Category: About a Dating Sim Where Dating Is Impossible

For a while, the emperor’s office had seemed quiet—but once again, it was filled with the presence of others.

That was because all the key figures, save for those dispatched to distant provinces or resting like Ivania, had gathered in one place.

Among them were Francisco, who commanded the cavalry, the Latin troops’ overseer; Halid, who led the Murtati; Bishop Nikephoros, who had been preparing to depart from Morea; and finally, Gemistos Plethon, who had come after tending to his students. As soon as they assembled, the emperor looked around at each of them.

Not a single face showed any trace of composure—they were all stiff and serious.

It was to be expected, considering the seriousness of the situation. The news had arrived only five days after the secret agreement with Venice was signed. In other words, the incident had occurred well before then. Had it reached the Pope in Italy by now? The emperor tried to dispel some of his shock by indulging in such idle thoughts.

Even so, the reason he couldn’t bring himself to speak right away was simply because he didn’t want to believe it.

But turning away wouldn’t change anything—it would only make matters worse. Resolving himself, the emperor finally opened his mouth and addressed the assembled ministers.

“…Wallachia has launched an invasion into Hungary’s Transylvanian region. It’s not exactly good news.”

“That’s… extremely bad news.”

Francisco, sweating profusely, made a sarcastic remark. Under normal circumstances, Plethon would have rebuked him for his lack of decorum, and Halid would’ve found something to mock—but this time, both held their tongues.

Only Bishop Nikephoros crossed himself repeatedly. Though no one said a word, the silence conveyed that they all felt the same. The emperor was no different. The mood in the office sank rapidly.

It was inevitable.

From the perspective of Morea, they had always assumed that any trouble would come from Albania. No one had expected this. The miscalculation left everyone at a loss for words. Even those who wanted to speak found no voice. The first to break free from the suffocating silence was Halid.

“Wallachia would not have planned an invasion of Hungary on its own. Surely, someone is pulling the strings.”

Sometimes, stating the obvious helps people grasp reality. His words brought focus back to their eyes. Francisco was the first to regain his composure, followed much later by Plethon and Bishop Nikephoros. The emperor, whose thoughts had gone blank, also recovered his clarity.

“You’re right, you’re absolutely right. You’re actually making sense for once.”

“Shut up, you idiot.”

“I even complimented you, and still—!”

Francisco lashed out with insults, trying to cover his embarrassment, while Halid snarled back fiercely. Watching the two squabble, the emperor quietly sank into thought. Just as Halid had reminded them, Wallachia, which had long stood in opposition to the Ottomans, wouldn’t suddenly change its stance without outside influence.

And it wasn’t hard to guess who might benefit from such a maneuver.

There was only one party who stood to gain from Wallachia’s sudden offensive.

“…Murad.”

Crack.

The emperor clenched his teeth tightly, unable to suppress his curiosity. How had Murad managed to move Wallachia? No, did Wallachia still have the forces to launch such an invasion?

Unfortunately, the Danube region was one where the empire, and even Venice, held little influence. Their focus had been entirely on the main Ottoman force near the capital, leaving Wallachia outside their field of interest.

Yet one thing was certain—this Wallachian invasion was highly threatening.

Sure enough, Plethon spoke up to highlight the danger.

“Your Majesty, Hungary has been drained by years of fighting heretics. From what little I know, they haven’t even finished subjugating the remnants of those sects. I doubt they have the strength left to defend Transylvania against Wallachia.”

“If only the Western Church recognizes the severity of this situation…”

“….”

Nikephoros murmured with regret, and even Halid and Francisco stopped their arguing. They, too, likely shared the bishop’s concerns. But the emperor, taking a more clear-eyed view of reality, slowly shook his head.

Even Morea had only just learned of the event. It was unlikely the Pope’s awareness would lead to swift action—nor was the situation in the West favourable.

It was that unexpected.

The greater the shock, the longer the ensuing chaos would last. And this chaos—that, surely, was what the Ottomans and their sultan truly desired. But what purpose did this chaos serve? As he turned that question over in his mind, the emperor finally began to realize what the previous signs had meant.

The obsession with the capital, Skanderbeg’s sudden halt in his conquests, the relaxed siege, the treaty that pulled Venice back from the front lines, and now, Wallachia’s surprise invasion of Hungary—

—All these signs pointed to one thing.

“…The Ottomans are going to move.”

Francisco swallowed hard at the emperor’s conclusion. Everyone had expected that the Ottomans would make a major move someday. But no one had imagined they would prepare this thoroughly.

“…As you all know, expecting aid from the West is now a hopeless dream. With Hungary shaken from a surprise invasion, they’ll be tied down until a truce with the Hussites is secured. This leaves us defenseless. Not just us—Serbia as well.”

