The Serbian envoy returned without achieving the outcome he had hoped for.
He carried with him the bitter truth that war could no longer be avoided.
Even as this unfolded, the Sultan did not waste a moment.
Now that he had been freed from all restraints, the opportunity was perfect.
Without a trace of hesitation, the Sultan gave the order to his army.
“Advance. Before they do anything, I will make the first move.”
The force under his command numbered a staggering 33,000 in pure combat troops. What could anyone do in the face of such overwhelming might?
Most Serbians who came face-to-face with the Ottoman army were so paralyzed by fear that they dropped the spears and swords in their hands.
Only a few attempted futile resistance—and they paid for it with a brutal death.
This cycle repeated itself more than once.
After crossing the Serbian border and enjoying an unbroken string of victories, the Ottomans received unexpected news.
A Serbian noble who had defected to the Ottomans delivered information they had not even considered.
“Stefan Lazarević intends to hand over the country to Bosnia?”
“Yes, my Sultan. Lord Stefan has requested reinforcements from Bosnia in return, and Bosnia has most likely agreed to it.”
How insolent.
The Sultan clenched his jaw and thought silently.
Whether this noble’s words were part of a cunning scheme or the truth, it still meant one thing—Stefan intended to resist the Ottomans to the very end.
He had already broken his oath of vassalage under the previous Sultan, Mehmed. Now he seemed determined to see it through to the bitter end.
The Sultan made no effort to hide his displeasure. But even so, it was unwise to draw conclusions without confirming the facts.
Still, the sharp Sultan came to his own conclusion.
‘Stefan Lazarević has no son suitable to succeed him. The only viable heir is Dragases, to whom his daughter is betrothed… but considering his behaviour so far and his service under my command, the chances of choosing him are slim.’
Even Hungary, which might have had the power to oppose the Ottomans, was now bogged down on two fronts—against the Hussites and Wallachia.
That left Bosnia as the only likely source of reinforcements.
Although the information had not been verified, the timing made it difficult to dismiss the noble’s claim as a lie.
Of course, if Bosnia had joined the war, it was a foolish move.
What could a place like Bosnia possibly rely on to believe it could stop the Ottoman advance?
If they chose to oppose the Ottomans solely for the promise of expanding their territory, they would soon learn firsthand just how foolish that decision was.
As the Sultan pondered this, he looked down at the Serbian noble kneeling before him.
Surely there was a reason this man had come bearing such valuable information.
“Is this the reason you joined my army?”
“Yes, Your Majesty. I couldn’t just stand by and watch as someone who cannot even fight properly surrenders the entire country to avoid humiliation.”
The words of someone who claimed to value honor and justice.
Yet the Sultan’s response was a cold silence.
A devious man. That was the Sultan’s judgment of the noble before him.
This man had taken the country’s crisis as his opportunity.
The greed in his eyes, dancing with hollow ambition, betrayed his true intent.
He could say anything with his tongue, but he couldn’t hide the truth in his gaze.
It was obvious what such a man wanted—neither the people’s safety nor the nation’s future mattered to him.
The silence dragged on longer than expected, and the noble began to grow visibly anxious.
The Sultan, looking down with contempt, finally spoke.
“You’re a pitiful excuse for a man.”
The words came after a long silence, and the noble clung to them with all his might.
He bowed deeply, pouring every ounce of humility into his reply.
“You are absolutely right, my Sultan.”
And with that oddly mismatched exchange, the conversation came to an end.
The Sultan, scowling at the bowing noble, soon issued a dismissal.
Once the defected Serbian noble had been led away, the Sultan fell into deep thought.
After all, this noble had been the first to surrender, begging for mercy.
Unappealing as it was, the Sultan had no choice but to spare his life as a show of mercy.
That, and the value of the information he had provided.
So then, what was weighing on him the most?
What tormented the Sultan was none other than Emperor Dragases.
‘If Stefan named a successor, it’s likely to be Bosnia. If Bosnia accepts that offer, I may end up wasting more time than expected.
On the other hand, if I use Dragases, I can easily split Serbia in two—but in doing so, I give him legitimacy and power.
Even if I don’t use him, should he notice the internal chaos in Serbia, he might seize the opportunity, unite the Serbs, and disrupt my rear from behind.’
To the Serbs, whether it be a foreign prince, a son-in-law, or a noble from another land, they were all outsiders.
