2 hours after the events of Hajj, Misaq, now under the false identity Qasim, was being taken to prison by Malik.

"Could we talk this out? Your friend stopped, maybe we should too." Said Misaq, now disguised as Qasim. Ugh, double identities are so hard to keep track of. I’m starting to lose myself.

"He stopped to shit, you know that. If a man needs to go, he goes." Replied Malik, who seemed to be in a good mood.

"If you let me go, we could be friends."

"How does that help me?"

"Well, the power of friendship-"

"I know the meaning of friendship. You, however, would be the wrong kind of friend to have. How old are you now, 30?"

"20."

"20!? My word, you look old. You should try growing a full beard like the rest of us men, might earn you some proper respect in the deserts. I suspect you'll have plenty of time for that in jail.``

"But..."

"Besides, friends don't start friends by trying to strangle one another. We, oh look at that, we're here."

Qasim gazed towards the jail or whatever was left of it. It appeared to be a crumbling fortress, perhaps the kind you hear about in stories. It was 4 stories high and occupied an oasis. There were date trees around and woodcutters performing their duties, cutting the wood from the trees and building wooden structures.

No, those were not woodcutters. They were prisoners. They must have been here for quite some time. Judging by their lack of one hand and a tongue, it seems these all used to be thieves. Qasim could suddenly see his face very clearly; to be tortured in life and then in death. Bizarrely enough, they seemed to be smiling. Perhaps they had gone mad under the heat?

Qasim took a look at the sun. By now, it was time for the Maghrib prayer, the sun near the end. Yet the desert is a cruel mistress, it burns brightest near the end. 2 birds flew overhead, thinking of what species Qasim could not tell.

The workers wore the traditional salwar kameez, a long thin shirt, and pyjamas. But they looked torn and their brown skin was exposed to the world to see. Including one particular man's...

"Abdul! Your dong is showing!" Bellowed Malik, who had gone slightly ahead of Qasim. Not that Qasim could do anything about it, as his hands had been bound by Malik after his other friend had left. Or rather, stayed. He would not have gotten very far.

One of the thieves, the one named Abdul, gave Malik a toothy smile and turned the other way, carefully tucking away the dates of the palms while washing the trees with the dirty bathwater. He was an odd sight to be sure.

Then again, he might not have been the Abdul to whom Malik was referring. The other prisoners also gave Malik toothy smiles and pressed on with their work. Something about those smiles irked Qasim. They seemed practiced, as though there was nothing humorous here. Something else was going on, perhaps a jest of sorts.

"Ah, here we are." A heavy voice spoke behind Qasim. He did not even have to guess. What a mockery today had been. First, he'd felt happy for once in his life as a date trader. Then he'd seen corpses that had been presumably raped and killed by bandits. Those same bandits had beaten him black and blue, then left him to die in a sandstorm. Then he'd found himself in a strange machine, possibly the work of Jinns. Then he'd been cursed with magic. All of his co-workers were dead, his stall ruined, and his magic as useless as a bit of wind on a hot day. And now he was about to enter a world of horror. If he could turn back time, he would...

Huh, what would I do? Thought Qasim. If I had known the bandits would be there, I would have remained in bed. But then Jubair would have had my head for missing the busiest day of the month as well as for spouting nonsense about murder and mayhem. As common as bandits are, there were far too many arrows for such an attack to have gone unnoticed. The bodies looked decayed, yet they hadn't been there long. What am I missing?

Lost in thought, Qasim got kicked by Amir. The large foot firmly planted itself into Qasim's backside and knocked him solidly to the ground, causing him to scream in pain.

"Oh, don't be such a baby bitch. You were prepared to do the same to us." Said, Amir

"No no, I wouldn't have-Aargh" cried Qasim. It seemed he had landed on some sharp rocks that had cut into him. Blood appeared in lines around his buttocks, his kameez ruined, causing parts of his flesh to become visible to the two strange guardsmen.

"Oops." Said Amir belatedly.

"Right, let's get him to Farid. He can do some healing, then administer some beatings." Said, Malik

In a moment of confusion at the weird sentence structure, Qasim managed to ask a question Malik, now distracted from his pain.

"Your torturer is also your healer?" Asked Qasim

"Why not? Who better to show pain than a doctor. Well, a practicing one anyway. He's also the executioner and plumber. Did you know that human bones can be quite hard? During a beheading, he has to make sure the blade cleaves through bones and flesh in a single hit, to show to the crowd his skill in using the blade as well as prevent further pain to the prisoners via a failed execution. Resetting bones are simple enough or so he says

He also needs to be well versed in medicine as well as anatomy. We don't want prisoners to poison themselves before execution so he either cures them or bleeds the vein where he thinks the poison is said to be located. Occasionally, some merchant's son gets wrongly imprisoned so during the beatings, he needs to be able to heal visible injuries to prevent the merchant from trying to pursue actions other than the freedom of his family while also removing the evidence of said beatings in the first place.

The Assassins built this fortress centuries ago as one of many. They were meant to hold off Mongol Scouts but they failed as that order is now no more. A friend of ours named Abu Theuban, yes snake, bought the rights to the fortress. He brought various slaves here for reconstruction and prisoners from all over for rehabilitation.

The slaves eventually died of exhaustion but the main base of the tower is done. You should have no trouble living here. We'll send a note to your family regarding your current position. Now and then, we need to remove shit and gore from the place so I suspect you'll be a pretty good volunteer unless you too want to be like the ones out there.

That being said, you'll only get a meal a day. Might as well lose some fat while here. Plus, you did assault a guard, so I intend for Farid, the torturer here, to put some sense into you. Don't worry, you won't lose a hand or tongue. Just your will and day-to-day life. Hmm, maybe some whipping? I'll go and make a recommendation."

As Malik left for the fortress, Qasim began processing his situation. Maybe Jubair would not have taken my head.

Then Amir spoke

"I know what you're thinking. That we're doing you a kindness by not relieving you of your tongue or hands. But here, you'll carry shit until your bones tire. You'll eat dirt or die trying. You'll be a foot away from clean water and forced to wallow in filth. Farid is about to instruct you in true pain. He'll poison you, fracture you, whip you and fondle you. Then he'll heal you and start over again.

