Author: Renegade

I listened to the voices proclaiming the time of destruction was near. I sought to escape the mournful faces of the people by shutting myself away in the court, mingling with those who wore false smiles. Yes, I fled—from the responsibilities and duties that had been entrusted to me.

What did it mean to be royalty? Royal blood alone could not define it. Its value was proven only through actions worthy of that blood, through deeds that bore the weight of its legacy.

The moment the capital was besieged was no different.

If I had not witnessed that one person stand up amidst the despair, at the very brink of the end, I would still be the same today. I still remember. The sight of a young boy, his cheeks yet unthinned by time, climbing atop the city walls. His small fists clenched tightly as he braced himself to confront the madness of the battlefield.

Yet even seeing that, my aimless wandering did not end. My soul, weary from indulgence, felt as though it could never rise again. Perhaps it was because I believed that even that brilliant child would ultimately be crushed under the weight of inevitable ruin.

Such were those days. Days filled with such emptiness…

A boy, who should have been cared for and protected by others, stepped onto the battlefield. The lost lands were reclaimed, one by one, through the efforts of a child who deserved to be sheltered.

At a time when he should have felt warmth, he instead carried a cold blade buried in his chest. Because no one else dared to bear the heavy burdens that someone must shoulder, a boy barely ten years old had no choice but to take them up himself.

His naturally gentle nature was shattered, replaced by the persona of a ruler.

It was only then that I truly realized how pathetic I had been.

How immense was the sin of the adults, who left all the duties they should have borne to a mere child. I wept for a long time. The reality of the empire, so fallen and miserable, and the weight of the harsh fate my younger brother carried—it all left me in despair. Yet, after shedding all those tears, I found a resolution in my heart.

I must do it, too.

I can do it, too…

I must have felt disappointment and betrayal toward my younger brother, who sought to solve everything on his own. But at this moment, I realized who truly tried to shoulder everything alone. The pride I once felt for him had, at some point, turned into envy, and the sincere desire to walk alongside him had twisted into something far more selfish.

Now that I understand what I did wrong, I won’t deny the desires harboured in this soul. I wanted to stand above my brother. I couldn’t bear to be the older sibling who fell short. That inferiority complex spurred me on.

Yes.

…It was I who sought to stand alone.

“Was I bewitched by the thousand years of history tied to the emperor’s throne?”

The grand plan to fracture the Ottoman Empire had collapsed due to a misjudgment of the enemy’s capabilities. Now that even the fragile peace has crumbled, all that protects the capital are the triple walls painstakingly built by past emperors.

What remains of the empire is nothing more than Morea, ruled by my younger brother. No matter how glorious Constantinople may be—the city of cities, the ancient heart of the thousand-year empire—it has its limits, leaving me with only a deep sense of futility.

Can someone who rules over nothing but the space within the closed city gates truly call himself an emperor?

It was only after being pushed to this point that I grasped the reality my brother and the sultan had known all along. Yet despite this, the sultan marched upon Constantinople, and my brother would undoubtedly come north to save the city if I requested reinforcements.

The reason was simple: Constantinople is the last symbol that allows the empire to claim it is still Rome, the final fragment preserving its identity.

My brother, knowing this, had no choice but to engage in a hopeless battle to protect that last fragment!

“…..”

A muffled cry escaped through my tightly clenched lips. No matter how hard I closed my eyes, I couldn’t suppress the overwhelming anguish. When had everything gone wrong? Was it from the moment I first desired to stand alongside him? Was my incompetence and my audacious passion the true beginning of all these mistakes? And yet, I soon realized that even this train of thought was rooted in my own ugly sense of inferiority.

A hollow laugh slipped out.

I needed to recall my original, pure desire.

To do so, I revisited the memory deeply engraved in my mind. The moment when, in the face of despair and resignation, a young boy stood tall and marched forward. The instant when his round, wandering eyes began to blaze with determination. The sight of him lifting the burdens of “responsibility” and “duty” that everyone else had cast aside… and the reason I rose to my feet back then.

Little by little, the feelings from that moment began to vividly resurface.

I wanted to ease the weight my brother carried. Knowing how lonely a road it was to walk alone, I wanted to become a companion to walk beside him. Countless words could be used to describe these feelings, but in the end, the answer was just one.

