The moment the prince’s fate became uncertain, Murad lost the momentum he had displayed until now.
The one he wished to fight was the man heralded as the last hope of a thousand-year empire—not some insignificant lieutenants lacking even a shred of fame. The only consolation was that, despite Murad’s open disappointment, discipline within the army remained unshaken. In fact, his troops burned with even greater resolve. The best example of this was the Greek officers who had joined them late.
“Your Majesty, now that the enemy has scattered, this is the perfect opportunity to annihilate them completely. We humbly request permission to lead a detachment and exterminate the fleeing remnants.”
Their request was reasonable. Having hesitated before pledging allegiance, they now sought to prove their worth and secure some measure of standing in Murad’s favour. More importantly, deploying them meant preserving his own core forces. There was no reason to refuse.
“Very well, I grant you the opportunity.”
“We are deeply, profoundly grateful for the Sultan’s boundless generosity.”
Thus, three thousand Christian soldiers, having volunteered for the task, set out to hunt down the remaining enemy forces. As Murad watched their eager departure, he considered the consequences of his decision.
If they succeeded, it would serve as undeniable proof that central Greece had submitted entirely to his authority. If they suffered losses, he could use their protection as a pretext to station troops, further pressuring Venice.
A campaign, with all its immense costs, must bring not one, but multiple gains in a single stroke. As a ruler, Murad reassured himself that he had chosen the most efficient course of action. It was a sound decision. Yet, as he issued orders, his voice carried an uncharacteristic laziness.
“Establish fortifications. This will be the final opportunity for those who have yet to declare their submission.”
Even if the prince was dead, Murad had no intention of loosening the noose that had been placed around his neck. He would leave no room for doubt or resistance. He vowed again and again. By stationing his forces and conducting a silent show of strength, he would press the cities of central Greece into casting off Morea’s influence completely.
With that, Murad’s army moved swiftly to construct their base. Engineers led the way, erecting wooden wall, while tents rose upon leveled ground. The resulting fortress-like stronghold was as solid as any permanent fortification. Inspecting its completion, Murad eventually made his way to his quarters.
His mind was restless.
Seated on the edge of his bed, he muttered mockingly about the man he had once regarded as his greatest adversary.
“No matter how exceptional one’s abilities or how unyielding one’s will, in the end, all unfolds according to Allah’s will.”
The prophecy would be fulfilled. The will of God had already determined the outcome. Against such forces, human resistance was pitiful and insignificant.
And yet…
What was this lingering regret and unease stirring in his chest? The same thoughts ran over and over in his mind. Shaking his head, Murad finally closed his eyes.
—
How much time had passed?
When Murad opened his eyes again and turned his head, the world outside his tent had already been swallowed by darkness. A sharp gust of cold wind brushed against his face. Sitting there in a daze, he soon realized sleep had completely abandoned him.
A breath of fresh air. That was what he needed.
Stepping outside, he found the night utterly still. The full moon had vanished, leaving only the torchlights flickering along the perimeter of the camp.
A peaceful night.
Aside from the hushed whispers of a few soldiers, the atmosphere within the encampment was the very image of an ideal army—rigid discipline, watchful eyes scanning the surroundings, patrols moving in tight formations, ready to fight at a moment’s notice.
And yet, an inexplicable unease gnawed at Murad.
“…Am I simply lacking sleep?”
Pressing his fingers against his forehead, he turned to head back into his tent—
Then he heard it.
A sound concealed beneath the crackling of fire. The wail of the wind.
A strangely familiar sensation…
His narrowed eyes barely had time to register the thought before a sharp, metallic clang shattered the night.
— Tchaang! Ching!
A split second later, the unmistakable whistle of arrows slicing through the air reached his ears. Soldiers collapsed the moment the projectiles found their mark.
Murad’s lips twisted into a smirk.
“A raid, is it?”
So this was the desperate measure they resorted to when backed into a corner. Murad could not help but pity the prince once more. Had he been surrounded by more experienced and capable officers, he would never have needed to take to the battlefield himself. And now, these incompetent fools, who had already sentenced their lord to death, were offering up his final hope in one last, futile act of defiance.
How could he not pity them?
Without hesitation, Murad strode toward the direction from which the arrows had been fired. The enemy seemed to be reloading, as no further shots followed. But now that their presence had been revealed, preparation was necessary. The soldiers raised their shields, staring into the darkness.
It was then that a lieutenant turned his head, startled by Murad’s presence so close to the front lines.
“Your Majesty, why have you come here—”
“Enough. What are the casualties? How much damage has been sustained?”
