After the garrison troops were divided and dispatched to Al-Sai'd, the training did not stop.
The Desert Hawks became ghosts. They slipped into Sinai—not to raid, but to learn. They mapped every dune, every well, every Crusader patrol. When the true war came, they would strike blind and vanish faster.
The light infantry moved north, into the marshes of Damietta. They waded through reeds and struck from the fog. They weren't heroes. They were butchers—men who would gut an enemy camp before the sentries even stirred.
The heavy infantry remained in Cairo. Their armor gleamed in the sun. Shield against shield, they stood in test after test. They did not break. They did not yield. They were flesh and steel, and the mock cavalry shattered against them like waves on stone.
In the shipyards, new marines were trained—former prisoners turned fighters. They learned to climb ropes in silence, to scale fortress walls with only the moonlight to guide them. By the time they were done, they could hook a grappling line into a parapet in the dark and be over the wall before the guards could blink.
The sun hung low over the desert as the garrison reached Al-Sai'd, boots kicking up a dust that clung to their armor like a second skin. Two thousand strong—one thousand light infantry in leather and linen, five hundred heavy infantry in steel and tower shields, five hundred Desert Hawks who moved like shadows in daylight.
The townsfolk watched from shuttered windows, their faces hidden in cracks, their whispers dying as the soldiers passed.
At the head of the column rode Captain Rasheed, his scarred face grim beneath his helm. Beside him rode a Sand Fox—known only as The Scholar. He wore the robes of a minor clerk, his hands stained with ink, his eyes like blades.
"They're here," The Scholar murmured as they dismounted. "Fatimid loyalists. Nubian mercenaries with loose tongues. A few tax collectors with dreams above their station. They meet in the old granary by the river—after midnight."
Rasheed grunted. "Any warning?"
The Scholar smiled faintly. "None."
That night, beneath a moonless sky, the soldiers moved.
The Desert Hawks went first, slipping through alleys like smoke. Their blades were blackened to avoid reflection. They silenced the sentries—not with noise, not even with blood. Just quiet strikes to the back of the skull. The bodies were dragged into shadow, throats cut only once hidden from view.
The light infantry followed, fanning through the streets. Round shields strapped tight, swords loose in their scabbards. They blocked every alley, every door, every rooftop a man might climb.
The heavy infantry came last, tower shields forming a wall around the granary. Spears leveled. No escape.
Inside, the rebels drank and laughed. The wine had loosened their tongues. They didn't know death was already in the room.
A single torch flared in the dark.
Then the doors burst inward.
The heavy infantry charged, their shields crashing into the front row before anyone could rise. Bones cracked. Men screamed. The light infantry followed, swords flashing in the dim glow, cutting down anyone who reached for steel.
It wasn't a battle. It was a slaughter.
The Desert Hawks moved through it like reapers, blades finding throats and spines with surgical precision. Those who tried to flee found rooftops bristling with archers and streets sealed shut.
By dawn, it was over.
The granary floor was slick with blood. The air stank of iron and death. Bodies were dragged into piles, faces covered with sackcloth. The Sand Foxes moved among them, checking faces, pulling aside those who might still have useful tongues.
The Scholar knelt beside one still-breathing mercenary, his blade hovering near the man's eye.
"Names," he said softly. "Now."
For three days, Al-Sai'd burned.
Not the city—the people were untouched. The markets still opened, the fields were still plowed. But in the shadows, the purge spread like fire.
The Sand Foxes led garrison squads to every safehouse, every hidden cellar, every tavern where treason had once been whispered. Men were dragged from their homes, their prayers, their beds. Some fought. Most begged. None were spared.
By the fourth morning, the rebellion was dead.
The ringleaders' heads were nailed to the gates, mouths stuffed with the coins they'd been paid to betray Egypt. Lesser conspirators swung from the walls, their corpses left to twist in the wind.
Rasheed stood atop the governor's tower, watching as the last of the dead were cleared away. The Scholar joined him, wiping his hands clean.
"Done?" Rasheed asked.
The Scholar nodded. "For now."
Rasheed spat over the railing. "Then we wait for the next fools to show their necks."
The garrison did not leave.
They took up residence in the barracks, manned the towers, and guarded the river checkpoints. By day they patrolled. By night, they drank. Their presence was constant—a reminder of what it meant to defy Salahuddin.
[+500 MP: Garrison of Al-Sai'd]
[+500 MP: Crushing early rebellion]
[Total MP: 22,800 / 100,000]
And in the governor's hall, a new ledger was opened.
One with far fewer names.
The Nile Delta shimmered under the relentless May sun as another wave of recruits arrived at the training grounds outside Cairo. The year was 1172, and the clock was ticking. Nuruddin Zengid still ruled Syria with an iron fist, but Taimur knew what history promised—two more years, and the great man would be gone. Two more years, and the shield that had kept the Crusaders at bay would shatter.
They had to be ready.
The summons had gone out across Egypt, carried by criers and posted in market squares:
"Men of the Delta, sons of the desert, warriors of the south—Salahuddin calls you to glory!"
They came in their thousands. Peasant boys from the fertile farmlands of Al-Buhayra, their backs already strong from years of labor. Nubian mercenaries from Aswan, towering and broad-shouldered, their dark eyes gleaming with the promise of silver and war. Lean, hawk-faced nomads from the eastern deserts, their bodies hardened by sun and sand.
