"So Cairo sent a letter… what could it be about?"
"We'll know soon enough," I said.
Without realizing it, I'd started walking faster.
Saladin sent me a letter—personally. Why?
Saladin—though that was the Western shorthand.
Ṣalāḥ ad-Dīn Yūsuf ibn Ayyūb.
Something like that, at least. Hence the Ayyubid dynasty.
His house rose under Zengi, then Zengi's son Nur ad-Din, and from there took control of Egypt. After Nur ad-Din died, Saladin seized Syria too—and later succeeded in retaking Jerusalem, becoming the great hero of the Islamic world.
A Kurdish minority who became sultan over Egypt and Syria…
It took ability—yes—but luck too.
And right now, he was the most dangerous enemy I had.
"Move, Aig."
The townspeople spotted me and surged forward.
Aig and Garnier pushed back the crowd—merchants, rabbis, anyone trying to close in.
"Slow down! At this rate I'm going to die of breathlessness!" Aig wheezed as he chased after me.
The reception hall was already packed with knights and officials.
Drums sounded.
I checked my attire and stepped inside.
"The sword of the royal house of Jerusalem, the rebuilder of Eilat—Prince Baldwin enters!"
Rebuilder of Eilat.
Every time they announced it, it made my skin crawl.
Still—dignity mattered. Or at least the appearance of it.
I forced my face into a solemn mask, crossed the hall, and sat in the reserved seat.
Garnier gestured sharply.
"Bring in the envoy from Cairo."
A moment later a man strode into the center of the hall.
A turban, a long moustache—Muslim, unmistakably.
All the knights and soldiers glared at him.
Yet he held himself steady.
He's nervous, though.
I could feel it faintly, like a thin thread of emotion.
Killing or torturing messengers wasn't unheard of.
There was even a sultan who got furious at a conversion demand and threatened his envoys right back—told them to convert to Islam instead.
Out of ten, only one actually did. That was how the story went.
No wonder the man was tense.
He began to read the letter aloud.
"To Baldwin of Jerusalem—may the glory and grace of Allah Most High be upon you. This letter…"
Garnier translated at my side.
The message was simple.
Mostly expressions of gratitude.
It never outright said You protected our caravans, but the implication was impossible to miss.
The envoy read the final lines.
"…Hearing that your body is frail, I send with this messenger medicines prepared by the palace physicians, along with gifts. May Allah's peace rest upon you."
"…."
A long silence settled over the hall.
Why did the air suddenly feel so thick?
I cleared my throat and spoke slowly.
"You have worked hard to bring this letter here. You may go."
"The commander of the valiant warriors instructed me to return with your reply," the envoy said. "If you intend to send one, that is."
"A reply…"
Why did Saladin write to me in the first place?
Stopping Reynald from rampaging—that was probably the main reason.
Maybe he was simply curious about a thirteen-year-old who'd done something unexpected.
So how should I answer?
I opened my mouth—
And something half-unconscious slipped out.
"Tell him… the answer to this letter will be delivered in Jerusalem."
"In Jerusalem…"
Was that too abrupt?
But we were destined to clash over Jerusalem anyway.
"I understand," the envoy said, bowing. "I will convey your words to the commander of the valiant warriors."
He left the hall.
The knights—who had been holding their tongues—began murmuring at once.
"For Saladin to send a letter to His Highness… I can't guess his intent. But…"
Garnier looked at me.
"'In Jerusalem'—a meaningful choice of words."
"One day, that moment will come," I said with a shrug.
Saladin's goal was simple.
Drive the Franks into the sea. Reclaim Jerusalem.
Did he seize power to pursue that cause?
Or did he pursue that cause to justify seizing power?
Whichever was true, one thing was certain: we would fight.
Did Saladin realize why I stopped Reynald?
I shook my head.
Then Garnier asked, "What should be done with the medicines, the silverware, the silks the envoy brought?"
"Silverware and silks?"
Right—there had been wagons.
If I accepted them openly, it would look like I'd taken payment from Saladin.
Was that what he wanted?
But sending them back felt like a waste.
I considered for a heartbeat, then spoke.
"Store them in the city treasury. Since they came from Saladin, it's better to treat them as public funds rather than personal gifts."
Then I added, "We can distribute them among the residents, and later recover part of it through taxes."
That would blunt the gossip.
Garnier nodded.
