In the northern part of Zarakhanda, the landscape was far from the barren wasteland found in the southeast, where Commander Sefu's main militia compound sat. Clusters of acacia trees dotted the dry terrain, their leaves feeding small groups of camels. From satellite view, the acacia groves broke up the desert floor, but what really stood out were the dozens of camouflage tents and rows of parked technical trucks.
On the ground, the camp buzzed with activity. Militia fighters worked under the scorching sun, patching up bullet-riddled trucks. Shouts and curses were constant inside the barracks. At one point, a fighter accidentally yanked the trigger of a newly mounted .50 caliber machine gun on the back of a Toyota Land Cruiser.
"Get the fuck down from there, you son of a bitch!" roared a sweaty, grease-covered fighter. "Back to your position!"
The man quickly climbed down and headed straight for one of the larger tents. Inside, radio equipment hummed, connected to a portable satellite internet terminal. In the middle of the desert, they stayed online through a Starlink-like system—compact satellite dishes that gave them decent bandwidth even in remote areas. One operator sat focused on incoming data transmissions, while another scrolled through social media and news, keeping tabs on any reports coming out of Zarakhanda.
In another tent, a wounded fighter sat on a cot, his chest and arm wrapped in bandages. Braided hair framed his hollow cheeks, while his piercing stare made him look more like a war machine than a man.
An AK-47 and several magazines rested on the table beside him. He slowly stood up, grabbed a bottle of painkillers from the next table, shook a few into his palm, and swallowed them with water. Limping toward the entrance, he watched three Toyota Hilux trucks full of his men roll out of camp—rifles and RPGs ready. At the same time, two filthy, battle-damaged Toyota trucks came limping back in, carrying the wounded. The fighters inside were covered in dust, sweat, and blood, some with bandages wrapped around their heads, one with his right eye covered. They looked completely drained.
He stared at them for a long moment, then turned back and sat down heavily on his cot. He couldn't stop thinking that he should have been out there with them instead of wasting time inside the tent.
Amid the chaotic noise of the camp, a clean SUV pulled in. A man in a well-fitted suit stepped out. Heads turned. Several fighters muttered.
"Envoy Mutali," one whispered, gripping his AK-47 tighter.
Mutali walked through the camp, glancing to his right where fighters were unloading crates from a truck. One crate slipped and crashed open, revealing brand-new M4A1 carbines. He continued toward the main command tent. From a distance, he spotted a desert-camouflaged military vehicle equipped with four Stinger missile launcher pods—an air defense system. His eyes then settled on the tent ahead.
Inside, Malik had already noticed the suited man approaching. He studied him for a second, then stood up and walked to the entrance.
"Salam alaikum, Malik," Mutali greeted.
"What the hell happened to you?" he added, eyeing the bandages.
"How did you even get into Zarakhanda?" Malik replied.
Mutali let out a short, dry laugh.
"You and Idris's men both know me as the Envoy of Sultan Nazir. Remember, I'm one of the reasons you two even united under Sefu in the first place."
Mutali walked over to a small refrigerator in the corner, opened it, and took out a bottle of mineral water.
"Hey Malik," he said, twisting the cap, "I noticed the camp's grown. Looks like you've made some improvements… at least a little."
"What does the Dawahir Sultanate want?" Malik asked directly. "Why did they send you all the way out here?"
"They want both of you to agree to a ceasefire," Mutali said, then took a long drink.
Malik limped back to his cot and sat down.
"Idris started this shit. I'm only responding."
Mutali dragged a chair closer and sat across from him, still holding the water bottle.
"Yes, he started it," Mutali admitted. "But the way we see it, Idris is losing a lot more men than you are." He paused. "The Middle East is watching this conflict closely."
Malik stayed silent, his face cold as he stared out of the tent.
"Malik, the Sultan's worried that if this drags on, both of you will bleed yourselves dry," Mutali continued. "And that's exactly what Moscow wants to happen."
"Idris wants Sefu's position. He's acting on bad intelligence about me."
Mutali looked at him for a few seconds.
"Do you really think he hasn't heard about your anti-aircraft missiles?"
Malik turned to face him.
"My men tell me Idris has stopped accepting Western supplies. He's getting ammunition and RPGs straight from Moscow now."
Mutali leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs.
"Well, we can't entirely blame him. He joined Sefu's banner to avenge his family — they were killed during Emmanuel's anti-religious campaign."
"Emmanuel called it an anti-extremist operation. Now there's another one rising in the South eastern region, obsessed with some mythical kingdom and a meteorite sword," Malik said.
Mutali let out a quiet laugh.
Malik glanced at him.
"we may never know if the story is true. But one thing I can assure you… this land is the next promised land." Mutali said.
"That young man is crazy, he even killed his uncle for not believing in a meteorite sword"
Says Malik.
-Kuruva City
After hours of shouting and relentless gunfire, silence briefly settled over the battlefield. Inside a building riddled with bullet holes, a man knelt before a shattered window. His beard nearly brushed the dusty floor as he prayed. Around him, his men lay face-down beside their weapons in quiet submission.