Hungary, which had been in the best position to respond quickly to the Ottomans, was now paralyzed. The path was wide open for the Ottomans. Thus, the earlier prediction that Albania would be the target had been mistaken. If they had aimed for Albania, there would’ve been no need to hinder Hungary.

The real targets were either Morea or Serbia.

Of the two, Morea—an enduring thorn in the Ottomans’ side—was the likelier target.

As that thought struck him, the emperor turned to Halid.

Of all those in Morea, there was only one man who truly understood the inner workings of the Ottomans. But even the trusted Halid shook his head this time.

“What I know dates back nearly a decade. I doubt it will be useful now.”

“Even speculation will do.”

“…Then I shall offer an example from the past, Your Majesty.”

At last, pressed by repeated urging, Halid opened his mouth to speak.

Of course, it was not a pleasant tale for anyone present. And because it came without metaphor or filter, it was not something they could easily ignore.

“Decades ago, the Ottoman Empire was split in two after Sultan Bayezid died at the hands of Timur. Even then, the warlord who took control of Rumelia mobilized an army of eight thousand, and Sultan Mehmed, who ruled Anatolia, raised an army of ten thousand twice in just a few years.”

“Hmm.”

“Wow.”

A low hum from Plethon, followed by Francisco’s awed exclamation. Bishop Nikephoros shut his eyes entirely. Yet no sign of disturbance appeared on the emperor’s face.

He had already once endured a siege by Warlord Osman long ago. Knowing full well what kind of adversary he faced, there was no reason for the emperor to waver now. That wasn’t to say he gleaned nothing from Halid’s words. The meaning was clear.

“At least twenty thousand, then.”

“One plus one doesn’t always make two, Your Majesty.”

“Francisco, how does Morea’s military stand?”

“Let’s see—six full Alagia, with two still being formed… That makes about eight thousand, being generous.”

They had rebuilt the army to this level from the brink of annihilation. It even exceeded the former six-thousand strong force. And it wasn’t just quantity—great effort had been made to improve quality as well. That was the reason behind the burdensome fifty percent tax rate: to raise a strong force that could stand against the Ottomans, and even reclaim lost territories.

Even so, the limits were clear.

“Damn it. I thought we had done well.”

Francisco clenched his fists in frustration. But there was nothing to be done. National power wasn’t something easily bridged. Strength accumulated over years didn’t topple easily. To overcome the vast gap in power, every possible option had to be pursued. The emperor turned his gaze toward Bishop Nikephoros.

“It seems the time I must ask this of you has come sooner than expected.”

“…Making contact with the Albanians. I doubt how much I can do, being a man of the cloth… but if it’s something only I can do, I will see it done.”

“We may not be able to help you properly, given the circumstances. I ask for your understanding.”

“Of course, Your Majesty.”

From here on, it would be a race against time.

Resolute, the emperor turned to Plethon.

“Plethon, I will need your gift of rhetoric. We may be forced to mobilize the army. The people will surely be shaken—help calm them.”

“…As you command, Your Majesty.”

“Halid, Francisco—you know what must be done. Prepare the troops, but do not gather them. Remember, we must not give them a pretext.”

Thankfully, both Halid and Francisco were seasoned veterans. Even in such a desperate situation, they remained composed. Despite their now-serious expressions, they still managed to wear confident smiles as they replied together:

“”At Your Majesty’s will.””

For an instant, their eyes flicked toward each other in a sharp glance, but only briefly. Then, they both stepped back with proper formality. Only then did the emperor let out a breath and fully comprehend the situation facing the Empire.

We must not give them an excuse. This is the most dangerous moment.

As long as Albania remained unconquered, all land routes to Morea were blocked. And now, with Venice having stepped back from the frontlines, Morea stood completely isolated. Between Serbia and Morea, the greater danger clearly lay with the latter. The emperor had considered Genoa as a replacement for Venice, but making contact would provoke an Ottoman reaction.

At this point, the only hope lay in gaining support from the Albanians.

But there’s no way the Ottomans are finished with just this.

Sadly, such hunches are never wrong.

Barely a week had passed since the shocking news of Wallachia’s invasion of Hungary, when Morea received an unwelcome guest. The visitor came alone, but even Emperor Dragases, hailed as the Empire’s last hope, found this guest a formidable opponent.

The guest was none other than an Ottoman envoy.

“I have come to deliver the Sultan’s message to the Emperor Dragases of Morea.”

Compared to when he was still a royal prince, the wording was far more polite. Yet the condescending attitude toward the emperor had not changed. All the ministers except Halid scowled, but the envoy remained unfazed. For the emperor, who had no real expectations to begin with, it was more respect than he had anticipated, so he did not bother to comment.

“I will hear it.”

“…‘Long ago, I forged a bond of suzerainty and vassalage with you, and as long as you honored that trust, I guaranteed peace and religious freedom. Yet now, the Emperor of Constantinople has broken the alliance made in my father’s time and rejected even my tolerance. I begin to wonder—might there be others who likewise harbour betrayal in their hearts?’”