You don't know what happened to Hajj but I don't need to tell you anything. I will tell you this; had the man who owned that house been here, he'd make sure you'd live. Probably without your legs and arms while being slowly flayed off. This is not his word, it is the law. We have not done your kindness, this is justice.

A 5-year grudge for a girl you never met. A fool's tale, if I've ever heard one. You must have been a hormone-addled teenager. But then, we're all fools, in this world and the next.``

Suddenly, Amir grabbed Qasim and forced him to walk towards the fortress, taking out his sword and now pointing it at his back. Qasim, not wanting to walk into the blade, ventured toward his new home.

Hormone-addled teenager? Maybe, but that doesn’t excuse what Hajj did in response.

XXX

"Oh, those assholes. They never learn."

Farid wiped the sweat from his brow as he examined his latest subject. Farid was of dark skin, possessing a full-grown beard with beady eyes. He was also completely naked and erect, currently examining his tools with an intense gaze. Misaq had squirmed quite a bit under it.

Upon being brought to the fortress, Qasim had gotten chained to a wall and had been left there by Amir and Malik who went to their supposed friend. Said friend had arrived minutes later, carrying a battle whip.

Their conversation had gone something like this

"You broke into a noble's home in the middle of broad daylight with that body?" Asked a bewildered Farid.

"Attempted to break in." Replied Qasim

"Well, I must be the first of fools because you do not look anything like a thief or assassin. Maybe like the ass of an assassin, his thick, round one."

"Yes, we get it, I'm fat. Can we get this over with?" Said, Qasim

"Funny guy. You tend to be the ones that crack first."

With introductions out of the way, Malik and Amir unchained Qasim. They then stripped Qasim of his clothes and walked him over to a red room, where he was promptly strapped to a table that looked quite messy. Malik and Amir bid their farewells to Farid and went about their day. Which began the current conversation.

"So which tool are you going to start with?" Asked a fearful Qasim.

"My fists and then we'll see where we go from there."

Farid then proceeded to gag Qasim with a cloth. Over an hour, Farid punched Qasim once quite hard, Qasim would retch and wallow in pain. Once his reaction was done, Farid would then go to work on Qasim, whipping his chest and slapping his face with a rug.

After an hour, Qasim fell unconscious. He awoke in the middle of the night, to the sounds of a man screaming in the darkness. He peered out and Farid showed up, carrying teeth. He ungagged Qasim, beckoning him to speak.

"Sorry about that, my patients needed help."

"Your...patients?"

"Well, the subject is more like it. We Arabians don't treat criminals well. We often kill them outright than bother with the whole write-down of the crime and then exact punishment."

"Where did these people come from?"

"Grunts of other merchants. They carry equipment and supplies. They protected them against the wrong man who now wants them to suffer. Such is the way of men and their merchandise."

"Why do they have toothy smiles?"

"What? Oh, that. Well, a lot of people have wisdom teeth that tear into the skin of their cheeks. These people have their teeth growing all wrong because the wisdom teeth changed their teeth orientation. So naturally, I, Farid Salahuddin, pulled out their wisdom teeth and tried to straighten them as much as I could."

"But you're a torturer!"

"And? It's my job, I take no real pleasure in it. If anything, all torturers should not take any pleasure whatsoever in their duty. The pleasure often overrides their senses, making them give too much pain and the subject breaks open, with his guts and mind spilling along the floor."

"And the blood?"

"Yes, dumbass, there's blood when guts are spilled."

"No, I mean what's with the blood on the walls."

"It's paint. Normally I shouldn't give away trade secrets but it looks like you've learned your lesson after one night. We make the room look as intimidating as possible to input a little bit of psychological torture. Mind you, a room covered in blood and guts could be quite unsanitary."

"Why are you naked? Why am I naked?"

"Well, it's quite hot these days so we need to make you sweat to lose heat so you don't die of heatstroke in the middle of one of my sessions. Plus it makes people squirm quite a bit. Although your penis is quite hard, what, seen any beautiful women lately?"

No women thought Qasim. No no no, keep those thoughts to yourself, no sane man would have them in a country where they would cut your organs off for having such a desire.

Instead, Qasim changed the topic.

"Why did we say we are Arabians? I too am Arabian."

"You speak differently, with an accent. Though I can't tell where from. Plus you look a bit strong for someone well-fed, that right there is a very big mystery. I would have thought my very first punch would leave you howling in agony!"

I was, thought Qasim, you gagged me to prevent that. Or was there another reason?

"Why did you gag me?"

"I like bondage," said Farid with a shrug. His eyes twinkled with mischief.

Desperate for a topic they could agree on, Qasim asked "What is to be my fate?"

Farid replied, "Excuse me?"

Qasim "Amir and Malik-"

Farid's face darkened, an impressive feat for a black man. Qasim knew better than to question his origins. People occasionally got darker skin here throughout a generation.

"Amir and Malik are products of a long-dead creed. They are ghosts without reason, aimlessly wandering the world. I work with them because my master orders me to. They may think of me as a friend but I am simply being courteous. I have no bonds towards them."

"What's their story?"

"I won't say until next time. They were right about some things. You are a prisoner here. You will help me carry shit, torture others, and practice medicine. Plus you will be branded in the morning so in case you run, you will automatically get identified. Sleep well, you'll need it in the morning."

"What's happening in the morning?"

"My master is going to come and take a look at the quality of his men here, maybe even recruit some. He visits every day but tomorrow he's got no work waiting for him, I think."

"Who is he?"

"Ah right, I never told you who you tried to rob. He is a merchant and warlord who rules the 7 stones to the East. His name is Jabir, father of Jubair, commander of the Iron Legions.

"....Fuck."

"Language." With that Farid left.

While Farid was leaving, Misaq had one thought left in his mind. Though Farid had not said so, the fortress looked old. Misaq observed his chain closely. Truly, it was of the regular quality. But what of the wall? The bricks were carefully layered yet even they could be brought down. Misaq readied his Essence, gathering a gust of his wind in his palms, then launched it at the bricks attached to his chain. They did not budge.

Sighing, Misaq decided to lie down. Sweat oozed from his skin, fear dripped down his face, and the thought of facing his old rapist was like a scene from a nightmare. To think his son had been a source of comfort in dark times. It almost seemed like another lifetime ago. Once, Misaq had enjoyed the solitude of his own home. Now more than ever, he craved company. A limb must have been dismembered from him when he had activated Jinn's lair. The limb of rational thought. Only at the end had he even dared to leave. In one final attempt, Misaq pulled the chain forward, daring to hope beyond hope. It failed, of course, most things in his life. Beginning to sit down, he began to recall the horror of the first time he had been in the markets.

