The advance across the river broke into slaughter.
What Askari remained fell back to their side of the river in ragged bursts, splashing through the shallows, dragging the wounded, shoving one another into position as officers shouted over the chaos. Men dropped behind roots and tree trunks, knees in the mud, rifles snapping up, bolts working, shots cracking across the water in fast, uneven rhythm.
"Hold the line! Fire! Fire!"
Smoke hung low over the river. Bodies drifted. Blood spread in slow red ribbons through the current.
Then something new came from the far bank.
Glass.
A flicker of flame.
Bottles arced through the air.
For a heartbeat, no one understood.
Then they hit.
They burst against wood and stone and earth, shattering in bright flashes as burning liquid splashed outward, fire spreading instantly, clinging to bark, to roots, to men. Flames crawled up uniforms, bit into skin, turned the humid air into choking heat as the line recoiled, men shouting, swatting at themselves, rolling in the mud as the fire refused to die.
From across the river—
A roar.
"For the charge!"
And they came.
Duala surged into the water, rifles held high, machetes and spears flashing, bodies moving fast and without hesitation, some cut down immediately as the Askari line recovered enough to fire, bullets punching into chests and limbs, men dropping into the current—but the rest did not stop.
They never stopped.
More bottles followed, arcing overhead, bursting among the trees and behind the line, fire spreading, smoke thickening, confusion rising.
And then—
From the jungle behind the Askari came a second roar.
"Duala! Charge!"
The ambush closed.
From both sides.
From the river.
From the trees.
From the very ground they had marched upon.
The line stretched, buckled, shattered as men turned in every direction at once, firing, shouting, trying to form something—anything—but there was no order left to form.
There was only survival.
They collided.
Steel met flesh.
Bayonets drove forward, punching into bodies, ripping free, thrust again as machetes answered, slicing open shoulders, arms, bellies, splitting men apart in wet, brutal strokes. Rifles fired once, twice—then were used as clubs, smashing into faces, breaking bone, sending men falling onto the jungle floor.
Men screamed.
Men were clubbed to death.
Men burned alive.
Mosquitoes swarmed thick over fresh blood, settling even as bodies still twitched on the ground.
Porters dropped their loads. Some ran—only to be cut down. Others, still bound by fear or instinct, turned and fought with whatever they had—stones, branches, bare hands—striking wildly at the figures rushing them, even as bayonets and bullets tore through them.
More fire fell.
More smoke rose.
The world narrowed into flashes—steel, flame, blood, breath.
And slowly, the Belgian line began to die.
Piece by piece.
In the middle of it, one young white man stood, having been tossed off his throne he now fought alone.
A rifle slammed into his head, knocking his cap free as he staggered—but he did not fall. He caught the weapon, twisted it, drove forward, slamming the man holding it into the ground. They hit hard, mud splashing, and he was on top in an instant, knife already in hand.
He drove it down into the Duala warriors back, again and again.
The blade punched into the man's lungs, his bones, his flesh, wet and deep, until the body beneath him stopped moving.
But there was no rest. From the right, a shadow lunged at him.
He moved.
The bayonet missed him by inches, sliding past his side as he turned, grabbing the attacker from behind by the throat, dragging him close against his chest, the knife snapping up and pressing hard against the man's neck.
Yet he didn't end it, he froze.
The Belgian breathing hard, chest heaving, blood and sweat mixing across his face.
The Duala warrior held in place, blade at his throat.
Around them from all sides, from bushes and smoke emerged Duala warriors.
Painted in white ash, bodies slick with sweat and blood, weapons raised—rifles, machetes, spears—closing in step by step until they stood only meters away, close enough to strike, close enough to end it.
Yet as they saw the knife they halted.
The Belgian tightened his grip, dragging the man closer, the knife pressing harder, drawing a thin line of blood along the throat.
Behind them, the fight still raged in scattered bursts—shots cracking in the distance, men shouting, dying—but here, in the center of it, everything slowed.
The circle held.
No one moved.
And the young man, now covered in the blood of the Duala, saw it.
The hesitation.
The fear.
And it made him grin.
"Yeah…" he rasped, breath shaking but voice rising anyway. "That's right. Be afraid."
His grip tightened. The blade pressed deeper.
"You fucking savages," he spat. "You see what I am now?"
He tightened his grip around the man, forcing the head back, exposing the throat.
"Watch and be afraid."
The knife moved.
Fast.
A brutal pull across the neck, deep and hard, cutting through skin and muscle in one savage motion, the blade biting down until it struck bone. Blood burst out in a thick spray, hot and immediate, pouring over his hand as the man choked and collapsed, body going slack even before it hit the ground.