“…I wanted to be his strength.”

How is it that only now I’ve realized how useless a throne is when it is occupied by only one?

The Court of Morea.

A place that, as a ruler’s seat, should have been decorated with all manner of splendor to display its authority was instead steeped in cold, somber silence. Not a single coin had been spent on decoration; every resource was poured solely into governing the state, reflecting the nature of the prince himself. Those who visited for the first time were always surprised by its plain simplicity, a direct testament to the character of its master.

The ruler of Morea was often hailed as the last defender of the empire, the final beacon of light. His growing fame now extended not just across the Balkans, threatened by the Ottomans, but also into the Western world.

A figure of unmatched discipline, tirelessly fighting to save his collapsing homeland against the mighty Turks. Even the Christians of the Western world, despite centuries of hostility, couldn’t help but acknowledge the efforts of this young ruler.

Through Venice, his name spread—Prince Dragases.

Perhaps because the Western world’s attention was still preoccupied with the Hundred Years’ War and the Hussite Crusades, the detailed circumstances were not well-known. Yet those who loved to gossip could not suppress their admiration upon hearing tales of this young ruler.

Still, few could have imagined the level of frugality he embraced. Many had criticized the prince’s disregard for luxuries, but he had always dismissed them, saying it was not yet “the time.”

And indeed, it was as he had said.

“The time” still seemed distant.

“…..”

The prince closed his eyes, unable to overcome the pounding headache. All the news that reached him was grim. It was a miracle he hadn’t collapsed upon learning that Murad’s army of 8,000 had finally turned its march toward Constantinople. It would have been better if it had ended there, but the subsequent reports only painted an even bleaker picture.

Hoping that Murad’s forces, exhausted from their forced march, would be vulnerable, Emperor John had ordered Theodoros, recently appointed as despot, to launch a surprise attack.

If it had succeeded, things wouldn’t feel so suffocating. However, Murad had fully anticipated the possibility of an ambush and prepared accordingly. Feigning retreat with a decoy camp, he lured Theodoros into a trap, encircling and annihilating his forces in one swift stroke.

The fate of Theodoros was unknown.

But one thing was clear:

Even if John knew it was a trap, he would have no choice but to summon the prince.

To prove that he wasn’t finished, Murad issued a sweeping mobilization order. Thousands of troops were already gathering in Edirne and would soon join Murad’s main forces unhindered.

If that happened, even with the most optimistic view, the Ottomans would have at least 13,000 soldiers.

The prince’s eyelids trembled. Ever since Murad’s initial victory, he had anticipated the worsening situation and had issued an early mobilization order. The resulting force numbered approximately 6,000—the absolute maximum that Morea, and the crumbling empire as a whole, could muster in its current dire state.

“…I don’t want a victory that costs me my army..”

A battle that left only losses behind was meaningless. This fight was about finding a path toward survival. Victory alone wasn’t always the answer.

Feeling the cold sweat drip down the bridge of his nose, the prince slowly repeated those words in his heart, over and over again.

The goal of this war is not victory.

First, it is to prove that the call for aid from Constantinople has not been ignored.

Second, it is to preserve Morea’s strength to the greatest extent possible.

Third, it is to secure recognition of sovereignty over central Greece, no matter what it takes.

As soon as the prince reaffirmed these objectives, the inevitable happened.

A sound, close to a resounding crash, shook the air. The prince opened his eyes. A man appeared, throwing open the doors to the audience chamber. His fine hair, clear complexion, and well-formed features immediately marked him as someone of noble lineage.

His armor, however, caked in dirt and blood, bore witness to a fierce battle. Yet the man paid no mind to his condition, urgently catching his breath as he knelt before the prince.

“Your Highness, I bring a command and a plea from His Majesty the Emperor.”

The man’s lips, bloodied and cracked, framed words that no one dared expect.

“‘Constantinos, I now realize you were not wrong. I should beg your forgiveness, but the urgency of our situation compels me to cast aside my shame and plead with you first. Constantinople is in danger. The Empire is in danger. I will not appeal to familial bonds, nor will I issue this as a command from an emperor.

Show the world once more the devotion you once displayed to the Empire. Do not forget the passion that once moved this unworthy brother’s heart. And…’”

The man swallowed hard, his voice cracking as he delivered the final words.

