The sun hung high in the sky over the plains of Syria as the first wave of recruits began to trickle in. They came from every corner of the land: peasants from the fertile valley of Homs, nomads from the dry stretches of desert, and hardened warriors from the Kurdish tribes in the north. Taimur stood on the edges of the training grounds, watching them with a sharp gaze, his fingers resting lightly on the hilt of his sword.
The banners of the Sultan fluttered in the wind as the soldiers assembled in formation. A hundred different faces, all with the same hunger in their eyes—hunger for purpose, hunger for power, hunger for a chance to fight and to win. They had heard the call, and they had come to serve under Salahuddin, the man who had united Egypt and Syria, the man who would one day bring down the Crusaders.
"Gather them," Taimur said, his voice quiet but firm. Around him, the officers and captains moved quickly, organizing the men into groups. The training ground, vast and open, was ready to receive them. The ground had been cleared of any distractions, and the sun beat down on the earth, making the air thick with the promise of hard work.
The first recruits to step forward were the Desert Hawks, a wild bunch of young men whose lean bodies had already been hardened by the desert's unforgiving landscape. They were quick on foot and swift with a sword, but they lacked discipline. It would be Taimur's task to give them that, to turn them from wild nomads into an unstoppable force.
He stood in front of them, his arms crossed, his face hard. "You may have the speed of the wind," he said, his voice cutting through the air. "But without discipline, you are nothing more than scattered dust. You will learn to move as one, or you will fail. The enemy will not wait for you to catch up."
The Desert Hawks bristled, their eyes flashing with defiance, but they said nothing. They had come to be trained, and Taimur would ensure they left with the skills to match their pride.
Over the next few weeks, Taimur pushed them beyond their limits. Their training began at dawn and did not end until the sun had long set. They ran for miles, carrying weighty packs that slowed them down, until their legs shook with exhaustion. They learned to fight on horseback, firing arrows while riding at full gallop. They learned to strike from the shadows, moving in and out of enemy territory like ghosts, leaving nothing but death in their wake. Every mistake was met with grueling punishment, every failure a reminder of how much they still needed to learn.
But the Desert Hawks did learn. Their bodies, once frail and untested, grew strong and sure. Their movements became fluid, like the wind, like the sand shifting underfoot. By the end of their training, they had mastered the art of the ambush, and they were no longer men—at least not in the way they had once been. They were hunters, predators, and when they moved, the earth trembled beneath them.
Taimur watched the final display of their training with satisfaction as the first group of Desert Hawks rode through the makeshift battlefield. They moved as one, their horses galloping in perfect unison, lances raised high, striking targets with unerring precision. When they wheeled around to face the enemy again, it was as if they had never stopped, their movements seamless, their strikes devastating.
"They're ready," Taimur murmured to himself. His eyes turned to the next group: the Elite Light Infantry.
These men were a different breed. Most had come from the fertile lands of Syria, where the soil had made them strong but not battle-hardened. The farmers, the herders, the ones who had never known the weight of steel against flesh. They had come to answer the call to arms, but they were raw—just as the Desert Hawks had been when they had first arrived. But they had one thing the others did not: desperation. They were the ones who had suffered the most under the weight of the Crusader presence. And they would be the ones to fight the hardest.
The training for these men was brutal. It began in the early morning, when the air was still cool and the land was silent. They learned the basic movements first—how to hold a sword, how to block an attack, how to thrust and parry. The rhythm of their practice was slow, deliberate, as Taimur and his officers worked to break them of their old habits and teach them new ones.
But the real challenge came in the afternoons, when the sun beat down relentlessly. That was when the true test began. The men, weighed down by shields and swords, would march for miles under the blistering heat, until their legs burned and their breath came in ragged gasps. They would stop only long enough to draw their bows and fire volley after volley, until their fingers bled and their arms ached. By nightfall, they would crawl into their tents, bodies sore, minds numb. They were never allowed to rest for long—sleep was a luxury that had no place in the ranks of soldiers.
Taimur pushed them harder than they had ever imagined. And yet, by the end of the third month, they were transformed. The peasant boys, once clumsy and weak, now moved like soldiers, their muscles thick and their eyes sharp. They could draw their bows with speed and precision, fire their lances with deadly accuracy, and fight with a ferocity born of desperation. They were no longer the men who had once tilled the soil; they were warriors, and they were ready.
Finally, there were the Asad-al-Harb, Salahuddin's personal guard. These men were the best of the best, handpicked from the elite regiments of Syria and beyond. They were already seasoned fighters, each one a warrior in his own right, but they needed to learn to fight as a unit. They needed to learn to move with precision, to wield their heavy armor with grace, and to strike as one.
Their training began early in the morning, as the sun broke over the horizon. They were already familiar with the basics of combat, so the real work began with mastering the intricacies of their armor. The first few weeks were spent adjusting to the weight of the Milanese plate and learning to move with it. The heavy breastplates were no longer a burden—they were an advantage, a shield that protected their most vulnerable spots. The men learned to use their armor to their advantage, turning what had once been cumbersome into a weapon in itself.
By the end of the first month, the Asad-al-Harb were already moving like a single entity. Their strikes were coordinated, their attacks unrelenting. When they rode into battle, the earth trembled beneath them. They were unstoppable, a living wall of steel and muscle, and when they charged, no enemy could stand against them.
But Taimur was not satisfied. He pushed them harder, always harder. And by the end of the third month, they were ready. They were no longer just men—they were the personal guard of Salahuddin, the ones who would protect him with their lives and strike down any who dared threaten him.
Finally, Taimur turned his attention to the final group—the garrison troops. They were a mix of farmers, traders, and villagers—men who had never seen a battlefield, men who had never held a weapon in their hands. But their value lay not in their ability to fight but in their ability to secure and defend the cities.
The training was focused. It began with the basics—how to wield a lance, how to shoot a bow, how to maintain formation. The soldiers were drilled tirelessly on these skills. They were taught to march in tight lines, to move with precision, to fight with discipline. They would not be the ones to lead a charge, but they would form the backbone of the Sultan's forces, holding key positions and securing supply lines.
As the months went by, the men became proficient. They learned to hold their ground against enemies, to fire arrows with accuracy, to wield lances with deadly precision. They were not the elite soldiers that the Desert Hawks or Asad-al-Harb were, but they were the first line of defense. And in the world that Taimur was shaping, they were indispensable.
By the time the training was finished, Taimur stood on the outskirts of the field, watching the troops assemble. The Desert Hawks, sleek and deadly. The Elite Light Infantry, quick and precise. The Asad-al-Harb, the personal guard of the Sultan, ready to defend him with their lives. And the garrison troops, disciplined and ready to secure the heart of their empire.
[System Notification: Military Forces Expanded]
[Current Military Force:
Asad-al-Harb: 3,000 (+1,000)
Desert Hawks:12,000 (+2,000)
Elite Heavy Infantry: 5,000
Elite Light Infantry : 20,000 (+6,000)
Engineering Corp: 2,000
Garrison Troops: 18,000 (New)]
[+3000 Merit Points]
[Total MP: 49,800 / 100,000]
Salahuddin stood beside him, his eyes sweeping over the gathered forces.
"It is done," Taimur said quietly.
"It is just the beginning," Salahuddin replied, his voice steady with the weight of the future.
The army stood ready.
And war was coming.