29. The Rising Sun (3)
October 6, Sunday. The grand square of Damascus, fresh from the Sabbath, was already packed to the brim from early morning. Crowds crammed not just the streets but even the rooftops of the shops, a testament to Malik Duqaq's prestige. The whole city felt like a massive furnace, a boiling cauldron of festival fervor. I'd shut down the industrial complex for the day—paid holiday for all employees—after trekking here from the Souq Wadi Barada. Of course, key staff like the artisans and Miriam were with me, treated like VIPs on the balcony of a second-story building. Reward for all that backbreaking labor.
Miriam, dolled up more than usual, sat beside me, gazing out at the square.
"Whoa... this is insane. It feels like the entire population of Damascus is here."
I shrugged lightly at her awe. This parade was a big deal—a military show to scatter worries about the impending Crusaders and deflate the envoys' egos.
As the noon sun scorched the tops of our heads, a piercing Middle Eastern trumpet blast—the nafir—ripped through the murmurs, echoing across the square.
Rwooooo—!
The signal for the parade's start. At the same instant, the heavy thud of thousands of boots slamming the ground vibrated up through our soles.
"Here they come."
A wave of steel surged from the far end of the square. Duqaq's guards and cavalry. The forest of spearpoints glinting in the sunlight embodied raw, overwhelming violence.
Cheers from the civilian crowds battered our eardrums, mingled with the horses' snorts filling the air. The elite troops in Sirion, marching in perfect unison under the blazing sun, inspired such trust that anyone not swelling with pride had to be a spy. Whether spectators or marchers, everyone was caught up in the momentum. Seeing that volume of gear we'd slaved over made it all worthwhile. Back in the modern world, I'd never poured myself into anything like this—my stuff ended up in ACL programs or cosplay at best. This high was impossible there.
Of course, the highlight passed quickly. The parade wasn't long, and as it reached the final stretch per the commander's plan, the soldiers marched in lockstep.
Clink—thud! Clink—thud!
The unified footfalls kicking up sand, the scales rattling in harmony—it held the crowd rapt. From the balcony, we could see how the sheer uniformity exuded intimidation, leaving everyone frozen in admiration. Over ten thousand troops, identically armed. In battle, unless they made a colossal blunder, crushing that force would take several times the numbers to overwhelm.
"Even a mob that size would intimidate, but seeing them stride confidently in our armor... it makes my hands itch. That chill down my spine? Not just me, right?"
"Exactly! We all banded together to forge those. So proud! You're the best, Baraka!"
The parade captivated young and old alike. The artisans nodded, their hard work repaid in full by this spectacle, while Miriam buzzed with rare excitement.
Amid their thrill, I reined in my own high and turned toward the citadel. From the balcony, I could make out Duqaq and the envoys atop the walls. Their reactions were what mattered.
The platform and seats on the outer wall, shaded by simple awnings. Duqaq and some envoys peered down—probably him boasting diplomatically. The unshaded envoys' faces were intriguingly subtle.
"Worried this modest march won't impress? How do our soldiers look to you?"
"Humble words, great Malik. Flawless elites rivaling our own armies. Their discipline and solidity? Impressive doesn't cover it."
Such banter, no doubt.
At that moment, Duqaq and the envoys were just as I'd guessed.
"This brief march—worried it falls short in your eyes? Sir Guillaume, what say your knightly gaze?"
At Duqaq's call, Guillaume clicked his tongue inwardly but draped his words in flattery.
"Why such doubts, great Malik? Their strength rivals our blessed knights, their discipline and arms unyielding. What could be more impressive?"
Replying thus, Guillaume's eyes scanned the Damascus troops' numbers and quality. As a noble knight before envoy, it was natural reconnaissance.
Amid diplomatic pleasantries, one envoy lacked tact. The polar opposite of self-aware Guillaume—oblivious and inept. He gazed down with haughty superiority, his narrow-minded face scanning the walls below. From afar, it grated perfectly.
Atop the citadel walls, amid the group, a familiar face caught my eye. Justus de Rethel—that arrogant prick. Even seeing our factory's gear in action, he stared down with his dumb, petty, clueless expression.
No big reaction from me. The stage to crush him was set soon enough. Getting heated now would just hurt me. A bright future awaited, smashing that smug nose to the dirt—no need to stew in annoyance.
After the parade looped back through central Damascus to the square, Duqaq declared it over. The festival ended amid lingering heat and excitement.
As crowds thinned, an official bearing the Malik's emblem approached me. For the farewell banquet for the envoys at the citadel—inviting Damascus's proud artisan and the complex owner who'd supplied the parade gear.
"Baraka, owner of the complex?"
"That's me."
I nodded. He bowed politely, unrolled a scroll, and proclaimed boldly.
For the successful parade and the banquet honoring the departing envoys, you who contributed greatly shall attend! Hasten to the grand hall in the citadel as owner of the complex!
My express stage—laid by the Malik himself. Perfect spot to shine.
I fingered the hilt of the curved sword at my waist, smiling. Justus was probably still fawning over his gold-inlaid junk, oblivious. A future of brazenly flaunting his stolen tech lay ahead.