Not exactly a positive start.

As expected, the next words were sharp enough to shake even Emperor Dragases composure.

“‘Therefore, I summon you to my court in Edirne to prove your loyalty and sincerity. Come. The reward for loyalty shall be prosperity and peace. The price of betrayal—shall be paid in steel.’”

—And with that, a blade of words, cold and formless, pressed against the emperor’s throat.

“‘All vassals of the Ottomans would do well to choose wisely.’”

Morea, on high alert in response to the Ottoman movements.

The first news to reach those, led by Emperor Dragases, who were desperately trying to uncover the Ottomans intentions, concerned Venice.

For the first time in a long while, the Venetian resident merchant had requested an audience. Sensing an ominous air at once, the emperor accepted the meeting immediately—and thanks to that, he was able to obtain critical information.

“Be cautious, Your Majesty. The Ottoman forces will soon be on the move.”

A voice filled with certainty echoed through the imperial office. Of course, everyone knew the Ottomans would act before long. But none had made such a bold and clear assertion as the Venetian before him. The emperor’s eyes sharpened, convinced that there must be a reason behind this confidence.

“Something must have happened.”

“You are correct, Your Majesty. We Venetians recently signed several treaties with the Sultan of the Ottomans. All of it was to ensure the safety of Thessalonica and our trade routes.”

“You’re being surprisingly forthcoming.”

“It is because we deemed the threat that grave, Your Majesty.”

The Venetian bowed respectfully, unfazed by the emperor’s sarcastic tone. Seeing this, the emperor refrained from pressing further. Though the Empire and Venice shared a relationship filled with love and hate, at least for now, they stood as aligned powers with shared interests against the Ottomans.

Suspecting a Western ally—especially one relied upon for intelligence and naval strength—would only be shortsighted.

Reminded of this, the emperor slowly regained his composure. He had to be patient. How many times had he repeated this to himself? Only after confirming the emperor’s calm did the Venetian disclose the price the Ottomans had demanded.

“What we asked was simple: to halt the fortification of the Dardanelles Strait.

But the Sultan went further. He offered not only to ensure Thessalonica’s safety, but also to lift tributes. In exchange, what he demanded was a treaty prohibiting any hostile acts for the next five years.”

“Five years, is it?”

A period that could be considered either reasonable or vague. No doubt, the aim was to prevent Venetian interference while the Ottomans schemed something in that time.

The emperor mulled over the implications briefly but soon realized it was futile. He knew too little. Now was not the time for conjecture, but for gathering more clues.

“What’s the scope of this ‘hostility’ clause?”

“It covers a wide range—providing ships to enemies of the Ottomans, supporting them with funds—broadly speaking, any form of involvement in war.”

“In other words, they want you to stay completely out of any conflict. And I assume you agreed.”

“Yes, Your Majesty. The Senate, concerned about Genoa’s recent gains, chose not to oppose the Ottomans but to build influence from within instead.”

So they sided with the Ottomans out of fear of Genoa’s expansion. What had been intended as a balancing act in the Aegean Sea had turned into a blade pointing back at them. Yet the emperor couldn’t fault Venice for their decision.

Especially since they had succeeded in delaying the fortification of the Dardanelles Strait—a matter of great importance to the Empire. Any effort to aid their isolated capital in the future would require control of the sea.

Thus, the emperor merely sighed in response.

“I understand. For you, there was no other choice. The mere fact that Thessalonica has been preserved is fortune enough.”

“Your Majesty’s understanding is more than we deserve.”

In truth, this outcome was far better than expected. According to the course of history, Thessalonica was to be left isolated without surrounding powers to divert the Ottoman threat. Unable to bear the overwhelming burden of defense, the city would eventually fall to the Ottomans. That it remained friendly to the Empire at all was a hopeful sign.

The only troubling matter was the treaty prohibiting hostilities for the next five years.

Whatever gains or protections Venice had secured, the pressure around the Ottomans had undoubtedly eased. Venice’s navy, which had been pivotal in blockading Anatolia and the Balkans, was now forced to pull back. And surely the shrewd Venetians understood the implications of such a situation. The Ottoman resurgence was a threat to both the Empire and Venice alike.

That was why they hadn’t hesitated to share such critical information. The Venetian merchant, speaking as a representative of the Senate, continued without reserve.

“The reason we believe the Ottomans are preparing to act is precisely because of this treaty. And sure enough, once we paid closer attention, we began to detect significant movements of troops and supplies.”

And this—this was the information Emperor Dragasēs had truly been hoping for.

“The Ottomans are moving troops?”

“Yes, Your Majesty. The Sultan… the Sultan has been relocating forces to the Bulgarian region—outside our sphere of influence. And he has done so slowly and steadily, over several years.”

