The army marched south at dawn, a river of steel and horseflesh flowing through the desert. Salahuddin rode at the head of the column, his banner snapping in the dry wind. Behind him stretched the might of Islam—Asad al-Harb in their gleaming breastplates, endless ranks of infantry, siege engines groaning on iron-bound wheels. Ranging ahead like hunting dogs, the Desert Hawks scouted the terrain, their sand-colored gambesons melting into the dunes.
Taimur adjusted his headscarf against the biting grit as he rode beside Salahuddin. The System's tactical map flickered behind his eyes, showing their steady advance toward the Nile. They had been marching five days when the first reports came.
The Hawks returned at full gallop, dust billowing in their wake. Their leader—a wiry Bedouin named Khalid—reined in hard before Salahuddin, eyes blazing.
"Nubians, my Emir. Two hundred strong. They've taken the oasis at Al-Qasr."
Salahuddin frowned. "The Fatimids sent only two hundred?"
"Not Fatimids," Khalid said. "Mercenaries. Their shields bear the mark of Kush."
Taimur's pulse quickened. The Nubians—warriors born of the Upper Nile, descendants of pharaohs and kings—were no ordinary mercenaries. Their bows could pierce iron. Their shield walls had broken empires.
Salahuddin glanced at Taimur. "Your Hawks hunger for blood. Shall we let them hunt?"
Taimur gave a cold nod. "Let the Nubians learn why the desert fears hawks."
The mercenaries were ready when the Hawks appeared on the horizon.
They formed a perfect square, tower shields interlocked like the walls of a fortress. Behind the barrier, colossal six-foot bows waited—arrows already nocked. Their commander stood tall at the center, a scarred giant with eyes like obsidian, barking orders in a deep, guttural tongue.
But the Hawks didn't charge.
They flowed around the Nubian formation like wind around stone, loosing arrows in measured rhythm. Composite shafts slipped through narrow gaps, their Milanese steel tips punching into flesh. When the Nubians responded, their arrows screamed through the air—but the Hawks were already gone, wheeling wide across the sands.
Then came the Zhuge crossbows.
From three hundred paces, the repeating weapons unleashed a mechanical chorus, spitting ten bolts a minute with deadly precision. The square shrank inward, shields rising higher—just as Taimur had calculated.
"Now," he murmured.
Fire arrows soared through the air.
The Nubians' rawhide shields, treated with oil to survive the desert sun, ignited in a flash. Smoke and panic bloomed. The shield wall rippled, weakened. And then the lancers struck.
They hit the corners—where the wall was vulnerable—driving through chaos and flame. Horses crashed through the ranks. Steel met flesh. Screams drowned in sand.
It wasn't a battle. It was an execution.
The Nubian commander took three arrows to the chest before a warhorse shattered his legendary bow beneath its hooves. His warriors died bravely, but they fought a war that no longer existed—a war of fixed lines, of honor and chants.
The Hawks gave no quarter. The desert gave no mercy.
Within minutes, it was over.
[System Notification: Nubian Mercenaries Defeated.]
[+1000 Merit Points]
[Total Merit Points: 8,800/10,000]
The surviving Nubians knelt in the sand, their hands empty. Khalid dismounted before them, his curved sword still bloody. "What should we do with them, my Emir?"
Salahuddin studied the prisoners. These were no frightened peasants—they were warriors, their faces hard even in defeat.
Taimur leaned close. "They're valuable. The Fatimids pay them in gold. We can offer something better."
Salahuddin's lips quirked. He addressed the Nubians in clear Arabic. "Serve me, and you will keep your lives. Your pay. Your honor."
The tallest of the mercenaries—a man missing one ear—looked up. "We are slaves no longer. We choose our masters."
"Then choose wisely," Salahuddin said.
The Nubian's eyes flicked to the Hawks, to the bodies of his comrades, to the smoldering ruins of their shields. Then he pressed his forehead to the sand.
The message reached Cairo before Salahuddin's army did. The invincible Nubians had broken. The Hawks had come.
And Egypt was next.