“‘…Now I understand why our father’s will resided in you, Constantinos.’”

The prince bit his lower lip hard. Why? That was the very question he wanted to ask. Why did John only now place his faith in him, only after the Empire’s fate teetered before Murad’s forces? Was this nothing more than a desperate plea to survive the current crisis? Suspicion clouded his thoughts, but it was the man’s voice that brought him back to clarity.

“Your anger is justified, Your Highness. But before delivering this message, His Majesty shed tears in my presence. I do not believe those tears were false.”

“…How can you be so certain?”

“Because I have seen genuine tears before. I have witnessed the tears of one whose heart was torn apart by betrayal. That is why I am certain.”

It was only then that the prince noticed the hostility simmering in the man’s eyes. A glare, sharp enough to border on murderous intent—something not easily fostered. Just as the prince wondered why a stranger would harbor such animosity toward him, the man provided the answer.

“Despite the insults Your Highness dealt to our family, we vowed to devote ourselves to the Empire. Now it is Your Highness’s turn to display a dedication of equal measure. I, Demetrios Kantakouzenos, speak these words.”

“…A brother of Joannina.”

Now that he looked closer, there was a resemblance. The prince nodded quietly and rose from his seat.

The preparations had already been made long ago.

Murad would surely expect that if he marched north, the siege of Constantinople would be lifted and his forces redirected toward Morea.

Now, the fate of the Empire and the course of history rested entirely in his hands.

Mustafa, who had called himself the son of Bayezid and demanded the throne, was dead.

The Bulgarian uprising, which had erupted in response to his call, was thoroughly crushed as well. With this, Murad’s abilities, which had been put to the test, were fully proven. Leading an army of 8,000, he had utterly annihilated a combined enemy force of 20,000. What followed was the victor’s decree.

“I will ensure they never rise in rebellion again.”

All aspect of leniency previously offered under the guise of mercy was withdrawn. Under Murad’s orders, the devshirme system was implemented on a large scale, forcing the Bulgarians to either give up their children to the Sultan or pay even harsher taxes.

Numerous Orthodox churches were forcibly converted into mosques, and instead of the religious freedom they had longed for, the people faced forced conversions.

But Murad had no intention of withdrawing his army.

The reason for this rebellion was evident—no further deliberation was needed. The empire. The so-called “Thousand-Year Empire,” now little more than an empty shell clinging to the illusion of past glory, had orchestrated this. And how much blood had been spilled because of it? How many had been driven to their deaths by futile hopes?

The empire deserved punishment.

At the same time, Murad thought of the man he had come to regard as his rival.

“Dragases… Surely, this was not your doing.”

It was unthinkable that Prince Constantine Dragases, who had only recently succeeded in reclaiming central Greece, would have instigated such reckless actions. Just as Constantine Dragases held Murad in high regard, Murad respected Dragases in return.

If it were Dragases, he would have waited for a more decisive moment. Knowing that the empire alone could not oppose him, Dragases would have patiently laid his traps.

For a fleeting moment, regret brushed through Murad’s heart. If Dragases had gained enough strength, he would undoubtedly have waged a glorious fight against Murad. The thought of having to confront the honorable rival he had so long desired right now troubled Murad deeply. But Murad had a higher duty to fulfill.

As Sultan, he bore the sacred responsibility of bringing the Prophet’s prophecy to reality—a duty befitting the most devout Muslim.

“What a pity,” he murmured. “That this will be both our first and last encounter.”

The narrow width of the Isthmus, where a wall could easily block thousands of troops, was not where Dragases placed his focus. Instead, the fortresses spread across the entirety of the Peloponnese made it clear what he had in mind. The young lord of Morea must have determined that the 6-kilometer-long Hexamilion Wall alone could not hold back the Ottoman forces. He likely envisioned a war of attrition drawn into his own territory.

If his plan succeeded, Murad would undoubtedly be forced to endure considerable losses. It was a defensive measure designed to make attacking Morea, with its naturally rugged terrain, even more undesirable.

However, there was no need for Murad to fight on the battlefield that Dragases desired. Drawing the enemy into favourable terrain was a fundamental strategy, and Murad had both the resources and the capability to make that happen. Quietly smiling, Murad pictured Dragases simmering in frustration.

