The Caliphate Of The Jinns

From Sura Al-Jinn of the Holy Qur'an: "And there were men from mankind who sought refuge with men from the jinn, but they only increased them in burden."

I am Ahmed ibn Birzali, born into a noble family of Berber descent in the illustrious city of Córdoba. The year was 968 by the Christian reckoning, and 357 according to the Islamic calendar. The incredible account I shall now disclose is one I personally witnessed, concerning the great Abu Amir Muhammad ibn Abdullah ibn Abi Amir al-Hajib al-Mansur, ruler of Al-Andalus.

Of this man of glory and legend, I shall relate the following. He was instrumental in the swift ascension of the young Hisham II, becoming a powerful hajib—a vizier to Western Europe—who led tens of thousands of valiant soldiers to victory in renowned battles against his enemies. He triumphed in fifty-seven campaigns and never once tasted defeat.

He fought the Nazarenes of León, Castile, and Navarre in the Iberian Peninsula, routing their armies and spreading fear throughout their kingdoms. To the faithful followers of the Almighty, he was known as Al-Mansur—The Victorious One. The Nazarenes called him Almanzor, ruler of Al-Andalus. Yet none of his accolades or military achievements overshadowed the fierce and otherworldly battle he waged against the malevolent and preternatural forces of the Caliphate of the Jinns.

A terrifying horde had marched forth from beyond the Arabian Peninsula, conquering lands and empires across the Middle East. First fell the Buyid Empire of the Persians in Jibal, then the Abbasid Caliphate in Baghdad. The Byzantines of Anatolia were vanquished, and finally, the Seljuq Turks of the Altai Mountains succumbed. The army of which I speak was vast and wicked. They were not human in nature, but fiends of hellfire—ghouls who had long dwelt in the desert sands and could shape-shift into hyenas.

They devoured flesh and drank blood, assuming the exact form of their victims. Jinn—beings created from smokeless, scorching fire—could manifest as snakes, dragons, vultures, or even mimic the guise of humans. Amongst them were the Ifrits, enormous winged creatures with fiery horns, and the Marids, dark blue malevolent spirits. Their formidable leader was Murrah al-Abyad al-Harith, King of the Jinn, who had been created a thousand years earlier.

This daemon had inhabited and ruled the earth without interruption, governing seventy-two kingdoms. But over time, the Jinn grew corrupted and became an infidel. Thus, Allah created humans to replace the Mephistophelian Jinn as rightful successors to the earth. In His divine justice, angels were dispatched to wage war against the multitude of daemons on the battlefield. Yet the malevolent Jinn returned one day with vengeful fury, laying waste to all the noble kingdoms that stood in their path.

With terrifying swiftness, like a raging storm, they advanced ominously towards the Holy City of Mecca, threatening the most sacred shrine in all of Islam—the Kaaba itself. In response, the call to jihad resounded throughout the Muslim world, echoing through the mosques of Al-Andalus. Desperation gripped the Ummah, stirring it into a wild and fervent frenzy.

The call was answered by the honourable Abu Amir Muhammad ibn Abdullah ibn Abi Amir al-Hajib al-Mansur, ruler of Al-Andalus. He rallied an army from amongst the Berbers, Arabs, Andalusians, and Africans—warriors known collectively as the Moors, true descendants of the faithful Muslims who had once ridden forth to conquer the Iberian Peninsula.

The following morning, they set sail in ships bound for the Arabian Peninsula, determined to confront the Infidels. The fleet crossed the Mediterranean Sea and, after several weeks, reached the shores of Tripoli in Syria. Upon disembarking, they travelled through Jordan before entering the territory of Saudi Arabia, which at that time was under the control of the Fatimid Caliphate. Mecca was under the protection of a Sharif named Muhammad Abu-Jafar Al-Thalab, yet even he was stricken with fear at the prospect of the unstoppable force of evil advancing upon the holy city. Rumours and grim accounts of atrocities and desecration—of cities fallen and villages laid to ruin—spread swiftly across the Middle East.