XXX

3 years ago. on an unremarkable day for most under a blazing sun

The sun scorched the hot sands, evaporating water and killing insects on sight. A human should not have been able to survive, much less thrive in such conditions. Yet they did, for the Kingdom of Osmus of Qatar contained a marketplace that did not care for the whims of the earth. The Kingdom had received its name from the fortified port city which served as its capital, yet that, to most people. is unknown. Except for Misaq, a date trader working in the shadows of stone buildings. One nice thing he could say about Qatar was that it had its fair share of people from all over. There were African tribesmen exchanging tokens (or was it totems?) and large animal carcasses for precious resources like metals and ore. European mercenaries gathered near merchant stalls, eagerly awaiting their next set of orders to attack and enslave clans, possibly to ship them back to the Lands Across the Seas, for the "honor" of serving their betters. Near a thousand people walked to-and-fro the alleyways, seeking out large shanty stalls containing the main goods for which the Kingdom had become famous: jewelry, especially the priceless pearls found at the bottom of the sea, jealously guarded by kingdom royals, fat yet sturdy under all the bulk of their steel armor, confident that it would take a madman to try to assault them. Another thing that Osmus was not short of was madmen if Misaq was any indication.

A thousand times, his parents had told him to not go into the markets of Osmus, to stay and pray at Hajj, to beg like the rest. But Misaq could be a beggar no longer. He felt shame, that though he could work, his life was bound to the underworld. A comfortable life it was, yet the beggars were the secrets of Saudi Arabia. They were the secrets of every kingdom. People could have the most private and secretive of conversations next to beggars, under the belief that they could not use it to their benefit. True, a beggar doesn't have much say in life. Most people who became beggars often very quickly lost their eyes, tongues, and arms. But there were other ways to talk and plenty of people to talk to. The best informants are the ones you never see. Misaq recalled the days he spent lying around, getting fat off of rich delicacies that he had bought from the local traders. Hidden in a rugged shawl, he had listened to the most fascinating of conversations and collected scraps of invaluable knowledge. He had understood why his elder brother had left, to make a name for himself in the Lands Beyond the Sea, under the strength of his conviction, his faith that he could be someone better. So Misaq now followed in his footsteps. First, he had to make a profit in Osmus. Then he could book a boat. Such a simple plan, the power of ideas. And yet, it went wrong oh so easily and oh so quickly.

Misaq planted his shop in the middle of the farming district and had brought over piles of dates. He then began selling them at the usual rate. It took all of 5 minutes before one of the nearby stalls noticed how well he did and called forth the protection he had bought.

A dark-skinned man approached Misaqs stall. He wore a brown shawl with yellowed eyes. Unbeknownst to Misaq, he carried a Warhammer at his back. He approached at a slow pace, as Misaq sold off the remainder of one of his piles to a nearby merchant, the same merchant who felt jealousy for him. The dark-skinned man wrapped the shawl around his face and opened his mouth to speak.

"Hello."

"Oh what the fuck- sorry, you scared me."

"I see the Arabians have a word for that too."

"Excuse me?"

"Neverminded. Let us talk. You seem to be new here so I'm going to let you off easy. Give me everything you have earned and we shall discuss rates."

"Are you robbing me? In broad daylight? In front of all these people?"

"They do not care. This is hardly their affair."

"Listen, buddy," Misaq moved close to the man, who seemed to be glaring now, "this here, is a country of Muslims. By the word of God and our Nabi, Muhammad Peace be upon him, should a man see another commit evil, he shall stop further evil, if not by hand then by the tongue. At the very least, he will think of it as evil in his heart. So I dare you to try."

The dark man chuckled. Misaq found himself feeling somewhat nervous. Usually, that deterred quite a large number of people. Upon closer inspection, he realized that the man possessed a war hammer. Pointed at the back and blunt at the front. Misaq found himself sweating, an admirable feat for a man who spent his entire life naked on burning sand. The dark man noticed his gaze and sighed. Then, he removed the war hammer from the strap on his back and began to speak once more.

"How is it that no one ever told you, that in this life, all people will ever do is think of the act as evil. They are not brave nor are their tongues of great wit. Perhaps people do not even see this as evil anymore, just a part of their life. Besides, I gave you a chance. I doubt any other bandit would care. They wouldn't kill an unarmed or surrendering target, but they've already killed, what's a few more sins?"

The dark-skinned eyes stared at Misaq hungrily. Confusing the hunger for pity, Misaq.

"Ok, listen, black man, how about you return that weapon to whoever you stole it from, like a good slave and-". It was at this point that Misaq realized he had spoken a bit rudely. He looked closely at the black man, who seemed to be getting bigger.

No wait, he got closer, though Misaq

His eyes were no longer hungry. They looked dead inside. All of a sudden, they seemed to fill with a fire, a kind of hatred you read about in books. The righteous hatred. How odd to see it in a man committing acts of horror.

"Boy," he seemed to be on the verge of stuttering. He beckoned Misaq closer. Misaq moved slightly back. The man then lunged forward with his left hand, like a cat who had just pounced.

Crack!

Misaq felt his nose break as the man smashed his face in with his nose. His pupils dilated, and blood pooled on the dead earth. Before Misaq could cry for help, the same hand seized his throat. A foot firmly planted in Misaq's stomach, causing Misaq to retch with the recently eaten meat of a goat. The hand momentarily let go of his throat, then the man grabbed his hair with his left hand and punched Misaq's chest 3 times with his right. Each time Misaq felt something leave him, his ribs broke in agony. The foe then let go of Misaq entirely. Misaq could not so much as scream as he felt his lungs close in. He gasped for breath and fell to the earth, crying, vomiting, and bewildered at the tourists who somehow ignored him. Some dared to stand by and watch with glee. Misaq rolled over to see the dark-skinned man take out his war hammer.

He swung.

Crunch!

The war hammer smashed his stall to pieces. Years of hard work, have gone down into the abyss. Then the man turned towards the dates. As he raised his war hammer for one final smash, he seemed irritated. Then he screamed in agony as cold steel emerged out of his chest. The man fell over without a word, blood coming out of his chest. This time, the people simply walked away. Good, clean cut.

