No matter how fiercely a fire rages, it will eventually die down if there is nothing left to consume.
The same held true for the inferno that had once seemed to engulf all of Nemeaptare. And as a fresh breeze swept in, dispersing the thick smoke that had choked the air, the full extent of the devastation was laid bare.
It was almost a mercy if the remains were still recognizable as human. The collapsed ruins of buildings, the tangled wreckage, and the countless bodies warped beyond recognition by the wind and flames painted a scene of utter ruin.
No one spoke of victory.
Not the prince who had chosen to retreat to Athens, nor Murad himself, who had driven the prince into this desperate position.
Who could possibly look upon this sight and dare to call it a triumph? Neither side had achieved its goal. The prince had failed to assassinate Murad, and Murad, too, was about to face failure.
“…Recover the bodies, without distinction between friend and foe. Begin searching for survivors at the same time.”
“S-Sultan… If we do that, it will take too long to pursue the prince.”
The lieutenant’s concern was understandable. After all, what was the very reason the Janissaries had been sacrificed? The plan had been to delay the prince’s retreat long enough for the main force to encircle him from both sides. Considering their original objective, this was nothing but a poor move.
And yet, Murad could only shake his head.
“The Janissaries who served as our shield have been all but annihilated. It was the right decision to send them in first, but against the prince’s army, better equipped than our own, the losses were inevitable.”
Moreover, the original strategy of resupplying through Nemeaptare’s cooperation had to be reconsidered. How could there be enough food left in this scorched city to feed over a thousand soldiers?
The men were already exhausted from the forced march. The only saving grace was that the Sipahi cavalry remained intact.
But deploying cavalry alone against the prince’s heavily armed troops was far too great a risk.
Thus—
“Send a letter to Edirne. Tell them to bring every soldier that was mobilized.”
“If we do that…”
“If you speak any further, your loyalty will become arrogance. Hold your tongue.”
Murad’s cold, cutting voice silenced the lieutenant, who hesitated for a moment before quietly withdrawing.
His concerns were obvious. He would have insisted that some troops remain to stabilize the court.
And indeed, hushed voices of unease already murmured in the palace.
Though Murad’s military achievements had so far silenced most doubts, one lingering threat remained—
—As long as his missing younger brother Mustafa lived, Murad’s claim to the throne would never be secure.
If he suffered even a single defeat here, his position would be at risk.
Losing four thousand soldiers in an unexpected fire attack was a devastating blow.
Even for the mighty Ottoman Empire, losing four thousand Janissaries without a proper battle was an undeniable loss.
Murad clenched his jaw, grinding his teeth, his fist tightening as he turned his gaze southward.
Dragases, if you intend to stake everything on this war, then so shall I.
And even if you do, I will prove beyond doubt that a dying empire cannot be saved. I will make you bear the weight of your foolish sacrifices, born from hollow hope.
This was fate.
The will of God.
A prophecy that could not be denied.
Murad would break this foolish rebellion against divine will here and now.
As he was reaffirming his resolve, a harsh, furious voice rang out from behind.
When he turned toward the sound, he saw a captured soldier, clad in chainmail blackened with soot, bound and restrained.
A soldier of the prince’s army.
The Sultan’s men cursed and struck the captive, forcing him to kneel before Murad. His face, swollen from beatings and bruised purple with welts, lifted to meet Murad’s gaze.
Yet there was no resignation in his eyes.
Only unwavering conviction and resolute determination.
Murad studied him for a long moment before speaking.
“Is he a prisoner?”
“We caught him meeting with a suspicious individual. Unfortunately, the contact escaped, but we managed to capture this one. We thought he might be of use to you, Sultan.”
The soldier’s words dripped with hatred.
And then Murad realized—these men were the Janissary survivors, those who had barely escaped death.
Murad closed his eyes briefly before speaking in a calm, measured tone.
“I acknowledge your loyalty and efforts. You may withdraw.”
“But—”
“Go. Leave, collect yourselves, and return when you have sharpened your blades once more.”
The soldiers bit their lips in frustration but ultimately obeyed, withdrawing with stiff, reluctant movements.
Murad watched them go in silence before finally speaking again, his gaze unfocused, as if addressing no one in particular.
“Do you see it? The silent screams of those consumed by the flames.”
The captive soldier remained silent.
But it did not matter.
Murad was not speaking to him—he was speaking through him, to the prince himself.
Without hesitation, Murad continued.
“I ask because I thought perhaps you would understand. After witnessing the atrocity your people have committed, do you truly feel nothing?”
“This was your doing!”
The soldier, who had remained silent until now, suddenly roared with fury, his voice thick with righteous anger.
“Don’t think we’ve forgotten! We were silent only because we lacked the strength to speak! We have never forgotten the massacres you committed in Anatolia!”