The Sinai Desert baked under a white-hot sun as Taimur stood atop a rocky outcrop, surveying the narrow wadi below. The dry riverbed cut through the landscape like a scar, its steep banks forming perfect natural kill zones. He checked the System's tactical map once more—the blinking red dots representing the Templar force were right on schedule.
"They took the bait," Khalid murmured beside him, his hawk-like eyes tracking the distant dust cloud.
Taimur nodded. The fake supply caravan had done its job—wooden carts loaded with straw, disguised as grain shipments, guarded by a conspicuously small escort. The Templars couldn't resist. Their greed and arrogance would be their downfall.
Down in the wadi, the Crusader force came into view. Eight hundred Templar knights in their signature white mantles emblazoned with red crosses, their heavy destriers snorting in the heat. Flanking them rode two thousand Turcopoles—local light cavalry in Crusader employ, their armor better suited to the desert.
The lead Templar, a grizzled veteran with a silver beard, raised his fist. The column halted. For a moment, Taimur feared they'd spotted the trap. Then the man laughed, barking an order in broken Arabic about "Saracen fools" and "easy pickings." The knights spurred forward eagerly.
Taimur raised a red flag.
The Desert Hawks struck first.
From hidden crevices along the wadi walls, three hundred horse archers rose as one. Their composite bows thrummed, sending a storm of fire arrows arcing down onto the Templar vanguard. Cloaks ignited. Horses screamed. Men fell. At the same time, another contingent of Hawks appeared at the wadi's entrance behind the Crusaders, cutting off their retreat.
Chaos erupted. The Templars tried to form ranks in the confined space. Their heavy armor, so effective on open plains, became a death sentence in the narrow pass.
"Now," Taimur said softly.
A horn blast echoed through the canyon. The siege engineers triggered their traps.
With a thunderous roar, carefully loosened boulders cascaded down the wadi walls, crushing knights and horses alike. The Turcopoles, more nimble, tried to scatter—only to find every escape blocked by falling rock.
Then came the hammer blow.
The Asad al-Harb appeared atop the eastern ridge, their Milanese breastplates gleaming like a steel tide. For a heartbeat, the battlefield paused as the Templar Grandmaster looked up at the approaching doom.
"Allahu akbar!"
The heavy cavalry charged downhill in perfect wedge formation, lances leveled. The impact sent bodies flying. Templar swords glanced off steel as Muslim lancers struck with brutal precision.
Taimur watched clinically as the System tallied casualties in real-time. The Templars fought fiercely—they always did—but they were trapped animals now. The Turcopoles broke first, their commander throwing down his sword when he saw an entire squadron eviscerated by Zhuge crossbows.
By sunset, the wadi ran red. Six hundred Templar knights lay dead, including the silver-bearded commander who had mocked the "Saracen fools." The surviving Turcopoles knelt in the sand, their faces ashen as they swore allegiance to Salahuddin.
As Taimur descended to inspect the carnage, Khalid rode up with a bloodied white mantle—the Grandmaster's cloak. "A gift for the Fatimid Caliph?" the Bedouin asked with a savage grin.
Taimur shook his head. "No. Send it to the Templar fortress at Gaza. Let them see what awaits all who stand in our path."
[System Notification: Templar Forces Defeated.]
[+1000 Merit Points]
[Total Merit Points: 9,800/10,000]
The road to Egypt was open. And it would be paved with the bones of fools.
The Nile Delta spread before them like a green hell.
Taimur wiped sweat from his brow as he surveyed the flooded rice fields stretching to the horizon. The air reeked of stagnant water and rot. Somewhere in that maze of canals and mud, the Fatimids had prepared their last desperate stand—three thousand levy infantry and five hundred Nubian mercenaries who knew this land like their own heartbeat.
"They've chosen well," Salahuddin muttered beside him, his horse stamping nervously in the knee-deep water. "No cavalry charge will break them here."
Taimur nodded, already pulling the System's tactical overlay into his vision. Blinking markers glowed amid the reeds—enemy positions, hidden in the murk. The Fatimids had flooded the fields deliberately, turning the approach to Cairo into a death trap.
"Then we won't charge," Taimur said. "We'll drown them where they stand."
The battle began at dawn with a shrieking volley of arrows.