Misaq turned toward his savior. He was a tall man with a long mustache and a clean-shaven face. He wore the turban of a Mamluk and was finely dressed. He was not alone; 5 people followed him, who seemed to wear Jinn masks and chainmail armor. As Misaq began to blackout, he heard the leader's final words.

"Take him to my chamber for healing. We could use-" Misaq’s world faded to black.

xxx

A few hours later, Misaq lay curled on the floor of a poorly designed room. The black brick walls and wooden stalagmites disturbed him immensely. His clothes had been stripped from him and he was blindfolded. He could feel cotton bindings on his arms and legs, as well as wrapped around his dick. He awoke and struggled to move. Unable to see, Misaq decided to stay put and think.

There's no way people didn't see him carry me. I assume he had been carrying me. Maybe one of his bodyguards? At any rate, they should have reported to the guards. Maybe Arabian guards can't do much in Osmus? No no, don't think like that, you're still a person, maybe he tricked the folk into thinking he was going to heal you.

Misaq realized something. He had been healed. The cuts and bruises he had taken from the black man seemed to have vanished and he was feeling much better. He even felt clean. Wait, was that soap he had been selling? Had they bathed him too?

Though he could not see, Misaq heard a door open to his front. A man appeared and removed the blind old blindfold Misaq. It was a young figure, as young as he. But to Misaq's eyes, he looked quite handsome standing in front of a wooden doorway with light appearing at his behind. The man seemed to be half-naked, only wearing a kurta and a kameez. He possessed, much to Misaq's disbelief, a curved sword on his right side and a beautifully constructed dagger on his left side. The man radiated wealth, pride, and grace. He had yellow hair and blue eyes, an extreme rarity in these parts with a fair complexion. His legs rippled with power and his arms, though thick, had calm and precise movements, well-practiced for the day. Such an obnoxious-looking fool.

A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

He spoke gently "Hmm, no wonder father picked you. He must have wanted to satiate his desires, then leave the rest of you for me. Sorry but the gag remains on. Can't have you screaming in the middle of the night now, can we?"

Screaming?

He went around Misaqs backside and picked him up with his arms. He then put his arms around Misaq on his nipples and started marching him towards the light. Misaq tried not to blush. Acknowledgment that such a feeling existed within Misaq would surely bar him from the afterlife of Islam or at the very least, send him to Hell, then send him to Heaven on the Day of Judgement.

As they walked, Misaq desperately urged his penis to stay down. He began thinking of thoughts that would remove his need for sex such as petting dogs or catching babies. Distracted, Misaq stubbed his big toe on the edge of the stairs. He attempted to howl in pain but his movement was restricted by the man next to him who moved to the front and lay Misaq down.

"Oh you big baby, a toe wound? We have those for breakfast. Come on, the doctor isn't far. Oh, by the way, the name's Jubair."

Misaq looked at the man who must be of the warrior caste. Determined not to let him down, Misaq stood up. At which point his penis straightened out. The two men looked at each other in silence. The pretty one looked away first.

"Well, that's pretty embarrassing. I can see what you weren't trying to show me. Though I'm flattered that you... think of me in that way."

Misaq turned towards him. Was he blushing? thought Misaq.

A loud, aggressive voice called out to them "Jubair, I need to finish the harem. Get over here with our prey and we can begin along with your brothers and sisters!".

Jubair examined Misaq closely. He seemed...lost.

"I'm sorry we had to meet like this. I think you would have done it willingly in another life."

"Mmmph."

"That a yes?"

"Mmmph."

"Ok then, let's keep going. But uh, I'll just carry you there."

Jubair went behind Misaq, clasped his hands around his waist, and slowly lifted his feet off the ground. Then the two began to walk towards the door at the end of the passage. Misaq heard Jubair cry.

"Damn it!" He put Misaq down and smashed his fist into the wooden wall. It broke a wooden board. He whirled around to meet Misaq, his eyes filled with hatred and lust. Or perhaps a lust for hatred?

"I promise you, whoever you are, there will come a day where he will meet his end. On that day, I'll bring you along. For now, let's just play our part."

Before Misaq could think of a reply or remember that he could talk with a cotton gag on, Jubair carried him towards the door and opened it. Misaq could barely comprehend what it was he was seeing. His eyes opened wide.

It was an orgy. There was no better way to describe it. In a massive chamber with beds and carpets, men and women were intertwined with one another, just lumps of flesh and ooze on the floor. The beds were seemingly empty. The men were bound and the women gagged but the men could speak and the women could move. The room was filled with a powerful odor that made Misaqs knees weak. The gas seemed purple. Wine and water were spread everywhere with fully armored soldiers distributing the stuff before stripping down and tying women to the beds. These women did not look happy. They were of different skin colors and body textures, having been collected from across the lands or at the very least, born into diverse families. They screamed into their gags as men and women pressed their bodies into them. Misaq looked away.

A pair of soft and firm hands took Misaq's face and opened his eyes. It was the man who had saved him at the market from death. He looked towards Jubair.

"So my son, how goes the day?"

"Fine, sir."

"Report."

"The French and Venetians move eastwards, the Capa Bari will be gathering more info on them later Soon, they shall fall to the old Swiss kingdoms. The war in Japan rages on, neither side seems to be gaining any clear victory. They suspect it shall last for decades to come. The Tudors are amassing massive amounts of wealth via secretive channels near Osmus. The Italians are fighting over their names. The Holy Roman Empire shall request our aid."

"Perfect. I will be king in these lands in a matter of time. If not king, then at least royal advisor. Your brothers shall be my enforcers and you my spymaster. But I feel that we need a break."

"Sir, there's more. The Ottomans are experimenting with gunpowder."

"And?"

"It misses a lot, takes a long time to reload and our armor can take it. But they are inventive. They could-"

"Let me stop you right there. I don't care about 'could'. Anyone could do anything. Why someday we may even be able to fly if the Izunami are anything to go by. The Ottomans are another empire in a long line of empires. The Mamluks are unlikely to fall at their hands. Take their women and their kids, and they'll be powerless to do much. Besides, it's not my area of expertise."

"That's why I'm reporting to you, so you can tell the king, caliph, whatever to stop them now before they are a threat."

