[{"data":1,"prerenderedAt":-1},["ShallowReactive",2],{"origin-the-nation-of-ten-thousand-nations":3,"chapter-the-nation-of-ten-thousand-nations-the-nation-of-ten-thousand-nations-chapter-158":6},{"origin":4,"title":5},"chinese","The Nation of Ten Thousand Nations",{"chapter":7,"nextChapterSlug":19,"prevChapterSlug":20,"totalChapters":21,"novelImage":22},{"id":8,"novel_id":9,"title":10,"slug":11,"index":12,"content":13,"wordcount":14,"created_at":15,"updated_at":15,"volume":16,"translator":17,"content_hash":18},2333126,4562,"Chapter 158: White Hawk (Part One) (Bonus Chapter!)","the-nation-of-ten-thousand-nations-chapter-158",158,"\u003Cp>“Your turn,” Saladin said. Kamal, seated across from him, jolted as if waking from a nightmare, trembling slightly, then paused before withdrawing his gaze from some distant point.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>He had been free of his predicament for several days, but sometimes he still suffered delusions, imagining himself still in Aleppo, curled up in his quarters or in the new Sultan’s prison, waiting for punishment or execution.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Around him swirled complaints, curses, and insults from friends and colleagues. They pointed at him, blaming him for leading them into an irredeemable situation, subjecting them to suffering, making them the first monkeys used by the tyrant to warn others.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>He fixed his eyes on the board. Though he had seemed distracted moments before, after a brief glance he made a move of exquisite brilliance.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Saladin sighed in admiration, not offended. “I’ve always heard of your mastery of the game. Yet until today, I never had the chance to play against you.” Of course—he had never gotten along well with Kamal or other locals while in Aleppo, while Kamal’s family had long been entrenched there. Saladin and his uncle Shirkuh were mere outsiders—“Kurds from Tikrit.” Even counting from when their father became Zengi’s minister, it had been no more than two generations, barely three.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Moreover, Shirkuh’s ambitions had long been exposed. As for Saladin, people said he was a young man exceptionally skilled at disguise and concealment. Kamal had seen through his true nature at a glance. If Sultan Nur ad-Din had lived another fifty years, or if he had a worthy heir, Saladin would have been the most useful man—whether as general or viceroy. But if not, then Saladin would simply have to be apologized for.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>What an arrogant man Saladin was, Kamal thought. He likely didn’t even hold Aleppo’s greatest scholars in high regard—he may be devout, but his devotion was only to Allah, to His earthly messenger. Saladin showed little respect for the viziers, emirs, or Fatih… and even Kamal and other prominent ministers were, to this Kurd, merely fruits on a branch, to be plucked whenever he chose.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Kamal stared at the man who had once been dismissed by him, then watched warily—Saladin was at the peak of his warrior’s prime: strong-bodied, experienced. His face was pale, his beard black, his thick brows arching over deeply sunken eyes. His eyes were a gentle dark brown, like his voice. Now he recalled it: at no time had Saladin ever seemed furious or irritable.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Kamal had seen this same quality in his master, Sultan Nur ad-Din. Such men seemed born knowing the world belonged to them. They needed no haste, no worry—only quiet waiting. Allah would give them everything.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>But Allah was cruel, Kamal thought. He had never permanently favored any man. He took power away—through aging, through death—and handed it to new hands. Had Nur ad-Din ever imagined his failure would come so sudden, so hopeless? In that sense, perhaps dying on the battlefield of Galilee was fortunate. Had he lived to see Aleppo now—his nation, his heir, his ministers and generals—even a heart of iron would shatter.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Saladin raised his hand. As he moved his piece, the silver ring on his finger—the seal bearing a white eagle with wings spread—flashed a glint that struck Kamal’s eye. He turned his head aside. Saladin noticed, and turned the ring so the non-reflective band faced outward.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“This move deserves to be recorded,” Kamal said, without flattery. In Aleppo, countless men had fallen before him. He never falsified results or flattered, regardless of whether his opponent was Sultan or future Sultan.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>He pondered long. Saladin did not rush him. Instead, he took up the grape juice and sipped slowly. He had no strong craving for alcohol, drinking only when he needed to relax his mind or think clearly.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>As both men sank into silence—perhaps thinking of different matters—someone entered and softly knocked on the door. Saladin called out, “Enter.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>A soldier stepped in and reported that the physicians had finished examining the Christian knight and were ready to report their findings, asking if Saladin had time to receive them.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Kamal rose to withdraw, but Saladin raised his hand. “No need,” he said. “This concerns neither military nor state affairs—you may stay. It poses no threat to you.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Since Saladin said so, and Kamal himself wished to know Cesar’s condition—no matter what had happened, what promises he had made, what deeds he had done—without Cesar, he and the injured, sick, and aged ministers could never have escaped Aleppo unscathed. Without an escort, they might have perished in the desert from exhaustion, illness, or bandits, even without pursuit.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Unlike the Christian world, Saracen medicine had developed late but risen swiftly, guided by Muhammad’s decree: any scholar might practice healing. The restriction existed only because untrained individuals had attempted to treat others. Without sufficient knowledge, experience, or the Prophet’s divine assurance, their misjudgments or wrong treatments could worsen illness—or cause death.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Though scholars sometimes erred, they still held undeniable advantages over commoners.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>The lead scholar was the physician Saladin kept by his side. That alone proved he was no fraud.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>He could mend broken limbs, quell fevers, calm convulsions and diarrhea. He had even cured a newborn who had coughed incessantly since birth, nearly suffocating to death—earning him widespread love and trust.