How does it feel to know everything, yet still be unable to avoid the trap?

Constantinople—the city of cities, the throne of the Thousand-Year Empire. By attacking it, Dragases, as the ruler of Morea, would be compelled to lead his army northward. As part of the empire, it was an unavoidable obligation. Should he refuse, the situation would become even simpler. The pretext of being “an ally of the Ottomans” would vanish, allowing Murad to launch an unrestrained offensive.

Though the alliance was already effectively broken, the difference between a nation protected by Constantinople’s grand triple walls and one centered on a mere provincial city like Mistra was vast. At least for now, Morea could rest easy knowing its capital wouldn’t be overrun. Moreover, given Dragases’s nature—keenly aware of his own nation’s political situation—he would never retreat solely to protect Morea.

To do so would undermine his lifelong efforts dedicated to rebuilding the empire. Thus, he would be dragged to a battlefield chosen not by him but by his enemy. From the outset, Murad had no reason to concern himself with lesser figures like Mustafa or the emperor of the empire, John.

Everything was orchestrated to draw out Dragases, who remained deeply entrenched in Morea.

Without Dragases, Morea was nothing more than an empty husk. Murad knew this because Dragases was the sole reason the empire had held out this long. That was why Murad considered him his true rival.

Standing before the distant, towering triple walls, Murad could feel it in his gut: defeating Dragases now would herald the empire’s collapse. Slowly but surely, his men marched toward the great walls, their advance carrying the weight of this inevitable outcome.

“Come forth before it’s too late, Dragases. I will put an end to the Thousand-Year Empire you have fought so desperately to protect.”

And then, tell me—

Tell me of the bitterness of knowing everything yet being powerless to prevent it.

Suppressing a satisfied smile, Murad spurred his horse forward. His goal was not the declining city shielded by the triple walls. His true target was Dragases. Would the man Murad had deemed a worthy rival crumble helplessly?

A faint sense of anticipation, coupled with the certainty of victory, coursed through Murad as he pressed on.

“-That concludes the report.”

The usually confident and subtly smiling Sophia was nowhere to be seen. Instead, she relayed the concerning information with an exceptionally professional demeanor. Though there were some mismatches here and there, the level of detail she provided was more than sufficient. Given the difficulty of obtaining such intelligence, especially in contrast to the modern era, her ability was truly remarkable.

Now, it was up to this side to analyze the details and uncover the full picture.

The first point of interest was Murad’s actions during the suppression of the Bulgarian uprising. Using overworked slaves, unarmed and scarred, masked and sent to ambush the enemy’s rear—was it to instill terror in the opposition? Certainly, the Bulgarian rebels were no more than untrained peasants. The sudden appearance of those frightening slaves would have undoubtedly struck fear into them.

Even more notable was the fact that while the slaves were deployed, Murad’s main force only continued marching without engaging the enemy. If he had aimed for gradual destruction, the task would have been far easier. So why had he deliberately allowed time for the rebels to regroup? The reasoning seemed clear. Going around and fighting each group to rescue isolated allies trapped by the rebellion’s forces would have taken far too long. Instead, threatening the enemy into withdrawing on their own was the faster option.

But such tactics were typically for those pressed for time.

Murad, who had taken the defender’s position, had no apparent reason to act with such urgency. What was clear was that he had orchestrated events so the rebels would gather into a single force rather than scatter and engage in guerrilla warfare.

As a result, the rebels lost their sole advantage—guerrilla tactics. It was likely done to prevent disruptions to his rear, but it didn’t fully explain why Murad acted so hastily.

To uncover that reason, it was necessary to look at the broader battlefield.

Mustafa’s army, which had marched south along the Danube, was both an expeditionary force and one with clear limitations as a foreign army. This made it easier for the Bey’s forces to mount a stronger resistance. A civil war differs greatly from a conflict involving a revolt backed by foreign powers.

In a civil war, the enemy is your own kin, but in a rebellion’s army, the troops are often foreigners. Such an army is bound to lack trust among its members, especially one acquired through the schemes of the Empire and Venice.