“It was a sudden ambush, so we expected severe losses, but… the enemy force appears much smaller than anticipated. Only a dozen or so have been wounded.”
“A feint, then.”
Murad had considered the possibility of a large-scale attack, but the minimal casualties suggested otherwise. Were they merely trying to draw attention? If so, the delay between volleys indicated they had used inexperienced soldiers as bait. A pitiful, crude tactic. Worse still, now that their plan had been uncovered, they would have to brace for near-total annihilation.
If they had launched this assault without fully accepting that risk, they did not even deserve mercy.
They were mere beasts, willing to throw away lives for the sake of their own petty self-indulgence.
Murad immediately surveyed the area and gave his command.
“It’s a diversion. Reverse formation at once. The real attack will come from the rear.”
“As the Sultan wills.”
The moment the order was given, the entire camp was filled with the sound of loud instruments. Murad, having already guessed the direction from which the enemy’s main force would strike, turned his body toward it. How many still followed the prince’s lieutenants? No matter how numerous they were, they would still be nothing more than a handful compared to his own army.
Mounting the horse that his attendant had brought, Murad spurred it forward, galloping swiftly toward the other side.
He had nearly arrived when—
Clang! Clang! Clang!
Just like during the initial ambush, the sharp clash of steel rang out, and a group of men burst forth from the darkness. They were heavily armored infantry clad in chainmail—undoubtedly the remnants of Morea’s shattered forces. They had crept forward in silence, suppressing even their war cries in an attempt at stealth, but their armor betrayed them. The resounding noise rendered their efforts meaningless.
For now, a skirmish had broken out due to the Ottomans being caught off guard, but once the army fully reversed its formation, the enemy would be crushed in an instant—mere grains of sand against the tide.
Murad gently stroked his horse’s mane and slowly closed his eyes.
This was the final stronghold.
As the Sultan of the Ottomans, as a commander witnessing assured victory, and as a warrior who had longed for a battle with his greatest foe—Murad’s judgment was sound. There was only one fundamental flaw in his reasoning.
And if one assumption was wrong, no amount of effort could lead to the correct answer.
A deafening roar erupted from behind.
Murad’s mind went blank.
The enemy before him was already on the brink of annihilation, so how could such a fierce and resolute battle cry arise from their ranks?
No—was there even a commander left on their side capable of rallying morale like this?
As questions flooded his mind, a single thought flashed through him—his own strategy.
Separating the Janissaries, concealing his position by avoiding banners—his own stratagem for deception.
But what was more effective at hiding one’s location than death itself?
A flicker of realization returned to Murad’s vacant gaze.
As he hastily scanned the battlefield, it was already too late.
From the direction of the earlier ambush, a contingent of well-drilled Morean soldiers was advancing, their spears leveled against the Ottoman army’s exposed rear.
Leading them, of course, was the most battle-hardened commander remaining in Morea—a golden-haired, blue-eyed mercenary captain.
“Advance! Drive them back! Press the attack!”
Even if Morea lacked experience and skilled officers, they had one decisive advantage—the superior armament of their soldiers.
Ottoman troops, struggling to form a proper defensive line against the sudden assault, began to fall one by one.
The agonized screams and cries of the dying sent a surge of adrenaline through Murad’s veins.
“Send the Sipahi to the right flank. Cut them down.”
He clenched his teeth, but he would not lose his composure.
Even through the rising fury, his mind remained cold and calculating.
The enemy had formed a pincer maneuver, attempting to encircle his forces, but their formation was not yet complete.
The Sipahi cavalry on the flanks were still intact. If they could strike before the trap was fully sprung, they could break through.
The Sultan’s command was relayed instantly.
The Sipahi, led by scouting parties, mounted their horses in haste and charged across the battlefield.
But as if they had been waiting for this moment, another force emerged.
“The King’s cousin is here! Bow your heads before him!”
Knights.
Western Europe’s living war machines—renowned for their devastating charges and formidable combat prowess.
The Sipahi, trained specifically to counter them, collided with the enemy cavalry in a brutal clash that stalled their advance.
To make matters worse, some of the approaching infantry suddenly shifted off course, rushing to reinforce the knights and ensure the Sipahi were tied down.
It was only then that Murad realized—this was no mere ambush.
The enemy’s true target had been the Sipahi all along.
And there was only one man capable of orchestrating such a maneuver.
His suspicions were confirmed by the desperate cry that rang out across the battlefield.
“Dragaš! Dragaš is there!”
At that moment, Murad instinctively turned his head—
And his eyes met those of a knight atop a horse.
The figure was clad in bloodstained crimson armour, their face hidden by a helmet.
Yet as soon as their eyes met, Murad knew.
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