To Protect, One Must Abandon.
This simple yet brutal truth is all the more unforgiving for the weak. Resources are always limited, while the things that must be protected are endless.
The are only two choices available: attempt to protect everything, knowing it is beyond one’s means, or discard all but the few things that truly matter. Could there be a heavier question for a leader who has followers depending on them?
Ideals and reality.
If one were to choose between the two, they would naturally wish for the ideal. Yet what awaits at the end of that path is nothing but a beautiful tale—or at best, a tragic end. The undeniable truth is that no one wants their struggles, their very lives, to be reduced to mere stories of triumph or grief.
Everyone desires a happy ending. They want to enjoy in a life of abundance, to scream in joy and exhilaration. They all crave it—even if their happiness comes at the cost of someone else’s subjugation and tears.
And so, the second choice was made.
Once the decision to abandon was made, hesitation was no longer an option. One by one, sacrifices were made. And where did that lead? Burning cities, forcing innocent sacrifices, and now, demanding even the lives of loyal subjects. How many more must die? Is it truly the right path to try and revive an empire on the brink of destruction against the Ottomans?
Sovereignty and freedom upon a land laid to waste, or prosperity promised through chains and subjugation.
Which of the two do people truly desire? And are they worth the sacrifices being made?
At first, there was no understanding of those who fought for values like honour and glory. But upon realizing the worth of sovereignty and freedom, those ideals were taken upon these shoulders. And yet, now comes the creeping doubt—what if all this is merely leading to even more bloodshed?
Could it be that, under the noble cause of sovereignty and freedom, the path taken is the wrong one?
No answer comes from personal contemplation alone, nor from looking around for guidance. Even turning to the Red Cross, laden with expectations, yields no promise of peace. Is even more sacrifice still needed? Sighing changes nothing. Blood must flow—whether it is that of those who follow or those who stand in opposition.
And if blood must be shed, then let it be that of the enemy.
Even with such resolve, reality awaited. The Morea army was on the verge of collapse. To retreat to Corinth, a rear guard was necessary to draw Murad’s attention and attacks. There was no way for all to survive. Against overwhelming force and cold steel, the only way to tip the scales of war was to place a weight upon them.
For the retreat to Corinth to succeed, someone had to die—someone other than oneself. And Murad could never be allowed to see through this intention. In the end, those who volunteered for the rear guard would die in the cruelest, most wretched manner. The moment they believed they would not be abandoned was precisely when they would be cast aside.
Perhaps it would be better to hope for a miracle and fight to the last man. That way, regardless of victory or defeat, all would meet a death of meaning. If successful, it would be the best possible outcome. But had this truth not been repeated time and time again?
One must not pursue the best possibility at the risk of losing all possibilities.
A last stand is only an option when no other means remain. And Murad is not the only one seeking to encircle the enemy. The fate of this war will be decided in Corinth. If Murad is pinned down there, the empire will claim victory; if not, the triumph will be his.
The moment eyes fell upon the ragged gypsy, kneeling and presenting a sealed letter with both hands, intuition struck.
“Genoa is making its move.”
Venice, wary of Genoa’s fleet gathering near Patras, would soon respond. Whether they protested diplomatically or moved their own fleet, either outcome was favourable. The cautious Venetian Senate would likely prefer military preparations to avoid any unintended clashes. But their true intentions in the Aegean, and those of Genoa, were irrelevant.
What mattered was how Murad would perceive the sudden movement of two maritime powers.
Since their crushing defeat at sea during the reign of Sultan Mehmed, the Ottoman fleet had never fully recovered. Now, between the two storms that were Genoa and Venice, they would inevitably be pressured. And this was only the beginning.
“Cannons… A formidable weapon indeed. I had thought the true age of gunpowder had yet to arrive.”
The fifteenth century was an era of chaos—not merely because old powers fell and new conquerors rose, but because the very nature of war was shifting. No longer was warfare dominated by knights and cavalry; the slow transition to infantry and artillery had begun.
This was the fifteenth century.
From now on, cannons must be factored into the calculus of war. Especially when dealing with the Ottomans, who had the capability to transport them discreetly.
A countermeasure would be essential.
Though an enemy, admiration was inevitable.
Indeed, cannons were Murad’s best and most effective means of countering a delaying strategy. A new pattern had emerged—one that shattered the old premise of relying on fortress walls. But Murad was not the only one doing his utmost. Hidden beneath seemingly meaningless sacrifices and deception lay the true intention.
—Murad had to believe that this war was solely between Morea and himself.
It was crucial to hold his attention firmly in place, preventing him from easily detecting foreign intervention. To achieve this, there had to be room for Murad to misinterpret the intended strategy. That was why the intervention of Epirus had been deliberately delayed—to conceal the planned involvement of the two maritime powers before Murad’s descent into central Greece.
Preserving Epirus’s strength was a factor, but ultimately, the true purpose was to keep it in the background—allowing it to serve as a bridge for negotiations with Genoa while Murad still believed it was uninvolved. And if Genoa attempted to intervene in the Aegean, Venice was certain to respond immediately.
It was exceedingly rare for both Venice and Genoa to act at the same time.
Either they were on the brink of clashing with each other, or…
…a Crusade had been declared.
Of course, no such Crusade was coming. The key was to make Murad misinterpret the intentions of the Western powers. The timing of these movements would seem far too coincidental for mere posturing. He might be able to guess who had set things in motion, but not what would come of it. The only certainty was that he would soon deem further delays to be dangerous. In his desperation to crush Morea, he would push forward even deeper.
Meanwhile, Morea’s territory had to be preserved as much as possible. And it could not be allowed to collapse instantly due to its numerical inferiority. That was why Corinth had been chosen as the final battleground. The Isthmus, with its natural constraints on maneuvering, would prevent the Ottomans from fully leveraging their numerical advantage.
But no decisive battle would take place there.
That location had never been meant for a final confrontation.
Now, the fate of the empire—whether it would endure or meet its end after centuries—was no longer in these hands. Instead, it rested in the capital, where a single answer awaited. Everything depended on one person.
The one who had once thwarted the former Sultan Mehmed’s southern Greek campaign.
The one who held that answer.
“Father, this unworthy son has done all that he could.”
A vague sense of what that solution might be began to take shape. If his father possessed something that could stir the Anatolian beyliks into action…
He bit down hard on his lower lip, suppressing his frustration. The encirclement was nearly complete.
“He must think he is the one laying the trap.”
But Murad would soon realize his mistake.
The knot he believed he was tightening around his enemy had been set around his own neck as well. The rope had been cast over them both.
—And so, the path led to Corinth.
Even if it meant sacrificing thousands of lives.
Even if it meant killing Adrianos, who had trusted and followed him to the very end.
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