The treasury was empty, and time was running out. Taimur stood in the war room, maps of Egypt and the Levant spread across the table like wounds waiting to be stitched. Salahuddin needed coins—now —to fund his armies and secure his rule. The long-term reforms would take months. But gold could be found today, if one knew where to look.
Taimur snapped his fingers. The 'Merchant' stepped forward, his face hidden beneath a deep hood, fingers steepled in quiet anticipation.
"Visit our friends from the old regime," Taimur said. "Remind them of their debts."
The 'Merchant' smiled. "With pleasure."
He moved through Cairo's moonlit streets like a shadow, his ledger tucked beneath his arm. His first stop was the home of the late vizier's brother-in-law, a snake of a man who had somehow avoided execution by feigning illness during the purge.
The man paled when he saw the ledger's contents—records of secret deals with Sicilian traders, selling Egyptian grain at triple prices during the famine.
"This... this was before Salahuddin's rule!" he stammered.
"Timing?" The Merchant's smile didn't reach his eyes. "The Sultan only cares about obedience."
The man paid before dawn.
Next came the former governor of Alexandria's youngest son, a spoiled brat who had turned his father's warehouses into personal brothels. When shown evidence of his embezzlement and the underage girls kept in chains, the young noble vomited before emptying his private coffers.
The Merchant's final visit was to a Fatimid princess who had escaped notice by living as a recluse. Her crime? Hoarding enough wheat in her cellar to feed a village for a year while children starved outside her gates. She paid in gold and jewels, her shaking hands betraying her haughty demeanor.
By week's end, twelve former elites had "donated" to the new regime. None had been important enough for public execution, but all had pockets deep enough to matter.
The newly recruited 'Desert Hawks' moved at night.
They were not yet the elite force they would become—raw recruits, many of them, hardened by the desert but untested in true battle. That would change.
Taimur gathered their captains in a dusty courtyard outside Cairo.
"The Templars are sending a supply caravan from Acre," he said. "Silver, weapons, silks. Take it."
One of the younger captains frowned. "But we're not at war with the Franks yet."
Taimur's smile was thin. "Who said anything about Franks? Bandits plague these roads. Tragic, really."
The men understood.
The ambush was swift. The Desert Hawks struck at dawn, descending on the caravan like a sandstorm. Arrows whistled through the air, finding throats and chests before the guards could raise their shields. Swords flashed, and the few who resisted died quickly.
The recruits fought with a mix of nerves and fury, their blades clumsy but eager. The veterans guided them, barking orders, turning chaos into precision. By the time the sun reached its peak, the caravan was theirs.
They left no survivors.
The spoils were rich—silver coins from Venice, Damascus steel blades, bolts of fine Frankish wool. And best of all? No one blamed Salahuddin. Just another bandit raid in the lawless dunes.
With the sudden influx of gold, Taimur turned to the next task—building an army worthy of a sultan.
The 'Asad al-Harb' had proven their worth. Now, they would double in number. Recruiters scoured the Kurdish highlands, the Bedouin tribes, the veterans of a hundred forgotten skirmishes. Only the best were chosen—men who could ride for days, shoot a coin at fifty paces, and wield a shamshir like an extension of their arm.
The training was brutal. New recruits sparred until their hands bled, practiced mounted archery until their shoulders screamed, drilled formations until they could move as one beast. Sleep was a mercy, earned—not given. The veterans showed no mercy. Weakness meant death on the battlefield.
The Desert Hawks grew even faster. Five thousand strong now—a mix of scouts, raiders, and shock troops. They trained by doing—ambushing 'bandits' (always Templar or disloyal Fatimid remnants), tracking supply routes, learning the land like the back of their hands.
Every raid filled the coffers. Every raid hardened them further.
Salahuddin stood on the palace balcony, watching the new recruits drill in the courtyard below. The clash of steel, the thunder of hooves, the shouts of commanders—it was the sound of an empire being forged.
Taimur joined him, robes dusty from the training grounds.
"You've been busy," Salahuddin remarked.
Taimur nodded. "The gold will keep flowing. The men will be ready."
Salahuddin's gaze was distant. "And the Franks?"
Taimur's voice was quiet. "Let them think we're disorganized. Let them think we're weak. When they finally realize their mistake, it will be too late."
The Sultan smiled. "Good."
Below them, the 'Asad al-Harb' charged in perfect formation, their blades catching the sun like a wave of fire.
[System Notification: Cavalry Expansion complete]
[Asad al-Harb: 2,000]
[Desert Hawks: 5,000]
[+1000 Merit Points]
[Total MP: 15,800 / 100,000]
The proclamation was nailed to every mosque door in Cairo by dawn. Farmers squinting in the morning light, merchants unshuttering their stalls, even barefoot children chasing dust devils—all stopped to stare at the black-and-gold parchment stamped with Salahuddin's seal.
Taimur stood in the shadow of the Great Mosque, watching the crowd gather. A scribe read the edict aloud, his voice cutting through the murmur of disbelief and hope.
"By order of Sultan Salahuddin, the tax laws of Egypt are hereby reformed…"
Land Tax
The farmers came first, their hands worn by generations of coaxing life from Nile-fed earth. Under the Fatimids, they'd given half their harvest and still gone hungry. Now?
"Ten percent," the tax collector announced, raising ten fingers for the illiterate. "One basket out of ten."
