Author: Renegade

The blade and the sword clashed.

No matter how sharp a fine sword might be, it could not sever another blade in a single strike. Instead, he twisted his sword diagonally, pushing the opponent’s weapon outward, and then drove the blade into the chest wrapped in layers of cloth.

The steel grazed past the ribs and finally reached the source of life. Through the blade, he felt the heart’s frantic beating. Even amidst the deafening war cries, the pulse rang clearly in his ears, and the faint tremors traveled unmistakably through his fingertips.

He was certain. A life had crumbled here and now.

Though the man had clung to his sword until the end, the light in his eyes was fading. An undeniable truth—he was dead. With a kick, he sent the weakening body tumbling away, retrieving his sword in the process.

Then, he surveyed the battlefield. Clashes of steel erupted all around him. At the end of each struggle, most of those who fell were the enemy. Simple cloth and leather were no match for the crushing blows of a knight’s sword—an inevitable outcome.

Yet, the tide of battle remained unchanged.

A sudden roar of battle cries drew his gaze. As soon as the enemies were pushed back, another wave of Janissaries surged forward.. In this battlefield, where even a brief break was a luxury, he had no choice but to be content with a single deep breath before swinging his sword once more.

He struck at an enemy’s neck, sending a head flying. He gripped his sword with both hands, bringing it down in a vertical slash, cleaving another foe in half. But each fallen enemy was swiftly replaced by another, returning the battle to a deadlock.

Each wide swing of his blade created an opening, one that the enemy skillfully exploited. He parried their strikes by gripping the sword’s blade and using the hilt like a staff, but he could not block them all. The scales of his armor were scratched, then chipped, and finally began to break apart.

As the defensive struggle dragged on, the situation only grew more dire.

At some point, he was no longer able to swing his sword freely, occupied entirely with fending off attacks. The Janissaries, having recognized him as a commander, were pushing the knights back, isolating him. A net was closing in, ensuring there was no escape. He staggered backward, desperately trying to avoid being cut off from his allies, but the enemy adjusted their formation, tightening the encirclement.

At this rate, he would be captured or slain.

That desperate realization left no room for fear of injury. Clenching his grip on the hilt, he abandoned defense and brought his sword down with full force against the nearest incoming blade.

A loud clang.

The enemy’s sword was sent flying, clattering onto the ground. Seizing this opening, he lunged forward—not away, but toward the now-disarmed foe. His right shoulder slammed into the enemy, who twisted his body in an attempt to lessen the impact. But the charge was not the end.

Planting his right foot firmly into the ground, he lowered his stance and swept his sword in a fierce arc. The blade, swinging at an unusually low trajectory, caught the enemy off guard, slicing through legs and thighs.

Blood sprayed.

Agonized cries followed.

As his enemies staggered and fell, he turned without hesitation, sword raised once more.

Had it been a moment of quick-witted instinct, or had the Janissaries simply wanted to ensure the net was fully tightened? Either way, they no longer pressed their attack. This brief pause granted him a moment of break. Yet, surrounded as he was, the situation remained dire. But he had entered this battlefield knowing it was a death trap. There was no fear.

To carve a path,
To alter fate,
He had steeled himself to stake his very life.

And so,

He raised his sword high.

“Look upon me! Your enemy, your sovereign, stands here before you!”

The taunt carried another purpose—it was a signal for his knights. While he drew the enemy’s gaze, his comrades would fight with greater ease.

As expected, the Janissaries’ eyes burned with renewed fury at his words, their bloodied blades ready for slaughter.

Slowly lowering his sword and adjusting his stance, he muttered in a voice too small for anyone to hear.

“I have done all that a man can do. The rest is in the hands of the heavens.”

Resignation and faint hope mingled in his words.

The Janissaries closed the distance in an instant. Once again, swords clashed and intertwined, their chilling friction singing a discordant melody that crumbled against the soul.

The splendor his armor once boasted was long gone, reduced to a tattered shell marred by scratches and shattered scales. His arms, exhausted from relentless combat, grew heavier with each passing moment. Then, at last, he faltered.