Along our arduous journey, we bore witness to destruction and death. Upon reaching Antioch, we saw the carnage of the Byzantine soldiers, their bodies strewn in grotesque piles of decaying corpses. Later, in Al-Karak, Jordan, we encountered the fallen Mameluks of the Abbasid Caliphate, likewise slain. Every dead soldier bore the gruesome mark of beheading—a chilling token of warning to any who dared defy the might of the Caliphate of Murrah al-Abyad al-Harith, King of the Jinn. Never before had I seen such brutality. Word of this horror was swiftly dispatched to Al-Hakam II, the Umayyad Caliph of Córdoba, who reportedly trembled upon receiving the dire news. Even the great Emperor of the Byzantines, Nikephoros II Phokas, had sent his valiant general, Mikhail Bourtzes, to confront the heathens, yet his forces fled in terror from the overwhelming power of Murrah al-Abyad al-Harith’s army.

It became clear that neither the Christian nor Muslim armies of the region were capable of halting this formidable and malevolent force. The holy city of Medina came under attack; yet, with extraordinary valour, the warriors of Islam defended it fiercely. By divine will and with the aid of angelic hosts, the army of Murrah al-Abyad al-Harith was at last repelled. Though victorious, the defenders suffered grievous losses—thousands of faithful men fell in Medina’s defence, and the remnants of Murrah’s army soon encircled the battered Islamic forces.

We heard whispers of the brutal assault on Medina as we passed through Al-Mulaylih, some 361 kilometres distant, the tales of devastation chilling us to the bone.

Abu Amir al-Mansoor, valiant and sagacious, did not fully comprehend the extent of the fiends’ powers, yet he was prepared to sacrifice his life for Islam and to save the Holy City of Mecca, at whatever cost. He had witnessed the carnage left in their wake, and though doubt at times flickered in his eyes, he never allowed such uncertainty to linger long. He remained steadfast, resolute amidst adversity.

At Al-Mundassah we tarried and took much-needed rest, for the men were utterly exhausted and wracked with anxiety. It was there, too, that we first encountered the Great Army of the fiends beyond the outskirts of the village. We were resting one night within our camp when we were set upon without warning.

They descended like a wild horde of demons from the mountains; from the burning flames of our campfires, the Jinns rose to join battle alongside the ghouls. Their numbers were vast—thousands against our mere hundreds. They surged upon us like a blazing inferno, attacking from all directions. We could scarcely discern the massive throng of daemons that rushed across the desert field with terrifying impetuosity and savagery.

They overran our flanks, exploiting the cloak of night to devastating effect. The darkness blinded us on every side and inflicted grievous casualties. The fiends had chosen the night for their assault, knowing well the frailty of men and preying upon our inherent vulnerability.

The horrible and obstreperous sound of death echoed across the rugged mountains, as the agonised cries of our fallen men reverberated before and around us. It was a fleeting but ferocious eruption of absolute terror, unleashed with such fury that it overcame the men almost at once. The fiends' imposing forms moved with a convulsive, serpentine motion, slicing our men to pieces as they fell. A vivid effulgence of fire gleamed fiercely in the eyes of the daemons.

It all happened so swiftly that the men reacted in sheer desperation. The baleful creatures had ambushed our soldiers, inflicting grievous losses. Though it lasted no more than ten minutes, the devastation was palpable and immense. Then, as suddenly as they had come, they vanished into the mountains, leaving ruin in their wake. I cannot say why they chose to cease their assault and depart—they could easily have annihilated us all that night.

For some inscrutable reason, they did not. I remember that harrowing first encounter with the fiends with absolute clarity. When the onslaught was finally over, we had lost more than three-quarters of our men. The survivors were visibly shaken to their core, and panic, gripped by trepidation, surged through the camp in waves of hysteria.

I had never witnessed such reactionary behaviour in the soldiers before. These infidels were not men at all, but supernatural beings from hell, unleashed upon the earth. They did not bleed easily, nor did they falter under the sword. Our weapons proved futile against their unnatural forms. That dreary and chilling night, the soldiers scarcely slept, haunted by the monstrosity that had besieged them with such ferocity and mercilessness.

At dawn, Abu Amir al Mansoor addressed the shaken men, striving to rally their resolve. Yet, despite their pledges to the cause of Jihad, some soldiers began to desert or retreat. Never before had I seen men so utterly overcome by terror.

Their faces bore a ghostly pallor, the unmistakeable stamp of fear that grips mortal men when disbelief and dread entwine. Those who fled were not pursued but branded cowards, whilst those who stayed and fought—or perished—were honoured as martyrs. I was fortunate enough to survive and be counted amongst the soldiers of Allah, though I cannot truly fathom how. I believe it was only by the grace of Allah.

