The war room was silent, save for the soft crackle of oil lamps and the distant murmur of the Nile. Taimur stood before a massive map of Egypt spread across the cedar table, his fingers tracing inked lines of rivers, roads, and borders. The navy was strong now—a beast that fed itself and grew sharper with each passing month. But the land? The land remained soft. Exposed.
Cairo, Alexandria, and Damietta stood like three iron pillars—disciplined garrisons, unwavering loyalty. Yet beyond them, Egypt was a body with its arteries bare. One well-placed cut could bleed the kingdom dry.
Taimur picked up a charcoal stick and began to mark the map.
Bilbays – The eastern gate to Cairo. A Crusader raid from Sinai could reach it in three days of hard riding. Currently, it was defended by little more than a handful of aging Fatimid-era watchmen who could barely aim their spears.
Assigned: 2,000 Light Infantry.
Tinnis – A coastal town near Damietta, its walls kissed by the sea. If enemies landed there, they could flank the Delta before the navy even realized it.
Assigned: 1,500 Marines.
Fayyum Oasis – The lush heartland of Egypt's sugar and grain. A single act of sabotage or uprising could starve Cairo.
Assigned: 1,000 Light Infantry.
He moved southward.
Asyut – A checkpoint on the mid-Nile, where river traffic thickened. Nubian mercenaries flowed through its markets, their loyalties as fluid as the desert winds.
Assigned: 1,200 Desert Hawks.
Qus – The trade artery to the Red Sea, channeling spices from Yemen and gold from Nubia. Unprotected, it was a jewel waiting to be stolen.
Assigned: 800 Desert Hawks.
Finally, the borders.
Al-Arish – The last Egyptian post before Crusader-held Sinai. A nest of scorpions. Raids began and ended here.
Assigned: 1,500 Desert Hawks.
Aswan – The gateway to Nubia. If even one war party slipped through, Upper Egypt would burn.
Assigned: 1,000 Heavy Infantry.
Nine thousand troops in total. A net of iron strung across Egypt's throat.
Salahuddin's palace was quiet at this hour. The Sultan sat beside a fountain in his private courtyard, a stack of scrolls at his side, his face lit by the flicker of a single lamp. He didn't look up as Taimur approached.
"You've been staring at maps all night," he said.
Taimur laid a scroll on the table. "Because Egypt is naked."
Salahuddin unrolled it. His eyes moved over the markings, the numbers, the layered lines of defense. For a long moment, he said nothing. Then his finger tapped Bilbays.
"Two thousand here?"
"The eastern gate," Taimur replied. "If the Crusaders ever launch a serious raid, it'll come through Sinai. Bilbays is the cork in the bottle."
Salahuddin's hand slid to Fayyum. "And this?"
"The Delta's breadbasket. No food, no Cairo. No Cairo, no Egypt."
The Sultan leaned back, his gaze piercing. "Nine thousand men. Do you know what that will cost?"
"Less than the price of a single lost city."
A faint smile tugged at Salahuddin's lips. "You've learned to speak like a treasurer."
"I've learned that gold is worthless if the kingdom falls."
The Sultan stood, rolling the scroll with care. "Do it."
The call went out at dawn.
From the bustling docks of Alexandria to the sunbaked villages of Upper Egypt, criers proclaimed the Sultan's need for soldiers. The terms were clear:
Steady pay.
Land for veterans.
Glory for the faithful.
And the men came in droves.
The Delta Farmers—sturdy sons of the Nile, backs strong from labor, hands calloused from hoes. They would make fine infantry.
The Desert Nomads—lean, hawk-eyed riders who knew every dune and wadi of Sinai. Perfect for the Desert Hawks.
The Nubian Mercenaries—seasoned fighters already, their loyalty secured with silver and the promise of plunder.
The Mariners—fishermen and river traders, their muscles honed by years of wrestling sails and oars. They would man Tinnis's defenses.
They gathered in training camps outside Cairo—a sea of eager faces and restless hands. Taimur walked among them, watching as drillmasters barked orders, as swords clashed in sparring, as arrows thudded into straw. It would take months to whip them into soldiers.
But the foundation was laid.
Six months later...
Nine thousand garrison troops stood ready. Fully trained. Battle-tested. Hardened.
3,500 Desert Hawks.
1,000 Heavy Infantry.
3,000 Light Infantry.
1,500 Marines.
Bilbays
The first detachment—2,000 Light Infantry—marched east, leading a supply train laden with grain, weapons, and timber. They reinforced the old Fatimid fort. By the time they arrived, the Crusader scouts watching from the hills had already vanished.
Tinnis
The marines—1,500 strong—arrived by ship, their banners flying high. The city's fishermen gaped as the troops unloaded not just men, but ballistae, Greek-fire lances, and barrels of flame. The message was clear: This coast is ours.
Fayyum
The 1,000 Light Infantry found a paradise of green fields and slow-moving canals. They also found discontent—whispers of Fatimid loyalists hiding among the reeds. By the end of the first month, five heads adorned the gates. The whispers ceased.
Asyut
The Nubian mercenaries in the market eyed the 1,200 Desert Hawks with suspicion. The garrison commander—a grizzled veteran of a dozen border skirmishes—made his stance clear:
"Trade in peace, and we'll drink together. Cause trouble, and I'll feed you to the crocodiles."
Qus
The elite cavalry—800 Desert Hawks—patrolled the caravan routes like wolves. Their presence alone deterred bandits. The spice merchants, long accustomed to paying tolls to thieves, now paid taxes to the Sultan instead.