A sharp sensation coursed through his back, and before he could react, paralysis set in. One knee buckled beneath him. Only then did he notice his armor’s scales had been violently torn away, leaving his leg exposed and vulnerable.

The delayed ache in his thigh confirmed it—he had lost all feeling before he could even register the pain. Supporting himself on his sword was all he could manage.

He took a deep breath, his gaze falling upon the blood-red reflection on his blade. Even his helmet, grazed by multiple arrows, was barely holding together. Blackened saliva dripped between his lips, falling in slow, deliberate drops. His face, slick with blood and sweat, revealed only his eyes—glistening, unwavering.

A hollow chuckle escaped him.

Even now, in this wretched state, his eyes still gleamed as if untouched by despair. Were they truly his own?

But it was not only his eyes that shone.

Through the crimson streaks running down the blade, he saw it—a clear, gleaming reflection of another sword approaching from behind.

—Clang!

With all his remaining strength, he swung his sword, deflecting the strike. But his legs, drained of power, failed to absorb the shock. Stumbling backward, he lost his footing and collapsed onto the ground.

Before he could even gasp for breath, the air around him howled with the sound of blades cutting through wind.

Dignity and pride held no place in a battle for survival. He rolled across the dirt, instincts overriding shame.

A split second later, swords struck the ground where he had been. His decision had been right. He had to rise and fight again.

But his body betrayed him.

His weakened leg refused to obey. No matter how many times he tried to stand, he staggered and collapsed. At last, as he nearly toppled forward, he caught himself with his left arm, barely holding himself up.

His gaze fell downward—and he finally understood his helplessness.

His left arm was drenched in blood, a mixture of his own and that of his fallen foes.

And in that moment, another realization struck him.

The sound of clashing blades had begun to fade.

He closed his eyes.

No tears came.

There was only a quiet acceptance. Had he always known it would end this way? Was it simply fate?

He did not look to the heavens.

Faith had never been his. He had invoked the name of the gods only to give people courage, never truly believing himself.

Perhaps that was why the heavens had ignored the prayers of those who followed him.

Even so, accepting the reality he had spent decades fighting against was agonizing.

He had not been idle. He had struggled, knowing full well how grim the odds were. He had cast aside all personal desires, dedicating himself solely to those who believed in him.

Not for divine will, but to remind men of their own.

Was this where he would die?

Would he be remembered only as a failure, a man who could not defy the tides of history?

The thought blurred everything else.

From the moment he acknowledged defeat, his conviction, his will, his passion—all crumbled. The ambition to carve a new path in history faded into nothing.

Death would claim him.

Or so he thought—until a single sound cut through the void.

A sound he had not heard before, drowned out until now by battle cries and clashing steel.

The earth trembled beneath him.

A clear, rhythmic pounding that sent a jolt through his dying heart.

His lips, too weak to form words, parted, reshaping uncertainty into certainty.

“…Horses.”

Again.

Again.

Again…!

He tightened his grip on his sword.

But it was too late.

Blades rained down upon him.

The deafening scrape of steel against armor. The weight of murderous intent pressing down upon his flesh.

Yet—he was not dead.

That was all that mattered.

Legs trembling, he mustered every last ounce of strength and rose to his feet.

And at that moment—

A thunderous crash erupted behind the Janissaries.

Screams tore through the air as men were flung high into the sky.

Amidst the chaos, a single banner soared upward, displayed with the image of a double-headed eagle.

It all began with the matter of a deserter.

“There’s no way to say for certain that no one harbours resentment over the burning of all of Nemeapatre. In fact, in a situation like this, it would be more surprising if everyone remained loyal.”

The core of the plan was to select a soldier who, despite knowing the horrors that had transpired, still held unwavering loyalty. Frankly, he was skeptical. Who would truly follow and trust someone responsible for burning thousands—friend and foe alike? Even if one could rationally accept the necessity of it, the heart would never allow it.