Considering this, it became clear why Mustafa hastily moved south without fully crushing the Bey’s forces. It also clarified why Murad chose to draw all the rebels together and crush them in one blow instead of dividing and defeating them bit by bit. To solidify these assumptions, Sophia’s insight was needed.

“Sophia, have there been any unusual movements along the Anatolian coast during this time?”

“It didn’t seem particularly important to this war… but then again, Your Majesty might see it differently. As you suspect, there was something. The Ottoman galleys stationed along the Anatolian coast were hastily preparing for departure. However, the odd thing is that there were no other notable military actions in Anatolia besides this.”

“So, they hurriedly prepared to sail… without troops to transport?”

“That’s why I initially dismissed it as insignificant.”

Before I realized it, my body was trembling uncontrollably, and I shot up from my seat. My mind went blank, utterly white. Then, as if the strength in my legs gave out, I collapsed back into my chair.

That was it. From the signs of the Anatolian coastal fleet’s abnormal movements, I could now understand why Mustafa hastened his march south and why Murad chose to display a calculated threat to his enemy.

Murad must have known that Venice would support Mustafa. The Anatolian coast was more influenced by Genoa than Venice, making it far harder to gather intelligence there. It would have been nearly impossible to grasp all the military movements happening in Anatolia, let alone uncover the fleet’s activity. The fact that Murad managed to detect the fleet’s movements was astonishing. However, his failure to anticipate that the enemy might exploit this knowledge was a fatal mistake.

Fearing that even the Anatolian forces might join the battle, Mustafa likely prioritized ending the succession dispute by overthrowing the sultan rather than focusing on the Bey’s forces. Meanwhile, Murad had successfully rescued the Bey, who was on the brink of annihilation, simply by ordering the coastal fleet to lift anchor. This maneuver drew Mustafa deeper into his trap.

Considering the time it would take for orders to reach, Murad must have sent instructions to the Anatolian coastal fleet on the very day he began his advance into Bulgaria.

Even the swift suppression of the Bulgarian rebels served a purpose: to aid Mustafa’s advance southward. If the rebellion had persisted, Mustafa might have acted more cautiously. Knowing the overwhelming difference in the quality of soldiers and the skill of the officers, Murad could afford such a bold gamble and still secure an easy victory.

For Mustafa, who feared the joining of Anatolian forces, there were no other options. In the inevitable clash between the two armies, Mustafa’s leadership likely would not have been decisive. After all, how many foreign troops, already distrustful of their commander, would follow the orders of a general who had previously led them to defeat? Whatever military talent Mustafa possessed, it was overshadowed by the profound lack of trust in his leadership.

“…Is this the kind of opponent I must face?”

My vision darkened. For once, Sophia, in a rare display of concern, broke the silence with a question.

“Get a hold of yourself. Murad’s forces will soon march toward this place. Do you really have time to be lost in thought?”

“…No.”

The more I contemplated Murad’s actions, the more certain I became.

“…You don’t believe Murad will invade Morea? Is that your assessment?”

“Murad isn’t heading for Morea… He’s heading for Constantinople.”

And this certainty wasn’t because of Constantinople’s symbolic significance. Murad would besiege Constantinople to assert his dominance.

“Why? Why would you think that?”

“Because there’s far more to gain.”

“…From a crumbling capital of a millennium-old empire?”

“If he can secure both justification and tangible benefits, heading for Constantinople is the logical choice.”

By besieging Constantinople, Murad would apply immense pressure on the capital. In its desperation, the capital would inevitably request reinforcements from Morea. And if that request came, Morea would be cornered.

Refusing the request would be akin to declaring independence from the empire. But if Morea complied with the request, Morea would lose its status as the “Ottoman ally” that shielded Central Greece from Ottoman incursions.

On the other hand, if Morea acted on the request, it would likely be forced to fight in hostile territory—or worse, on ground carefully chosen by the enemy—rather than on the Peloponnesian Peninsula, which had always been assumed as the main battleground. The narrow passages and rugged terrain that allowed a smaller force to stall the Ottomans would no longer serve any purpose.

A shiver ran down my spine. And then another.

Could I really defeat Murad?

When it had been about two months since Murad II had raised his army, news of the catastrophic defeat of 8,000 Bulgarians against an equal number of enemies struck like a thunderbolt among those who had hoped for Mustafa’s success.

