The sight of the Morean army, reduced to nothing more than a handful of ashes, compelled Turahan to silently offer them his respect.
Not just as an adversary but as a commander himself. Most armies would crumble after a single devastating defeat, shaken beyond recovery.
Yet, despite their crushing loss and retreat, the Morean forces stood resolute, still demonstrating their will to resist.
There was a reason the concept of a decisive battle existed—because a single victory or defeat could determine an army’s survival.
Exceptions, though rare, could be found in history.
But no one would have expected them to arise among those who had long since forgotten duty and conviction. By all rights, the Sultan’s forces should have crushed them in a single charge, just as he had intended.
Yet the Moreans had defied expectations, miraculously maintaining their formation even amidst the chaos of battle. To charge recklessly against such an enemy would be nothing short of foolishness.
Turahan could sense the desperate resolve of those who had prepared to fight despite their defeat, retreat, and the relentless assaults they had endured. And if so, then breaking them would be the first duty bestowed by the victor of this new era.
He resolved to act with absolute thoroughness, leaving no room for uncertainty.
“The Morean forces are holding firm. Rather than attacking, we will maintain our position and ensure they cannot retreat so easily.”
The Sultan’s orders had never focused on outright victory but rather on preventing the enemy’s escape. Furthermore, their pursuit had prioritized mobility, leaving them without the infantry necessary to deliver a finishing blow.
If the Christians had held out longer, this might have been the perfect opportunity. But with their collapse, that hope had evaporated. In such a situation, even if they launched an assault, they might be able to damage the enemy—but they would not achieve a decisive victory.
A hollow victory would only tarnish the Sultan’s name and hinder his greater ambitions. Now was the time for caution, not recklessness.
Yet even Turahan was shaken by the report that soon followed.
“Dragases is here?”
“There is no doubt, my lord. He is leading them.”
Turahan had assumed that Dragases had fled to Epirus with his knights, seeking aid from the West to return at the head of a Crusade. Yet here he was, in the most unexpected of places. His surprise lasted only a moment before he nodded.
“…So that’s why they’ve been able to hold out.”
Had it been anyone else, he might have doubted the claim. But Dragases was different. Turahan understood the weight of that name all too well.
There, at the heart of that battered force, stood the last hope of a dying empire.
Alone, he had held up a nearly shattered army, forcing it back onto its feet.
Turahan knew it instinctively—this was his opportunity to bring an end to this long and grueling war.
A cold thrill of anticipation ran down his spine, mingling with the tension settling over him.
But in the back of his mind, the memory of the Janissaries’ blunder loomed.
Why had the Sultan’s elite guard so easily fallen for the enemy’s tactic? There could be only one answer: they had been offered the same bait. A lure so tempting that it had shaken even their absolute loyalty to the Sultan.
It could have been nothing else but Dragases’ life.
This must not happen again.
The same mistake must not be repeated against the same opponent.
This was what gave Turahan pause.
But it was not the only reason.
What unsettled him most was his own uncertainty in victory.
Undoubtedly, he held the advantage. But his opponent was a ruler who had proven himself time and time again, surviving countless near-deaths and proving his worth.
Through his ruthlessness, his devotion, his martial prowess, his courage, and his conviction, Dragases had demonstrated that he was worthy of being the nemesis of the Ottomans.
If they allowed him any more breathing room, he would become an overwhelming obstacle in the empire’s future.
Dragases would not fall so easily.
He must have some hidden plan in motion.
That thought led Turahan to survey his surroundings more carefully—
—and it turned out to be the right decision.
The moment he spotted the fleet approaching from the west, he understood what Dragases had been waiting for.
No Ottoman reinforcements would come from the west—not with Venetian influence so strong in those waters.
That left only one possibility.
Turahan’s gaze sharpened as he glared toward the Morean lines, where Dragases stood.
“…A Crusade. So, it has come to this.”
There was no more time for hesitation.
Now that he had uncovered Dragases’ true intentions—his greatest concern—there was only one thing left to do: act.
The most decisive course of action was to crush one side before the Crusaders and Dragases could unite, shattering the enemy’s resistance.
Turahan was just about to give the order when—
“Turahan! Turahan Bey, my lord! A command from the Sultan!”
Turning his head, he saw a breathless messenger pushing his way through the ranks of the assembled sipahis, urging his horse forward.
A command from the Sultan? He had already received his orders before setting out—he had heard them clearly with his own ears. The Sultan could not have been unaware of the situation.
“The Sultan?”
“Yes, my lord! Please, accept the Sultan’s command at once!”
The moment the messenger dismounted—practically rolling off his horse—he pulled a sealed letter from his coat and extended it forward.
Turahan took the letter, but an ominous feeling crept into his heart.
Why now, of all times?
Considering that the messenger had arrived so soon after he himself had reached the battlefield, something must have happened almost immediately after their departure.
If the message had not been dispatched at the very moment they set out, it would not have reached them in time.
It must have been urgent.
As he slowly unsealed and unfolded the letter, a vague realization settled over Turahan.
This war would not end the way the Sultan and the Ottomans had intended.
And his hunch turned to reality the moment he read its contents.
There was only a single line:
[Avoid battle until you rejoin the main force.]
He read it once.
Then again.
And again.
He wanted to believe it was some trick of the enemy.
But there was no denying it—this was the Sultan’s own handwriting.
The Sultan, who had once commanded the utter extermination of his foes, with no room for dissent.
For even that ironclad will to be overturned… something had happened. Something of such magnitude that he was now forced to let go of his prey, even after having it within his grasp.
Turahan did not yet know the details.
But there was no doubt that some great disruption had occurred—one that compelled them to let their sworn enemy escape.
And even though no further details had been provided, Turahan already understood the cause.
And who was behind it.
Who else could it be?
Closing his eyes, he let the name settle in his mind, repeating it over and over.
“…Dragases.”
The last beacon to appear within the ruins of a fallen thousand-year empire.
A foe more than worthy of being called the nemesis of the Ottomans.
Through countless failures and staggering sacrifices, he had honed his blade against the empire itself—an act only one of his caliber could achieve.
The final hope of a crumbling empire.
No, that was not enough.
Turahan thought otherwise.
He was fire.
The flame of reconstruction had begun to burn.
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