"A wise decision. I'll have my men inventory everything immediately."
"And what of the matter I asked about before?"
"I've already notified the other Hospitaller fortresses," Garnier said in a low voice. "Even after we depart, the escorts will continue."
He leaned closer.
"Even if the Templars choose Reynald's side, we Hospitallers will obey only His Majesty the King—and your orders."
"Good," I said.
Pragmatic, as always.
They understood that—right now—peace was necessary.
"In a few years, there will be a war for Jerusalem," I said. "Until then, we avoid battle and build strength."
Saladin would likely move first against Aleppo and Mosul in the north. Only after that would he be ready to proclaim jihad against Jerusalem.
Outside, the voices of excited townspeople drifted in.
I rose from my chair.
"Then let's go enjoy the festival," I said, smiling.
"For now, the immediate fire seems extinguished."
That night.
Even after the festival ended, I remained in my office late into the darkness.
"Alright… this should be enough."
Documents were piled endlessly before me—mostly financial records.
How much came in. How much went out.
Mind-numbing.
Why am I doing this, exactly?
"Are you reading again this late?" Aig asked as he entered with a lamp.
He looked just as drowsy as I felt, stifling yawns.
"There's a lot to organize," I said—then yawned myself.
In the game, you just checked numbers.
Here, you had to read everything, line by line.
The minor details were handled by clerks, but the big calls still landed on my shoulders.
"The twenty thousand dinars from Venice as the final payment, and the wages paid out to soldiers…"
"Please sleep," Aig said earnestly. "If you keep doing this every night, you'll collapse before you even reach Jerusalem."
"At least then I'd get to rest," I said with a grin.
Then I gestured at the papers.
"Or… you want to come help me?"
"I can't read," Aig muttered, face reddening.
Right. Medieval world.
Some knights even prided themselves on not reading—claimed literacy made men soft. Commoners didn't need the skill at all.
"Come here. I'll teach you."
Letter by letter, I walked him through it.
A few minutes later, he could sound out Latin characters—slowly, clumsily, but successfully.
"See? Not that hard."
Aig nodded, and I laughed.
It was absurd—me, reading and writing Latin.
And Occitan, too.
If I ever went back to 21st-century Korea, maybe I should apply to be a priest.
Former prince of the Kingdom of Jerusalem. Led crusaders against wicked infidels. Can ride a horse.
I'd probably get slapped and thrown out, though.
"Lately… you've been staying up more often," Aig said carefully. "Is something worrying you?"
"Money," I replied with a shrug. "Money worries me."
To be fair, Eilat's revenue wasn't small.
But—
Strictly speaking, it isn't my money.
It all went into the royal treasury. What I could spend personally was limited.
"Then… I should return the coins you gave me—"
"Keep them," I said.
I wasn't about to take back pocket change from a kid.
I needed another way.
If I ask Baldwin IV, he'll provide funds… but I'd need a reason, and that becomes complicated.
I tried to remember the game.
I'd played Last Crusaders hundreds of times. Something had to be there.
Half-asleep, drifting, three options surfaced:
Loot a conquered city.Silk Road trade.Beg Europe for donations.
None of them fit well, not right now.
Then something clicked.
Right. That.
There was a way to make money quickly—almost absurdly so.
A product that was basically an early-game money cheat.
I snapped fully awake and looked at Aig.
"Aig. Tomorrow morning, summon any Saracen alchemists nearby."
"Alchemists…?"
He frowned.
"Even if you're desperate for money, you can't rely on frauds like that, my lord."
"Of course turning lead into gold is nonsense," I said.
Well—technically possible with a particle accelerator, but ridiculous.
Not what I'm after.
"What I need from them is something else."
I leaned forward.
"Have you ever heard of a distiller?"
"A distiller…" Aig repeated, thinking. "Do you mean an alembic? The apparatus alchemists use—like a round vessel with a tall neck…"
"Yes," I said, smiling. "That. Exactly."
"And why would you need an alembic?"
"Because I'm going to use it to make alcohol," I said, as if it were obvious.
What sold better than liquor?
Whisky. Brandy. Rum. Gin. Vodka.
With a still, I could make them all.
Aig shook his head, bewildered.
"I think you're simply dizzy from staying up so late. I'll ask again tomorrow morning."
His earnest expression made me burst into laughter.
My laughter echoed into the Red Sea night.