"Son, there are enough monsters and magicians in these lands to decimate them where they stand. My men are plentiful and the harems full. No more talk of this, tonight we fuck."

Misaq had been enchanted by the conversation. It appears that this man was an information broker, an international one. To cross him would be to earn a fate worse than death. Castration, perhaps boiling alive, where all available options. Then the eyes of the man lingered on him. Misaq flinched.

"Ah, Misaq was it? I've heard of you, a beggar who wants to be a date trader. It's my job to know things and tonight, you and I shall begin to know each other quite well."

With a viper's flexibility, he moves toward Misaq and grabbed his penis. He used the other hand to caress Misaq. Misaq squealed but could not move. What was he supposed to do even if he could move, fight through a dozen armed soldiers while bucking naked and tied up?

The man whispered into Misaqs ears "Don't worry, we'll let you walk away after this. You're a beggar, right? You know how to keep secrets. Plus, who would believe you? A few guards complaining can be easily silenced. You got two choices now: resist and I slowly kill you over time with acid. Might take a decade or two, but I wonder how long you'll last. Oh, if you haven't figured it out by now, by resist I mean trying something after tonight. Stay and I might make a woman out of you yet."

Jubair stiffened at his father's words. His next words spoke of horror beyond human reckoning.

"Am I to join you?"

"No, your actions require a bit of effort. Get some rest. Leave your brothers and sisters here for their hard work to pay off. We need to finish breaking these people by morning."

Jubair walked away. As he reached the door, he stopped. His eyes rested on Misaq.

"Father, I wish to see this."

"You do?"

"Yes, it shall be an enlightening experience."

"Hmm, I had a feeling you'd like this one. He's hard already so the drugs may start becoming effective."

"Or maybe he's not drugged,"

"Oh, you think he's like you? Such a silly dream." He grabbed Misaq and made his way to the king-sized bed where multiple women and men waited near. Misaq thought long about his next actions. But he had a bit of work to do.

Different people react differently to stress. You want to make me break, old man? I'll make you regret thinking that way and become a prized whore.

Islamabad 2099 A.D

Adam reviewed the historical files on Misaq. Of the Khuladeen family, his backstory was painfully presented to him on a table. Such horror was a regular occurrence in the medieval era. Still, Adam felt the urge to throw the papers away. Misaq’s parents had been farmers first, their lands stolen by Safavid invaders. Then they had begged and joined the criminal underworld by informing them of information heard between conversations. A dangerous occupation, if not for how simple they looked. Being farmers, they could have conversed with men of high and low rank without issue, at least in the Middle East.

The offspring were a different matter. The firstborn, Ibrahim, was disgusted with the way the world worked. He had left the family to pursue medical arts and arithmetic, in the lands controlled by the Ottomans. The elder sister, Sitara, spent most of her time writing and reading for nobles. The youngest, Misaq, was supposed to be a trader of great rank. His diary, found under a hill, had suggested otherwise. Misaq was great at economics because he always knew who was doing what, where, and why, via his careful listening skills in the markets of his home city.

At fourteen, he had tried to open a market, a common practice for a man of that age. He had gotten attacked, sexually assaulted, and essentially forced into a life of servitude for his would-be master. Mere days after the event, perhaps to mock fate, Misaq had attempted to flirt with a woman. Her brother had imprisoned him and sent guards to beat him whenever he ate food, to break the man from eating entirely. He had been broken, just not in the way intended. Misaq, upon release after a month, began eating meat in large amounts, eventually becoming the fat being described in the simulation. Over two years, he and Jubair formed a rather close and very illegal friendship. The rest remains to be seen.

Misaq’s patience with his situation was admirable. Certainly, most men would have reacted differently, at least tried to fight. Misaq had waited to be left alone for a chance to strike. A foolish endeavor. Oddly enough, Misaq reacted to his edited superpowers with his ease, a bizarre reaction compared to the other test subjects.

Well, times are wasting Thought Adam Time to visit the past.

XXX

Misaq began to tug at the chains once more when a thought occurred to him. He went back to the brick where the chain had been built and pushed inwards. The brick popped loose. Juggling the brick carefully around the other side, it got straightened and managed to fit back through the hole it was once placed in, freeing one of the chains. Pleased, Misaq began working on the brick. Unfortunately, he had not been paying attention. One hand grabbed his balls and the other held a knife to his throat. The hand squeezed, causing Misaq to squirm, who dared not speak. If the entity wanted to, his blood could be spilled without issue.

The figure’s hand left his lower region and beckoned him backward. Misaq turned, slowly and came face to face with Jabbir.

Jabbir looked surprised. His blade slid away from Misaq’s throat. Before Misaq could utter a word, Jabbir grabbed his throat. He was still a powerful man, casually making Misaq kneel. He spoke without a tone.

“Normally I’d kill you for missing your debts, your relation to my son no exception. But I am an information trader. So here’s the deal: tell me everything that happened at the under valleys, all those corpses. Speak carefully, for every lie will draw away your breath.”

Slowly, Misaq began to explain his story, leaving out his recovery procedure. Jabbir’s eyes gazed deep into him and eventually, his hand released him. He placed one firm hand on his shoulder and whispered into his ear.

“I cannot let you go. Few see the inside of this place and leave. If you warm Jubair again, you may do so. Try to run and I’ll leave you a cripple. Pick up sword fighting while you’re at it, could always use another meat bag for practice.” With that, the one-sided conversation ended and Jabbir departed. He vanished into the darkness.

XXX

Upon looking at the figures, Jabbir frowned. There had been at least a hundred corpses in the valley, far more than the actual number allowed for the sales. Most of them had arrows sticking in them, implying a massacre, yet Misaq’s words had stirred him. Perhaps Misaq was a heavy sleeper but others lived near there, they should have heard the screaming. It was simply impossible for all of them to have died within a minute, not without an army surrounding them. A very real possibility, however, it had many problems such as mobility and the exact weaponry the army may have possessed. Misaq had walked away from the site without a second glance. A sign of disgustion? It didn’t matter, there were other matters to attend to, such as Misaq’s ultimate fate.

