By midday, John's party reached Bastam, the principal town of Khorasan province. Low stone walls ringed a cluster of clay brick buildings and a bustling bazaar. A squat fort overlooked the town from a rocky spur. As they passed through the gates, John's jaw tightened at the sight of gaunt townsfolk and shuttered shops. Armed guards eyed them from the ramparts. Word of the scuffle in Nuraddin might travel, John realized, so time was of the essence.
"Straight to the governor," John ordered quietly. Safid nodded and took the lead, clearing a path through the market crowd. At the fort's entrance, a pair of halberd-wielding guards crossed their weapons to block the way. "State your business," one barked.
Safid drew himself up. "General Safid, Imperial Army. Here on inspection," he declared, using his real name with a thunderous authority that brooked no argument. The guards flinched—Safid's reputation was known even here. They hastily opened the gates and escorted the party into the courtyard.
Inside the keep's great hall, Governor Hamid paced nervously. He was a stout man in silk robes that strained at the belly, a neatly-oiled beard framing a smile that did not reach his eyes. He looked up in alarm as Safid and John entered, flanked by a couple of John's men. Servants scurried out of sight.
"General Safid!" Hamid began, forcing enthusiasm as he bowed deeply. Beads of sweat glistened at his temple. "What an unexpected honor. Had I known of an inspection, I would have prepared a feast—"
"This isn't a social call," Safid cut in sharply. He stopped a few paces from the governor, boots planted firmly on the marble floor. "Reports of unrest in Khorasan have reached the capital. We're here to assess the situation firsthand."
Hamid's eyes flickered to John, taking in his unadorned attire and stern stance. "And this is…?"
"General Suleiman," John said, meeting the governor's gaze. He kept his voice cold. "An advisor sent by the Emperor." It was not exactly a lie—he was indeed the Emperor's eyes in this. "Perhaps you can explain why your villages are starving, Governor, despite normal tithes and an Imperial decree on fair tax burdens?"
The governor's smile froze. "Starving, you say? There may be some exaggeration, surely. Khorasan had a difficult harvest, yes, but I have dispatched relief where I can."
John's temper flared at the blatant falsehood. He recalled the hollow-cheeked children he'd seen peering from doorways in Bastam. "Relief? Nuraddin's well is nearly dry, its people hungry and harassed by your garrison. Is that your idea of relief?"
Hamid bristled, a defensive whine entering his voice. "If some soldiers have misbehaved, I will discipline them. But understand, General, this province borders wild steppelands. Bandits and rebels press in. I must keep order and meet the capital's tax demands. It isn't easy—"
Safid stepped forward, looming. "Mind your tongue. Are you blaming the Emperor's policies for your shortcomings?"
Hamid blanched, backpedaling. "No, no, of course not. I only mean... I levy what is required for the good of the empire."
A commotion at the hall doorway interrupted them. One of John's cavalrymen hurried in, carrying a burlap sack. He bowed briefly to Safid and John. "Pardon, sirs. We found something in the storehouse."
The soldier upended the sack; golden wheat spilled onto the floor in a small heap. "The granaries are full to the rafters," he reported. "This is last season's grain, untouched. The governor claimed to have distributed it as aid, but clearly…"
Governor Hamid's face went ashen. "How dare you ransack my stores—!" he sputtered, then bit his tongue.
John's eyes blazed. He stepped closer to Hamid, voice dropping to a dangerous quiet. "You lied to our faces. You've hoarded food while your people starve." Each word was clipped, controlled, yet promised wrath.
Hamid wilted under that glare. "I-I was going to send it out, I swear. But the roads—bandit danger— I thought to wait—"
"Enough." John's single word halted the governor's babbling. He felt disgust coil in his gut. This man's greed and negligence had caused untold suffering. This was exactly the rot John had hoped to cut out with these unannounced tours.
Safid cleared his throat. "Governor Hamid, by the authority of the Empire, you are hereby relieved of command pending an investigation. Hand over your seal of office."
The governor gaped. "You can't do that! Only the Emperor himself can—"
John decided the farce had gone on long enough. He reached into his cloak and drew forth a gold signet ring etched with the imperial lion, lifting it before Hamid's face. "The Emperor is here," he said, voice ringing through the hall. With his other hand, he swept back his hood entirely. Sunlight from the high windows fell across his features. Governor Hamid's eyes widened in utter shock as he finally recognized the visage of Arslan Rûmî – the Emperor he supposedly served – standing before him in plain traveler's garb.
Hamid stumbled backward, nearly tripping over his robes. "Your – Majesty!" he gasped. He dropped to his knees, forehead nearly touching the floor. "Forgive me! I did not know – I never would have–"
John's lip curled in disgust. He turned to two of the local guards who had gathered, drawn by the raised voices and sudden kowtowing of their master. They stood uncertainly by the doorway, clearly stunned to find the Emperor in their midst. "Seize him," John ordered curtly.
The guards hesitated only a second before obeying. They hauled the trembling governor to his feet and removed the ornate seal ring from Hamid's finger. The man made no resistance beyond incoherent pleas for mercy.
