The scent of molten metal still clung to Taimur's robes as he stood on the docks of Damietta, watching the first cannon being unloaded from the barge. The iron beast—nicknamed Nile's Wrath by its crew—gleamed dully under the midday sun, its barrel thicker than a man's torso. Around him, the city's merchants and fishermen gaped, their whispers rising like the tide.
"What devilry is this?"
"They say it spits fire louder than thunder…"
Taimur paid them no mind. His gaze was fixed on the reinforced stone platforms his engineers had spent the past month constructing along the harbor's edge—four in total, each one positioned at a cardinal point, their foundations sunk deep into bedrock. By nightfall, Nile's Wrath would be chained to the northern platform, its muzzle trained on the river's mouth. Three more cannons would follow in the coming weeks.
The second, Sand Viper, arrived under cover of darkness. Its carriage wheels, wrapped in damp cloth to muffle the sound, left deep grooves in the mud as it was hauled to the western platform. By dawn, it stood beside its sibling, both barrels angled toward the sea lanes where Crusader ships might one day appear.
A fortnight later came the third—Tidebreaker—a shorter, stouter weapon built to fire incendiary shells. Its crew trained relentlessly, drilling until they could load, aim, and fire in under ninety seconds.
The fourth and final gun, Dawn's Silence, was unlike the rest. Taimur had ordered its barrel rifled using techniques from the System's precision manual. During testing, its shot struck a floating barrel dead center at three hundred paces, piercing clean through both sides. The Sand Foxes assigned to its crew grinned like wolves.
"Let the Franks come," their captain murmured, patting the warm metal. "We'll give them silence soon enough."
When all four guns were ready, Salahuddin sailed up the Nile to witness their power. He stood on the fortified quay as Nile's Wrath fired first—its iron ball shearing through a derelict galley anchored downstream. Sand Viper followed, its shot skipping across the water like a stone before smashing into a second hulk. Then Tidebreaker unleashed hell, its incendiary shell engulfing a third ship in flames.
Finally, Dawn's Silence spoke. Its rifled shot struck the burning ship's mast, snapping it clean.
Salahuddin stood in silence for a long moment. Then, quietly, he said, "Double the powder stores. Triple the shot production."
Taimur nodded. The message was clear.
Damietta was now a fortress.
And its guns were hungry.
In the compound's secret vault, locked behind iron doors, the manual lay open to a page titled:
"Field Artillery — Mobile Warfare Applications."
But that would wait. For now, Egypt's ports were secure. The Crusader threat had been answered before it could even take form.
As Taimur walked the torchlit corridors of the compound, the sounds of hammers and chisels echoed all around him—the birth pangs of a new era of war.
The thunder had been forged.
Soon, it would roar.
The last cannon had barely been mounted when Taimur turned his attention to the next phase of his plan. The weapons were ready. Now, the army needed to grow.
Recruiters fanned out across Egypt. They visited every village, every oasis, every dusty corner of the Delta. The call went out for strong men willing to fight. The promise was simple: good pay, good food, and the chance to serve under Salahuddin himself.
Ten thousand answered.
Nine thousand came from the fertile Delta—peasants with strong backs and hands calloused from hard labor. Men who could march all day under the scorching sun. They were raw but eager. The remaining thousand were nomads from the deep desert—lean, fast, and fierce. Men who knew how to strike hard and vanish like ghosts.
Training began immediately.
The peasants became light infantry. They learned to march in formation, to wield swords and shields, and to loose arrows in deadly volleys. The nomads were molded into Desert Hawks—masters of ambush and hit-and-run tactics. Experts in navigating dunes and disappearing into the sand.
Six months passed in a blur of dust, sweat, and steel.
When it was over, nine thousand light infantry and one thousand Desert Hawks stood ready. Seven thousand of the infantry and five hundred of the horsemen joined the main force in Cairo. The rest were held in reserve, destined to form the backbone of future garrisons.
The numbers spoke for themselves.
The Asad al-Harb now stood at full strength—three thousand elite heavy cavalry. The Desert Hawks had reached their target—twelve thousand swift raiders. The heavy infantry force—five thousand strong—could hold any line. Light infantry totaled twenty thousand, equipped as skirmishers and archers. The siege corps was complete—two thousand engineers and artillerymen, trained in gunpowder warfare.
What should have taken five years had been accomplished in three.
[System Notification: Military Expansion Complete]
[+1,000 Merit Points]
[Total MP: 29,800 / 100,000]
Taimur allowed himself a rare moment of satisfaction. The pieces were in place. The army was honed to a razor's edge.
Now, there was only one thing left to do.
Wait.
Wait for news from Syria. Wait for word that Nuruddin Zengid had drawn his last breath. Wait for the civil war that would tear his realm apart.
When that moment came, Egypt would be ready.
The recruits didn't know it yet, but they were the tip of the spear. The first wave of what would become an unstoppable force.
Taimur looked out over the training fields. The sun blazed overhead as rows of men drilled with sword and bow. The air rang with the shouts of sergeants and the clash of wooden practice weapons.