Jabbir glanced to the side. His room was a simple thing in the fortress. Two library shelves, a desk with parchments, a chair, a bathroom, and a currently occupied bed. The curtains were closed but he could feel Jubair and Misaq tumble around in the covers, inserting their ends into each other. Of course, they could not see past one of the library shelves which seemed to be the end of their room. If anyone ever entered, all they would see would be a bed and a large library shelf, never realizing that behind the very sturdy shelf was a secret room and a bathroom on the side. Jabbir peeked through the hole in the wall to observe the two would-be lovers. Misaq had grown greatly since last they met, a fine grace to his body as his flesh clashed with Jubair. Jubair was attracting too much attention. He had to wear a mask to shield himself from getting flirted with on the streets, a death penalty for the powerfully moving Mamluks.

Upon arriving in the fortress and seeing that one of the prisoners named Qasim (Really, his name backward?) was trying to go unseen, Jabbir had almost decided to kill him right then and there when Jubair arrived to give his report. Upon seeing Misaq, Jabbir could see Jubairs heart open in the palm of his hands and ultimately decided not to take any action. He led the aptly named prisoner Qasim to his room along with Jubair and had allowed the two of them to get reacquainted. He had not allowed him to get branded; such action brought curiosity but he had every intention to let Misaq leave.

It's always the crazy ones. Anytime they arrive with intellect and charm, they have the power to lead nations to their rise or fall. Good thing I broke his. There are enough madmen in this country, let alone this world.

Sighing, Jabbir went back to work and started writing counter attacks, perhaps a combined burial of an entire family. The problem with being a spymaster was that no one was without suspicion. To anyone else, Misaq looked average. Well, he might be extremely handsome had he been born in a culture that valued beards and arms. At any rate, Jubair could always use a partner, especially a psychologically damaged one.

XXX

Misaq and Jubair observed each other in silence. Jubair broke the silence first.

"You think he stopped paying attention?"

"How should I know? I haven't spoken to him in years. By the way, how's the Ass-"

Jubair put his hand over Misaq's mouth and pointed towards the library. Misaq shrugged and gently removed Jubair's hand.

"How's the Ass going?"

"My ass is easy to observe. It would take a stupid person to try an Ass head-on. Besides, it won't help. There are a dozen people looking forward to taking his place already."

"Your brothers and sisters."

"No, but I suspect that he thinks so. Even if he falls, my Ass will only lead to another being on top."

“You’re terrible at this.”

“Well, excuse me, Mr. I walked into a massacre and tried to start one, but a plan doesn’t always go as it should.”

“What’s been going on?”

“Uh, there’s this team of people called the Holy League that have been formed to protect the Italian states. We were manipulating them, then a plague broke out and my father ordered all spies to return home with as many spices and goods as they could carry. Quite frankly, it’s very annoying for him to have to end an operation early. As for the Ottomans, they’re trying to take over Mamluk and Safavid territory. They won’t be able to, they just don’t have the numbers. Still, a headache to deal with. Misaq, you’re very lucky he didn’t off you while you were there. The last time the two of you were in a room, you were drunk and threatening to cut your own hands off to deprive him of a thief. Then he kicked you out.”

“Well, I did get out of the system.”

“No, you didn’t. You just severely pissed him off.”

Still, Jubair was smiling while speaking. He passed Misaq a jug of milk, clearly to straighten his nerves. Misaq graciously accepted. Something in Jubair’s expression twitched. Misaq recalled their last meeting. He… he couldn’t recall it. Misaq drank the milk, wracking his head for answers. He could not remember what had happened in the last 2 years between them.

Oh well, if I forgot, it probably wasn’t important.

Upon finishing, Misaq playfully asked.

“Want a sparring partner?”

1511 A.D, January, Jabbir’s fortress

Misaq lay peacefully in bed with his lover, Jubair, thinking of things to come. Between the two of them was presented a tapestry of history, with its twists and turns. Jubair had killed for Misaq and had slept with him, surely damning the both of them to the deepest corners of Hell. Allah does not forgive such acts. It was, perhaps, the reason why Misaqs own faith was weak. If he had hated the act, perhaps he could have repented. He had not and had wished to continue. Maybe he could be forgiven, after burning in Hell for a few centuries. He had not yet killed a single person, not for lack of trying, just that he was incompetent at the very act. Yet, as he stumbled from his bed, his gaze focused on Jubair, he began to wonder where in all of creation was he supposed to go? Sure, he had magic now, magic that could only make a puff of wind, how useful was that?

Three years. Thought Qasim My parents were beggars who spread political info. My brother, a scientist, working on devices of great renown, left out of shame of finding out that not only were we beggars, but we also did not consider it a sin. Then we were farmers and now I'm back here, in the criminal underworld. Of course, I asked for this. I went into the world filled with ideals and vendettas, a horrible enough combination if yesterday was anything to go by. Somehow, it had only been ideals that had cost me so dearly. No one leaves the Mamluks, not even in death, where you are either hated or revered, no in-between.

Misaq turned his gaze towards the library. A couple of years ago, Jubair had pushed a tile in the wall, revealing the library to have a strange contraption, causing it to act as a wall with eyes. To further cement the strangeness, Jabbir watched through the eyes, perhaps for sickening entertainment, perhaps just because he could. Misaq could see the eyes but avoided direct contact. Knowledge of secret passages was reserved between the closest of allies and Jabbir would not even consider letting Misaq live if he had known of such secrets. Jabbir might kill the both of them for merely looking in the direction of the stacks of books. Such was the way of men of power, paranoia-fueled their every motive. They had allies but no friends, enemies without end. Jabbir trusted one man, Jubair, to look after things when he was gone. Misaq knew enough of Jubairs history to never ask why Jabbir was the way he was. Centuries ago, perhaps before the time of the Prophet (Peace Be Upon Him), Jabbirs ancestor had taken to robbing the Valley of Tombs in Syria, under the belief that it contained riches beyond measure. While there, one of his most righteous ancestors found gold buried under the Tower of Elahbel. A woman attempted to stop him and was pushed aside. She broke her neck upon her fall. Having seen how easy it was to kill, that man took the gold and began robbing caravans. He married many and had frequent bloodlines but to any who knew him, they knew a most abrupt change in him, a love for violence. Only a complete madman could engage in bloody combat, leave a family in tears, destroy homes, and cut down trees. Thus, began his legacy, a legacy where his descendants would always crave violence.