For this reason, selecting the person to play the deserter was done with extreme caution. The atmosphere was subtly shaped so that murmurs of criticism against him would naturally rise among the soldiers. Eventually, even those who had remained silent began to voice their thoughts. And every word they spoke was justified.

—Did we really have to go that far?

—Even so, was it truly necessary to sacrifice all of them for the sake of this operation?

Even knowing it was necessary, even recognizing the results it had yielded, these questions were inevitable. The cost had been too great compared to what was gained, and so, the criticism was bound to come. However, amidst this growing unease, there were those who either maintained their silence or cautiously defended the decision. Their arguments came from a perspective that valued harsh reality above all else.

—Then how else were we supposed to stop the Sultan?

—There was no other choice. Something had to be done.

The retort to the skepticism were reasonable, but what struck him most was that single phrase: Something had to be done.

Yes. The noose had been set, but doubts lingered. More than anything, time was of the essence. Some might say that burning an entire city had brought only meager gains, but it had secured what was needed most at this moment. By sacrificing lives, they had bought time to alter the course of the battlefield.

The soldier who had spoken those words might not have known all of these underlying calculations, yet he still wanted to meet him.

“I ask this of you, Adrianos.”

“How could I possibly receive a request from Your Highness? Command me, and I shall obey.”

“…Very well, then. I command you—bring him here at once.”

“As you will, Your Highness.”

Following his order, Adrianos brought the soldier into the tent.

His first impression was utterly unremarkable. The man was simply another weary soul, his exhaustion from relentless forced marches and prolonged standoffs was clear in his demeanor. Yet, his tightly pressed lips, the unyielding light in his eyes, and the emotion woven into his voice revealed everything.

“I… I stand before Your Highness.”

Swallowing his tears, he knelt in a silent bow. His figure, at first glance, seemed pitifully haggard, yet the prince could not treat him lightly. Because he understood.

This exhausted soldier were searching for something to rely on. A man who had taken up the spear by mere coincidence had now stepped into the jaws of death in pursuit of a hope so faint it barely existed.

Whose fault was it?

Who was to blame?

The answer pointed squarely at him.

“Raise your head. I have done nothing to deserve your reverence.”

“Your Highness… who among us would dare to condemn you?”

“It is you. Only those who follow me have the right to criticize me.”

Seeing the soldier flustered by his unexpected answer, he smiled. Dwelling too long on heavy topics always led to fatigue—both for the listener and the speaker. Perhaps, before anything else, he himself would collapse from exhaustion.

For just a fleeting moment, he felt at ease.

But a moment of humor was all they could afford.

“Long ago, I told you of the four things that a man must be willing to risk his life to protect: family, faith, sovereignty, and freedom.”

“That is correct, Your Highness.”

“And I swore that I would stand alongside you, even in the face of death.”

“…Your Highness, how could you say such a thing…”

“I will not be a man of mere words.”

Then, he explained to the soldier the disgraceful, humiliating task that awaited him.

A foolish ruler, not content with having burned a city to the ground, who, when faced with an unfavorable situation, abandoned his army and fled alone. Disillusioned by his sovereign’s cowardice, a soldier turned to the Ottomans and informed them of the escape attempt.

That was the story they would create.

But it was not the truth. It was bait, meant to move the enemy.

With a hundred knights at his side, the ruler would draw the enemy’s attention and force them into battle.

Hearing all of this, the soldier was unable to contain his shock. Moments later, he began to weep.

“Your Highness…! To cast yourself into the jaws of death—what a dreadful thing to say…!”

“If one wishes to defy fate itself, one must be prepared to wager even their own life. Your only duty is to follow my orders without fail. And if…”

If…

“If I fall in battle, I will not hold your surrender against you. Live.”

“Your Highness!”

“Whether I win or lose, you are free. Live. It is the least I can do to repay the one who, despite everything, still believed in me.”

“Your Highness! Your Highness!”

“This may be the last command I ever give. Obey it. Just follow me.”

Even then, the soldier did not step back immediately.

But now, as he led his knights along the ridge, those words—this may be my last command—must have been what finally moved him.

The long silence was broken.

At last, the Janissaries began to advance.