The revolt, which had rallied immediate support as soon as 12,000 troops marched southward, had been seen as a timely blessing from heaven. At least, that’s what the war hawks of the empire believed—until Murad II completely subdued the rebellion while sustaining barely a few hundred casualties.

Doubts began to arise: had their decision truly been the right one? But for now, the mood in the capital did not shift. Even if the rebellion had been crushed, the 12,000-strong army led by Great Mustafa still remained intact.

To prove whether this belief was indeed justified, Murad and Mustafa now stood on the same battlefield. The turning point came when Murad, who had been crushing the Bulgarians with overwhelming force in an initial forced march, suddenly halted his advance. Mustafa saw this as an opportunity and pushed further southward.

When the two forces finally confronted each other, Murad thought Mustafa’s army might signal an immediate attack. Yet, observing the unshaken formation of his opponent, he reconsidered. Unlike the previous day when Mustafa had boldly decided to march south, now he chose to cautiously maintain his stance.

With their forces facing off, the first thing Murad did was examine the enemy’s formation. Perhaps mindful of the devastating flank attacks carried out by the Sipahi cavalry in the previous battle, Mustafa positioned his left wing on a slight ridge, addressing his vulnerabilities. If Murad recklessly ordered an assault, it would result in significant casualties.

“Send the slaves forward to advance.”

Despite this, Murad gave the order to attack. As the signal for battle was raised and a heavy horn blared, the clash began. Mustafa’s troops, however, showed no movement, maintaining their ranks. Only when the opposing forces drew near did they pull back their infantry by a step. Replacing them were archers, arrows drawn to their bows. Not a single one loosed early.

The first arrows were loosed at the sound of a shrill whistle, piercing the air.

A volley of arrows filled the gap between Murad’s and Mustafa’s forces, their sharp tips slicing through the wind with the cry of tight bowstrings. The projectiles tore into unprotected flesh, and the agonized cries of the wounded were soon drowned out by the constant whistle of arrows cutting through the air.

Yet the slaves showed no signs of retreating. Eventually, realizing that allowing further approach would put their archers at risk, Mustafa’s infantry stepped forward once again to meet them.

“Waahhh!”

The clash was immediate. Each impact of blade against blade rang out, weighing life against death. Crude shields were raised to deflect the spears thrust by Mustafa’s soldiers, but a single shield was never enough to block all the spearheads. The tide of battle shifted quickly. Murad’s forces began to falter under the pressure of their reckless assault. When the slaves, realizing the fight was lost, abandoned the battle and fled, the collapse was irreversible.

Mustafa’s forces would not let them escape.

“The enemy is falling back! Pursue them!”

The soldiers eagerly chased after the retreating slaves, showing no mercy to those who had turned their backs. The pursuit went on for some time, with Mustafa’s forces mercilessly cutting down the fleeing slaves. Victory seemed all but certain. Such a belief wasn’t unfounded—until white-capped soldiers began to appear.

Shiiing—

A swift, sharp slash severed a neck in an instant. The curved blade, designed for efficient cutting, was now stained with blood. Bodies fell, their lives snuffed out effortlessly. Mustafa’s soldiers, drunk on the thrill of the chase, were caught completely off guard by the sudden reversal.

“What… what’s happening…?”

The ease with which their comrades were cut down left them questioning whether humans were truly so fragile. Had they not witnessed the fountains of blood erupting from cleanly sliced necks, they might have been lost in their thoughts for much longer. But reality had no patience for their hesitation.

When they turned their heads to see who their opponents were, they were met with calm, unyielding gazes brimming with determination and murderous intent. The disciplined movements, honed like steel, revealed their identity.

The distinctive white caps confirmed their worst fears, plunging them into terror.

How could they not recognize them?

How could anyone hope to stand against them?

“Janissaries!”

As the soldiers’ panicked cries echoed, Murad, now standing before them, drew his sword. He revealed the blade, steeped in the legacy of the early Ottoman conquests—a legendary weapon embodying their unwavering will.

“Strike the enemy, Janissaries!”

At Murad’s command, the Ottoman blades began their massacre without hesitation or doubt. It was an overwhelming assault, brutal enough to be called a slaughter. Mustafa’s forces, drunk on their earlier success and pursuit, were nothing more than insects rushing toward a flame before the Janissaries. Their reckless bloodlust had broken their formation and stretched their lines too thin.