It was Idris, pouring out a fervent prayer — begging god to grant him victory against the Western-backed forces tearing Zarakhanda apart.
When he finally rose to his feet, a militia fighter hurried into the room carrying a radio handset.
"Commander Idris, someone's requesting to speak with you," the fighter said.
Idris glanced over his shoulder, irritated.
"In the middle of a battle? Who is it?"
"They claim to be an envoy sent by Sultan Nazir."
Idris stepped forward, took the radio, and pressed it against his ear.
"This is Idris."
"I came here to arrange a ceasefire," a calm voice replied. "Not to drag you or Malik out of this war."
Idris lowered the radio and carefully approached the shattered window, mindful of enemy snipers. Peeking outside, he saw Malik's fighters emerging from abandoned buildings and defensive positions. One by one, they climbed into pickup trucks and sped away from the battlefield.
He slowly raised the radio again.
"Where are you?"
-Financial Center of Zarakhanda
Mutali stood outside an abandoned financial complex. The streets were nearly lifeless — only stray dogs and cats wandered across the empty highway.
Far in the distance, a convoy appeared. Five pickup trucks raced toward him in formation. Mounted on one of them was the bright red flag of Moto wa Mapinduzi, whipping violently in the wind.
The convoy came to a halt in front of Mutali. The fighters inside looked exhausted and drenched in sweat, their eyes fixed on him with distrust.
The door of the lead truck swung open. Idris stepped out, an AK-47 hanging from his right shoulder.
"Salam Alaikum, brother," Mutali greeted as he walked forward.
"Wa Alaikum Salam," Idris replied.
The two men clasped each other's forearms before exchanging traditional cheek kisses.
"Sultan Nazir and the people of Dawahir deeply admire your courage," Mutali said.
Idris's expression subtly changed. The pride in his eyes hardened into caution. He gave a slow nod, jaw tightening slightly, as though weighing whether the praise was genuine — or simply another political game meant to win his loyalty.
They moved up to the rooftop of the building, where the ruined skyline of Kuruva City stretched before them.
The capital looked dead. Burned-out vehicles littered the streets, and the only sound was the faint echo of distant gunfire.
"Sefu's men are still fighting Emmanuel's loyalists," Idris muttered while staring across the city.
"That's exactly what concerns the Sultan," Mutali replied. "Russia keeps funneling money into Emmanuel's faction while you and Malik tear each other apart."
"Russia and the West are both enemies to me," Idris said coldly. "But from what I've seen… the West poses the greater threat to Zarakhanda's future."
"Yet it was the West that helped us overthrow the socialist government," Mutali reminded him.
Idris let out a bitter smile. He slowly stroked his beard before turning toward Mutali.
"We both know that kind of help always comes with a price."
Silence settled between them.
Mutali reached into his pocket and pulled out a metal cigar case. He placed one cigar between his lips, lit it, then extended the case toward Idris. Two cigars remained inside.
"Commander Sefu used to call smoking haram," Mutali said with a quiet chuckle, smoke escaping from the corner of his mouth.
Idris laughed softly and took one for himself.
Mutali walked toward the rooftop's edge and casually sat down, unconcerned by the deadly drop below. One leg rested against the concrete while smoke drifted into the air above the silent streets. Fighters below occasionally glanced upward at him.
"Idris," Mutali said, turning his head slightly. "Have you ever imagined a new Moto wa Mapinduzi? A force powerful enough to invade neighboring nations?"
Idris exhaled a cloud of smoke.
"Sometimes."
"That," Mutali said, "is exactly why the Sultan sent me here."
His tone grew more serious.
"The Sultan wants you and Malik to rebuild Moto wa Mapinduzi into something modern — united under one leader to continue Commander Sefu's legacy."
"What exactly do you mean by 'modern'?" Idris asked.
"A fully funded organization. Better weapons. Better training. International connections. A force capable of shaping the future of this continent."
"And who's going to fund all of that?" Idris asked suspiciously. "I doubt Dawahir is offering charity."
Mutali smirked faintly.
"Idris… the Middle East is approaching an oil supply collapse. Africa will become the world's next economic lifeline."
He turned toward the burning skyline of Kuruva.
"And Zarakhanda will become the Israel of Africa."
For the first time, Idris seemed intrigued.
"Israel survives because the West stands behind it," Mutali continued. "And that will become Zarakhanda's future as well."
He looked directly at Idris.
"And once we become the lion of this continent… we will invade the Republic of Nabuto and take what should have belonged to us long ago."
"It's an ambitious vision," Idris admitted. "But the next leader of Moto wa Mapinduzi should come directly from Sefu's bloodline."
He took another drag from his cigar.
"Sefu and I descend from the same bloodline of the Dambur Dynasty."
Mutali stood and stepped closer.
"That's an excellent suggestion, Idris," he said quietly. "Because that is exactly what Sultan Nazir already intends."
Mutali turned back toward the ruined skyline. Smoke drifted across the wind between them.
"The Sultan wants the movement to be led by Sefu's blood."
Idris narrowed his eyes.
"Me… or someone else?" he asked