The dreadful tidings of our defeat soon reached the people of Mecca. Before long, the fall of Medina was confirmed as we regrouped in Al Mundassah. Word came that Medina had been ransacked, left in utter ruin—a grim testament to catastrophe. The soldiers were shaken by the fall of Medina, fully aware of its grave significance. History had recorded the sack of holy cities before, but never had such unparalleled savagery been witnessed. The task of protecting and preserving Mecca now seemed both daunting and all but impossible.

If Medina had fallen to the fiends, what, indeed, could have prevented Mecca from succumbing thereafter? I cannot begin to describe with mere words the virulent foe we were facing, nor the massacre that unfolded upon our arrival at Mecca. Along the road to the holy city, we beheld vultures gorging on the corpses of villagers who had sought vainly to escape the desert of death.

The fiends had begun to bewitch the Muslims, compelling them to commit unspeakable acts of immolation against their own brethren. Those who resisted or refused to capitulate faced the most draconian of punishments—death or destitution. The mosques became the last bastions of refuge for the faithful, who recited verses of the Koran in fervent attempts to repel the onslaught.

Then came plagues—endemic and epidemic alike—that ravaged the peninsula with merciless cruelty and terrifying swiftness. An apocalyptic pall spread across the land, engulfing it in brazen incredulity and despair. The necessities of the people grew dire, proliferating into an unmanageable consternation that no ruler or soldier could abate.

The carnal and insurmountable oppressors had by then established their dominion over the Caliphates of the Middle East. Across the sea, Europe began to tremble at the prospect of these fiends invading their vast continent. The urgent cry for the defence of Christendom stirred grave apprehension amongst the kingdoms of the Nazarenes.

The Great Byzantine Emperor had dispatched an urgent petition for direct assistance to the Sharif of Mecca, who had once rejected his audacious plea for unity between Christians and Muslims. Drought and famine afflicted the people, and soon the poor were perishing in droves. Revolts by the denizens spread like wildfire, an intense spark amidst the visceral outpour of frustration and despair. Madness reigned, fuelling conflict and turmoil, as there appeared to be no army predestined to defeat the relentless fiends.

Thus, it was resolved that we would join forces with the Nazarenes to confront and vanquish the infidels of the Iblis; but first, we were bound to defend Mecca. Abu Amir Al Mansoor implored the men to recall the memory of the fallen who had died valiantly in battle, and of the innocent souls who had been slain by the fiends.

Though he was but a mortal servant of Allah, he stood stoic in his honour and resolute in his faith. We knew the army of daemons was nigh, and that once we reached the outskirts of the city, they would be lying in wait, fully prepared for our arrival.

Despite their hideous and intimidating appearance, we could not afford to display any sign of fear or reverence towards them in their presence. This was of utmost importance if we were to secure victory and banish the fiends before our utter annihilation came to pass.

When at last we reached the outskirts of Mecca, we were met with daunting force by the ghastly devils, who stood menacingly before the gates of the holy city, fixing their hellish gazes upon us. They numbered in their thousands; we, a mere few hundred.

It seemed an improbable victory, and more an assured defeat, yet Abu Amir Al Mansoor showed no fear in the face of the overwhelming numbers amassed by the infidels. He was steadfast in his conviction that Allah was on our side and that we would triumph over the fiends that very day. We were on horseback and on foot, whilst the enemy morphed into every conceivable form to frighten us into utter submission and acceptance of the only true caliphate—the dominion of Murrah al Abyad al Harith. Most of the remaining leaders of resistance had by then pledged their allegiance to the caliphate of the Jinns.

After all, who would be so reckless as to defy such formidable power? All who dared were swiftly crushed and condemned to servitude under Caliph Murrah al Abyad al Harith. As the fiends loomed into view, I sensed the terror writ large in the eyes of our soldiers. It was sheer madness to believe that, outnumbered as we were, we could prevail in this momentous battle unaided.

The valiant defenders of Mecca stood ready within, resolute in their duty to protect the sacred city. The winds began to stir, and the sky darkened ominously; a chilling gust swept across the field. Then, all at once, a deafening roar erupted as the fiends charged towards us. We were but a few kilometres from them. The once-sturdy resolve that had been evident in the men from the outset had waned dramatically. Though their courage had been tested time and again on the battlefield, none had faced an army of daemons of such nature and magnitude. We were expected to be crushed, utterly defeated.