“If it’s been over years, it’s hardly ‘recent.’”

“Everyone was focused on Constantinople. We were no different.”

“…I see. The siege of the capital was a distraction.”

Only now did the fog shrouding the Ottomans’ true intentions begin to lift.

So it wasn’t a ploy to lure out Morea, but rather to keep neighboring powers fixated on the wrong target.

An army of eight thousand is no small force. Yet it was clearly not the full might of the Ottomans. The emperor had thought the small number a precaution against the strain of frequent campaigns, but now he realized it had been a deliberate ploy.

“And of all places—Bulgaria.”

Moving forces to Bulgaria would make naval supply lines difficult. Even so, the emperor couldn’t say the Sultan had miscalculated. Through past conflicts, the Sultan had likely realized that Venice was leaking substantial intelligence. Thus, it wasn’t odd for him to choose Bulgaria—a region beyond Venetian influence—to hide his true intentions.

Being deep within Ottoman territory, it would also make troop formation harder to detect. But the most concerning factor was this: because of these very reasons, it was nearly impossible to guess when or where the Ottoman advance would come.

“Is it really Albania?”

There was no denying that the Ottomans would face multiple obstacles in launching a direct campaign into Albania. The main among them was the Pindus Mountains, a natural fortress that effectively isolated the region of Epirus.

Thanks to this natural barrier, Epirus had remained relatively safe from Ottoman influence. And not just Epirus—southern Albania had also been shielded.

However, now that Skanderbeg had secured a route into Albania, could the fractured region truly withstand a full-scale Ottoman invasion?

Of course, the possibility that Albania might not be the next target couldn’t be ruled out.

Serbia and Wallachia were also potential avenues for Ottoman expansion.

Yet both Serbia and Wallachia were currently vassals under the sway of Hungary. If the Ottomans were to attack them directly, the West would be forced to weigh its options—continue its struggle against the Hussite heresy, or confront the growing Ottoman threat?

‘More likely than not, the scales will tip toward the Ottomans.’

It wasn’t optimism—it was a likelihood too significant to ignore. The Christian powers, worn thin by the Hundred Years’ War and the ongoing Hussite conflict, weren’t the only ones fatigued. The Ottomans, too, were weary after a series of campaigns and prolonged warfare. They wouldn’t risk provoking a Crusade. Instead, they’d choose a softer target—Albania.

With this reasoning, the Emperor turned his attention back to the Venetian representative.

And quickly recalled the nature of the Venetian state and its core values: a coldly rational entity that acted purely in pursuit of its national interest. That was Venice.

“Thanks to the valuable information you’ve shared, I’ve been able to deduce the Ottomans next target. I assume you tipped me off because you reached a similar conclusion. Are you also concerned about Albania?”

“You are as perceptive as ever, Your Majesty.”

The Venetian wore a faint smile—whether it was simple flattery or genuine admiration was hard to tell. But one thing was clear: his voice carried a touch more excitement than before.

Even so, this wasn’t a matter to be agreed upon too hastily. Knowing that Albania might be the next target didn’t mean they were ready to make a move just yet.

“But officially, I am still a vassal of the Sultan. Unless I renounce that oath, I have no justification to intervene in Albania.”

“The same applies to us, Your Majesty. We Venetians are bound by treaty. However, if the Albanians themselves were to rise up against the Sultan, they would, in turn, threaten his authority.”

“I see. So our thoughts do align.”

The Emperor’s and the Venetian’s gazes met in mid-air. The Emperor couldn’t help but feel a growing admiration. He could faintly sense the power that would one day make Venice the master of the Mediterranean. As expected, they had already prepared a plan.

“We’ve heard that Your Majesty seeks to foster cooperation among neighboring regions to prevent religious conflict in Albania. If your efforts succeed and the Albanians unite as one, they will surely rise against the Sultan’s rule. And should that happen, the safety of our ships—which were preparing to set sail with tribute—would no longer be guaranteed.”

Cunning devils.

The Emperor held back the sharp retort that came to mind as he listened to Venice’s plan. They weren’t outright breaking the treaty against hostilities just bending the rules. Later, if accused, they could simply claim they’d been raided. Devious? Absolutely. But strangely useful. Now, he was curious—why go to such lengths?

“You’re willing to push Albania to resist the Ottomans… why?”

At this, the Venetian finally revealed the edge he’d kept hidden in his eyes until now.

“Your Majesty, the moment the Sultan declared his intent to fortify the Dardanelles, peace between us ceased to exist. Peace—such a word is forgotten until one side yields. And we can only hope it is the Sultan who reconsiders first.”

The next word that came to the Emperor’s mind was not “cunning,” but “sinister.”

Truly, they were devious and calculating. And it was likely because of that very nature that they had risen to and maintained their current stature. Looking at the Venetian with a conflicted expression, the Emperor finally nodded.

