TL : I have change the name of the Genoese mercenary commander, Justinian to Giustiniani. Since this was how he was pronounced in real life too.
Roughly a year had passed since Emperor Dragases’ ascension to the throne.
Thus neared the year 1426.
Morea, which had succeeded in reclaiming central Greece, was rapidly reorganized under Emperor Dragases rule, and the capital too enjoyed a rare time of peace.
The main reason, of course, was the declining pressure from the Ottomans.
The Ottoman forces had to focus on crushing the army of Little Mustafa, who had risen in rebellion and laid claim to the throne, inevitably reducing their pressure on the capital and the surrounding region of Thrace.
Seizing this opportunity, Emperor John took a bold gamble.
He halved the annual tribute to the Ottomans and instead resolved to repair the Theodosian triple walls.
Naturally, the Ottomans didn’t sit idly by.
Çandarlı Halil, grand vizier of the Sultan Murad, was ordered to stabilize the rear and immediately sprang into action.
“The Sultan is away, and they seek to fortify themselves in his absence.”
—Oh Empire, do you still dare to engage in a battle where the outcome is so clear?
Though he let out a quiet sigh, the Ottoman vizier moved swiftly.
He issued a call to arms to tighten the pressure on Thrace and assembled reinforcements.
While most of the empire’s elite troops were with the Sultan, the Ottomans were never short on manpower.
Under Halil’s orders, nearly 2,000 soldiers were mustered.
Though most were irregulars poorly equipped, their numbers were enough to instill fear in the declining capital.
While it would be a stretch to directly assault Constantinople, protected by its triple walls, raiding the surrounding countryside was certainly within reach.
And yet, Çandarlı Halil did not launch his attack on Thrace.
There was only one reason.
Dragases.
The man who had pulled the Ottomans down just as they were preparing to soar, using a carefully laid net.
The young emperor—Sultan Murad’s rival and the Ottomans’ sworn enemy—marched just over a thousand men to the vicinity of Larissa upon hearing of the threat to Thrace.
Though neither side had deployed their full armies, the message was clear.
Would they clash, or would they preserve the uneasy peace just a little longer?
After a tense standoff, Çandarlı Halil chose the latter.
“The Sultan commanded me to stabilize the rear. For now, I will act according to your will.”
Had this been the days of tension between the capital and Morea, things might have gone differently.
In the past, even mobilizing troops near the capital would’ve been a threat in itself.
But now that Dragases had established a relationship of trust with Morea, the game had changed.
Halil had no choice but to pull back.
Regretful as it was, now was the time to yield.
The shrewd vizier cast away any lingering hesitation.
But that didn’t mean he had abandoned his resolve to sever the Empire’s lifeline.
“But Dragases… when your net finally tears, the Ottomans will rise.”
The dagger meant to pierce the heart of the Empire and Dragases alike had already been forged.
Çandarlı Halil was merely waiting—waiting to strike at just the right moment, when that dagger would bring the Empire crashing down.
Those unfamiliar with Halil might dismiss his words as empty threats.
But once he moved, the Empire’s enemies would realize—far too late—how wrong they’d been. Until then, Halil chose patience.
The unrest in the Balkans was soon reported to the Sultan in Anatolia.
Yet the Sultan, as if he had already expected it, received the news with cold indifferent expression.
And rightly so.
The Empire and the Ottomans were like two suns in the same sky—one had to fall for the other to shine.
If the Empire stirred now, it could only mean that the Ottomans gaze was elsewhere.
That Dragases had chosen the triple wall as his first step told the Sultan all he needed to know.
“So… he intends to reclaim it.”
The Sultan recalled the young man he had once faced in private.
Curly black hair, a stern and rigid expression.
Within those cold features, his obsidian eyes glimmered with grim resolve.
That was why—now reborn as the Ottomans mortal enemy—he had unfastened the sword from his own waist, laid it on the table, and declared that he would one day return to reclaim what was lost.
Even after witnessing the disparity between our powers, he still dared to say such things…
Before he realized it, the Sultan’s right hand had reached for the hilt of his sword.
The legendary blade, passed down from the first Osman, still rested in its sheath.
But its slumber had ended.
Looking down at the traitors scattering in disarray across the Anatolian front, the Sultan drew his sword.
And in that moment, mercy and tolerance vanished from the battlefield.
Even that wasn’t enough.
To leave no room for hesitation, the Sultan shouted:
“Those who would surrender have already been spared! Strike! These are the ones who have chosen to resist to the bitter end! They are not worthy of the Sultan’s mercy—hesitate not!”
Screams of terror tangled with the thunder of hooves.