Before destruction could befall us and the city alike, the Sharif surrendered, submitting to the might of the infidels to spare the city from devastation and desecration. Thus, Murrah al Abyad al Harith became the undisputed ruler of the Middle East. The Holy City was preserved, but at the ultimate cost—the sacrifice of the Islamic faith.

We were told that we would be spared if we acknowledged our allegiance to Murrah al Abyad al Harith. Most of the men conceded to this demand, and we were spared. Others hesitated at first to declare their submission, but in the end, they too acquiesced. Abu Amir Al Mansoor, however, refused to surrender and told his men that they were free to choose their own destiny. Seated upon his horse, he drew his sword from his side, grasped the hilt firmly, and cried out the famed words, “Allahu Akbar” (God is Great).

That single act of courage and defiance altered the entire complexion of the war. He raised his gleaming sword high, and as he did so, a brilliant sheen radiated from its blade. The daemons, alerted to his audacious defiance, reacted swiftly; one of them—a ghoul—rushed to attack Abu Amir Al Mansoor.

Then, something extraordinary occurred. Abu Amir Al Mansoor’s sword cleaved through the ghoul’s neck, severing its head cleanly, and the creature fell to the earth, disintegrating into ashes. It was the first time the fiends had witnessed such unflinching bravery and, more startlingly, their own vulnerability.

Another daemon advanced upon him, only to meet the same fate—cut down mercilessly by Abu Amir Al Mansoor’s sword. This bold provocation enraged the infidels beyond measure.

In a frenzied surge, they came en masse, seemingly possessed by a ferocious, untameable force. Yet, Abu Amir Al Mansoor, wielding his sword and shield, caused the sun’s reflection to blaze down upon the battlefield—a celestial light so blinding and dazzling that it momentarily stunned and terrified the fiends.

I do not know how, but the fiends halted their advance and withdrew from Mecca. What prompted their departure was neither explained nor fully understood, but Abu Amir Al Mansoor knew. According to him, it was the sublime power of faith that had granted him a fleeting victory over the fiends. Was this profession of faith a revelation of the one true weakness of the infidels?

If that were so, why then was it abandoned so readily by the same people who had once proclaimed it with conviction? At that moment, no one possessed the answer, nor could anyone say with certainty whether Allah had indeed granted us victory. Yet, I was willing to trust in the word of Abu Amir Al Mansoor, a man of unwavering virtue and honour. He had never before known defeat—until his first encounter with the infidels. That, it seemed, was to be his final defeat, for he was now known as the Glorious One. The handful of soldiers who had resisted alongside Abu Amir Al Mansoor were the only fortunate souls to have temporarily subdued the insidious infidels. Yet this provided little solace, for the enemy's legions were vast and unyielding.

Where could we hope to find an army mighty enough to vanquish the devils? Abu Amir Al Mansoor reached a resolute conclusion: the only path to justice and liberation was to seek out the notorious lair of the abominable daemons and annihilate them utterly from the face of the earth.

This would necessitate an alliance with the Byzantine Nazarenes. There was no other course left to us. But how, indeed, could these fiends be destroyed? That question lingered heavily over us until Abu Amir Al Mansoor received a heavenly vision upon waking the next morning. He declared to the remaining men of his army that we would march eastward in pursuit of the Caliphate of the Infidels. Onslaught after onslaught had unfolded on the battlefield, alongside the valiant armies of the Byzantines.

They had no clear precedent for defeating the fiends, yet we remained resolute in our cause, just as the fiends were resolute in their relentless conquest. When we least expected it, at the very moment when our fate seemed all but sealed, one man rose from amongst mortals and led us to what would become the ultimate victory—his name was Abu Amir Al Mansoor. His boldness was as remarkable as his sagacity.

There existed a passage in the Koran that referred to a mysterious spring, said to possess magical properties. In his vision, Abu Amir Al Mansoor beheld the location of that elusive spring. According to him, it lay somewhere between the lands of Iran and Iraq. It was there, he believed, that the dreaded Caliphate of the fiends held its stronghold.

Thus, at Jordan, we united with the remaining armies of Islam and the Nazarenes of the Byzantine Empire. We, who had once been bitter enemies, now stood together as a single united force. We set aside our differences and long-standing grievances for the singular purpose of defeating the infidels.