He held him there for a moment longer.
Then let him drop.
The body hit the mud with a wet thud.
The Belgian stood over it, chest rising, knife dripping, red running down to his wrist, his face twisted into something almost ecstatic.
"Yeah," he muttered. "That's your fate."
He kicked the body aside, raised the knife, slashing it through the air.
"Come on!" he roared. "Come on then! I'll kill every last one of you! Come!"
The Duala did not rush him.
They stared.
Not backing away entirely—but shifting, tightening, the circle breathing around him.
And then, from the river he came, through the smoke and past fire.
"Remember whom you are, you are Duala! Do not falter, my warriors!"
Heads turned to look up at his tall form, even the jungle seemed to lean to look upon him.
And as they saw him, the chant rose like a roar.
"Njoh Bell… Njoh Bell… Njoh Bell…"
Fists rose.
Weapons lifted.
The name rolled through the smoke like thunder.
And from it—
He came.
Through the haze, through the firelight and drifting ash, a figure stepped forward, half-naked, body marked with white ash in clean, deliberate lines across chest and shoulders, muscles defined but not exaggerated, a man shaped by work, not display. In his hands he carried a rifle fitted with a bayonet, his eyes locked forward, calm and burning at once.
He saw the bodies, and the bloody figure standing above them.
His jaw tightened.
"I will avenge them," he said quietly.
He stepped forward, placing a fist against his chest.
"I am Njoh Bell," he said, voice rising now, clear and cutting through the noise. "Fifth Prince of the Duala. And I stand before you."
The Belgian laughed.
A harsh, broken sound.
"You?" he sneered. "You think you can face me?"
He wiped blood from his cheek with the back of his wrist, smearing it further.
"I am Leutnant Finn Martin," he said, voice sharpening with pride. "Trained in the Royal Military Academy in Brussels. Forged for war. And now, I'll see what the blood of an African prince looks like when it hits the ground."
Njoh Bell did not flinch.
"I warn you," he said, eyes narrowing. "I have been trained as well. By the German arts. Do not mistake me."
He reached down, removed the blade from the rifle, and handed the weapon off without looking. The knife in his hand gleamed—clean, precise, out of place in the mud and blood.
The Belgian noticed.
His eyes flicked to it.
"Oh?" he said, a thin grin forming. "That's a fine piece. Where'd you steal that?"
Njoh lifted it slightly.
"A gift," he said. "From Germany. From the Prince of Iron—Oskar."
The grin vanished for a moment.
Then returned, sharper.
"So you follow him," Weiss muttered. "Good. Then come on."
They moved.
Fast without warning.
Steel flashed.
Njoh stepped in first, a quick lateral movement, blade sweeping low then rising in a sharp arc toward the ribs—Weiss twisted, barely avoiding it, his own knife snapping forward in response, cutting across Njoh's shoulder, opening flesh in a clean, shallow line.
Njoh stepped back.
Adjusted.
Came again.
Stab—miss.
Cut—glance.
Weiss answered in kind, the two circling now, feet shifting in mud and blood, bodies low, eyes locked, each waiting for the other to overextend.
Blades flickered between them, in short precise movements, each one deadly.
Njoh's knife carved a shallow line across Weiss's cheek, splitting skin, blood running immediately.
Weiss hissed, stumbling half a step, then surged forward again.
"Damn it!"
They clashed again—closer now, faster—cuts landing, shallow but accumulating, chest, arms, sides, both men bleeding, both breathing harder, neither giving ground.
Around them, the world burned.
Shots cracked through the air, the wounded screamed in pain, while fire spread through wet jungle shrubbery.
And then a new sound joined the fighting, a loud, boom.
The sound cut through everything.
Ten seconds later, came another.
Both men froze, instinct overriding the duel as their heads snapped toward the jungle.
Through the smoke, something tore forward—an artillery round smashing through brush and small trees, splintering wood into shards before detonating against a trunk not far off.
The explosion hit like a wall.
Dirt, bark, and metal fragments blasted outward, slamming into bodies, throwing men to the ground.
Njoh and Weiss were both thrown back, hitting hard, air driven from their lungs as smoke and dust swallowed everything.
Another blast came in screaming.
It tore through the air and struck close—too close.
For a split second there was a flash—then the world ripped apart.