Scattered and disorganized, their fractured resolve could not stand against the Ottomans united charge.
Their spears were drowned out by battle cries, and their last, desperate arrows shattered weakly against shields.
Swords were broken.
Spears snapped.
Bowstrings tore.
Those who fled were trampled beneath the Sipahi cavalry, coughing up blood from severed throats as they sang of heavenly glory.
Even those who stood their ground were torn apart by a forest of spears, proving their warrior’s honour with their bodies alone.
Now that they were scattered and being picked off meals, there was no turning the tide.
This was the Sultan’s decisive victory in Anatolia.
The clash between the Sultan’s 10,000 and the 15,000 led by Little Mustafa on the plains of Iconium had ended simply.
The Sultan lost around 2,000 troops, while Mustafa lost over 5,000 and was sent fleeing.
With this victory, the balance of power in Anatolia tilted sharply in the Sultan’s favor.
It was no wonder his generals raised their voices in celebration.
“Glorious victory, our congratulations!”
“Your unshakable command stuns us once again. Truly, you are the Sultan.”
“……”
Ishak Pasha, Turahan Bey, and the other commanders were quick to offer their congratulations, joined even by Giustiniani, the mercenary captain from Genoa.
Only one person remained silent with a conflicted expression—Thomas, Prince of Epirus.
Thomas Palaiologos, the youngest brother of the co-emperors and a young prince well aware of his imperial bloodline, clearly understood what this victory signified.
That the civil war would end this quickly…
A year and a half.
That was the time it had taken to suppress the rebellion led by Little Mustafa that had swept across Anatolia.
Murad had once again proven his abilities. But this triumph wasn’t just about the fall of Little Mustafa.
Through this campaign, Murad had come to understand who was truly loyal to him—and had discovered new allies who would pledge themselves to him in the future.
Most of all, the most critical result was that the victory now made it possible to punish the beyliks that had long threatened Ottoman control over Anatolia.
Thomas clenched his fists tightly and cast a sideward glance at the Sultan, who stood calmly watching the battlefield.
This man was the enemy of the Empire—the true nemesis who moved to sever the weakening pulse of the crumbling thousand-year-old empire once and for all.
It was only natural to feel hatred.
Anyone who had witnessed the struggles of his father and brothers to defend the Empire would be compelled to feel the same.
But more than anything else, Thomas was afraid.
“……”
In the end, after staring at the Sultan for a long moment, Thomas finally dropped his gaze and was forced to pretend to celebrate the victory.
Fortunately, the Sultan seemed to have little interest in the young boy. He was too preoccupied with planning his next campaign.
And of course, that next target was already clear.
“Your loyalty is admirable, but I have no intention of being satisfied with this victory alone. I will punish not only Mustafa, the instigator of this rebellion, but also every principality that supported him.”
“As the Sultan wills it.”
Having received his generals affirmation, the Sultan’s gaze was already fixed on the horizon—beyond the victory.
The pretext has been secured. Now is the time to unify the fractured lands of Anatolia.
Though they had always tried to exert influence, the Ottomans occupied both Europe and Asia.
The resulting two-front situation meant that, while enduring the Christian powers assaults, control over Anatolia had inevitably weakened.
Now, given the opportunity to reverse that state, the Sultan did not hesitate.
“Summon the beyliks. Inform them that a feast will be held to celebrate this victory—and that it will also serve to prepare for the next war and to build mutual trust.”
As the messenger rushed to carry out the order, the Sultan recalled his earlier conversation with Çandarlı Halil—about the plan to tear apart Dragases’ web and allow the Ottomans, dragged down by him, to soar once more.
“Through marriage alliances with the beyliks, offer them a sliver of false hope.”
“Hope, is it…”
Muttering to himself, Murad suddenly let out a quiet chuckle.
Even in the sweet moment of triumph, his thoughts drifted to his nemesis.
The protector of the Empire, standing in clear opposition, yet strangely similar in many ways.
To think that he—the Sultan—would now be the one uttering that word “hope,” a word so often cried out by Dragases’ followers.
Even as he mocked himself, the Sultan didn’t stop smiling.
“What do you think, Dragases?”
But it was not arrogance.
“Do you see it too?”
And for a single reason—
“Do you, too, see hope?”
—Because he would be the victor.
The Sultan’s confident smile reflected his belief in the strength of the Ottomans.
Power built over generations would not collapse easily, and his confidence was, indeed, justified.
The gathered commanders bowed in reverence before that commanding spirit.
All but one.
The boy who would one day raise his sword against the Ottomans hid his trembling hands as he bowed, eyes tightly shut.
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