In truth, none of us knew what to expect upon reaching the Devil’s lair, nor were we wholly convinced of victory—all except Abu Amir Al Mansoor, whose unwavering confidence was evident in every command and gesture. The vibrant desert winds lashed against us, hurling sandstorms as we journeyed through the arid lands of Jordan. Soldiers from both armies—Muslim and Nazarene alike—perished in the merciless storms. Was this a deadly omen foreshadowing what awaited us upon our arrival in Iraq?

We were aware, as we had headed to Iraq, that the armies of the fiends were present in the heart of the Abbasid Caliphate, in the city of Baghdad. There was no actual plan to enter Baghdad, and we knew the great bulk of the army of Murrah al-Abyad al-Harith was in their fortress-palace within the mountainous region of Persia. As with all conquering armies of history, the conquest of land was less complicated and more achievable than governing the land and its people.

The idea of revolt had been dissuaded by the cruel manner in which the infidels ruled. Their governance was clear: quotidian torture, execution, immurement, and above all, the imposition of absolute fear. They were monsters in their wrath and chastisement. Their avidity for the pelf of golden coins and spoils of war had obsessed them, driving a wild penchant for luxury and indulgence. As for the Muslims who bowed in reverence to them and had joined their armies, they had forsaken the religion of God and partaken in sinful orgies and acts of treachery.

From afar, as we travelled through the barren landscape of Iraq, we saw a spring ahead that was gushing water, forming a river. It was as wondrous as the Euphrates or the River Jordan, but this river was ‘Salsabil,’ as Abu Amir Al-Mansoor had told us before.

The righteous shall drink from a cup mixed with the coolness of camphor. A spring from which Allah’s servant will drink, making it gush forth in branches, he had quoted from the Qur'an. We drank in cups until we were imbued with the celestial influence of its divinity and purity. The intense feeling of an indescribable nature filled our bodies with fantastic, supernatural powers. We could hear like the jackal, leap high like the gazelle, smell like the serpent, and our vision became as superb as the eagle’s.

It was late at night when we finally arrived at the outskirts of the unholy fortress of the fiends and made our encampment beyond the broad, towering mountainous area, only a few kilometres away. We were mindful of the strong likelihood that, if detected, the infidels would attack us at once. For some reason, however, they did not. We sensed their presence, and they, in turn, sensed ours.

That night, as we lay encamped beneath the cold canopy of stars, sleep eluded me. I wandered away from the campfire and found myself alone upon a ridge, gazing at the flickering torches far below in the enemy stronghold. Weariness eventually overcame me, and I drifted into a strange slumber.

In the dream, an angel of formidable stature appeared before me, his wings vast and luminous, shimmering like molten silver in the moonlight. His countenance was veiled by a radiant light, and in his hands he bore a sword that seemed forged from pure flame. His voice, though soft, resonated with undeniable power: ‘The path you tread is marked by sacrifice. You shall prevail, but each victory is bought with sorrow. Remember, Ahmed ibn Birzali, faith is your shield, and unity your sword’.

I saw flashes of battle—men crying out, blood upon the stones, the fortress crumbling. Then, amidst the carnage, a lone white dove ascended skyward, its wings shimmering with celestial light. I awoke with a start, my heart pounding, the vision seared into my mind. At dawn, I shared it with Abu Amir Al-Mansoor; he merely nodded, his eyes alight with fierce resolve. ‘It is a sign,’ he said, ‘that we are chosen for this task’.

The following morning, we strode forth. Beyond the looming horizon stood the large, daunting stronghold of the malefic evildoers. The Nazarenes had arrived, and it was agreed that the Muslims would attack the stronghold, whilst the Nazarenes would prevent the army of Murrah al-Abyad al-Harith from escaping.

Even though we were mortal enemies, I respected the brave general Mikhail Bourtzes. We descried the long, helical stairway and the narrow passage of the river of the Valley of Hell. It was shielded by massive cliffs that jutted above the gorge, which lay at the intersection of the three raging rivers of Daylam.

A surging mist had formed noticeably, covering the entire region. We would have to clamber the lofty ascent to reach the steep and slippery slopes that rose erect beside the sturdy, impregnable walls of the garrison. The ramparts of solid steel were fortified with inspissated spikes. The adjacent parapets and looming turrets along the perimeter were both imposing and menacing.