None of them were soldiers yet. But they would be.
The training began at dawn on the first day.
The Delta peasants—4,500 strong—were the first to taste the whip of discipline. They formed ragged lines in the dust, their faces a mix of eagerness and fear. The drillmasters wasted no time.
"Run!"
They ran. Ten miles under the rising sun, weighted down with packs of sand. Those who collapsed were dragged to their feet. Those who vomited were given no respite. By midday, they learned to hold a shield, to form a line, to raise a spear in unison. By evening, they were introduced to the bow—not the simple hunting tools they knew, but the deadly recurves of war.
A young farmer, his hands still calloused from the plow, fumbled with his grip. The drillmaster struck his wrist with a cane.
"Again."
The nomads fared better. The 3,000 Desert Hawk recruits needed no lessons in endurance or horsemanship. But they lacked discipline. They fought as individuals, not as a unit. That had to be broken.
They were forced to march in lockstep, to hold formation under a hail of blunt arrows, to fight in pairs, then squads, then companies. The first time a nomad broke ranks to chase a fleeing training dummy, his comrades were made to carry boulders for an hour under the midday sun.
"Out there," the instructor snarled, "your stupidity gets men killed. Here, it gets you pain. Learn the difference."
The Nubians, 2,500 strong, were different. They were already warriors—mercenaries who had fought for coins from Aswan to Damascus. But they had never fought as a wall.
Their training was simple: hold. Hold against cavalry. Hold against arrows. Hold against the weight of a hundred men slamming into their shields. Day after day, they locked their tower shields together, their spears bristling like the spines of some great beast.
One giant of a man, his arms thicker than most men's thighs, grunted as a mock charge crashed into their line.
"Steady," the drillmaster barked. "Breathe as one. Move as one. Kill as one."
By the end of the first month, they no longer staggered under impact. They absorbed it. They returned it.
Six months passed in a blur of dust, sweat, and blood.
The Delta peasants were no longer farmers. They were light infantry—fast, lethal, their arrows flying true, their swords flashing like silver fish in the reeds. They could march thirty miles in a day and fight at the end of it. They could hold a line or melt into the marshes, striking from where they were least expected.
The nomads were no longer raiders. They were Desert Hawks—ghosts who could cross fifty miles of barren waste without leaving a trace, who could strike a camp at midnight and vanish before the alarm was raised. They fought as one now, their movements synchronized, their tactics refined to a razor's edge.
The Nubians were no longer mercenaries. They were an iron wall. A fortress that walked. Their phalanx could advance under a storm of arrows, their shields locking so tight not even a sliver of sunlight passed between them. When they lowered their spears, nothing living could stand before them.
On the final day, Taimur and Salahuddin watched as the new legion was put through its paces.
The light infantry unleashed a hail of arrows, each shaft striking within a hand's breadth of the last. The Desert Hawks swept across the dunes like a sandstorm, their sudden charge dissolving just as quickly into the landscape. The Nubians advanced, their shields a solid wall, their spears punching through straw dummies with terrifying precision.
Salahuddin's face was unreadable. "They're ready."
Taimur nodded. "For now."
The new troops dispersed to their posts:
Al-Buhayra received 1,000 light infantry for patrolling farmlands, 1,000 heavy infantry for guarding the grain, 500 Desert Hawks for reconnaissance and rapid response, and 500 marines with ballistae, Zhuge repeaters, and fire lances to secure the Nile channels. A total of 3,000 garrison troops.
Al-Sharqiyya was given 1,500 Desert Hawks for patrolling pastures and chasing raiders, 1,000 heavy infantry to fortify breeding compounds, and 1,000 light infantry archers to defend river crossings. A total of 3,500 garrison troops.
Al-Gharbiyya was reinforced with 1,000 light infantry for crowd control, 500 heavy infantry for guarding workshops, dye vats, and warehouses, and 500 archers to man the watchtowers along the trade route. A total of 2,000 garrison troops.
The remaining 2,000 joined the main combat units—ready to march wherever the flames of war demanded.
Current Land Forces:
Asad-al-Harb: 3,000/3,000 (Sultan's Personal Guards. Strongest Elite Heavy Cavalry).
Desert Hawks: 11,500/12,000 (10,500 veterans + 1,000 new. Ghosts in the desert).
Heavy Infantry: 5,000/5,000 (1,500 veterans + 3,500 new. An unbreakable wall).
Light Infantry: 13,000/20,000 (12,000 veterans + 1,000 new. Fast, lethal, relentless).
Siege Engineers Corp: 500/2,000 (Masters of Siege warfare).
[System Notification: Military Expansion Complete]
[+1,000 Merit Points]
System Notification: Total Garrison of Egypt Complete]
[+1,000 Merit Points]
[Total MP: 24,800 / 100,000]
As the year waned, Taimur stood on the palace walls, watching the sun set over the Delta. Somewhere to the north, Nuruddin Zengid still ruled. Somewhere beyond that, the Crusaders plotted.
Two more years.
Two more years to forge an army that could survive what was coming.
He smiled faintly.
They would be ready.