“I will not forget your counsel.”

“May Your Majesty be ever praised.”

Though it was regrettable that the Venetian navy could no longer be counted on now that they had stepped back from the front lines, their support in consolidating Albania would be no small matter.

For both the Emperor and the Venetian envoy, this private meeting had been a satisfactory one. A secret pact had been formed. The Ottomans aggressive stance had ironically brought Venice and the Empire closer together.

But then, a variable no one had foreseen emerged.

A shocking event that stunned every power entangled in the complex affairs of the Balkans—

It was none other than the sudden unrest in Wallachia.

Skanderbeg, who had suddenly stopped his movements, and the Ottoman main force, which had begun lifting the siege.

This action was not merely strange—it was outright suspicious. It was impossible to overlook. Coincidentally, this was also when Morea had just begun making efforts to establish ties with Albania.

Wasn’t the timing far too perfect? While Halid moved to verify the truth of the rumors surrounding Skanderbeg, the Emperor began to meet frequently with Sophia in pursuit of cooperation with the Jews. Though, admittedly, she had grown somewhat prickly of late.

“You never showed the slightest sign of wanting to share a bed for years, and now suddenly you’re with child. How fascinating. My belly remains unchanged, you know.”

“You agreed to the conditions, did you not, my lady?”

“Haa… But that doesn’t mean I can’t be disappointed. If Your Majesty is seriously considering an alliance with Serbia, you should begin preparing soon. My father’s health has been declining lately, after all.”

“Your father… you mean Lord Stefan.”

Stefan Lazarević.

The very man who, by cooperating with the reckless schemes of the former John and attacking the Ottomans, had dragged Morea into the war. At the same time, he was surprisingly weak to his daughter, Sophia. If what Sophia said was true, it would be a reasonable situation—but only if her words were sincere. What could be said for certain was that the Empire had been too focused on the Ottomans to spare much attention for Serbia.

Now that Serbia stood in a risky position between the Ottomans and Hungary, word of Stefan’s failing health was a sign that the power dynamics of the Balkans might soon shift. Among the issues likely to grow most important was the matter of succession. Stefan Lazarević, ruler of Serbia, had no sons. The Emperor Dragases, reminded of this fact, fixed his gaze on Sofia.

“Surely Lord Stefan wouldn’t consider you his heir…”

“Who knows? If only I had presented him with a grandchild.”

“……”

“Well, enough jokes. Father has never considered me his heir, so he’ll likely choose someone among our relatives.”

“I see… So you’re warning me because you fear a weakening of ties with Serbia?”

“There’s that, but this concerns Your Majesty just as much.”

Sophia’s expression was unusually impassive. The fake smile she always wore had vanished, leaving behind a doll-like face. Her flawless, dark eyes looked straight at the Emperor.

“Serbia sees Your Majesty as essential to standing against the Ottomans. But they haven’t forgotten your past behaviour. They likely see a lack of trustworthiness in you as an ally. And would such thoughts be limited to Serbia alone?”

“I take it you have something you wish to say, my lady.”

“The Christian lords of Albania probably also recognize Your Majesty’s importance in standing against the Ottomans. Yet none of them have approached Morea until now. They see that you act only for the preservation of Morea and the Empire. Perhaps they fear, as Serbia does, that Albania might be discarded as well?”

“Is that merely an opinion?”

“Who can say? How Your Majesty chooses to act this time will surely influence how others judge you. As a wife offering her counsel, I merely thought to inform you. I trust there’s no issue with that?”

She spoke vaguely, but even if it was simply a guess—or an assertion—Sophia’s words were not to be ignored. If one wants to build alliances, one must demonstrate faith. It is trust that sustains alliances made of necessity. The real issue lies in the means. What should he do? After pondering, the Emperor could only offer an answer that he did not find agreeable.

“Very well. I will accept your suggestion, my lady.”

“Honestly… I never imagined it would take years just to persuade you.”

“You sound as if you expected this outcome all along.”

“Well, Your Majesty is the sort of person who would do anything to defeat the Ottomans.”

Though Sophia replied with a smile, the Emperor could not accept her words so easily. He may have succeeded in establishing a fragile trust, but it had not grown into anything more. The Emperor, convinced there was some hidden intent behind her words, remained wary, while Sophia offered nothing but a silent smile. Clearly enjoying the attention, she grinned for a while before finally speaking again, some time later.

“Well then, now that I’ve secured your promise, I should deliver what needs to be delivered.”

“…This is…”

Was he too distracted by her expression to notice it earlier? When her hands, which had been folded neatly atop her lap, moved, they revealed a sealed letter that had until then been hidden. With perfect composure, Sophia placed the letter on the desk. In this situation, there was only one question the Emperor needed to ask.

“Who sent this letter?”

