Not Long After Murad Opened the Gates of Nemeapatre
The prince stared at the Janissaries before him, lost in deep thought. It had been only a day since the standoff began. Too short a time to fully grasp the enemy’s intentions, but their actions—maintaining distance and firing arrows from afar—provided a clear enough answer. Biting his lip, the prince let out a sigh filled with frustration.
“They’re blocking our retreat…”
If they attempted to push forward and retreat by force, a decisive battle against the Janissaries would be inevitable. Conversely, if they turned back toward Nemeapatre, their rear would be endlessly harassed.
Murad had laid out two choices before the prince and was pressuring him to decide: would he march back to Athens, or return to Nemeapatre to engage Murad in a decisive battle? Either way, the Morean forces would suffer losses. The prince was now forced to weigh his options, knowing full well that any decision would cost his army dearly.
“So that’s what he’s been scheming—using his elite guard to tie us down.”
The prince had never imagined that Murad would use even the Janissaries as bait. That shock had driven him to abandon Nemeapatre and decide to retreat just days ago. Now, he had to understand why Murad was making such a dramatic statement, using the Janissaries as sacrificial pawns to buy time.
Logically, Murad, who needed to focus on the siege, had deliberately deployed his elite troops as an advance unit. What did that mean?
Eventually, the prince’s thoughts led him to a conclusion. Though he couldn’t quite believe it, everything started to make sense. A hollow laugh escaped him, but his face quickly turned cold and tense as he clenched his fists tightly.
It was clear now: Murad somehow knew that the gates of Nemeapatre would open. Once inside, he would seize Nemeapatre in a single stroke and use the time bought by the Janissaries to strike the Morean army from the rear.
“Well, of course. If we’ve been using spies, there’s no way the Ottomans haven’t been doing the same.”
With a self-deprecating sigh, the prince began to agonize over another possibility. Had their plan to use Greek Fire for a scorched-earth attack been discovered as well? It would be one thing if Murad knew about the gates opening and infiltrating the city.
But if he also anticipated the timing of the fire attack, he could neutralize it and turn the Greek Fire against them, resulting in the worst-case scenario. The issue was that this concern was already out of his hands.
Now, the Morean army had only one thing left: the uncertain success of the fire attack. If it succeeded, they would survive. If it failed, it would all end here.
The prince once again placed the weight of his options on the scale. Should he return to Nemeapatre or continue the retreat? Either way, they would lose their influence over Central Greece. This was something he had anticipated ever since deciding to abandon Nemeapatre, so the loss of additional cities was not a new factor.
The only weight he could add to the scale was the possibility of victory.
If the fire attack succeeded, returning to Nemeapatre would be the best move. But the Janissaries would never allow it so easily. A chaotic, grueling battle was inevitable. This was far from the prince’s intention of minimizing soldier casualties.
Even if the fire attack was a resounding success, Nemeapatre would be left scorched and barren. Facing an inevitable clash with the Janissaries without the resources to sustain his troops would be suicide—a gamble he wasn’t willing to take.
And the prince had no intention of gambling.
The moment the Janissaries had forcibly dragged him into this standoff and he realized his predictions were wrong, he knew he couldn’t match Murad. The overwhelming gap between the Morean and Ottoman forces was undeniable—something they would have to overcome one day, but for now, it was unbeatable.
This was not merely a numerical disadvantage, nor was it a lack of equipment.
What the Ottomans Have, but Morea Does Not
It is the presence of exceptional subordinates and officers, armed with capabilities forged through vast experience.
If the prince manages to take down one, the Ottomans’ subordinates and officers will take down five. If the prince holds one front, another collapses entirely. Even with Ivania’s aid, it’s futile. Even if they fall short of Ivania’s caliber, there are others nearly as capable who can easily overwhelm his own lieutenants, including Adrianos.
The prince is cautious by nature. While he may gamble, it is only in those life-or-death moments where that gamble alone leads to survival. At his core, he is an exceedingly cautious man.
He cannot afford to risk everything in pursuit of the best possibility, only to lose all possibilities entirely.
The prince knows well what he is called—and he knows it is not far from the truth. The “last Hope” is called so because it truly is the last. If he falls, the final remaining strength the empire has painstakingly gathered will collapse entirely. This is not arrogance. It is simply the truth, as no one has yet emerged to replace him.
Now that it has become clear that he cannot easily defeat Murad, it is far more rational to move toward achieving the strategy he originally envisioned. For this, the prince acted swiftly just before the war broke out. He is confident that his plans will bear fruit. The only thing required is time.
He must endure.
Who knows better than he that patience is the one and only answer that can save the empire and his fate, both on the edge of collapse? Endure. Endlessly endure. Only those who endure can grasp the best possible future. The prince repeatedly calmed and controlled himself.
And yet, and yet…
—Crack.
Between clenched teeth, anger twisted and seeped out. His tightly trembling fists shook, and faint bloodshot veins emerged in his eyes. He had demanded sacrifices from innocent people—solely for the sake of victory. If this was all he could achieve, what had he demanded their sacrifices for? Even as waves of guilt and self-reproach surged over him, the prince once again forced himself to calm down.
To break the overwhelming momentum of the Ottomans, to halt the relentless advance of the audacious Murad, and for the sake of a better future…
After trembling for some time, the prince finally called for a messenger in a shaky voice. The ominous aura surrounding him left the messenger pale as he prostrated himself on the ground. Closing his eyes tightly, the prince steadied his heart.
Endure.
Endure!
You must endure!
Only after repeating this mantra of endurance dozens of times did the prince finally manage to speak.
“…Retreat.”
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