“Is that your excuse, after burning the very people you swore to protect?”
“Because we had no power!”
For a brief moment, even Murad hesitated.
The despairing, resigned voice of a man from a dying nation, backed into a corner, struck a chord deep within him.
The soldier had realized the moment he saw Murad that he would not leave this place alive.
And so, he had already abandoned all hope for survival.
That was why he spoke so boldly.
“We were weak, so we fell. We were weak, so we lost everything. We were weak, so we died. And when I understood that, I swore to follow my prince to the end.”
“That was fate. Do you refuse to submit to the will of God?”
“…When everyone else said the same, there was only one man who spoke differently.”
—This too is a trial given by God. Through our own efforts, we shall prove to the heavens that we are worthy of His choice.
Those who had always given up, whether out of helplessness or submission to divine will, turned away from the one who had risen anew, believing that this time would be no different.
This time, too, failure would come.
This time, too, the people would fail to unite…
But he completed a task deemed impossible, delivering a message more powerful than any words could convey. A belief, unspoken yet deeply embedded in the hearts of all who followed the Prince.
The soldier, now even more resolute, parted his swollen lips and voiced his conviction without hesitation.
“Do not act so arrogantly, O Sultan. God has yet to choose a side.”
Murad met the soldier’s gaze for a long while before tilting his head skyward with a sigh. He thought the man before him was a fool. But that was not all.
To instill such unwavering faith, even in a mere soldier—was Dragases truly such a formidable presence among the people of the Empire?
Unable to contain himself any longer, Murad pressed down on the soldier with a voice more resolute than before.
“You place your faith in a hollow figure like Dragases? Even after witnessing the horrors he has wrought? Look upon this city, reduced to cinders. Where do you see hope in this?”
“Even a single ember left in the ashes can reignite the flames.”
“A lone ember is not enough.”
“That is why I have resolved to become kindling.”
A strange feeling crept over Murad—something almost akin to pity.
This was no ordinary soldier. His words were too measured, his beliefs too firm. He was clearly a man who had known knowledge and thought deeply upon it.
Moved by this sentiment, Murad offered the last mercy a Sultan could grant.
“With your faith and eloquence, you could serve a far greater purpose. Instead of futilely resisting fate, why not embrace it and help build a prosperous future? I will give you time to reconsider.”
At that, the soldier’s brows trembled ever so slightly. Even he had not expected such generosity—to be spared by the very man who had razed his city and slaughtered his kin.
But soon, the soldier lowered his head.
And Murad was no fool. He knew well what that gesture meant.
“O Sultan, your mercy is truly boundless. The kindness you have shown me today, I will never forget for as long as I live.”
“….”
“…However, I cannot forsake the hope that His Highness Constantine has given me.”
Murad closed his eyes.
If he were to release this man, he would only writhe in agony until death found him.
Had this soldier resisted thoughtlessly, he would have been cut down without hesitation. But this man knew exactly what he was doing. He was not a beast reveling in slaughter, but a man who fought with conviction.
And so, Murad opened his eyes once more.
His right hand reached for the hilt of his sword.
“I shall ensure that those like you do not waver. You who wander blindly in the name of hope, you who are trapped by the illusion of a thousand-year reign—I shall guide you toward the true will of God.”
“…O Sultan, grant me but one final word.”
“Speak.”
The soldier hesitated for a moment before shutting his eyes tightly.
“Those who follow His Highness Constantine choose to die in hope rather than live in despair.”
“…And you are one of them?”
The soldier remained still, silent.
Only then did Murad realize—the final words he had permitted had already been spoken.
His blade rose high into the air.
Moments later, crimson droplets sprayed skyward in its stead.
And with that, Murad could no longer deny it.
“Dragases… So long as you live, the Ottomans will never truly rule this land.”
He murmured to himself as he gazed upon the lifeless body before him.
He had always regarded Dragases as an enemy, had fought him with all the skill he possessed. Yet, he could not deny the truth he had long ignored—deep down, he had wished to match wits with the man.
For it was not enough to simply topple a decaying empire.
Murad had longed for a worthy adversary, one who would elevate his own glory in the process.
But in chasing “honor,” he had perhaps overlooked something far more crucial.
Dragases was weak. By Ottoman standards, he was but a mere nuisance, an insignificant fish in a vast sea.
And yet, Dragases wielded a weapon unlike any other.
He had cast aside arrogance and all earthly desires.
He had honed hope into a blade sharper than steel.
When Murad marched into battle, he carried honor in his heart.
But Dragases…
He carried hope.
And honor alone could never shatter hope.
If he were to triumph, he needed something more.
Something that could stand against hope itself.
And Murad knew exactly what that was.
“Struggle all you like, Dragases.”
Your despair will follow.
Enjoy your fleeting relief while it lasts.
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