Al-Arish
The 1,500 Desert Hawks vanished into the dunes, striking like lightning. So swift and brutal were their raids that Crusaders began calling the Sinai the Land of Ghosts.
Aswan
The 1,000 heavy infantry fortified the riverbanks, their tower shields forming an unbreakable wall. No Nubian raider dared test it.
In Cairo, Salahuddin received the reports with quiet satisfaction. Gold flowed a little slower now—but the kingdom breathed easier.
[System Notification: Primary Garrison of Egypt Complete]
[+2,000 Merit Points]
[Total MP: 20,800 / 100,000]
Taimur stood once more before the war map, charcoal stick in hand. The net was cast. The weak points were shored up.
But the work was never truly done.
Somewhere beyond those borders, enemies were already plotting.
Let them come.
Egypt was ready.
The morning sun glittered on the waters of Alexandria's harbor, casting golden streaks across the waves. A year had passed since the first Golden Patrol had set sail—and now, the sea belonged to Egypt.
Taimur stood on the docks, watching as the fleet returned from another successful hunt. The sight never grew old.
A hundred ships—the Sea Wolves—filled the horizon, their black sails billowing in the wind. Behind them, the smaller but no less deadly Coastal Wolves patrolled the Delta's maze of waterways.
The numbers spoke for themselves.
The Sea Wolves – Masters of the Mediterranean
100 ships. 12,000 men.
The Sea Flames led the way—forty sleek warships, their decks lined with Greek fire siphons, their hulls reinforced with iron-hardened timber. They were the terror of the open sea, the ships that made Venetian merchants pray before setting sail.
Behind them came the Night Arrows—thirty floating fortresses, their towering forecastles bristling with ballistae and Zhuge repeaters. They didn't just sink enemy ships—they shattered them.
And last, the Water Lions—thirty boarding beasts, their decks packed with marines who fought like devils. When they grappled an enemy vessel, it was over before the first scream echoed across the waves.
Alexandria's garrison had swelled to 5,000 men, ensuring no enemy would ever dare strike at the heart of the fleet.
The Coastal Wolves – Guardians of the Delta
60 ships. 6,000 men.
The Nile Hawks—twenty fast scouts, their oars cutting through the water like blades. Armed with ballistae and repeaters, they hunted pirates in the shallow channels where larger ships couldn't follow.
The Sand Vipers—twenty hybrid monsters, part troop carrier, part warship. Armed with scorpion launchers, they patrolled the trade routes, escorting merchants and crushing any raiders foolish enough to test them.
The Flame Lancers—twenty fire-spitters, their Greek fire launchers making short work of any vessel that dared challenge Egypt's waters.
Damietta's garrison now stood at 3,000 strong, a wall of steel between the Delta and any who sought to breach it.
A Self-Funding War Machine
The brilliance of the Golden Patrol was in its simplicity.
Pirates attacked? Their ships were seized, their loot divided.
Prisoners captured? The strong were given a choice—join the Wolves or feed the fish.
Damaged vessels? Stripped for timber, nails, and sails to build new ones.
The fleet grew stronger with every hunt.
The treasury heavier with every raid.
And the enemies of Egypt?
They learned to fear the sea.
The flagship Lion of Yusuf docked first, its hull scarred from battle, its decks stained with salt and soot. Captain Rasheed strode down the gangplank, a grin splitting his weathered face.
"Another dozen pirate ships sent to the deep," he said, tossing a heavy sack of coins at Taimur's feet. "And that's just the official cut."
Taimur smirked. "The Doge's merchants?"
"Paid their tolls like good little lambs," Rasheed chuckled. "Though one tried to hide a chest of Venetian silver under his grain sacks."
"And?"
"We let him keep the grain."
Laughter rippled through the gathered officers. The message was clear—cross Egypt's waters, and you paid. One way or another.
The prisoners came next—a ragged line of men, hands bound, faces hollow with exhaustion. Some were pirates. Others, Crusader mercenaries. A few were simply unlucky sailors caught on the wrong ship at the wrong time.
The drillmaster walked down the line, his cane tapping against his palm.
"You have two choices," he said. "Row for the Sultan, or rot in the dark."
Most chose the oars.
Those who didn't were handed over to the Sand Foxes. The sea had its own justice.
The last prizes were the captured ships themselves. Some were too damaged to salvage, their hulls burned or shattered. But others—especially the Venetian and Byzantine vessels—were treasures.
The shipwrights descended like vultures, prying apart planks, scavenging nails, studying the curve of foreign hulls.
"Good timber," one muttered, running a hand along a Crusader galley's ribs. "Won't last forever, but it'll patch a dozen of ours."
Another held up a Byzantine sail. "Linen's weak, but the stitching solid. We can reuse the rope, at least."
Nothing was wasted.
Not a single nail.
Not a single life.
That evening, Salahuddin walked the docks, his hands clasped behind his back, eyes scanning the fleet.
"A year ago, we begged for ships," he said. "Now we drown in them."
Taimur stood beside him, watching as the last of the day's light faded from the sky. "The sea is ours. The Delta is sealed. The garrisons hold."
"And the Crusaders?"
"Broke. Terrified. Scrambling to protect what's left of their ports."
Salahuddin exhaled, the ghost of a smile on his lips. "Good."
Somewhere in the distance, a sailor began to sing—a deep, rolling chantey of victory and salt and blood.
The Wolves were home.
And the Mediterranean would never be the same.