Soon, he thought.
Very soon.
The waiting was almost over.
The sun bled crimson over Cairo's minarets as Salahuddin stood motionless in the palace gardens. The scent of orange blossoms hung thick in the air, but to him, it tasted like ashes. The Sand Foxes had returned like shadows at dusk, their cloaks still heavy with the dust of the Damascus road. Their news had turned the evening prayer into a funeral.
Nuruddin Zengi was no more.
Salahuddin's fingers tightened on the edge of the marble fountain. Water trickled between his clenched fists. "Allah yarhamuh," he murmured. May God have mercy on him. His voice cracked like dry parchment. "Did he suffer?"
The lead scout bowed low, pressing his forehead to the tiles. "The physicians said it was the throat, my Sultan. Like a fire he could not quench. He spoke your name before the end."
Salahuddin looked up at the darkening sky. Somewhere beyond those clouds, Nuruddin's soul now stood before the Divine Court. Would the man who taught him the sword now judge him there?
Taimur found him hours later, still as a statue. The advisor's silk slippers whispered softly against the stone as he approached.
"The council waits, Sultan."
Salahuddin did not turn. "Let them wait longer."
"But the winds of fate—"
"Spare me your poetry." Salahuddin's voice was thunder. Pigeons scattered into the dusk. He turned, and his beard glistened with unshed tears. "That man was my father in all but blood. Would you dance on your own father's grave?"
Taimur's smile was a dagger sheathed in silk. "If my father raised his sword against me? Gladly." He drew a scroll case from his sleeve. "The Sand Foxes brought more than news of death."
Salahuddin took it with trembling hands and broke the seal. The parchment unfurled like a dying breath.
By order of Nuruddin al-Malik al-Adil…
The words blurred. He blinked, and the ink resolved into columns—troop movements, supply manifests—all dated from the previous winter. At the bottom, the Zengid lion glared up at him, an emblem of betrayal.
Taimur watched the realization dawn. "While you sent him gifts of Sicilian steel, he sharpened knives for your back."
Salahuddin sank to his knees. The pain meant nothing. "This must be a forgery. A trick by the Franks, or—"
"Three separate scouts confirmed it," Taimur cut in. "The old wolf gathered his pack at Aleppo. Twelve thousand cavalry. Siege engines. All to 'bring the stray cub to heel.' His exact words, my Sultan."
A nightingale sang above them, its melody bright and cruel.
Salahuddin laughed—a hollow, broken sound. "All these years, I thought he was proud. When the Caliph named me Sultan, I wrote to him first." His hands shredded the parchment. "But to him, I was only a rival."
Taimur crouched beside him, his voice low and dangerous. "Allah removes obstacles in strange ways. That fever was divine justice."
The nightingale fell silent.
Salahuddin rose like a storm, his shadow engulfing Taimur. "Do not speak of Allah's will when you mean your own ambition."
That night, the war council assembled in the torch-lit hall. Maps of Syria sprawled across the table, weighted with daggers and cups of strong black coffee. The commanders spoke in hushed tones, their faces dark with worry.
"Nuruddin is dead," Salahuddin said quietly. "His princes now tear at each other like jackals over a carcass. Syria bleeds, while our enemies grow stronger."
Taimur stepped forward, his finger tracing the road from Cairo to Damascus. "The path is open, my Sultan. The Sunni elite in Damascus have already sent word—they will open their gates to you."
At dawn, Salahuddin stood on the training grounds, his sword slicing through the morning mist. Each stroke echoed Nuruddin's voice: "The swing comes from here, boy! Not the arm—the soul!"
Taimur watched from the colonnade. When Salahuddin finally lowered his blade, he approached with a goblet of chilled sherbet.
"The men are ready."
Salahuddin drank without tasting. "How many?"
"Ten thousand. Three thousand Asad al-Harb. Seven thousand Desert Hawks. The rest remain to guard Egypt."
"And Syria?"
"Chaos. The Zengid princes devour each other like wild dogs. But the people remember. They whisper your name in the souks. The man who drove out the Franks. Who ended the Fatimid corruption."
Salahuddin hurled the goblet against the wall. Silver rang against stone like bones. "I will not be a usurper."
"You will be a unifier," Taimur said softly. "Nuruddin dreamed of a realm united from the Nile to the Euphrates. You alone can make that real."
The call to Fajr echoed across Cairo. Salahuddin bowed his head. When he raised it, the doubt was gone from his eyes.
"Sound the horns."
Taimur blinked. "My Sultan?"
"We ride for Syria at noon," Salahuddin said, sheathing his blade with finality. "But not as conquerors—as liberators." He turned, his gaze sharp as a blade. "And if I hear even one whisper of looting… if a single scream rises from a village we 'pacify'… I'll hang the culprit by his entrails. Understood?"
Taimur bowed, his smile hidden. "As my Sultan commands."
As Salahuddin strode toward the mosque, the rising sun caught the edge of his turban, turning it to gold.
Behind him, Taimur whispered to the waiting captains:
"Spread the word. The Lion of Islam marches home."