It had been nearly a week since they had barely managed to retreat.
The sound of irregular footsteps and weary breathing could be heard from everyone. The soldiers were so exhausted that even lifting their heavy eyelids felt like a struggle.
It was only natural—they hadn’t had a proper rest since leaving Nemeapatre. Seeing their dangerous, faltering steps, the prince felt the same weariness weighing on his heart.
“…Everyone looks exhausted.”
They had fought while fleeing, abandoned their comrades when defeat seemed inevitable, and carried the guilt of those choices. It was no surprise that the prince muttered a bitter remark to himself as he looked at them. Yet, despite everything, he continued the forced march for two reasons: the Ottomans, who were surely in pursuit at this very moment, and the fact that Corinth was finally within reach. It was the latter that had kept both the prince and his soldiers moving.
No one had ever spoken the words aloud, but at some point, they had all come to believe it.
Corinth.
There, the battle would be decided. There, it would be determined whose will would prevail and who would claim victory. If they could just reach it, this grueling war would finally come to an end. That single belief had allowed them to accomplish the near-miracle of losing fewer than ten drifters.
And then, at last, as the faint outline of the city walls came into view on the horizon, the long-awaited cheers that should have erupted never came. Instead, only a thick, suffocating despair awaited them.
The soldiers at the front of the line, stunned by the sight before them, slowly lowered their heads one by one. No one could even muster a proper sigh of grief. They all refused to acknowledge the reality before them.
The prince wanted to do the same.
But instead of averting his gaze, he forced himself to take in the situation before him—because he had to. If they were to carve a path through the Ottoman forces numbering in the thousands, he had to fully grasp their predicament.
Still, even he couldn’t completely suppress his true feelings from slipping through. As he stared at the Ottomans forming their battle lines, he let out a low, strained groan.
“Murad…”
Crunch.
His teeth ground together as he swallowed the words he could not bring himself to say. Even so, he endured. The first thing he had to do was figure out how the Ottomans had managed to cross the Isthmus of Corinth before them.
Fortunately, the answer came quickly.
The Ottoman camp was not far from a fleet of anchored ships along the coast.
The real problem, however, was that such a large fleet had made it this far south completely unhindered. Whether numbering as many as forty or as few as twenty-five, the sheer scale of the fleet suggested an unhindered voyage. At that moment, the worst possibility flashed through the prince’s mind.
Had they allied with Venice?
Perhaps, believing that Ottoman naval power had been sufficiently depleted, the Venetians had chosen to impose sanctions on Morea, with whom they had previously clashed over trade disputes. Or perhaps they had decided that they no longer had the means to check Ottoman expansion and were now seeking to win their trust. Considering their history of pursuing only national interest, it wasn’t an impossible notion.
That is—if not for what the prince himself had done.
But he had far too many clues to overlook the real answer.
“They took advantage of an opening.”
Long ago, Murad had orchestrated a ploy to make it seem as if a Crusader army was forming, drawing in the Genoese fleet and indirectly setting the Venetian fleet in motion as well. That maneuver had led to unexpected consequences. Murad, who had used fleet movements to infer the Crusaders’ mobilization, would not have overlooked the resulting power vacuum at sea. This latest maneuver was just another example of him exploiting Morea and the empire’s naval inferiority.
In fact, it was possible that Murad had deliberately loosened his pursuit, allowing the prince’s forces to reach this point.
The Isthmus of Corinth was a natural strategic chokepoint, linking the Peloponnesian Peninsula to the Greek mainland by land. In a geopolitical landscape where Venice and Genoa dominated the seas, it was the Ottomans’ only viable route into southern Greece. That was why Emperor Manuel had once sought to fortify it.
However, in an extraordinary turn of events, the Isthmus had become a death trap instead.
If the Ottomans blocked both ends—sealing off the routes to both the Peloponnesus and the Greek mainland—there would be nowhere left to run.
Murad’s intent was now unmistakable.
Encirclement. Annihilation.
This was where the long series of clashes would finally be decided.
It had been a relentless battle of wits—Murad, seeking to bind and crush him completely, and the prince, striving to slip through the net and turn the trap against him. But Murad was far more tenacious and cunning than he had anticipated.