This, precisely, was Murad’s intention.

The sudden reversal of fortune, brought about by the arrival of the Janissaries, threw Mustafa’s soldiers into confusion. Their panic grew when the sound of horses reached their ears. They had positioned themselves on the hill earlier to guard against cavalry flank attacks. But now, as they chased the fleeing enemy, where were they?

The Sipahis answered the question.

Their arrival crushed what little hope Mustafa’s soldiers had left.

“Uwaaahhhh!”

Only Mustafa’s men screamed in terror. The Sipahis and Janissaries made no such sound. Even in the face of death, they did not cry out. They simply fulfilled their duty with silent precision, demonstrating their unshakable discipline. Without showing any emotion or hesitation, they spilled the blood of the Sultan’s enemies onto the cold, hard ground.

As the chaotic battle seemed destined to end in Murad’s victory, a dramatic change swept through Mustafa’s forces. Realizing the hopelessness of the situation, Mustafa decided to retreat, abandoning those who were being slaughtered behind him.

But could Mustafa know that even this retreat had been anticipated by Murad?

The hasty retreat was suddenly interrupted by the sound of shouts from behind Mustafa’s army. Along with the faint clanging of metal and desperate screams carried on the wind, the reality of what was happening dawned on them. Watching the obliteration of Mustafa’s forces unfold, Murad allowed a faint smile to play across his lips.

“It seems the Bey’s forces have arrived on time.”  *Bey is a rank in the Ottoman Empire

Mustafa must have believed his troops had paused to regroup. That, too, was partially true. But it was said that leading an army should accomplish more than a single goal. Murad had halted his forces earlier, not just to consolidate his strength but to buy time for the Bey’s army—freed by the failed Bulgarian rebellion—to arrive.

Mustafa had failed to grasp this strategy, and the battlefield was the result of that oversight.

As Murad surveyed the field for a while, something seemed to come to mind. He spurred his horse forward, dashing across the battlefield. Even as the Sultan approached, Mustafa’s soldiers, having lost their will to fight, scattered in a desperate attempt to flee. Thanks to their panic, Murad reached his destination quickly: the frontlines of Mustafa’s crumbling forces.

There was no longer a proud army of 12,000 marching south with confidence. Only piles of corpses and a single man wailing in despair remained.

“Why? How could I have lost?! I am the son of the Conqueror, Bayezid! I cannot lose to the son of a feeble Mehmed!”

But there was no one left alive to sympathize with Mustafa’s anguish. Surrounded by enemy spears, he swung his blade wildly, like a wounded beast, but the encirclement held firm. After wasting his strength in vain, Mustafa eventually dropped his sword. Watching this pitiful scene, Murad bit his lower lip.

Was this truly the man who had dared challenge him for the Sultan’s throne?

Was this wretched figure truly of the same blood as him?

As an heir to the Ottoman line and a devout Muslim, this disgrace could not be forgiven. Murad, gripping the legendary sword passed down through the generations of Ottoman Sultans, directed its blade toward Mustafa.

“This is why,” Murad said.

“W-what did you say?”

“The reason you lost is because you are Bayezid’s son.”

With each step Murad took toward him, his resolve grew firmer. Mustafa’s trembling eyes only strengthened his determination.

“Are you saying I am weaker than feeble Mehmed?!”

“You stood on this battlefield as Bayezid’s son. I stood on this battlefield as the Sultan of the Ottomans.”

The blood of the Ottomans would be reclaimed by the Ottomans. Holding the sword, Murad rested its blade against Mustafa’s neck and looked down at him with icy disdain.

“A Sultan has no reason to lose to a mere son.”

TL : Don’t get confused, as mentioned in the earlier chapters, two heirs to the sultan’s title fled from the Ottoman Empire, both named Mustafa. The Mustafa in this chapter is Bayezid’s son, making him Mehmed’s brother.

Here’s the family tree :

Murad I (d. 1389)
|
Bayezid I (1360–1403)
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Mehmed I   –   Mustafa Çelebi
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Murad II    –   Küçük Mustafa
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Mehmed II (1432–1481) (Mehmed the Conqueror)