trembling lips.

A young medic, barely older than sixteen, pressed his hands against a man’s chest to stop the bleeding. "Hold on!" he pleaded, his voice cracking. "You’ll see home again, brother."

Beside him, a Nuri woman cauterized a wound with heated iron, her jaw set, eyes glistening with determination.

The cries of pain, the clash of steel, the rhythmic thunder of guns, all blended into one terrible, living sound.

Khisa stood at the command post atop a small rise, his cloak snapping in the wind.

Through the spyglass, he could see the chaos unfold, the flashes of gunfire, the plumes of smoke, the organized movement of Nuri cutting through the wild melee below.

He could feel it in his chest, the pull to join them, to fight beside Ole Samoei.

But not yet. Not today.

"Hold your ground," he muttered. "Not yet."

Down below, Ole Samoei raised his sword once more, the sun flashing against its blade.

"Forward!" he roared, voice carrying across the battlefield like a call from the heavens.

And his men obeyed, surging through the smoke, unstoppable.

By the time the sun began to sink, the first day’s fighting had ended.

Bodies lay scattered across the plain, friend and foe alike, and the valley stank of blood and smoke.

But the line had held. The enemy had been pushed back, disoriented, scattered.

Khisa stood silently as the wounded were carried past him, his eyes heavy with exhaustion and resolve.

He looked toward the horizon where the red smoke had first risen that morning — now just a fading memory.

Tomorrow would bring more blood. But tonight, at least, they still stood.

***

Far across the battlefield, the enemy’s camp flickered with uneven torchlight and the low groans of the wounded.

Inside the main tent, Lumingu stood over a table covered in maps streaked with blood and dust. His once-perfect posture had crumbled; his hair clung to his forehead with sweat. His hands shook slightly as he leaned over the table, staring at the crude sketches of the battle lines.

"This isn’t possible," he hissed. "They were supposed to break within the hour!"

General Nsamba, his armor dented and one arm in a sling, scowled. "Their formation isn’t random, Lord Lumingu. Whoever commands them, has studied the art of war like scripture. Those rifles... their timing is exact. Our men can’t even advance without being cut down."

General Mbele slammed his fist on the table. "Then we counter with fire! Send riders to flank their left side — crush their gunmen before they reload!"

Nsamba snapped back, "You fool! They’ve positioned their rifles behind cover. I watched it myself they fire in rotating lines. We can’t counter when they already lie in wait."

The tent went quiet for a moment, save for the distant, hollow boom of explosions far off in the night.

Lumingu’s jaw tightened. He could still hear the echo of those detonations unnatural, thunderous. He had never seen such weapons, such precision. Even our weapons don’t have such reach.

Lumingu’s breathing came fast, shallow. "No," he said, shaking his head. "No, this isn’t over. Let them celebrate their little victories. Tomorrow we’ll burn that valley to ash."

He looked up at his generals — his eyes red, fevered. "Tell the soldiers to prepare for dawn. If these savages want a war, we’ll give them one."

The generals bowed stiffly, but as they left the tent, none met his gaze.

Outside, the fires burned low — not the proud flames of victory, but the weak, guttering light of an army that had seen the face of fear.

Inside, Lumingu stood alone, gripping the edge of the table until his knuckles went white.

He could still hear the echo of rifles in his head.

Each shot, a reminder that his enemies, the ones he called "savages", had just rewritten the art of war.