And now, after all the desperate struggles to evade capture, this was how it would end.
In this moment, the prince understood with absolute clarity.
The thousand-year empire he sought to protect, the sovereignty and freedom of countless people—all of it was threatened by one undeniable truth.
His enemy was history’s chosen victor.
A conqueror who had already been recognized—by heaven, by the world, and by history itself—for his power and worth. No divine intervention had aided him. His triumph was forged through relentless determination, meticulous preparation, and an insatiable ambition.
Understanding this, the prince also knew what Murad desired.
A fierce, unwavering will to erase him completely.
—He would have declared with absolute certainty that he would not tolerate even the slightest chance of survival.
As his long, agonizing contemplation reached its end, the prince slowly extended his hand toward the hilt of his sword.
But just as his fingers were about to grasp the handle, a completely unexpected sensation—warm and soft—startled him. His eyes widened in shock, and he turned his gaze.
There, standing before him, was Ivania.
Her face was stiff with determination, as if she had made a silent vow.
“…Did you not hear me? If you push yourself any further, this truly will be your final battlefield.”
Ivania was right. The fact that the prince could even rise from his bed was nothing short of a miracle, as if divine grace had momentarily defied the ruin of his body. The prince knew this all too well, which was why he could not bring himself to respond.
Seeing him unable to utter a word, Ivania smiled.
“I am grateful for everything until now, Your Highness. But this time, it is my turn.”
The moment her words reached him, the prince looked around. Every soldier was gazing at him with the same expression as Ivania. The resignation born from constant retreat, the exhaustion carved into their features, and yet, beneath it all, an unwavering resolve that trembled with intensity.
But the prince’s eyes wavered just the same.
Abandon them again?
Must he once more drive those who had stood by his side, who had endured countless hardships with him, into the jaws of death just to save himself?
Just as he was about to be consumed by his thoughts, he felt the warmth of the hand that had been holding his slowly slipping away. That familiar heat, the touch of those he cherished, was fading.
And he—he was the one letting it go.
He was the one forcing them to release the hands of their own loved ones.
Once again, in order to save him, someone else’s body would grow cold.
At that moment, the prince instinctively tightened his grip on Ivania’s retreating hand.
“Y-Your Highness? I appreciate your enthusiasm, truly! Really! But now is not—”
“I will abandon no one anymore.”
His voice was steady, quiet, yet it resounded with unmistakable clarity.
For too long, he had carried out contradictions—sacrificing in order to protect. He had compromised time and again, knowing it was wrong, just to maintain the fragile balance of a crumbling scale.
But one day, every contradiction leads to ruin.
And now, he stood at the crossroads of a cold, ruthless choice.
Would he surrender to the contradiction? Or would he remember what he had fought for all along?
The prince knew that he could no longer delay the answer to that question.
Perhaps it was too late.
But that did not matter.
No matter when it happened, a contradiction had to be corrected.
And that time was now.
“If this is the end, then at the very least, in my final moments, I want to remember what I was fighting for.”
“But, Your Highness! Have you forgotten all the sacrifices that have been made to get here?! If you are stopping me simply because I am a woman, then I cannot accept it, not now!”
“No… No, Ivania. It is not because you are a woman.”
“Then why?!”
“Because there will be no next time.”
With those words, the prince released the hand he had been holding.
And before Ivania could react, he moved first.
The sword that had long slumbered in fear of death was drawn.
It was only natural for Ivania to be horrified at the sight.
“Your Highness! Have you already forgotten why Sir Adrianos died?!”
“If we fail here, it will not matter even if we survive.”
The blood of countless fallen.
The deaths suffered by so many.
The wishes of those who had set themselves ablaze for a single, fragile hope—if that wish had yet to reach the heavens, then further prayers would be meaningless.
How much blood had already soaked the earth?
The offering had already been made.
Now, it was time for the Crimson Cross to answer.
The cruelest scale of all—one that could only bring peace through blood—would now tip according to the weight it had borne.
And if the Crimson Cross still did not answer…
Then there would be no further plans. No reinforcements.
Only one path remained—to carve open the road to Corinth.
Tightening his grip on the reins, the prince gave his final reply to Ivania.
“If the road will not open now, then I would rather meet my end here.”
Leave a Reply