“One of the lords who noticed Your Majesty’s interest in Albania.”

So he’d walked right into it.

The Emperor snatched up the letter and glared at Sophia. But the cunning Empress’s expression remained unchanged—she simply looked delighted.

Now he understood the reason behind her earlier amusement. But it was too late. The Emperor sighed and unfolded the letter. Its contents were brief. It wasn’t an official letter to be dressed up in flowery language.

Given the need to avoid Ottoman eyes, the letter’s few words made sense. With that in mind, the Emperor read through it and quickly grasped its message.

“Straightforward enough. A proposal for forming an alliance against Ottoman forces.”

The message he had been planning to propose had come from the other side first. The Emperor took it as an encouraging sign. It opened the door for Morea to intervene in Albania. The Albanians also saw the Ottomans as a threat and felt the need to join forces.

That was fortunate. But one letter was not enough to set his mind at ease. The Emperor also quickly recognized its limitation.

“Still, the problem is that this letter doesn’t represent all of Albania. An alliance limited to a single noble house won’t stand long against the Ottomans. We’ll need to rally all of Albania.”

“…That’s your way of telling me to listen closely, isn’t it?”

“Indeed. How can I trust a letter that doesn’t even name its sender?”

“Don’t worry, it wasn’t an oversight. The Prince of Epirus personally insisted that the sender’s name be conveyed only by word of mouth.”

“Then let’s hear what mysterious name awaits us, my lady.”

“The family that sent this letter is the Kastrioti. A house currently in a difficult position.”

“Kastrioti…?”

The name felt strangely familiar. Familiar enough to make the Emperor tilt his head in puzzlement. But the confusion didn’t last long. He soon realized why the name Kastrioti rang a bell. The shock nearly made him jump to his feet, and he had to force himself back into his chair as his hands began to tremble.

“Is that so. So you’re from the House of Kastrioti, of Skanderbeg.”

“Oh my, you already knew?”

“Of course I did.”

The emperor, overcome with excitement, even forgot the honorifics he had maintained while speaking with Sophia.

That was how unexpected this was. As he felt the thumping of his heart that refused to calm, the emperor began to gather his thoughts in an effort to regain his composure.

The name Skanderbeg was merely an title given by the Ottomans. It was a name bestowed upon a boy taken to serve as a Janissary. Which meant he certainly had a given name before becoming a Janissary. And Skanderbeg’s real name was none other than Gjergj Kastrioti.

If that very Gjergj Kastrioti was now conquering all of Albania under the name Skanderbeg, then naturally the House of Kastrioti would find itself in an awkward position.

“Now I see why you proposed an alliance limited to your house. It seems the Kastrioti family is in quite a difficult situation even among the Albanian lords. It’s clear they can’t engage in proper cooperation.”

At the same time, he could also guess why Skanderbeg’s campaign had been so successful. People couldn’t tell whether to interpret his attacks as actions of the Kastrioti family, or as decisions from the Ottoman court. Add to that Skanderbeg’s own capabilities, and the Albanians had no real way to respond properly.

It was a mere assumption, but the emperor didn’t take it lightly. As he sat in awe, he let out a sigh filled with frustration and slammed his hand down on the desk before him. The first strike was weak and caused little commotion. But as he slammed it down a second, third time, veins began bulging in his hand.

“Just how far—!”

The disparity between the Empire and the Ottomans was hopeless. And yet the Ottomans never let down their guard. They continually worked to conceal and compensate for their weaknesses. A prime example was how, as soon as they realized the inherent disadvantage of fighting on multiple fronts, they began moving in secret.

“Just how far are they willing to go—!”

The matter of Skanderbeg was the same. Had Halid not passed on the information, he would have been forced to watch the situation in Albania deteriorate without even knowing what was happening. While he still didn’t have all the details, what was clear was that the Ottomans were now acting far more cunningly and meticulously than before.

This is the competence of a prepared victor.

Forgetting that Sophia was right in front of him, the emperor repeatedly slammed the desk before finally managing to calm himself. At times, anger can overwhelm a person’s reason.

But there are also those who suppress that searing rage and move with cold precision. In the emperor’s eyes—having barely reclaimed his cold clarity—a steely glint now turned toward Sophia before him. Only then did he realize how he must have looked.

He expected Sophia to respond negatively in some way.

But she neither scowled nor looked afraid.

With a smile in her eyes, Sophia looked up at the emperor, her lips curled into a slight smirk. And the moment the emperor met her gaze, she lifted her pale right hand to her chin and rested it there, her face full of satisfaction.

“Even if you complain like that… in the end, you’re going to take up the challenge anyway, aren’t you?”

The emperor gave no reply.

Instead of an answer, he issued an imperial command.

“Madam, I ask that you lend more attention to the affairs of the capital. In the meantime, I will use this letter as a pretext to seek contact with the Albanians.”

