The setting sun painted Alexandria's harbor in shades of blood and gold, its dying light reflecting off the floating wreckage of what had once been Christendom's proudest fleet. The water itself seemed to burn, choked with the remnants of shattered ships and the bodies of the fallen. Here and there, a desperate Crusader clung to broken timber, his cries for mercy going unanswered as the Sea Wolves' galleys prowled among the wrecks, finishing off survivors with cold efficiency.
Captain Yusuf stood on the deck of the captured Crusader flagship, his boots sticky with drying blood. Around him, his men moved through the carnage with the practiced ease of veteran killers, stripping the dead of weapons and valuables, occasionally pausing to drive a dagger between the shoulder blades of some wounded Frank who had the poor judgment to still be breathing.
"Signalman!" Yusuf called, his voice hoarse from shouting orders.
A young sailor scrambled to attention, his face still smeared with soot. "Aye, Captain?"
Yusuf wiped his scimitar clean on a dead knight's surcoat before sheathing it. "Send word to Cairo first. Tell them Alexandria stands, and the Sea Wolves have fed well today." He grinned, his teeth a white slash in his soot-streaked face. "Then dispatch another rider to Damascus. Let the Sultan know his cannons spoke loudly today."
The signalman nodded eagerly. "At once, Captain! And... what of the prisoners?" He gestured to where a handful of bedraggled Crusaders knelt on the deck, their hands bound behind them.
Yusuf's grin faded. "No prisoners."
As the signalman hurried off, Lieutenant Amir approached, his once-fine tunic torn and stained. "We counted thirty ships that escaped, Captain. Maybe fewer."
Yusuf snorted. "Out of one hundred fifty? I'd call that a good day's work." He turned to survey the harbor, where the burning hulks of Crusader ships still belched black smoke into the darkening sky.
On Alexandria's walls, the citizens cheered as the last of the Crusader fleet vanished beyond the horizon. Women ululated from rooftops, children danced in the streets, and old men wept with relief. The cannons that had roared all afternoon now stood silent, their barrels still warm.
Master Gunner Rashid leaned against his favorite cannon and looked down at young Karim. "Not bad for your first battle, boy," he grunted, taking a long pull from a waterskin.
Karim's hands still trembled as he accepted it back. "I... I didn't think it would be so... loud."
Rashid barked a laugh. "War isn't pretty, boy. But by Allah, it's glorious when you win." He clapped Karim on the back hard enough to make him stumble. "Come. Let's see if these Frankish dogs left any decent wine aboard their ships."
Weeks later, in Jerusalem's throne room, King Almeric sat slumped on his throne, his bandaged hands clutching the armrests as a bedraggled survivor finished his report. Around him, his nobles stood in stunned silence.
"...fewer than thirty ships returned, Your Grace," the sailor whispered, eyes downcast. "The Egyptians... they were waiting for us. Their cannons... their ships... it was a slaughter."
Almeric's face was ashen. "Twenty thousand men," he breathed. "Gone."
The Grand Master of the Templars stepped forward, his expression grim. "We warned you, Your Grace. Salahuddin may be in Syria, but Egypt is far from defenseless."
Almeric's fist slammed against the throne. "I will have vengeance for this! I swear it by the blood of Christ!"
But even as he spoke, the words rang hollow in the silent chamber. The price of underestimating Egypt had been paid in Frankish blood—and the lesson would not be forgotten.
Back in Alexandria, the Sea Wolves celebrated their victory with stolen Frankish wine and the sweet fruits of Egypt. Captain Yusuf stood atop the city walls, looking out over the now-calm harbor where fire and death had ruled just the day before.
Lieutenant Amir joined him, offering a cup of wine. "To victory," he said simply.
Yusuf took the cup but didn't drink right away. He stared into the dark waters where so many had died. "This was just the beginning, boy. They'll be back."
Amir frowned. "After today? Surely they've learned their lesson."
Yusuf finally took a sip, then spat over the wall. "Men like Almeric never learn. Not until you put a sword through their guts." He handed the cup back. "But let them come. Egypt will be waiting."
And with that, he turned and walked away, leaving the young lieutenant to contemplate the burning horizon—and the dark future it promised.
The messenger arrived in Damascus at dawn, his horse lathered in sweat, his face streaked with dust from the hard ride north. The scroll he carried bore the seal of Alexandria—a lion clutching a ship in its jaws. Salahuddin received it in his private chambers, the morning light just beginning to filter through the lattice windows.
He read the report once. Then again. Then a third time, his lips curling into a slow, fierce grin.
"They did it," he murmured.
