I Was Sent To The Zulu War Era With A System That Makes Me Unstoppable!

The township was lively and filled with activity. The smell of diesel from cars passing by mixed with vetkoek was a residual smell for the people. The sun was hot but no one in the township seemed to mind since it was the norm, nothing new there. Amidst all of this, children's laughter could be heard from across the road where some of them where kicking up dust with wooden sticks. This, however brief, seemed to be the only joy children were allowed to experience in today's unforgiving world. Despite the sweat gleaming on his forehead, Lwazi had his hoodie up as he stood with his back against the crumbling wall of MaZulu's tuck shop. Now that he is twenty-two, he knows that surviving requires knowing how to trust and how to time things properly. As he sat and scanned the street, he looked more like a hawk on the prowl. Lwazi believed being a child of the township enabled him to one day dream of schoolbooks and soccer fields. As a man, those dreams have been replaced with knowing how to use a blade instead of a pen. The heat certainly didn't help, and coupled with the weight of a life that has become heavier with time, certainly limited him. As soft as her voice was, when Nomvula spoke about the ancestors, the warriors, she encased her words with honor and courage. Lwazi's father Siphiwe taught him to find strength in patience. Siphiwe, a mechanic with calloused hands and a soft laugh, certainly equipped him with great lessons but ultimately, they meant nothing in reality. Lwazi had to endure the grim reality of the streets and claim power, unimaginably slowly but incredibly bloodily. Three missed calls and a text message from Musa, his oldest friend, lit up his phone with its shattered screen. "Job's back on. Same time. Don't be late." He couldn't push his thumb to the text. Given the troubles of their friendship, the one-time brother he shared lunch with and skipped class with, it's not like it would hurt him to be. "Get in shape man," Musa would lovingly taunt while also dodging imaginary blows from Lwazi. It feels like an eternity ago now Lwazi only recalled the dark changes that descended upon him. The gang shift everything, the relationships Lwazi had twisted everything into something razor sharp, ultimately savage. Due to so many complications, Lwazi finally suffered far more injuries than they had to just turn down a regular job. But the gang? Their hold was, honestly, like cement. You walk away? It's not just losing your place or your pride. You're gambling with your whole f*****g life. That's the cost, and everyone knows it, even if we act otherwise. "Still hiding under that hoodie like a tortoise?" Thandi's voice cut in, snapping Lwazi out of his spiral. She walked up, moving with confidence, her braids swung from side to side, a cheeky grin on her face, half mischief and half true warmth. She leaned into the wall giving him that look, eyes sparkling with pure defiance, that look that got them both kicked out of MaZulu's shop when they were kids for trying to steal some sweets, and they ran until their sides hurt with MaZulu's curses and the broom waving in the air. Even then, the laughter followed them all the way home! "You're gonna melt in that thing," she teased, nudging his arm, her voice light, but those eyes? They don't miss a thing. She could always read him, like his face was a book and she'd already memorized all the chapters. For a moment, Lwazi almost forgot himself. He smiled, an actual smile; one that wasn't forced or tight-lipped. "Oh, better to melt than let the world see my ugly mug," he quipped, voice dry, but there was a hint of the old playfulness, the same easy back-and-forth that used to come so easily. "Ugh. Whatever. You just want to look mysterious. Ma says you're brooding again, Lwazi. She worried, you know." The latter stung a little more than expected - his mom, full of worry, cooking while this hummed to himself, folding him into her arms the times he was small... that stuff sticks to you, even if you try not to hold onto it. Nomvula's worry was always present, lurking somewhere in the background. Like a shadow you'd never quite shake off. "I'm okay," he mumbled, voice so quiet he wasn't sure he could be heard, eyes fell to the chipped pavement. "Tell Ma I'll come over for supper, maybe." Thandi's eyes softened but she didn't say anything else to Nomvula, just gave him a little nudge. "You better, or she'll send me to go drag you back home, you know I will." The small spark of a moment they were sharing fizzled away when Lwazi's phone chimed, another message from Musa, sharp and demanding. With each vibration, he felt his guts twist tighter, a reminder that he was caught up in something bigger, darker, something that squeezed all the air out of his lungs, something that had to be more than this, smoke, blood, hustle just to survive. He thought of the stories of warriors and spirits told to him by his grandfather, tales of worlds where bravery meant something other than just surviving. As a child, he used to lie in bed dreaming of being that kind of hero, without fear, proud, unstoppable. And now? His dreams felt like they were lost forever to the weighting township haze and choices made out of desperation. "What am I even doing anymore?" he muttered, barely audible, eyes lifting to that endless, merciless blue sky. Just like that, the wailing of tires, harsh and collecting, invaded the calm. A black car navigated the bend slow and methodical, windows dark enough to eclipse the afternoon sun. Lwazi's heart leapt into his throat. Instinct took over, as he felt hand moving toward blade tucked on his waist. Doors flew open, and bodies flooded from the car, faces he recognized and did not trust, Musa at the front. His eyes? Frosty cold. Not a hint of the friend who used to drink and make jokes. Lwazi's hands went up, body stiff, voice "Musa, hold on," he pleaded, desperation thick in his throat. But it was too late. No second chances. No warnings. Just the sound of gunfire, pain thundering through his chest, hot and blinding. His knees buckled. The pavement was coming fast. Everything sped up, tilting toward darkness, the color and sound fading away. His last thought was less than a whisper, as if regret washed over him, not for what a mess he made, but for what he would never get to live. Then nothing. No pain, no chill, only the weightless dark. The silence was so thick it felt like the universe was holding its breath. Lwazi floated there, his mind flickering through bits and pieces, his mother's song, his father's coarse laugh tinkering with a broken vehicle, Thandi's playful smirk, the sour bite of cheap liquor, Musa's laugh, fists flying in a back alley scrap. Off somewhere first a sound began, drums perhaps, only a heartbeat, deep and slow, resonating in the hallowed ground. A voice followed, calm but heavy, ancient almost. A voice that doesn't ask, only tells. System initializing... Without warning, jolted, like electricity running through his blood. His senses erupted, colors bent and twisted, body torn apart and then sewn back together, raw and wild. [Welcome, Host. You have been chosen by the Tribal Conquest System. Synchronization begins now. Adapting host soul to new host vessel.] He attempted to cry out, tried to fight, but again the sound did not exist. "No... what?" he thought but the System was not listening as it just kept on rolling, acting a little spiritual in someway. [Searching for compatible era. Alignment successful. Integrating into historical template: Southern Africa, early 19th century. Host memory and consciousness partially retained.] Heat was pressing in around him, thick and suffocating. Smoke, blood, sweat. He suddenly felt himself being pulled out of nothingness, senses screaming. [Synchronization: 92 percent. New body assigned. Identity: Ndabuko. Age: 19. Tribal Affiliation: Unknown. Status: Unarmed. Combat Instinct: Low. Leadership Potential: High.] There was a sharp *suck* of air. It was earthy and wild, not the oily smoke of the township. His back pressed against the dirt ground. The ground was rough. The wind moved and glossed over him, slowly rocking him, shining light in between his eyelids. The sun was hitting him in the chest. He felt hands address the soil, a soil that was different, a soil that was real. Soil is alive! Eyes blinked. Breath worked and heaving. This body felt its potential, and strikingly unique, with scars that were not his own. Smoke wafted into the sky. The air was thick with the smell of old burning huts and blood. Images on the horizon flickered and were cast. Is this the start of everything?