Safid took the seal and passed it to John. John closed his fist around it. "Governor Hamid," he declared, "by my authority, you are stripped of your post. You will be held accountable for the mistreatment of Imperial subjects. Pray that the judges show you more mercy than you have shown your people."
Hamid sobbed openly as the guards led him away to the dungeons below. John watched him go, feeling a grim satisfaction tempered by sorrow that such action had been necessary.
Without missing a beat, John turned to the remaining staff and officers who lingered in the hall, eyes wide. "Gather the town elders and the quartermaster," John commanded. "All confiscated grain and taxes are to be inventoried at once. A fair portion will be distributed to the villages in need by week's end. I will personally ensure this is done."
The onlookers sprang into motion. Word spread quickly through Bastam that the Emperor himself had come and deposed the hated governor. As John and Safid stepped back outside into the afternoon sun, a crowd had already begun to gather in the courtyard and along the dusty streets beyond the gate. Dozens of villagers pressed forward, curiosity and hope lighting their faces. The whispers raced from mouth to mouth: The Emperor is here!
John mounted a stack of crates by the gate to address them. He raised his voice, clear and resonant: "People of Bastam, your hardships have reached my ears. I have removed Governor Hamid from his post for his failures and abuses. You have my word that relief will come, and a more just governor will be appointed."
A murmur ran through the crowd. Some cheered, a tentative sound at first that swelled as it spread. John saw the old elder from Nuraddin in the throng, tears on the man's face as he lifted gnarled hands in thanks. Others shouted blessings upon the Emperor's name.
Safid watched quietly from John's side, one hand on his sword pommel, ever vigilant even in this moment of triumph. John's heart swelled at the sight of hope returning to these worn faces. This was worth every discomfort of the journey.
In that moment, John realized fully that the empire was not marble halls or gilded thrones—it was these people before him, living day to day by the grace of what leadership provided. He silently vowed to never forget it.
Dusk found John's company winding through a narrow mountain pass en route back toward the imperial heartland. Purple shadows stretched across the trail as the sun sank behind craggy peaks. The air was thin and smelled of pine and cold stone.
John rode near the front, alert despite the long day's ride. The hair on his neck prickled. The birdsong that had followed them all afternoon had gone eerily silent. He lifted a clenched fist, the signal to halt. Behind him, the column of riders obeyed at once, Safid coming up alongside.
"You feel it too?" Safid muttered, eyes scanning the boulders that flanked the pass.
John nodded once. Something was wrong. His soldier's instincts screamed an ambush was near. The wind whistled through the rocks, and for a heartbeat there was no other sound.
Then came the whooping war-cries from above. Dark figures rose from behind the boulders—bandits in ragged leathers, drawn by the lure of a small traveling party on a remote road. Arrows whistled down.
"Shields up!" John shouted, yanking his horse behind a jutting rock face. His men raised their wooden bucklers overhead. A hail of arrows clattered down, a few thudding into saddles and shield wood. One shaft buzzed past John's cheek.
John's pulse hammered, but battle clarity settled over him – that familiar focus he had known in firefights on another world. With a swift motion, he drew a rune on his left forearm guard using a bit of chalk from his belt pouch. The sigil flashed blue as he intoned a trigger word under his breath. A translucent disc of force shimmered into being just above the group, catching two arrows that would have found throats. The missiles splintered against the magical shield and rained harmlessly aside. Safid gave a brief nod of approval.
From the rocks ahead, a guttural voice bellowed, "Charge!"
Half a dozen bandits rushed down the trail, curved swords and axes gleaming. Their leader was a giant of a man with a wolfskin cloak and a two-handed blade. He barreled forward, expecting to scatter the travelers.
"Counter-charge!" John ordered. He didn't wait for the bandits to close distance. Instead, he spurred his horse and burst out from cover, Safid and three cavalrymen at his heels. Hooves thundered on stone as they met the oncoming brigands with a crash of steel.
John's cavalry saber met a bandit's axe with a jarring impact. He parried and slashed in one fluid motion, sending the man sprawling with a cry. To his left, Safid laid into another attacker, the general's shamshir whirling with deadly grace. One bandit fell with a gurgle as Safid's blade found his neck.
The wolf-cloaked leader roared and swung his massive sword at John. The blow had ferocious strength behind it. John caught it on his own blade, but the force unhorsed him – he tumbled from the saddle, hitting the ground hard enough to knock the breath from his lungs. His horse bolted away.
Dust filled John's mouth as he rolled aside just in time to avoid the leader's follow-up strike, which split a rock where John had lain a heartbeat before. John sprang to his feet, drawing his lion-pommeled kilij in a flash of steel. The two-handed sword came at him again, and he dodged nimbly, boots skidding on gravel.
They circled each other in the gloom. The bandit chief was a head taller and muscled like an ox, confidence gleaming in his feral grin. He clearly relished a worthy opponent. He feinted low then brought the heavy blade down from overhead, trying to break John's guard with brute force.
John did not meet strength with strength. Instead, he sidestepped at the last instant, the massive sword whistling past his shoulder. In the same motion John slashed upward across the bandit's arm, drawing blood. The man howled in pain and fury.