[System Notification: Defense against the Siege of Alexandria Complete]
[+3,000 Merit Points]
[Total MP: 46,800 / 100,000]
Taimur, who had been studying a map of the Levant, glanced up. "How many ships?"
"One hundred and twenty sunk or captured," Salahuddin said, tossing the scroll onto the table. "Fewer than thirty escaped. Twenty thousand Crusaders—dead or drowned."
A rare, satisfied smile touched Taimur's lips. "Almeric will think twice before testing Egypt again."
When the war council assembled that afternoon, the mood was electric. Salahuddin's commanders—hardened men who had fought beside him for years—listened in stunned silence as the details of the battle were laid bare.
"The cannons and Greek fire," General Barsbay muttered, shaking his head. "The 'Sea Wolves' used them to trap the fleet in the harbor. Burned half their ships before they could even retreat."
Emir Mujahid al-Din Bihruz, newly returned from governing Baalbek, let out a low whistle. "Allah's mercy. That will haunt their dreams for generations."
Then, as one, the commanders turned to Taimur.
The military advisor stood apart, as he always did, his fingers steepled beneath his chin. He said nothing. He didn't need to.
It was Admiral Yusuf—present only via written report—who had written the damning line: "Every move unfolded as the Advisor predicted. The Crusaders walked into the trap exactly as he said they would."
The silence stretched.
Barsbay was the first to break it. "You knew," he said hoarsely. "You knew they would attack Alexandria. You knew how they would come. You knew when."
Taimur met his gaze evenly. "I guessed."
"Liar," Bihruz breathed. "No man guesses like that."
A heavy pause. Then a quiet voice—gravelly, aged, and full of old weight—cut through the murmurs.
"If my brother were still alive," said Shirkuh, "he would've said what I am now thinking."
The room stilled. Even the birds outside the window seemed to hush.
"This man Taimur is no ordinary strategist. He reminds me of the tales from old… of those who were guided by the Unseen. Mark my words, ya Salahuddin, this one may be a disciple of Khidr, the Hidden One."
Several emirs crossed themselves unconsciously, invoking Allah's protection.
But Taimur's expression did not change. He simply looked back down at the map.
Salahuddin watched the exchange with quiet amusement. He had seen this reaction before—the dawning realization among his men that Taimur was not merely clever, not simply ruthless, but something else entirely. Something they could not name.
News traveled fast. By the time the first Frankish survivors limped into Tyre, the tale had already reached Constantinople. The Byzantine Emperor, upon hearing of the disaster, reportedly drained his wine cup in one long swallow and said, "God help us all."
In Baghdad, the Caliph's court buzzed with whispers.
"A single battle," murmured one scholar, "and Salahuddin's advisor has rewritten the rules of war."
Another leaned in, voice dropping. "They say he sees the future. That he crafts weapons from hellfire. That he can make barren land fertile with a word."
A third scoffed. "Nonsense. The man is just brilliant."
But even the skeptics hesitated. Because the facts were undeniable:
The Crusader fleet—the largest assembled in years—had been annihilated.
Alexandria's defenses—cannons, Greek fire, hidden ships—had been prepared months in advance.
Every move, every counter, had been predicted with chilling accuracy.
In Jerusalem, King Almeric locked himself in his chambers for three days, emerging only to order the city's defenses reinforced. "If they can do that to a fleet," he told his trembling council, "what will they do to a city?"
In Cairo, the people celebrated in the streets, but the Sand Foxes moved quietly through the crowds, listening. Whispers of Taimur's name were met with equal parts awe and fear.
"They call him Al-Hakim—the Sage."
"No, the Devil's Strategist."
"I heard he bargains with jinn..."
Even Salahuddin's allies grew uneasy. A Kurdish chieftain, drinking with the Sultan's men one evening, drunkenly confessed, "I would follow Salahuddin into hell itself. But that advisor of his? I'd sooner face a pack of starving lions than cross him."
Taimur, for his part, seemed indifferent to the growing myth around him. He spent his days as he always had—studying maps, interrogating spies, refining weapons. But now, when he walked through the palace halls, servants pressed themselves against the walls to let him pass. Even the bravest emirs hesitated before speaking to him.
Only Salahuddin treated him no differently.
"You've made them afraid," the Sultan remarked one evening as they walked the palace gardens.
Taimur plucked a fig from a tree, examining it. "Fear is useful."
"For now." Salahuddin stopped, turning to face him. "But legends have a way of taking on lives of their own. Be careful, my friend. The world may decide you're more valuable than I am."
For the first time in years, Taimur laughed—a dry, humorless sound. "Let them try."
Above them, the stars burned cold and bright. Somewhere to the west, the Crusaders licked their wounds. And the legend of Salahuddin's devilish advisor grew.