The shell punched through a Duala warrior mid-stride, his torso bursting open as if something inside him had detonated, and then the explosion followed, a violent bloom of fire and force that tore through everything around it. Bodies shattered. Limbs were ripped free and hurled through the jungle. A head spun end over end before vanishing into the smoke. Blood, flesh, and splintered wood filled the air in a red, choking storm.
Men vanished.
Men screamed.
The ground shook, dust and ash rising thick enough to blind, fire licking at leaves and roots as the jungle itself seemed to recoil.
Njoh hit the ground hard, ears ringing, vision swimming, the world reduced to flashes—heat, smoke, movement—nothing clear, nothing whole. He tried to push himself up, coughing, disoriented—
—and Finn crashed into him.
The impact drove the air from Njoh's lungs as his back slammed into a root, pain exploding through him as the Belgian landed on top, weight crushing, hands already moving.
Njoh's knife flew from his grip.
Gone.
Finn was grinning.
Blood covered his face, teeth red, eyes wild with something close to madness as he raised his knife high.
"Die, African prince!"
The blade came down.
Njoh caught it.
Barely.
His hands clamped around Finn's wrist, stopping it inches from his face, the steel trembling there, shaking with the force behind it. Finn leaned in, both hands now on the knife, driving it down, muscles straining.
"Die!" he roared again.
The blade crept closer.
Closer—
Njoh twisted.
The knife slid.
It tore across his face in a sharp, burning line, splitting skin from cheek toward the eye before plunging down into his shoulder, burying itself deep.
Njoh screamed.
Finn snarled.
"Dammit!"
Njoh didn't let go.
Instead he wrapped his legs around Finn, locking him in place, dragging him closer, arms pulling tight around him, refusing to give him space.
"What are you doing?!" Finn barked, struggling. "Let me go, you bastard!"
Njoh answered by biting.
He lunged forward and clamped his teeth down hard on Finn's ear.
Finn screamed.
A raw, shocked sound.
"What the—fuck—!"
Njoh bit deeper with all the force he could muster, and then tore.
Flesh ripped free in his mouth as Finn jerked back violently, blood spraying from the side of his head as he howled, clutching at it.
"You fucking savage!"
Njoh spat the piece away.
And in that instant—
Finn drove his head forward.
It slammed into Njoh's face with brutal force.
Something cracked.
Njoh's vision flashed white as his nose broke, his grip loosening just enough—
Finn wrenched free.
He stumbled back, clutching his ear, blood pouring down his neck, breathing ragged, eyes wide with fury and pain.
Another shell screamed in.
Impact.
The explosion threw dirt and splinters across them, forcing Finn to cover himself as debris tore past.
Njoh moved.
He ripped the knife from his own shoulder, blood spilling freely now, teeth clenched as he forced himself upright and lunged.
The blade came down toward Finn's head—
Finn twisted under it, stepping back, hands snapping out to grab Njoh's arm, shoving it aside as the strike missed.
"Shit—!" Finn snarled as he kicked Njoh, hard. Creating space between them.
Njoh staggered backward, losing balance, his feet hitting a tree root as he then fell down into a roll, and as he stopped, his hand struck something.
His knife.
His original knife.
His fingers closed around it.
He surged up again, now holding one blade in each hand, blood running down his body, eyes burning through the haze.
A grin split his face.
"Come then!" he roared. "White warrior of the Belgians—meet your doom!"
Finn looked at him holding the two knives, with blood everywhere.
Fire behind him.
Screams all around.
And something in him snapped the other way.
"Forget this!"
He turned and ran, straight down the jungle path towards Belgian lines.
Toward the direction the artillery fire had come from.
"Don't run white man!" Njoh roared after him, taking a step forward—but stopping.
"My prince!" someone shouted. "Your Highness—orders!"
Njoh froze for a moment, just a moment.
He looked around.
Really looked, and then he saw them, bodies everywhere.
Not just bodies—pieces. Torn flesh, shattered limbs, blood soaking into the ground. Duala. Askari. All mixed together in the mud and fire and smoke.
The jungle was screaming and another shell came, exploding off to the right of him in the jungle.
His grip tightened on the knives.
Then he exhaled.
"Damn it…" he muttered, and turned.
"Pull back!" he shouted. "Back across the river! Retreat!"
The words carried.
"Retreat!" others echoed.
"We hold the crossing!" Njoh roared. "Do not let them pass! Fall back and prepare!"
Men began to move, dragging wounded, leaving dead.
Fading back through the smoke and trees toward the river, toward the line they could still hold.
Njoh lingered for a heartbeat longer, knives still in hand, chest rising and falling as he stared into the jungle where Finn had vanished.
Then he turned.
And followed his warriors back.