Or Jabbir was making everything up and was merely encouraging that his love of violence is passed on to his son. Jabbir had many sons and daughters, he cared for only one. The others were sleazy but Jubair worked hard to become captain of the city guard, where he would release prisoners of good relation to his father as well as imprison those who seemed to oppose him. One day, the love of his life, a woman named Aisha, did exactly that. She slandered Jabbir on the streets, claiming his market of slavery to be riddled with disease. Jabbir answered in blood. He gave his son a box, which he asked not to open until presented to Aisha, as a method of peace broker. Confused but loyal, Jubair did as his father asked. Upon opening the box in front of Aisha, an extremely venomous snake attacked and bit her, paralyzing her and killing her slowly. The snake appeared to be of foreign marks, for it did not match with what locals normally hunt, leaving the case a cold open. For that, Jubair had never forgiven his father. He made it clear to his face. Then Jabbir responded by sending slaves his way, not realizing his son had found love and not lust. Of course, then the issue, in Jabbir’s eyes, had finally been resolved when I was brought to him.

The rest is history. It complicated history to be sure, but Misaq stood between Jabbir and Jubair from tearing each other apart. Though Jabbir did not look, he was easily Jubairs better, having been well versed in multiple forms of weaponry as compared to Jubair's only use of a sword. Many times had Jubair urged Misaq to pick up weaponry, at least as a method of defending himself. Misa's response had been gentle but firm, perhaps Allah may have forgiven his preferences but to take a life was to have one soul present during the Day of Judgement, ready to judge you as well as the judge himself. He'd rather have died than take a life.

Man, am I a hypocrite. The first thing I did when I got superpowers was immediately rob the dead and assault the living. I've switched my brain with my balls. What even was that, I didn't question it, I just immediately started using it. A puff of wind, of course, that's the extent of my magic.

Misaq looked at holes in the stack of books, expecting to see eyes that would look back. They were empty, as expected. Jabbir had other things to do besides bother Jubair. Misaq observed his surroundings. Truly, the room was fit for a noble, with jugs of water to shower each other, pillows spread everywhere and a Janamaz, for every prayer. There were two windows to let in light. By all logic, Misaq and Jubair should have loved one another. They did not. True, they cared for each other deeply, as the best of friends would, exchanged in coitus without issue and shared items between each other. But Jubair had known love and he did not believe this to be it. The confession had wounded Misaq but his back had been turned when it was spoken to him so Jubair had been unable to see the reaction.

Sighing, Misaq made his over to Jubair. He caressed Jubairs back, acknowledging the hard work that had gone into making it as smooth as silk information yet as thick as bricks in hardness. Jubair was awake during this, of course, he was, an assassin and guard member could hardly claim to not be able to feel a hand rubbing their flesh. Jubair purred as Misaq started rubbing it more, sensual activity for the both of them. Suddenly, a big click occurred somewhere. Misaq whirled around to find the source of the noise, only for Jubair to latch onto Misaq, his handsome bearded face staring at his cock dead-on before looking at his face. He spoke first.

"You know, I am starting to appreciate everything that went into making me. With a size that small, I'm always surprised that you can do so much with it."

"Pretty sure it's a matter of girth and not size."

"What, are you a doctor now? That brother of yours work in medicine?"

"He said he was some kind of metal worker."

"What, like a blacksmith?"

"You've said what twice now for the start of a sentence.'

"What, oh, does that make you angry my love?"

"He's gone."

"It's a nice thing to say to someone, Misaq. You should try it sometime on me. At any rate, I can see whatever I want to say. Care for a drink?"

"I’m not going to sink that low again."

"Trust me, this is the good stuff. You and I won't leave the bed for ages."

Misaq looked around for the jug of alcohol. The smell should have been obvious but Misaq had been busy trying not to get branded or his head cut off. Jabbir and Jubair were peaceful with each other while Misaq was around but had Jabbir appeared alone, Misaq's current circumstances may have been very different. Jabbir sees a lamb for slaughter, and Jubair sees a lion to conquer. Or perhaps it was the opposite? Who knew these days, how complicated people were starting to become.

Misaq could not find the jug. All of them appeared to contain either water or milk. He returned to Jubair, then stopped. Jubair arose from the bed, his muscular torso to be admired by all those who could see it, although his face... It looked tired. Jubair wanted to kill his father, but it was a very cautious endeavor. While Jabbir was not particularly tough or even well known in the criminal underworld, here in his home district, he was king and he had connections to very odd groups of people. Like the Templars, an organization of religious fanatics that was seemingly defeated by the Hassassins hundreds of years ago except that it was quite difficult to kill idea hence the group was in fact, merely driven underground. They have become even more powerful since, without the presence of a major power like the Pope or a King, their activities were now without limits across the globe. Nevertheless, Jabbir knew them, although he did not control them. He could ask for favors but to demand them was a death sentence.

Jabbir was also in an odd position. In the illusion of the public, he was a slave trader, selling only the finest boys available from the raids across lands. It always seemed that he had a much larger number of slaves available, from the disabled beggars to the most well-built of nobles. It was apparent that he stole from lands beyond the sea as well. Not a crime in the slightest, most people did. It was a crime to kidnap nobles who might have become allies, which caused much resentment between the other crime lords. They had rallied together to defeat Jabbir in open combat. An honorable method against a dishonorable foe who responded with his son summoning the guards across Arabia to arrest the would-be evildoers. The crime lords of Jabbirs city were defeated and he earned the attention of the king, who appointed him as a warlord to serve against a new foe in lands nearby, calling themselves the Ottomans. But Jabbir had to leave his city to a new crime lord, one whose name makes even Jubair shudder.

Jubair picked up a jug of water and began washing his face. He gave the jug to Misaq, who per ritual, dropped some into his hands and cleansed Jubair of his impurities with it. Jubair then repeated the cycle to Misaq. The two now looked quite fresh. Looks were one thing, feelings quite another. Misaq felt quite bored, now that the danger had passed. Jubair began to speak once again.

"You know, you are quite fat. You should try staying here for a bit."

"You call me fat every day. It's like a second habit for you. Yes, it's true. No, I don't care. If I can manage my life without an issue, then I've got no motivation to lose it. And- wait Here!? Why in Damnation would I want to stay here? Those guys of yours look like they want to kill me."

"The New Hassassins order? They look like that to everyone. As for the torturer, it's just a job for him. I can already imagine his horrified reaction to finding out that you were someone important."

