The Somali twilight cast its last glimmers over the sand dunes, enveloping the desert in an oppressive atmosphere. Farah, a man of average stature but with piercing eyes, silently observed his men preparing for the assault. His gaze swept over the scene with calculating intensity, noting every detail, analyzing every movement. Although the men under his command had blind faith in him, Farah carried the weight of past decisions and future betrayals, always ready to do whatever it took for the mission.

"Brothers," he began, his low, grave voice drawing everyone's attention. "Tonight, we strike a crucial blow against those who seek to destabilize our country. This convoy carries weapons destined for the hands of terrorists. We cannot let them pass."

Hassan, a robust giant with dark skin, approached Farah. His eyes reflected determination and loyalty. "Farah, I trust you. We will do what it takes to protect our land."

Farah placed a hand on Hassan's shoulder, a rare gesture of camaraderie coming from him. "It will be dangerous, Hassan. But we must succeed. For Somalia."

The other team members exchanged resolute looks, driven by the same patriotic spirit. They were ready to fight, to risk their lives for a cause greater than themselves. Farah took a deep breath, pushing back his doubts. He knew that every mission was a dance on a razor's edge, where a misstep could cost the lives of those who depended on him.

The convoy approached, its headlights piercing the growing darkness. Farah signaled his men to prepare. Each of them got into position, their weapons gleaming under the headlight beams. From automatic rifles to grenades, they were ready to fight to the last bullet.

"On my signal," Farah murmured. He glanced quickly at Yusuf, the informant who had led them here. Yusuf always had a hard-to-read expression, a mix of nervousness and confidence. Farah felt an instinctive mistrust toward him but couldn't afford to doubt now.

The fateful moment arrived. "Now!" Farah shouted.

The mercenaries sprang from their positions, unleashing a hail of bullets on the convoy. Flashes of light and the deafening noise of gunfire shattered the night. Farah moved with lethal precision, taking down the guards one by one. Hassan, at his side, swept through the enemy with brute force.

As they seemed to be gaining ground, Farah noticed a troubling detail: the number of guards. They were far more numerous and better organized than Yusuf had indicated. Fear began to creep into his mind, but he did not show it. He had to remain strong for his men.

"It's an ambush!" Hassan yelled as a bullet pierced his arm. He fell to his knees, clutching his weapon despite the pain.

Farah turned to see Yusuf, a triumphant smile on his lips, talking to the enemy guards. "Traitors!" he hissed, rage rising within him.

He ran toward Hassan to pull him to safety, but a burst of bullets cut him off. Other mercenaries fell around him, their cries of pain echoing in the night air. Farah fought with desperate determination, shooting at anything that moved, but he knew it was futile.

"Yusuf, you sold us out!" Farah shouted, his piercing gaze fixed on the informant.

Yusuf approached, still smiling, his eyes shining with contempt. "Did you really think you could defy those who hold the true power? Farah, you were just a pawn in a much larger game."

Farah felt a sharp pain in his side as a bullet struck him. He fell to the ground, the sand soaking up his blood. He struggled to stay conscious, his thoughts blurring.

"I swear to you, Yusuf," he murmured, his voice weak but full of hatred, "even in death, I will find you and make you pay."

Yusuf's face blurred as darkness overtook him. The cries of his dying companions faded, replaced by oppressive silence. Farah closed his eyes, his final moments marked by betrayal and pain.

When Farah regained consciousness, he was greeted by a confusing mix of sensations. The air was humid and laden with the scent of sea salt. The sound of waves crashing on a nearby beach and the song of tropical birds slowly reached his muddled mind. As he sat up, he realized something was wrong.

His body, once muscular and marked by years of warfare, had changed. He was younger, more agile. He examined his hands, small and unscarred, and panic began to rise within him.

Around him, the scenery had changed. He found himself in a room typical of 19th-century Somalia.

Farah rose slowly, his mind trying to grasp the inconceivable. Before he could think further, a gentle voice called out to him.

"Ahmed, my son, you're awake."

He turned to see a woman in her thirties, with a kind and smiling face, approaching him. She wore a colorful traditional dress and a light veil that danced around her face.

Farah looked at her in confusion. "Ahmed?"

"Yes, my child. Mother was very worried about you," she replied, stepping closer to kiss his forehead. "You had a terrible accident. We were so worried."

Memories of his past life swirled in his mind. Farah, the betrayed and killed warrior, was now Ahmed, the nephew of the Sultan of Zeila, one of the most prosperous cities in Somalia.

"We must inform your uncle of your recovery," said the woman, pulling him from his thoughts. "He awaits you eagerly."

She helped him to his feet, and Farah, or rather Ahmed, felt strength returning to his limbs. He was dressed in rich clothes, typical of Zeila's nobility. Looking at himself in a mirror, he saw the reflection of a young man with noble features and piercing eyes.

The woman guided him through the palace, a masterpiece of traditional architecture with elegant arches and open courtyards. The people they passed greeted him with respect, their eyes shining with recognition. Farah realized he was now someone very important in this world.

They finally arrived in a grand hall where a commanding man stood, surrounded by advisors and guards. Abdullah, the Sultan of Zeila, looked at Farah with eyes full of pride and affection.

"Ahmed, my dear nephew," he said, stepping forward to embrace him. "Your recovery is a blessing for our family and for all of Zeila."

Farah now Ahmed tried to recall the family dynamics he needed to adopt. He nodded, accepting the role that fate had imposed on him.

"I am happy to be back, uncle," he replied with a voice imbued with new determination. "I promise to serve Zeila to the best of my ability."

Abdullah smiled, unaware of the complexity of thoughts swirling in his nephew's mind. "You have many responsibilities ahead, Ahmed. Our city is at the heart of many intrigues and opportunities."

Farah knew that this second chance offered him a unique opportunity. He had a new life, a new position of power, and he was determined to use his past knowledge and experience to protect this prosperous city. But deep down, the flame of vengeance still burned. Those who had betrayed him in his previous life would not be spared.

Somalia of 1860, with its riches and conflicts, would become the stage for his quest for redemption and revenge.