Murad’s banner was still nowhere in sight.

But even if Murat himself was absent, his devoted soldiers were here.

Their ironclad discipline and unwavering loyalty gave rise to morale so high it seemed to pierce the sky.

And that morale fueled their terrifying prowess on the battlefield.

In just a few decades since their founding, the Janissaries had established themselves as the anvil and blade that struck fear into all of Europe. Now, that same blade was aimed at the empire—and at him.

A battle of one hundred against three thousand.

No matter how superior their equipment, the odds of victory were grim.

Yet, this was reality.

Such was the nature of war between a crumbling empire and a newly ascendant Ottoman force.

“Hamahara.”

His voice was quiet, almost too quiet to be heard.

But the tense silence of the battlefield carried his command to all.

The knights, who had once shattered enemy lines with their lances, now wielded swords that would determine life or death.

Instead of the gallant chargers that had carried them to countless victories, their horses had become mere shields, meant to absorb arrows.

One by one, the knights dismounted and formed a battle line.

Sensing something amiss, the Janissaries hesitated.

In that brief moment, he had never felt his palms sweat more against the hilt of his sword.

If the enemy chose to withdraw now, time would simply pass until Murad’s forces arrived and crushed them.

Had he ever wished for something so desperately?

—Would they choose to cling to life, or carve out a path between life and death?

Surely, the Janissaries, too, were hesitating.

—Would they simply follow the Sultan’s command, or seize the chance to end this war here and now?

A long silence followed.

Only the pounding of his own heart filled his ears.

Then, the Janissaries began to advance once more.

He gripped the hilt of his sword with both hands.

It was then that a knight at his side, his voice heavy within his helmet, spoke up.

“Forgive my impudence, Your Highness, but may I ask you something?”

“Speak.”

Pressed for time, his response came out stiff and curt, but the knight seemed unbothered.

Rather, his tone grew almost cheerful.

“You once called us brothers in faith. If we make it through this battle alive… may I call you cousin?”

For a moment, he was at a loss for words.

Cousin? Out of nowhere?

“If you survive, cousin.”

“So… it begins now?”

“Are you taking back your own words after declaring you’d survive?”

“Hah. When else would I ever get the chance to call a prince my cousin?”

Even amid such foolish banter, the enemy drew ever closer.

Fate approached.

A true commander should always strive to shape the battlefield with victory in mind.

But to do so, the foremost requirement is none other than the strength of the state itself. A powerful army can only emerge from a healthy and thriving nation. And the empire had long since lost that vitality. How much strength could remain in a nation that had been in decline for centuries? This was why, despite his efforts to rebuild the military, the prince had no choice but to acknowledge that restoring cavalry power would not be an easy task.

This was the reason he had turned to Latin knights.

By granting mercy to the Latins who had once resided in Achaea, he had enabled them to live off pensions, later enlisting them in his ranks. He had also hired mercenaries, scraping together a force of a thousand cavalrymen.

Naturally, maintaining knights was an expensive endeavor—so much so that one-third of Morea’s entire budget was spent on their upkeep. Some might argue that it would be wiser to use these funds to supply gunpowder weapons in bulk…

But the prince understood the limitations of gunpowder weaponry in this era better than anyone. Not only from the knowledge of the future but also as a ruler of the present. Cannons, still made of iron instead of bronze, were prone to breaking under excessive use. Hand cannons took too long to reload, had poor accuracy, and were prohibitively expensive, making them impractical for widespread deployment.

The era of knights was nearing its end, yet it was still an age of knights.

One day, the age of knights would vanish entirely, consumed by the era of firearms and gunpowder. But for now, their power remained indispensable. Even now, without knights, there would be no way to counter the Janissaries. Moreover, knights possessed something that was rarely found among those who wielded guns—a deep and fervent faith. And to the prince, that faith was more valuable than anything else.

It would be a lie to say he did not find it bitter.

As he settled into his saddle, the prince surveyed the hundred knights who had chosen to follow him.