"I wasn't paying attention to him. We're getting off-topic, why here?"

"Cause man, you get to do something useful. You can carry shit away, grow plants for horticulture, learnand how to repair bones from the executioner. You can even train with me and there would be Assassins in the yard. I want you to be safe. Hang on, maybe there is another solution."

"Which is?"

Jubair ducked down under his bed and pulled out a long metal rod of sorts. It came equipped with a hook-like projection or lug on its undersurface, was rounded at the end, and revealed a metal ball inside. It had a wooden back and some kind of wheel at the side. Jubair appeared to be quite excited if his dick was anything to go by for his face showed no emotions whatsoever. Misaq could resist asking a question but he chose not to.

"What is this?"

"Oh, you've never seen this, have you? It's called an Arquebus, derived from the Dutch word Haakbus. This is an advanced model I got from a sub-friend."

"A sub friend?"

"Can't hide anything from you, can I? An Ottoman subject, who I was beating for information. He led me straight into a camp filled with these things. Slit his throat so he could yell for help to his comrades, then rob them blind. Anyways, this is an advanced model called a musket. It carries standardized ammo in the form of precisely weighed metal balls. It's not widespread yet but trusts me, this thing is the stuff of legends. There are a lot of firearms around but this I feel like is the best one. One-shot and you could take out a fully armored knight of England while bucking naked."

"Oddly specific. And you're just giving it to me?"

“No way am I giving a musket to you. That was a demonstration”

"You just said it was standardized."

"Standardized by those Ottomans, sure. Here, people still fight by the blade and bow. And why not? They still kill just as well and are a lot more reliable. But the reliability of this weapon is something I don't want to get into right now. Here, let me give you a wheel lock pistol instead. It can hold six shots.”

Misaq took the contraption from Jubair as he pulled out a box from under his bed. It revealed 6 metal balls, perfectly round and weighed.

"Wait for a second, you said it could hold six shots. What happens after?"

"You need to clean it."

"Oh. I thought you could put them in one after the other."

"You can, it just takes a bit of cleaning and deft hands."

"No, I meant, could you put in all 6 shots at once, then fire 6 shots in different directions?"

"Why would you want to do that? You wouldn't be able to move it around, it would have to be fired perfectly straight."

"Intimidation factor. I think it looks really stupid if you kill one guy, then just stand around cleaning your weapon while another enemy could charge at you."

"These things aren't designed for that kind of combat. They take out armored targets from a distance. They're not popular now, bows and crossbows do the job just as well but this makes a really loud bang!"

"Do you have the one with all the shots?"

"No. Here is what I will give you though"

Jubair reached for the table and pulled out the drawer. It was a box. He opened the box to reveal another metal cylinder, this one much smaller but capable of carrying more ammo at once. It did not have a wooden back. Misaq questioned Jubair once again.

"What's the deal with this thing?"

"The 'deal' is that it's incomplete. I gotta get the other part, the sleeve, from the other drawer."

"But how does it function?"

"History I am more than willing to share. It’s called a wheel lock. "

"What are the ingredients?"

"Wouldn't you like to know? I'll get to it in a bit. The wheel lock works by spinning a steel wheel against a piece of pyrite to generate intense sparks, which ignite gunpowder in a pan, which flashes through a small touchhole to ignite the main charge in the firearm’s barrel. The pyrite has vise jaws on a spring-loaded arm, called a ‘dog’, which rests on the pan cover. When the trigger is pulled, the pan cover is opened, and the wheel is rotated, with the pyrite pressed into contact "

"How do you fire?"

"First, the dog is rotated forward to the ‘safe’ position, and the priming pan pushed open if it is not already so. After loading a powder charge and ball through the muzzle in the usual way, the operator takes his ‘spanner’, slips it on onto the square section of the wheel shaft, and turns it until a click is heard about one half to three-quarters of a revolution, and the wheel is felt to lock in place, whereupon the spanner is withdrawn. What occurs is that when the wheel is turned, the mainspring is tensioned via the chain, which is wound partially around the shaft. The click is the sound of one end of the sear engaging in the blind hole on the inside of the wheel, thus immobilizing it.

The pan is then primed with powder, and the pan cover is pulled shut. Finally, the dog is pulled back so that the pyrite in its jaws is resting on the top of the pan cover, under some pressure from the spring at the toe of its arm."

"Sure, but do you mind if I go out to the market? I'm getting kind of cooped up in here."

"With the gun? Sure, let's see how long it takes for you to get into trouble."

"I don't like causing trouble."

"No... you fuckin love it. Solving disputes is an addiction for you. You're better at it than most of the people here.”

Jubair beckoned Misaq to his bed, revealing another wheel lock pistol. Making twelve shots in total. Jubair began explaining how the mechanism occurred. It was interesting but Misaq could not replicate it.

On pulling the trigger of a wheel lock firearm, the sear affects a slight rotation as described above. The end of the sear arm that has hitherto locked the wheel and prevented it from turning is disengaged, leaving the wheel free to turn under the tension of the mainspring. There is a subtlety here that is of vital importance: the "hole" in the side of the wheel into which the sear engages, is not a parallel-sided shaft. If it were, then under the tremendous tension of the mainspring, it would require a huge force on the trigger to disengage the sear. Nor is the tip of the sear arm cylindrical, which would have a similar effect. Rather, the "hole" is a depression in the wheel (like a small crater), and the sear has a rounded end: the wheel is locked because of lateral force on the shaft of the wheel rather than vertical force on the sear.

As soon as the wheel is released by the sear, the long arm of the mainspring pulls the chain engaged in it. The other end of the chain being fixed to the cam on the wheel shaft, the latter rotates at high speed, whilst the rotating cam pushes forward the arm to which the pan cover is attached, thus causing the pan cover to slide forward towards the muzzle of the piece, and the pyrites to fall (under the tension of the dog spring) on to the now rotating wheel. That is the second purpose of a sliding pan cover: were the pyrites to engage a stationary wheel, it would almost certainly jam the mechanism: but the built-in delay allows the pyrites to slip off the sliding pan cover onto an already rotating wheel.

The fast rotation of the wheel against the pyrites produces white-hot sparks that ignite the powder in the pan, which is transferred to the main charge in the breech of the barrel via the vent and the gun discharges.

The wheellock took around a minute to load, prepare, and fire.