Nearby, one of John's soldiers cried out and fell from his horse, an arrow embedded in his thigh. Out of the corner of his eye, John saw two bandit archers still perched above, nocking fresh arrows to longbows. Time slowed in his perception—a trick of adrenaline. Two more arrows aimed at his men could be fatal.
John's mind raced. He had seconds at most. Drawing on the wellspring of Enscriptive Energetics he had cultivated, John freed one hand from his sword and traced a glyph in the air, focusing hard on the pattern. He felt heat dance along his fingertips as the rune took shape, drawing energy from his surroundings. With a shout, he pushed his palm outwards.
A searing bolt of azure light shot forth, crackling through the air like chain lightning. It struck the boulder where the archers crouched and exploded in a burst of arcane force. The shockwave knocked both bowmen backwards with screams, sending them tumbling down the rocky slope.
For a heartbeat, all fighting ceased. The remaining bandits gaped in astonishment at the Emperor's sudden display of sorcery. Even Safid spared a glance of awe despite having seen John's magic in action before.
The bandit chief took advantage of the distraction, lunging at John's back with a snarl of rage. But John had not let his guard down. Sensing the movement, he spun to meet the attack. His lion-engraved kilij caught the dying light of dusk and gleamed with an inner fire. Steel met steel as John parried the thrust and riposted with a swift diagonal cut across the bandit chief's torso.
The big man staggered, John's strike having found a gap in his crude armor. He dropped to one knee, blood darkening his tunic. John stepped forward and pressed the tip of his sword to the man's throat. "Yield," John commanded, voice cold.
The fight had gone out of the bandit leader. He panted, grimacing at the pain. After a moment, he spat to the side and growled, "We yield." Around the pass, the surviving brigands lowered their weapons or tried to limp away. Safid's men corralled them efficiently, disarming those within reach. A few of the outlaws managed to flee into the rocks, disappearing into the gathering night rather than face imperial justice.
Panting, John lowered his sword. The clamor of battle subsided, leaving only the groans of wounded men and horses. The last light of day had faded into a star-pricked twilight.
Safid approached, wiping his bloody blade on a rag. He surveyed the prisoners with a hard stare. "Bind them," he ordered his troops. "We'll take whoever we caught to face justice in the capital." His men began tying the hands of the sullen captives.
John turned to the soldier who had been shot. The man sat propped against a rock, face pale with pain as another comrade tried to stanch the bleeding from his thigh. The black arrow jutted cruelly from the muscle.
John knelt beside him. "Easy, soldier. Let me see." He broke off the arrow's tail carefully and drew the arrowhead out in one swift motion. The man groaned, gripping another soldier's hand. John's own forearm throbbed in sympathy, recalling his own wound from that first assassination attempt months ago.
He would not let this man suffer long. John placed a hand over the wound and closed his eyes. Summoning a gentle, warming energy, he began to whisper an incantation taught by Magister Salim. A soft white glow emanated from John's palm. The injured soldier gasped as flesh knit and pain ebbed - a minor healing inscription taking effect.
When John drew his hand away, only a puckered scar and some residual soreness remained of the arrow wound. "Thank you, sire," the soldier breathed in amazement, forgetting himself enough to use the royal address. The others pretended not to hear it. John simply gave the man a reassuring squeeze on the shoulder and rose.
Safid had watched the healing silently, arms folded. Now he gave John a small, respectful bow of the head. In that gesture was acknowledgment of both John's combat prowess and his compassion. Wordlessly, Safid's men began to gather their fallen and tend to any other hurts. Two of their number had shallow cuts; one more had a bruised arm from a bandit's cudgel. All injuries John saw to with either bandages or a touch of rune-magic, leaving his troops both relieved and in ever-deepening awe of their sovereign.
In the aftermath, John took a moment to gaze at the fallen bandits and the dark mountains beyond. These outlaws had likely preyed on the weak for months, perhaps out of greed or desperation. He couldn't help but wonder how many were driven to this life by hunger or injustice in the provinces. It steeled his resolve anew to continue the reforms he'd begun. If governance failed, chaos like this took root.
"Your orders, sire?" Safid asked quietly, coming to stand beside him.
John turned to the prisoners being lined up under guard. "We march them to the nearest garrison stockade by morning. They'll answer for their deeds." He looked at the bandit chief slumped against a stump, wrists bound. The man met his gaze with grudging respect and a flicker of confusion at who exactly this man was—warrior, mage, or something else entirely.
"We'll also give proper burials to their dead," John added after a pause. "They were enemies, but they were also men of these lands. Let's show some decency."
Safid nodded in approval. "As you command."
That night, the imperial party made camp just off the road, tending wounds and posting watches under the cold glitter of stars. John helped where he could—rolling the bodies of bandits in shrouds, saying a quiet prayer for each, then seeing his own men fed and rested. There was no luxury here, only a small fire and bedrolls on hard ground, but John felt more at peace than he ever did amidst silk cushions in the palace. Out here he earned every inch of loyalty by deed, not title.