"Stay put, punk. I'll lop off that ugly mug with one swing."
Face beaming with murderous intent masked as joy, I replied to the official.
"Tell him it's an honor. I'll attend gladly."
"I'll send you off artistically too."
One smiling bastard, one sweating one. Next stop: decided.
As dusk fell, the grand hall screamed wealth and power. Western chandeliers' glow mingled with thick incense, creating an exotic haze. Without the tense standoff between silk-robed Damascus nobles and chain-mailed Western knights in surcoats, it might've been elegant.
If the audience hall was refined restraint, this was a showcase of Damascus riches smeared everywhere. Golden candelabras lit the soaring ceiling as if made for it alone; perfumers' souls scented every corner.
Amid the glittering throng, I stood in plain black thobe, weapon at my hip. Normally, arms were forbidden here. But no soldier stopped me. They'd all seen the parade's star and whose forge birthed the city's arsenal.
Western nobles gulped, eyeing me warily; Damascus ones mentally tallied costs to outfit their own men like that.
Today's undisputed star. But one tactless fool shattered the vibe.
"Brothers of Jerusalem! A toast to great Duqaq! Today's parade was a true... feast for the eyes!"
Justus. Couldn't stand the spotlight shifting to me, huh? Dismissing the afternoon's majesty as mere spectacle to steal the mood.
Nobles' chatter froze cold. Even his own envoys sighed inwardly, "Here we go again." But he was oblivious.
At his arrogant wave, servants wheeled out a silk-draped stand. Unveiled: a shoddy Sirion knockoff on crimson velvet, embroidered with gold and purple thread.
"Our Western smiths crafted this masterpiece referencing your Sirion. Elevated the crude aesthetics. Grateful for Damascus's inspiration."
Did he sense the stares? Peak obliviousness—how'd he even make the envoy cut? I glanced at Guillaume instead. He met my eyes, then looked away pointedly. Our private chat still on, then.
His glossy diplomacy boiled down to one thing: "Your boasted tech? Our smiths could copy and prettify it in a heartbeat."
I smirked inwardly at the craft-piece masquerading as military gear. It aped our scale layout and stress structure—laughable.
The fool preened smugly, head high in provocation. Credit where due: good dummy for my show. A bit of praise might fit.
"Complex owner, your thoughts? Quite different from your crude wares—eager for your verdict. As an expert."
Blind to the room, sweat beading on his comrades' brows. Poor envoys, stuck hauling this idiot.
I locked eyes with Duqaq through the thin curtain. He watched goblet in hand: "Stage set. Cook."
"Petty. Could've laid it nicer."
Shoving the thought aside, I stepped to the hall's center.
"So confident? Mind if I test this 'masterpiece' myself?"
My smile deepened; Justus's face twitched. Too late to retract.
I drew the Farah curved sword smoothly from my waist.
Shing— Sleek draw, revealing the blade. Ahead-of-its-time graceful curve, packed with gray damascus waves, gleamed coldly under the chandeliers. None here could deny its breathtaking beauty—not even me, its maker.
"Great Malik! On this joyous occasion, allow such rudeness? It's a tribute for you!"
"No matter."
His potato-server instincts finally pinged danger. Desperate plea to Duqaq, brushed off neatly.
"Armor protects. Beauty aside, it must perform to stay by me. The guard captain tested it anyway. Proceed, complex owner."
Escape sealed. His flustered red-blue face—satisfying, like shedding dead weight. Time to focus.
Shatter his delusion that my slim blade couldn't pierce his "masterpiece."
Swords slash, not thrust well. But this was a hwandō. Normal Sirion might deflect or slide off scales. But his? My flawed design, copied faithfully. I alone knew the fatal weak spot, the force to shatter scales.
My baby, after all.
"Farah. Forged with the joy of each strike."
I chanted softly, stepping back with my right foot. Muscles taut like a bowstring, I sighted the sloppy scale gap beneath the fancy velvet.
One leap.
Slash—CRUNCH!! Pinpoint strike. The keen edge shredded velvet like paper. Chest scales shattered without dispersing shock; Farah's tip pierced empty torso, impaling back scales in one go.
All eyes—save Justus's—locked on my blade and blow. Damascus nobles intrigued; envoys sizing up the foreign smith over their pawn.
Silence for piercing his Sirion? Or my Farah? Or me? Probably all three.
But the junk wasn't done. Structurally weak, domino-effect followed: shattered scales spilled, dragging others down. Gold thread frayed, velvet fluttered bloodlike, exposing the shoddy frame. No eyes on him now.
Damascus nobles, comparing to the parade's real Sirion, speechless. Duqaq, surely smiling behind the curtain, stayed silent.
Justus—abandoned even by envoys—hugged his wrecked fake, orphaned.
I awaited Duqaq's entrance.
"..."
No mockery. Just a polite bow urging judgment, then slid pristine Farah home.
Shing, click.
That crisp sound cut the chill air—prologue to judgment on the brazen spy. The noise sealing his schemes' end, deciding his fate.