And it wasn’t just them. Many more had wished to stand by his side in this desperate war against the infidels. The promise of heaven for those who perished in the holy war, coupled with their desire for honor, had led them here. And to the prince, that was precisely what mattered—a strong army, prepared to embrace death without hesitation, whose morale would not waver even in the face of impending doom.

Gripping his lance tightly in his right hand, the prince finally spoke.

“Brothers in faith.”

They had come here for two reasons. One was the promise of payment, but the other was their hunger for honor. Their wages had already been secured—now, it was time to satisfy their thirst for glory. And what better opportunity than a holy war against the infidels, where they would stake their very lives? But to make full use of this, he needed to strengthen their bonds as men of the same faith.

“Our enemies stand before us because my homeland and my ancestors were too weak to defend it.”

At the same time, he introduced a subject that would stir their emotions—the Janissaries. On the surface, they were merely the Sultan’s elite guard, sworn to absolute loyalty. But those who knew how they were created could only grit their teeth in anger. The devshirme system.

To the Ottomans, it was an effective policy that both reinforced centralization and bolstered the Sultan’s power.

But to the Christians who were its victims, it meant something entirely different.

A human tax.

A cruel system that forced parents to surrender their own children as slaves to the Sultan.

The Janissaries were an army composed of those very children—boys who should have grown up under Christian parents, nurtured with love, but were instead torn from their families at a young age and raised solely to serve, stripped of all affection and indoctrinated with absolute loyalty to the Sultan.

To the prince, who had been educated with modern ethics, such a practice was nothing short of repulsive. But fortunately, he was not the only one who felt this way.

“The enemies we face are those who, barely weaned from their mothers, were taken by force and raised with nothing but the doctrines and warfare of the infidels. Before we step onto the battlefield, I wish to confess to my brothers the reason why such a tragedy came to be.”

For a moment, silence settled among the knights and the prince.

Then, the prince himself broke it.

“The reason they were taken as slaves to the Sultan. The reason the infidels have grown so powerful… It is because I—because my country—was weak and greedy.”

This was the harsh truth.

For centuries, the empire had been blinded by internal power struggles, decaying year after year. It no longer had even the slightest strength to protest such atrocities. Simply holding onto a handful of cities was already an overwhelming struggle. What could be a more fitting punishment for an empire that had basked in the glories of its past while neglecting its own people?

“It is only natural that God has forsaken us. How many times have we committed acts worthy of being abandoned? And yet, despite all these sins, I have come here believing that our merciful God will grant us one more chance. Brothers, I believe you stand here with me because you, too, hold that same belief.”

A powerless nation might as well collapse entirely.

Perhaps that would even be the better fate for those who lived within it. Accepting the unchangeable reality, compromising, and adapting to a new system might provide a more stable future. But not everyone thought that way. The prince knew that there were those who still believed change was possible, those who still believed they could endure.

What had begun as a small act of defiance, born from sheer stubbornness, had now swelled into a force capable of shaping the fate of the entire Balkans. Such a feat was not achieved by one man’s will alone. It was possible only because many had wished for it—because many had fought for it.

“I shall fall to my knees before the Almighty and beg. I shall plead for one last chance—one last opportunity for this nation to change. So, my brothers, know this: our battle is not merely a battle. It is a holy campaign to protect Christendom. It is a war to prove our worth in the eyes of Heaven. Etch this truth into your hearts, and remember my words.”

A fight to prove that destiny, history, and prophecy, no matter how inevitable, could be reshaped by human will. A battle to grant a fallen empire and failed people one last chance to reclaim ownership of their fate.

“Brothers, remember always that we are the lance that shall shatter the sword of Islam. We are the defender of Christendom, the ones who will strike down the schemes of the false savior and proclaim the beginning of true peace with the blood of infidels. Never forget that we are the Red Cross, stained with the blood of heretics, apostates, and unbelievers.”

The prince had chosen to bear the Red Cross upon his own shoulders.

It had already been a week since the Morean army had entered a tedious standoff with the Janissaries.