“And how will you do that? You’re well aware the Ottomans are watching your every move.”

“I’ll need to make it appear as something other than political contact. In Albania, there are both those who follow the Western Church and those who remain loyal to the Orthodox Church. If I claim to be initiating an exchange between the two churches—who have grown distant since the last war with the Latins—I may be able to avoid Ottoman eyes.”

Having said that, the emperor recalled a suitable envoy.

“Bishop Nicephoros should be well-suited for the task. Coincidentally, we were already looking to improve relations with the Western Church, so this could serve as an opportunity to make contact with the Papacy.”

“Hehe… This is exactly why I like you, Your Majesty. I’ll happily follow your command.”

“……”

Unbothered by the emperor’s stare, Sophia rose to her feet. As she turned and left, the emperor felt a sharp headache rising. But he couldn’t afford to sit still. He had to complete the early preparations for the contact with Albania. Soon, the emperor picked up a pen and paper and began writing down his thoughts one by one.

Even if this is an Ottoman trap, it doesn’t matter.

The goal of this mission was to help the Albanians clearly distinguish friend from foe and unite them under a single banner. And then, to form an alliance with them. Even if the Kastrioti family was being used as bait, so long as he could join hands with the other lords, it might just become an opportunity to turn the tide.

The emperor’s judgment was correct.

But no matter how much one tries, the truth cannot be seen without knowing the other party’s true intentions. The emperor vowed to stay vigilant, ever wary of what the Ottomans were truly aiming for. Yet even he could not guess just how many pieces the Ottomans had already put in place.

No one had been able to stop them—now, the Ottomans were on the move.

A dagger that even Emperor Dragases failed to notice quietly tore through the fragile net they had barely managed to weave.

It took less than a month for news of the first sign to arrive.

---

TL : I think Vlad the Impaler is born around this time in history.

The tension that had reached its peak when the capital was surrounded had already become an event of years past.

In the meantime, an unexpected peace had persisted for Morea, and the Ottomans, focused solely on the capital, had not issued a single threat or warning toward either Morea or Emperor Dragases. Throughout that time, the emperor had believed this was because the Ottomans were concentrating entirely on the siege.

At the same time, he had also recognized it as a kind of provocation. If Emperor Dragases were to make a move to rescue the capital, the Ottomans would see that as a pretext to mobilize their forces.

Had they not already experienced such a thing once before? The Ottomans intentions were so blatantly obvious that few failed to notice. Yet even among those who saw it as a provocation, only a handful believed the Ottomans might be preparing something even greater.

Even Emperor Dragases could do nothing but groan under the weight of a vague sense of hunch. Even Francisco, who had faced the Ottoman army firsthand, was only half convinced.

When the emperor came to consult with him about this anxiety, Francisco clicked his tongue and replied:

“Don’t you think you’re overthinking this, cousin? How often do you think the Ottomans can go on campaign? Even they have limits. They’ve been fighting constantly for years now. On top of that, they’re in the middle of reforms. I doubt they’d get much out of any further action at this point.”

“Indeed…”

Though his silly demeanor often undermined him, Francisco was a knight with considerable battlefield experience. He hadn’t formally studied politics, yet compared to most knights, he was quite capable in military operations.

As if finally revealing this side of himself, Francisco laid out his arguments clearly and logically. The emperor found himself nodding in agreement without realizing it.

It was a sound argument.

From the early days of his reign, the Ottomans had drawn their swords to subjugate Bulgaria. After trampling the region and defeating the claimant Mustafa’s forces, they immediately moved to besiege the capital, then tried to pursue and annihilate the Morean army advancing from the south.

Just when it seemed they would succeed, a rebellion broke out in Anatolia, forcing the Ottomans to withdraw their troops and ultimately claim victory there instead. The frequency of their campaigns had been excessive, and in several battles, they had taken considerable losses.

Indeed, it seemed that the Ottomans lacked both the time and resources to attempt anything more.

“Perhaps I was overly worried, as you say…”

“That’s what I’m telling you. Why don’t you take this opportunity to rest? You’re not alone anymore, after all.”

“…Yes. That’s true.”

Every word rang true. Perhaps he had been overestimating the Ottomans all along. Even with a strong foundational power, there were limits. And this was the judgment of one of his key retainers—Francisco. Nor was he the only one.

Your Majesty, while it is admirable to remain vigilant, what good is it if you cannot fight properly because you never allow yourself rest? Excessive caution only wears down the mind and body faster.

Dearest Brother, even the Ottomans have been on campaign multiple times already. Having undertaken so many in such a short time, they must be exhausted too. You should rest for now and prepare for the next battle in peak condition.

It was a rare letter from Prince Thomas, recently returned to Epirus, and his advisor Demicleos. Only then did the emperor finally set down the heavy burden on his shoulders. Having only ever raced forward until now, Emperor Dragases was, at long last, able to take a proper rest.

