The two armies clashed like thunder splitting the sky. Spears glinted beneath the pale sun, and the roar of war drums filled the air. Khisa was at the front, leading the charge with a staff in hand — not to kill, but to disable. His movements were precise, fluid, almost dance-like; each strike swept through opponents without malice, breaking weapons instead of bones, knocking men aside instead of piercing their flesh.
Behind him, the Shadow Guard surged forward, their formation holding despite the chaos. Dust rose around them like a storm cloud, swallowing the horizon. The clang of metal, the screams of the fallen, and the pounding of feet merged into one terrible rhythm, the heartbeat of war.
At the same time, King Nzinga, General Kazadi, Baraka, and a small unit of elite Kongo scouts slipped through the dense brush flanking Lumingu's main camp.
"We must hurry," Nzinga said, his voice low but urgent. "The longer we take, the more my people die."