The Janissaries maintained a certain distance, persistently harassing them to prevent any chance of rest. Though the inflicted damage was insignificant, the situation would change if it continued to accumulate. The Morean army, already exhausted from the relentless forced march, found their fatigue mounting at an alarming rate.

Attempting to maneuver their forces into a decisive battle was futile—each time, the Janissaries quickly grasped their intentions and withdrew to the nearby ridges or forests, severely limiting the deployment of cavalry forces.

If they were caught from behind in such a situation, that would be the moment of annihilation. The instant all possibilities were stripped away, the fate of the empire would be sealed. That was why the prince had to pay close attention to what was happening in Nemeapatre.

Would it be success or failure?

This was a turning point so immense that it could alter the course of history itself. The prince, anxious to know the outcome of his strategy, soon received news of the devastation in Nemeapatre from a shabbily dressed Jew. Upon hearing the report, what arose in his mind was neither regret nor a sense of accomplishment—but a sigh.

“Did it fail?”

It had been a bold scheme—one that involved setting an entire city ablaze. He had hoped that even Murad, caught off guard by the fire attack, would perish in the chaos. But that had been too much to expect. He had missed the perfect opportunity to end this prolonged war.

Had he returned to Nemeapatre and forced a decisive battle, could he have slain Murad and seized victory? A brief flicker of regret nearly surfaced. But there were no “what-ifs” in war. Convinced that his strategy had been the correct choice, the prince resolved to withdraw.

Now that Murad’s survival was confirmed, it was likely that his true core forces had been preserved as well. Yet, Murad would not be able to pursue the prince immediately. Nemeapatre, which was supposed to supply his troops, had been nearly burned to the ground, and his forces had suffered significant losses. Their morale must have plummeted, meaning they would need time to regroup.

This had bought the prince some time. However, as long as the Janissaries blocked his path, the disadvantage remained.

That meant this was the final chance to break through the Janissaries while Murad was still immobilized. Before he could rally his army, before he could change his mind, they had to engage the Janissaries in battle and secure a decisive victory.

Had it been a confrontation against Murad’s main force, he would have hesitated. But against the Janissaries alone, the situation was different. Even if his soldiers were slightly inferior in quality, they had the overwhelming advantage of outnumbering them two to one.

The only issue was how to lure the Janissaries—who had been avoiding direct engagement—into a battle.

Given their reluctance to fight, it was clear that they were following Murad’s strict orders. That meant the ways to shake the Janissaries, known for their rigid discipline and unwavering loyalty, were extremely limited.

“In the end, there’s only one way left.”

The prince closed his eyes in quiet contemplation.

Moments later, the ones answering his summons and stepping into the command tent were Ivania and Adrianos.

They were greeted by the prince’s calm, measured voice.

“The fire attack on Nemeapatre has failed. However, we managed to tie down Murad’s forces.”

“…So it has come to this,” Adrianos muttered.

Even he, who had expressed discomfort with the plan from the beginning, now looked regretful. The fact that, despite embracing disgrace, they had failed to achieve their best possible outcome would be a great obstacle for the prince in the future.

Knowing this, Adrianos’ sigh was inevitable.

Meanwhile, Ivania’s bright blue eyes gleamed as she looked at the prince.

“Then all that remains is to defeat the Janissaries.”

You’ve finally learned to separate duty from emotion, Ivania. The prince shed invisible tears of joy at this surprising and positive change.

Well, given the gravity of the situation, there was no choice but to be serious. He cleared his throat a few times to stabilize his emotions.

Ivania was right. The fate of Morea—no, the empire itself—now hinged on whether they could break through the Janissaries.

Thus, the prince laid out the strategy he had devised—one far bolder, and far more reckless, than ever before.

“As Ivania said, the key to this war now rests on whether we can break through the Janissaries and successfully retreat to Athens. This moment will determine the war’s outcome.”

“…Your Highness?”

Ivania’s gaze wavered.

The prince’s tone was different from usual—he was leading into the topic rather than stating it outright.

Adrianos, too, sensed something ominous.

Yet, the prince did not hesitate.