Truly, he had never once enjoyed a proper rest, always tormented by hardship and duties—many of which he needn’t have taken upon himself.

Now that a faint hope had finally appeared, no one could blame the emperor for taking a break. So while his officials carried on with state affairs, he allowed himself to enjoy some much-needed sleep.

He sat in the chair by the window, basking in the warm sunlight, or lay down on his bed at early dusk and fell fast asleep—he repeated this for several days. But habit is a fearsome thing. In just three days, instead of sleeping soundly, the emperor found himself slipping into deep contemplation once more.

And the question he reached, after repeated thinking, was always the same.

“…Just as Brother Andronikos said. Gaining experience with artillery, suppressing anti-reform opposition… I’m not dismissing their importance, but those two reasons alone don’t justify the continued siege of the capital.”

The blockade was enforced with 8,000 troops and even a naval fleet. Considering the cost of maintaining such forces, was it truly worth bombarding a capital that showed no signs of surrendering anytime soon?

Moreover, the army hadn’t conducted a single raid in nearly two years, so they must be relying heavily on supplies from the homeland. Was it really worth it? The emperor could not answer that question. Dragases could only tilt his head in doubt.

But even if the Ottomans had ulterior motives, he couldn’t turn his gaze away from the capital’s hardship. This was the Ottomans, after all.

Even if they were far weaker than in the original history, they were not to be underestimated. Morea had survived thanks only to a chain of coincidences and swift adaptability. The emperor, who had struggled to create variables to overturn hopeless odds, could never let his guard down.

If he could use such tactics, then surely so could the enemy.

He must never forget that simple truth.

So how could he not worry about some unforeseen variable? The Ottomans would surely be looking for a way to reverse their unfavorable position. No doubt, they were devising a plan to break the unity among the surrounding powers that had restricted their actions. As this thought crossed his mind, Emperor Dragases’s gaze sharpened. There was only one force that could realistically be the Ottomans’ target.

“…So in the end, it’s Morea and the Empire you’re after, Murad.”

Serbia and Wallachia were under Hungarian influence. If the Ottomans were to attack them directly, it would inevitably provoke the suspicion of the Western Church. Moreover, given the toll of frequent campaigns, the Ottomans had every reason to avoid the threat of a Crusade.

In that case, there was only one plausible direction for the Ottoman blade to point. If the siege of the capital itself was merely a ploy to provoke a fight, then their persistence could certainly be explained.

But such a strategy had clear limits.

In fact, once Emperor Dragases resolved to ignore a few murmurs of discontent, the likelihood of war plummeted. Could that be why the siege was starting to ease?

Had Murad himself realized that continuing the siege would yield nothing further? Was the sultan someone capable of making such a judgment? Countless questions tangled and clashed in his mind. As the emperor’s thoughts burned, he eventually opened his mouth.

“Is anyone waiting outside?”

“Your Majesty’s loyal warrior, Halid Murtad, answers the call.”

“Halid? You? …Fine. Come in.”

He had originally intended to send a nearby guard to fetch Halid, but this was even better. With that thought, the emperor gave the command, and Halid pushed the door open without hesitation and walked inside.

“How long have you been there?”

“Since I heard Your Majesty had decided to take some rest.”

“Amazed you didn’t go around lopping off heads.”

“I was ready to cut down anyone who dared disturb Your Majesty’s rest.”

“I’ll take that as a joke.”

“It was, in its own way, meant as one, Your Majesty.”

Halid responded with a faint smile at his lips.

But the air was far too grim for the smile to seem warm. The emperor merely twitched his brows a few times in response. Perhaps he simply didn’t know how else to react.

Thinking back, none of the warriors around him could truly be called decent men.

Calming himself, the emperor asked his question.

“We are not ones to meet simply to exchange pleasantries. Let’s get to the point. What have you come to say, Halid?”

“Your Majesty, have you heard anything about recent Ottoman movements?”

“Ottoman movements?”

Of course the emperor looked puzzled. Until now, the Ottomans had made no significant moves. Aside from gradually loosening the siege out of exhaustion from constant campaigns, there was nothing particularly noteworthy.

But it was clear that this wasn’t the answer Halid was seeking. If no one was more wary of the Ottomans than the emperor, then no one knew the Ottomans better than Halid.

Reminding himself of that fact once more, the emperor looked at Halid.

A man born of a traitor, who called himself a traitor. A man whose arrogance was backed by real skill. Now, with only the battlefield left to test him, Halid met the eyes of his emperor, almost demanding a response. In that moment, the emperor faced another decision. Should he trust him? Or remain cautious?

The hesitation lasted.

“You’ve come with a suspicion, haven’t you?”

“Yes. There are rumors spreading as far as Morea that Skanderbeg of Albania has suddenly ceased his activities.”

“By ