Morning in Damascus
The morning sun cast long shadows across the palace courtyard as Taimur made his way toward Salahuddin's private study. The air was crisp, carrying with it the delicate scent of orange blossoms from the nearby gardens. Guards stood at attention as he passed, their spears catching glints of early light.
Inside, Salahuddin was already waiting, his expression calm but unreadable as he poured two cups of spiced tea.
"Sit," he said, motioning to the cushion across from him. His voice was even, but there was a quiet gravity behind his words. "We have been summoned."
Taimur accepted the cup, letting the warmth seep into his hands. "Summoned?"
"By Nuruddin Zengid himself," Salahuddin replied. His gaze met Taimur's. "Your name has reached his court. Some call you a genius. Others... whisper of sorcery."
Taimur exhaled slowly. Rumors had been inevitable, but Nuruddin Zengid was no ordinary ruler. He was a warrior-statesman, a sharp-eyed commander who did not suffer mystery or threats lightly.
"When do we depart?" Taimur asked.
"Today." Salahuddin set his cup down. "Prepare yourself. Nuruddin values truth, but he also values power. Do not lie to him—but choose which truths you reveal wisely."
The journey to Nuruddin's court took three days. The roads were busy with merchants, pilgrims, and soldiers, but Taimur barely noticed the world beyond his thoughts. Salahuddin rode beside him in contemplative silence, his presence steadying.
Nuruddin's palace loomed like a mountain of white stone, its walls towering above the city like a sentinel. Banners bearing the Zengid lion snapped in the breeze as the gates opened. Inside, the air smelled of incense, oil, and old parchment. Armored guards stood motionless along the grand halls, their eyes watchful.
Taimur followed Salahuddin into the audience chamber, where Nuruddin sat atop a raised dais, relaxed in posture but sharp in presence. His beard was streaked with gray, and his hands bore the calluses of a warrior's life. He was older than Taimur had imagined, but no less formidable.
"Salahuddin," Nuruddin greeted warmly. Then his gaze shifted to Taimur. "And this is the scholar who has set Damascus aflame with rumors."
Taimur bowed deeply. "My lord."
"Enough of that," Nuruddin said, gesturing him forward. "Come closer."
Taimur stepped into the center of the chamber, feeling the weight of every eye—nobles, generals, and scribes—fixed upon him.
"Your strategies have won battles," Nuruddin said. "Your spies have unearthed traitors. Your cavalry—" He chuckled, "—even I would think twice before facing them on the field."
A ripple of quiet laughter moved through the court.
"But," Nuruddin continued, voice hardening slightly, "men whisper strange things. That you see the future. That your knowledge is... unnatural." He leaned forward, fingers drumming the armrest. "So tell me, Taimur of no known lineage—where does this wisdom come from?"
The room fell into a tense silence.
Taimur heard Salahuddin's earlier warning in his mind. Choose your truths carefully.
"I am a son of Sind," Taimur said, his voice steady. "In the lands of Al-Hind, there are sages known as the Rishis. Men of deep study—warriors, physicians, astronomers. Their knowledge is ancient and sacred, passed down in silence to those they deem worthy."
Nuruddin's brows rose. "The Rishis?"
Taimur nodded. "I was fortunate enough to study under them. What I possess is not sorcery—only knowledge others have forgotten or never knew."
A long pause followed. Then, to Taimur's surprise, Nuruddin smiled slowly.
"I have heard of these Rishis. Even the Caliph in Baghdad has spoken of their wisdom." He leaned in. "And you swear this is true?"
"On my life, my lord."
For a moment, the air itself seemed to hold its breath. Then Nuruddin laughed, deep and thunderous.
"Then let no one call you a sorcerer again! A scholar from Al-Hind is no less than one from Cairo or Baghdad."
Relief brushed through Taimur like wind through silk, though he kept his face composed.
Nuruddin reached into his robe and withdrew a small silver token—an intricately carved lion's head. "A gift," he said, tossing it to Taimur. "Wear this, and let all know you have Nuruddin Zengid's favor."
Taimur caught it mid-air. The token was cool and heavy in his palm. "You honor me, my lord."
"Honor is earned," Nuruddin said. "And you have earned it." He turned to Salahuddin. "Take your strategist home. I expect more victories from both of you."
The journey back was quiet. Taimur sat in his saddle, the weight of the silver token in his pocket grounding him. Something had changed.
He was no longer a shadow on the edges of power, no longer whispered about behind closed doors. He had been acknowledged—by the ruler of Syria himself.
Salahuddin glanced at him. "You handled that well."
Taimur allowed himself a faint smile. "I had a good teacher."
Salahuddin snorted, amused. "Modesty doesn't suit you."
The road ahead stretched into the horizon, bathed in the soft gold of morning.
For the first time since awakening in this strange age, Taimur felt something solid beneath his feet.
He was exactly where he was meant to be.
The night air was cool against Taimur's skin as he stood on the balcony of his quarters in Damascus. The city slept below him, its minarets silhouetted against the star-filled sky. His fingers drummed lightly on the stone railing as his mind raced.
He remembered history well. Salahuddin would be sent to Egypt next year, in 1169. The Fatimid Caliphate was crumbling—its viziers weak, its military fractured. Nuruddin Zengid would dispatch Salahuddin to secure the region, and within two years, the Shia caliphate would collapse. But history had already shifted. Taimur's presence had accelerated Salahuddin's rise. The Sand Foxes were stronger than any spy network of the age. The Asad al-Harb cavalry could outmaneuver any Frankish knights.
But Egypt would be different.
The Fatimids still had their elite units—Sudanese Nubian spearmen, Arab archers, Berber skirmishers. The Crusaders wouldn't sit idle either. If Salahuddin marched south, they would strike.
Taimur needed to prepare.
He closed his eyes and summoned the System.
[System Notification: Welcome, Host]
The familiar blue interface materialized in his mind. His Merit Points balance glowed at the top—9,800. More than enough.
"Open the System Mall," he commanded.
The display shifted, rows of categorized entries unfurling before him. Weapons blueprints. Medical treatises. Agricultural manuals. He scrolled past them until he found what he was looking for.
[Supreme Infantry Manual]
Price: 5,000 Merit Points
Contents: Heavy Infantry Volume, Light Infantry Volume, Siege Infantry Volume
A three-part compendium of warfare knowledge far beyond this era. Roman legionary tactics. Byzantine shield walls. Mongol mobility doctrines. All refined, tested, and perfected across centuries of war.
"Purchase," Taimur said.
The points deducted instantly.
[Remaining Merit Points: 4,800/10,000]
A heavy chest materialized at the foot of his bed with a soft thud. Taimur approached it, running his fingers over the intricate lock. It clicked open at his touch.
Inside lay three leather-bound tomes, each thicker than his forearm. The first bore the emblem of a tower shield—Heavy Infantry. The second showed a running archer—Light Infantry. The third was marked with a battering ram—Siege Infantry.
He lifted the first volume. The leather was warm beneath his palms. As he flipped through its pages, diagrams of phalanx formations, shield techniques, and armor schematics greeted him. Marginal notes in Latin, Greek, even Chinese filled the edges, but the main text flowed cleanly in crisp Arabic.
The second volume revealed skirmisher tactics, ambush strategies, and endurance drills capable of turning peasants into lethal guerrillas within months. The third was a masterclass in siegecraft—counterweight trebuchets, sapping techniques, even refined gunpowder mining formulas and cannon blueprints.
Taimur exhaled slowly. This was power. Not the flashy victories of cavalry charges, but the grinding, relentless strength of disciplined foot soldiers. The backbone of any empire.
A knock at the door startled him. He snapped the chest shut just as Salahuddin entered, his face unreadable in the lamplight.
"You're awake late," Salahuddin observed.
"So are you," Taimur countered.
Salahuddin's gaze flicked toward the chest, then back to Taimur. "Preparing for something?"
Taimur didn't bother lying. "Egypt."
A beat of silence passed. Then Salahuddin nodded slowly. "Nuruddin hasn't given the order yet."
"He will. And when he does, we'll be ready." Taimur tapped the chest. "Our cavalry is unmatched. Now we build infantry that can hold any city we take."
Salahuddin studied him for a long moment. Then, unexpectedly, he smiled. "You see the board three moves ahead, don't you?"
"Five," Taimur corrected.
Salahuddin chuckled and turned to leave. At the door, he paused. "Train them well. When Egypt comes... I'll need more than Kurdish horsemen at my back."
The door closed behind him.
Taimur reopened the chest. Dawn was still hours away. He had work to do.
The oil lamp flickered as Taimur reviewed his calculations a third time. The numbers didn't lie—Egypt loomed, and their current forces weren't enough. The System's blue glow lit the parchment-strewn desk in strange hues.
"System, display ranged weapon blueprints," he said.
Two new entries appeared:
[Modern Composite Bow Blueprint]
Price: 500 Merit Points
Features:
Laminated wood/horn/sinew construction.
30% greater range than contemporary bows.
Superior durability in desert conditions.
[Zhuge Divine Crossbow Blueprint]
Price: 500 Merit Points
Features:
Magazine-fed repeating mechanism.
10-bolt capacity.
Effective against armored targets.
"Purchase both," Taimur ordered. The points deducted instantly.
[Remaining Merit Points: 3,800/10,000]
The scroll cases appeared with a soft thud. He unrolled the first: intricate laminations, precise tension angles, and guidance for desert maintenance. The second blueprint displayed a revolutionary mechanism—magazine-fed, rapid-firing, lethal. Centuries ahead of its time.
Six Months Later
Damascus Armories
The rhythmic clang of five hundred hammers filled the air. Smithies worked day and night. Taimur stood among them, watching as a Milanese-style breastplate was pulled from the forge, glowing red-hot before being quenched in oil. The armory master wiped his brow.
"We've fulfilled your order, my lord. Five hundred new breastplates for the Asad al-Harb."
Taimur inspected one. The craftsmanship was excellent—curved steel plates capable of deflecting sword strikes, yet light enough for cavalry use.
"Good. Have them delivered to the training grounds."
Nearby, another workshop buzzed with more delicate work. Craftsmen laminated strips of yew, horn, and sinew with patient precision. The first prototype had already passed trials—punching through a Frankish shield at 150 paces.
In the siege yard, engineers surrounded a new weapon. One bent low, tracing a loading lever with calloused fingers.
"It's… ingenious," the chief artificer muttered. "Ten bolts before reloading? The Franks won't know what hit them."