A foul stench of death pervaded everywhere within the circumference. From the sinister caliginosity that crept over the stronghold’s walls emerged voluminous numbers of supernatural beings, seeking to thwart our daring advance. Immediately, an immense spasm of energy surged through our corporeal bodies.

They attacked us with merciless ferocity and relentless intensity; several of our men fell from the precipitous declivity or were decapitated by their lethal swords and claws. Yet the men pressed on with heroic courage and honour. There was no cessation in their hostile assault as we were rapidly besieged. The rousing roar of 'Allahu Akbar' (God is Great) was shouted by Abu Amir Al-Mansoor, who was the first to leap over the once-impenetrable walls of the fortress. The frames of the daemons were seen in the singular inclination of their limbs, their bodies visibly altering into vultures and jackals.

Gradually, we began to enter the stronghold, where more daemons lurked in ambush. We were met by another amalgamation of gruesome devils, brutal in their fighting. They kept coming and coming from every crevice or aperture, seen or unseen, issuing from them sounds of pure horror. Our men persisted through the multitude; many died valiantly, but our supernatural prowess gradually levelled the battlefield.

The fiends were falling too, and that meant they were no longer invincible, as long as our faith did not waver in the slightest. We entered the colossal hall of the stronghold and reached the main chamber, where Murrah al-Abyad al-Harith sat upon his palatial golden throne of opulence. He was alone, and waiting for us.

Abu Amir Al-Mansoor instructed us to remain outside the main hall as he closed the auriferous door. I knew that the daemons would attempt to protect their leader. At last, he stood face to face with the Great Caliph of the Jinn. The appearance of Murrah al-Abyad al-Harith was unlike any living being I had ever witnessed.

The Iblis was gigantic in height but willowy in stature, with extensive limbs that contracted from the hind and forefeet. The malevolent daemon was covered in a spellbinding, jet-black hue, and buzzing flies emerged from the depths of his mouth. They attacked Abu Amir Al-Mansoor, but he managed to fend them off and killed them with his divine sword. Enraged, Murrah al-Abyad al-Harith lunged at him, with the full force of fiery flames surrounding him.

Abu Amir Al-Mansoor resisted his assault effectively. For twenty minutes they fought each other, whilst we held off the incessant daemons. Then the door opened, and it was Abu Amir Al-Mansoor who stood tall and victorious. He had defeated and exiled the Iblis, bringing about the abrupt downfall of the fiendish Caliphate.

The infidels were bound in chains and iron collars of Allah as they perished in the blazing fire from whence they had emerged from the Stygian chasm. The stronghold collapsed and tumbled down into the gorge, and though we were able to escape the rubble of ruination, a few of our soldiers perished.

The might of the supernatural beings that had once been upon us was destroyed by the mettle of virtuous men. A vast expanse of unbroken blue stretched across the heavens, fitfully transparent, once thought interminable and stately. I had not known before the meaning of the Original Guardians, until I encountered the brave men who fought the battles against the fiends.

In the days that followed the fall of the fortress, we laboured to bury our dead and tend to the wounded. A profound hush descended upon the ravaged valley, broken only by the faint hiss of embers still burning within the ruins. The stronghold, once a towering testament to malice, now lay in ruin—a skeletal remnant of its former dread, with shattered ramparts and crumbled turrets strewn across the blackened earth. Vultures circled high above, their dark wings tracing wide, ominous loops in the cloudless sky.

As twilight deepened one evening, and a thick, copper-coloured mist crept across the battlefield, a lone figure emerged from the distant foothills. Cloaked in a coarse robe of sombre grey, his movements were slow yet purposeful. He was a hermit, an ancient ascetic from the remote reaches of Daylam, drawn by the echoes of destruction that had reverberated across the mountains. His presence was spectral, like a revenant from a forgotten time, and the soldiers watched him with a mixture of awe and unease.

The hermit wandered the fringes of the battlefield, pausing at the mass graves and the twisted wreckage of siege engines. His eyes, deep-set and gleaming with an unnatural light, swept over the broken stones and the crumbling walls, as though reading an invisible script left behind by fate itself. He knelt by the scorched earth where the fiercest fighting had taken place, his fingers tracing strange patterns in the ash, silently communing with something far beyond our understanding.