“I will personally lead a hundred Latin knights and serve as bait, feigning retreat to draw the Janissaries’ attention. Ivania, you will…”

“What… What are you saying!? This is absurd!”

Ivania, who was well aware of the grave sin of interrupting a ruler’s orders, was visibly shaken. But even so, the prince’s words were so shocking that it was hard for her to comprehend. Adrianos also stood up immediately in response to Ivania’s outcry.

“One hundred men? And you, yourself, will lead them to become the bait? I cannot understand this at all!”

The objections of the two were entirely expected. After all, it was the prince who had united and maintained Morea, and it was his leadership that inspired the will to fight in the hearts of those living in the empire. The prince’s death would not be just the loss of one ruler—it could potentially break the resistance of all the Christians living in the Balkans. However, the prince had anticipated these reactions.

“This is the kind of bait that will make the Janissaries move.”

“Isn’t one hundred too few? And moreover, this is an extremely dangerous idea, one that risks your life. If you fall here, Your Highness, you know that it won’t just be you who falls, right!? Please reconsider!”

“This bait will expose our intentions to the enemy. Look at the surrounding area. There are hardly any suitable places for an ambush, and aside from some hills and nearby forests, it’s almost all open plain. If we were to try to encircle them, the enemy would notice immediately. But this is the method that will make the Janissaries hesitate to retreat.”

“Your Highness…!”

“As you, too, must have thought, the Janissaries will think the same way. Only a hundred men. They will think that by annihilating them, the war will be over!”

Ivania and Adrianos’ concerns were valid. As the prince had mentioned, the moment the prince died, everything would change. Serbia, Bulgaria, and Wallachia had already been defeated by the Ottoman forces, and now only one ruler had the will and strength to oppose Murad.

That ruler had been the prince, who understood the cruel reality better than anyone else and had resolved to fight until the end. The prince was not merely a knight in Murad’s eyes—he was a king, the last hope holding up the thousand-year empire.

But if they failed to break through the Janissaries here, they would inevitably be caught from behind by Murad’s main forces, leading to certain defeat.

“If you truly value my life, then you must obey this command. Ivania, you will lead the remaining knights in my stead. While the chaos continues, you will disrupt the enemy’s formation by attacking them from the flank. Adrianos, you will lead the rest of the army and annihilate the shattered enemy units.”

The prince had deliberately chosen knights as his escorts because of their armament. Though the Janissaries were elite, they were still infantry. Stopping the knights’ charge would be difficult even with their strict discipline and high morale, but inflicting damage would be nearly impossible against the knights, who wore heavy plate armor. The knights and the prince himself were to become the anvil upon which this strategy would hammer.

Additionally, the prince had intentionally put himself in this risky position because of the knights’ power. The strength of Morea lay in its formidable cavalry, but the Janissaries had been avoiding direct confrontation, positioning themselves near ridges and forests in anticipation of any surprise attacks. The prince had chosen to become the bait so that the Janissaries could focus their efforts on defense rather than offense.

The prince was inherently cautious, but when a solution lay just beyond a dangerous tightrope, he was the kind of man who would not hesitate to take the step forward. This plan was not just about utilizing his knights—it was also a preemptive move to deceive Murad’s eyes and ears.

Murad sought to completely eradicate Morea’s influence and power through this war. Moreover, the failure of the fire attack on Nemepatre meant that central Greece would inevitably turn its back on Morea. Though it was uncertain when, it was likely that in the near future, the cities of central Greece would join Murad’s side in the war.

Murad’s web was tightening around the prince’s neck.

At the same time, the prince’s own web was closing in on Murad. Now, the war was no longer about victory or defeat—it was about whose noose would tighten around the other’s neck first. Every time Murad claimed victory, the noose would grow tighter around both Murad’s and the prince’s neck. In the end, it would be the one who could hold their breath the longest who would emerge victorious.

In this battle to place the noose on his rival, it would not be Murad, who triumphed, but the prince, who had suffered a crushing defeat, who would advance.

• To achieve this, he could not allow a fatal defeat.

Even if it meant putting his own life on the line.

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.