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Had he remained in Aleppo or Samarra, he could still have enjoyed the favor of Sultan or Viceroy. But they would have confined him to court, forbidding him to treat outsiders. Such was the fate of all who served the powerful—and he refused it.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>He agreed to serve Saladin because Saladin had promised: as long as he could come and go freely, Saladin would not interfere with his healing of others—even a beggar outside the city, or a Christian.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>The physician’s expression was not gentle; his brow was furrowed. Seeing this, Kamal’s heart sank. They had witnessed the glorious battle—but knew the terrible cost behind it. And that cost had been borne by one man alone.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>The Christian knight’s revelation, it was said, came from Saint Jerome. But the Saracens did not regard him as a prophet. They acknowledged such sages as ancient “scholars,” yet denied they had the authority to grant divine revelation—much less such profound and powerful revelation.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>They must be mistaken, Kamal thought.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>But Saladin seemed to sense something. “He protected every one of his men—from knights and squires to the poor servants.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“Before this, they had fought many battles. Each time, those who fought beside him received prolonged, powerful blessings. And now, he extended the Prophet’s grace to every single one of them—how many were there?”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“Three hundred sixty-seven,” the physician said, in a tone even he found unbelievable. “Three hundred sixty-seven men. Not one died. The worst injury among them was the loss of an arm. Yet they killed twice, even three times their number. All of this—the knight brought.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“Moreover,” he added, “in my observation, what he gave them was more than armor-like protection. His revelation allowed him to bear a portion of their pain and wounds.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>At this, even Saladin’s expression darkened. “Are you certain?”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“I am certain,” the physician replied without hesitation—he had nothing to hide from Saladin. “I found corresponding wounds on the Christian knight himself. Though far milder, and healing rapidly, they clearly should not have been there. His helmet and chainmail were intact. Some injuries only form when the wearer loses his helmet or his mail is breached.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Saladin lowered his eyes, lost in thought, then asked, “How is he now?”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“Very poorly, my lord. He has exhausted himself utterly—spirit and body alike. I have never seen a man blessed by Allah use his power so frequently, so recklessly.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“Fortunately, even without ointment or medicine, his wounds are visibly healing. This shows the Prophet and Allah have not abandoned him—he still holds their favor. But like a well rapidly drained dry, it will take a long time for clear water to return.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“How long?”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“A month, perhaps two.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Saladin shook his head. “I cannot wait that long. I must send them back.” He gestured to the physician and his colleagues. “Don’t speak of this, all right?” His tone was courteous, no threat implied—but none misunderstood his meaning, and none would dare defy him.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>When the physicians had left, Kamal spoke. “Will you release these Christian knights? Even if you won’t kill them, keeping them as prisoners could bring a large ransom.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Saladin’s lips curled slightly. This former colleague was relentless in trying to trap him. “Had he been willing to submit to me, had he been willing to let his knights become prisoners, he would not have launched that final, near-suicidal attack.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Though the physician said Cesar would recover with time, no one could predict the outcome. Like dropping a porcelain vase—you must prepare for it to shatter. If it remains whole—even with one or two cracks—you are lucky.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Crusader commanders never feared becoming Saracen prisoners—so long as they hadn’t crossed Saracen lines, and a large ransom could be paid. But knights were different. If they were wealthy, or had a noblewoman or relative willing to pay, they could return to Jerusalem or other Christian lands.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>But if not—like William Marshal, whose lord refused to pay his ransom—he spent years in enemy captivity until another patron, Eleanor of Aquitaine, paid his ransom and freed him.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>In Cesar’s entourage, ninety knights belonged to the three military orders. This meant they had renounced all worldly possessions before joining—abandoning, donating, or leaving behind their property. They owned no personal wealth.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>The orders might ransom them—but the negotiations would be long. As for their squires and armed attendants—if they were squires seeking advancement, perhaps already chosen and backed by family, they might escape with their lords.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>But what of the servants and slaves? That was uncertain. If deemed unredeemable, they would be sold into slavery. They might never return to Jerusalem or their homelands. It was cruel—but customary. Everything had its cost. In a world where even a knight could be a disposable asset, common servants were worth even less.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“They are the very men Cesar sacrificed his grace and life to protect,” Saladin said. “I will pardon them. I will release them. I will allow them to return to Jerusalem. Some may leave behind their horses and armor—but they will return whole, strong, to their families.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“How merciful of you,” Kamal could not help but needle him again.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>(End of Chapter)\u003C\u002Fp>",1743,"2026-06-20T20:58:34.857Z",1,"Qwen3-Next 80B","2c87d47b92ebbc6df21e551cd436c05dc2d23557f85e77dd2f389d91e4887326","the-nation-of-ten-thousand-nations-chapter-159","the-nation-of-ten-thousand-nations-chapter-157",168,"https:\u002F\u002Fnovelzhen.com\u002Fimages\u002Fcovers\u002Fthe-nation-of-ten-thousand-nations-cover.jpg"]