The men sensed the gravity of his actions, though no words passed between him and us. It was as if his mere presence embodied a message too weighty for speech. His gaze, when it finally turned towards the horizon, seemed to pierce through time itself, foretelling trials yet to come. A tension spread amongst the ranks—a quiet recognition that, though we had triumphed in battle, the deeper war, the war against darkness in all its forms, was far from over.

After surveying the remnants of destruction, the hermit rose and vanished as quietly as he had come, swallowed by the thickening mist that rolled down from the mountains. He left no trace of his passing, save for the lingering weight of an unspoken prophecy that settled heavily upon us all.

That night, as stars flickered in the boundless heavens and a cold wind swept over the land, the men lay wakeful, staring into the darkness. Victory, we realised, was fleeting. The destruction of the fortress had brought a momentary reprieve, but somewhere in the hidden corners of the world, malevolence endured—shifting, waiting, and perhaps even gathering strength once more. The battle was won, yet the eternal struggle between light and shadow would continue, far beyond the lives of those who had fought here.

In the wake of victory, a curious disquiet lingered, as if the very earth beneath us still pulsed with the memory of evil. Abu Amir Al Mansoor, ever vigilant, ordered an expedition into the lower catacombs rumoured to snake beneath the ruined fortress—a labyrinthine warren said to hold the secrets of the vanquished daemons.

We descended at dawn, torches flickering against the damp walls of the entrance shaft, carved crudely into the rock. The deeper we went, the thicker the air became, heavy with the scent of mildew and ancient decay. Roots from long-dead trees pierced the ceilings like withered claws, and stagnant pools of water gleamed faintly in the torchlight, reflecting our cautious movements in distorted ripples.

The silence was oppressive. Every step reverberated down endless tunnels, the echoes returning as ghostly whispers. We passed alcoves filled with ossuaries—bones brittle with age, their surfaces scarred by unknown rituals. Strange symbols were scrawled upon the walls, some so old they had faded into mere shadows of their original menace, others newly etched, still sharp and foreboding. There was an unsettling sense that the fortress above had been but the outer husk of the evil harboured below.

Deeper still we journeyed, until we reached a vaulted chamber vast enough to contain a cathedral. Here, pillars carved in grotesque likenesses of fiendish faces rose to a ceiling lost in darkness. At the centre of the chamber stood a massive stone altar, its surface slick with what seemed to be congealed blood. Shattered chains and manacles lay strewn around it, relics of unspeakable rites once performed in this vile sanctum.

As we advanced, the torches sputtered against an unnatural draught. A faint, luminous mist seeped up from cracks in the floor, coiling about our ankles like living vapour. The very stones seemed to hum with a low vibration—a deep, mournful resonance, as though the fortress’s fallen master had left behind an echo of his wrath, trapped within the catacombs for eternity.

We uncovered several relics: ancient scrolls written in forgotten tongues, amulets pulsing faintly with a sinister glow, and blades corroded yet still exuding an aura of malevolence. Abu Amir Al Mansoor, cautious but resolute, ordered that these cursed artefacts be sealed within lead-lined coffers and removed from the catacombs for safe keeping and study.

When we finally ascended back into the light of day, it was near dusk. The sun, a blood-red disc on the horizon, cast long, slanted shadows across the devastated landscape. Though we emerged with treasures of knowledge and grim trophies of war, a profound weariness pressed upon us—a bone-deep exhaustion born not just of battle, but of a confrontation with forces older and darker than we had dared imagine.

Around the smouldering campfires, the men sat silent and introspective, haunted by the memories of what we had witnessed. The battle had been won, but the horrors beneath the earth had reminded us that victory was never absolute. Evil was not so easily extinguished—it lurked still in the hidden depths of the world, waiting for its moment to rise again.

And in that uneasy quiet, under the canopy of stars, we understood that we were not merely soldiers of flesh and blood. We were guardians of a fragile light, entrusted to hold back the tide of darkness, for as long as our strength and our faith would allow.

Abu Amir Al-Mansoor had come from Al-Andalus for Jihad, and his name would be invoked in legend. He died at the age of 65 in the year 1002 in his beloved Al-Andalus. I, Ahmed ibn Birzali, a mere noble soldier of Córdoba, had chronicled this unbelievable adventure, unforeseen from the beginning. History will know of the stouthearted Saracens and Nazarenes who had defeated the Caliphate of the Jinn.

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