Though Emperor Dragases had never actively aided Serbia, he remained a powerful symbolic figure of resistance against the Ottomans.
If Serbian hopes began to rally around Dragases, he could unite Morea and Serbia, and drive Ottoman influence completely out of the western Balkans.
This would eventually lead to the very thing the Ottomans feared most:
A coalition between the West and Emperor Dragases.
A crusade led by Dragases would be a tremendous threat to the Ottoman Empire.
As his thoughts reached that point, the Sultan began to question the decision he had made.
Was it truly wise to isolate Dragases from the main force?
His doubts continued to spiral until they led back to the Serbian noble’s confident assertion—that Bosnia had surely accepted Stefan’s proposal.
At that moment, the Sultan heard a quiet warning whispered by his intuition, brushing past his ear.
A sensation like a jolt piercing through his spine.
‘…My army numbers over thirty thousand. And yet, what reason could Bosnia possibly have to boldly declare support for Serbia, which has provoked my wrath, without even a hint of fear?’
Two possibilities came to the Sultan’s mind.
It was either a deception—an attempt to exaggerate Serbia’s strength and thereby delay the Ottoman advance through induced caution—or there truly was something more at play.
Either way, it was clear Serbia was trying to buy time. And for the Sultan, time only increased the threat of a certain unpredictable variable.
He thought of the enduring adversary who had withstood humiliation after humiliation without breaking.
Dragases.
“…So this is the source of that boundless patience of yours?”
It was a time when even the last shred of justification to pressure Dragases had run dry.
The Sultan had persistently tried to provoke him, seeking any excuse to apply pressure, but Dragases had not taken the bait.
The emperor of a thousand-year-old empire had endured until the end.
As a result, the Sultan had exhausted all means to keep in check a vassal who, at least outwardly, still remained loyalty to the Ottomans.
Any further pressure would only seem like the oppression of a loyal vassal and risk inflaming the resentment of Christendom.
Until he could deliver a decisive victory, it was necessary to prevent the defection of his vassals.
Pushing further would be reckless.
With this realization, the Sultan could only sigh, a mixture of regret and frustration in his breath.
‘Of all times, why must I be forced to harbor such suspicions now, when I can hardly exert pressure anymore?’
But amid those sighs bloomed a starlight named ambition.
The Sultan’s gaze sharpened with unyielding resolve.
Patience that few others could manage. The insight to wait for the perfect opportunity. And the decisiveness to act when it came. Facing such a rival would never be easy.
“But I’ve already learned in past battles that he’s not one to be easily broken.”
To steel himself and avoid falling into arrogance again, the Sultan spoke his thoughts aloud.
The war everyone believed to be over was not yet finished.
Ottoman supremacy had not been granted, and the Empire had earned one final break.
Though the Ottomans held overwhelming force, the chaos of the times had introduced too many unpredictable variables to guarantee an outcome.
To bring this war to a true end, he would need to move with absolute precision.
‘…I must employ Halil.’
The vizier who remained in Edirne possessed an exceptional ability to assess the flow of surrounding events. Surely Allah had foreseen this moment and prepared him for it.
After all, only two types of people would dare enter a war they seemingly cannot win: madmen, or those with a strategy to overturn the odds.
And having already suffered bitter humiliation at the hands of the latter, the Sultan’s eyes burned with grim fury.
That a place as insignificant as Bosnia might dare point its blade at the Ottomans—it was an absurd notion. Something that should be too trivial to consider.
Yet even the slightest warning sign would not be dismissed.
The Sultan continuously reminded himself of the resolve he had forged at the very start of this campaign.
With caution. Without arrogance. With relentless thoroughness.
He would not allow a single opening in this battle for the fate of an era.
This was a war staking everything the Ottomans had built over centuries.
Defeat was not an option.
He could not afford to be the foolish ruler who let his guard down in a total war that determined the future of the nation.
There was only one acceptable outcome from this campaign—victory.
Had he acted in hopes of another lucky break, it would have been laughable.
But this was the reformed Ottoman Empire, reborn precisely to avoid repeating past mistakes. This was the army of a Sultan remade.
“Christians, know this: My army shall no longer retreat without a fight.”
Now was the moment of great opportunity granted to the Ottomans.
“And neither shall it ever again suffer defeat at your hands.”
The age of miracles had ended in the last war.