An old farmer dropped to his knees in the dirt, pressing his forehead to the ground. "Allah bless the Sultan," he whispered. His son—no older than fourteen—did not weep, but his hands trembled as he handed over the grain.
Taimur made a mental note: First harvest under new laws. Trust is still fragile.
Trade Tax
The Venetian merchants screamed like branded cattle when customs officers blocked the docks.
"Five percent?" their leader—a red-faced man steeped in saffron and sweat—waved an old contract. "We had an agreement with the Fatimids!"
"—is ashes," said the Muezzin's Daughter, perched atop a barrel, legs swinging lazily. She tossed an apple in the air and caught it with a bite. "Pay, or don't sail."
They paid.
Taimur watched the silver pour into iron-bound chests. The System's numbers danced before his eyes—Projected quarterly revenue increase: 47%.
Luxury Tax
The perfumer's quarter smelled like a garden on fire. Traders wrapped in Damascene silks clutched strings of pearls as inspectors stamped their goods.
"Fifteen percent on ambergris?" a Persian merchant sputtered. "This is robbery!"
The Leper leaned on his stick, smiling beneath his bandages. "Call it a donation to public health." He tapped the man's jeweled slipper. "Or shall we discuss why your last 'donation' was three ounces short?"
The merchant paid—full weight.
But not everyone submitted quietly.
In a steamy backroom of a Fustat bathhouse, three spice traders passed coins into the palm of a corrupt official. "Delay the inspections," one hissed. "We'll reroute the silks through Alexandria."
They didn't see the Brothel Mistress lounging in the steam, her laughter covering the quiet snick of her blade.
By midnight, the official floated face-down in the Nile. The merchants awoke to find their warehouses sealed with the Sultan's crest—and their tax bill doubled.
By month's end, something remarkable happened.
The bazaars buzzed louder. Farmers brought surplus to market instead of hiding it. Even the beggars at the docks noticed—no more Fatimid taxmen tipping over their bowls.
A potter in Old Cairo told his apprentice, "I can finally afford to marry your sister."
A Nubian caravan master, sipping sweet tea in the sun, laughed: "They only took two of my twenty camels. Not ten."
And in the palace, Salahuddin ran his fingers through a chest of silver dinars—not looted, not extorted, but earned.
Taimur allowed himself a rare, quiet smile.
Phase one was complete.
The Nile shimmered under the morning sun, thick with the promise of life. Taimur stood on the riverbank, a papyrus scroll in hand, watching farmers guide oxen through the wet fields. These lands had been bled dry—by Romans, by Fatimids, by centuries of greed. That ended today.
He unrolled the scroll. Beside him, a herald raised his voice.
The New Cycle
Winter Crops
As the Nile's floodwaters withdrew, seeds filled the furrows. Wheat and barley—sturdy, sure—meant to feed a nation. Taimur walked the fields with elders, teaching them how to space rows and rotate beds.
An old man with hands like gnarled wood let the grains fall between his fingers. "We used to sow thick and hope half would sprout."
"Plant this way," Taimur said, "and every seed will bear fruit."
The System's glow returned—Projected yield increase: 68%.
Summer Wealth
When the heat came, so did change. Where once there was only grain, now cotton and flax took root.
At first, the farmers resisted. "What do we know of these plants?" a village headman asked, suspicious of the strange seeds.
The Merchant stepped forward, unfurling a bolt of linen. He let the cloth slip through his fingers, smooth and whisper-soft. "This," he said, "is worth ten times its weight in wheat—in Venice."
By midsummer, the fields rippled green and white. Women sang as they carded cotton; children chased each other between flax rows. The taxmen came—but this time, they took only what was fair.
The Land's Rest
Between harvests, the land was given rest—lentils and chickpeas now filled the furrows. The farmers grumbled. "What's the point of these?"
Then the legumes blossomed. They thrived where grains would fail, their roots feeding the tired earth. And to their surprise, the crops fetched good prices in the markets.
A young man, callused and bent from labor, counted his silver with a grin. "The land eats first," he said, echoing Taimur's creed. "Then we eat."
Water from Stone
The Qanats
In the western deserts, where Nile waters faded, Taimur's engineers dug deep. Beneath sand and rock, qanats—ancient Persian water channels—snaked underground. When water rose at last in Faiyum, a place that had known only dust, the people wept.
An old woman filled her palms and drank deeply. "My grandfather told stories of green fields here," she whispered. "I thought they were dreams."
The Screw Pumps
Along the Nile, wooden screws—turned by oxen, guided by engineers—lifted water into stone aqueducts. Children ran alongside, racing twigs along the new canals.
A Nubian overseer, sweat streaking his brow, watched with pride. "The Pharaohs used slaves to carry water," he said. "We use wisdom."
The First Fruits
The changes bore fruit faster than anyone dreamed.
By winter's return, Cairo's granaries overflowed. Damietta's markets gleamed with cotton and linen, finer than even Syrian wares. Venetian traders, once smug, now stumbled—outbid and outmatched by savvy Egyptian merchants.
In the palace, Salahuddin stood amid stores of grain, cloth, oil, and coin. He looked to Taimur, his expression unreadable.
"You told me this would take six months."
Taimur bowed. "The people were hungry—to succeed."
Outside, the call to prayer echoed across fields once barren. The Nile, eternal and unchanging, flowed on.
But Egypt—Egypt was being reborn.