The Nubians' massive war bows—nearly six feet long—sent iron-tipped shafts ripping through the morning mist. They struck with terrifying force, piercing armor at two hundred paces. Two of Salahuddin's scouts dropped before they could even shout a warning.
Taimur raised a fist. The heavy infantry advanced, their tower shields locking together like the scales of a great beast. But instead of pressing forward, they began assembling strange wooden frames—portable pontoon platforms, designed from the blueprints of the Ultimate Elite Infantry Manual.
The Nubians laughed at first. Their commander, a giant with ritual scars across his bare chest, bellowed across the water. "Do you think to build a road, little men? The Nile eats roads!"
Then the first platform locked into place. Then another. And another.
Within minutes, a floating pathway stretched across the floodplain—wide enough for three men abreast. Salahuddin's heavy infantry marched steadily forward, boots thudding against wood, Nubian arrows clattering harmlessly off raised shields.
The laughter died when the light infantry emerged behind the shield wall.
Three thousand bows rose as one.
"Return their gift," Taimur ordered.
These arrows were no ordinary reply. The Sand Foxes had brewed poisons from the same toxins used by their foes—Nile cobra venom, distilled and weaponized tenfold.
Where Nubian arrows killed, these made men wish for death.
Screams tore across the enemy line as poisoned shafts found flesh. Warriors convulsed in the water, limbs locking in agony. Order crumbled. Panic took hold.
Then came the Desert Hawks.
They arrived not on horseback, but in flat-bottomed boats, commandeered from delta fishermen. Each vessel carried six riders—armed with fire arrows and Zhuge crossbows. They flanked the Fatimids like wolves driving panicked cattle, herding them toward the deeper canals—where crocodiles lurked among the reeds.
The Nubian commander realized the trap too late.
"Back! Back to dry land!" he roared, slashing at his own men to force a retreat. But the levies, half-mad with fear, trampled their mercenary allies in the chaos.
Taimur watched through his spyglass as the giant Nubian found himself alone on a shrinking island of mud, legendary bow in hand. A Desert Hawk's arrow struck his thigh. Another pinned his shoulder.
The final shot came from Khalid.
A single bolt from thirty paces, it punched through the commander's chest and drove him backward onto his own upraised bow. The iron tip snapped the shaft as he fell.
By midday, the delta ran red.
Fatimid soldiers who fled into the deeper channels vanished screaming, dragged down by mud or by something worse. Crocodiles grew fat on carrion. Those who made it to shore found Salahuddin's infantry waiting, swords drawn and faces grim.
As the sun reached its zenith, Taimur waded through the shallows to where the Nubian commander lay dying. The man's eyes still burned with defiance, even as blood bubbled from his lips.
"You… fight without honor," he gasped.
Taimur crouched beside him. "No," he said softly. "We fight to win."
With one last shuddering breath, the light left the warrior's eyes.
[System Notification: Fatimid-Nubian Coalition Forces Defeated.]
[+2,000 Merit Points]
[Total Merit Points: 11,800 / 10,000]
[Merit Point Milestone Reached]
[Initiating System Upgrade...]
[System Upgrade Complete — System Version 2.0 Online]
[New Function Unlocked: System Scan]
[Primary Functions Activated:
1. Biometric Analysis
Real-time monitoring of heart rate, pupil dilation, and micro-expressions (Deception detection: 90% accuracy)
Stress-level analysis for identifying hostile intent
2. Loyalty Assessment
Displays individual loyalty values (0–100%) via psychological profiling
Tracks real-time loyalty fluctuations during key conversations
3. Combat Diagnostics
Assesses enemy threat level (Novice / Elite / Veteran)
Detects concealed weapons through physiological micro-signals]
[Total Merit Points: 11,800 / 100,000]
That evening, as the army made camp on dry ground, Salahuddin stood beside Taimur at the water's edge. The sun dipped below the horizon, casting the delta in shades of blood and gold.
"Word will reach Cairo before we do," Salahuddin said quietly.
Taimur nodded, his eyes fixed on the murky waters where a crocodile dragged a white-robed corpse beneath the surface. "Let it."
There was no need for messengers. The Nile would carry the truth.
The age of the Fatimids was ending. And the river itself would bear witness to their fall.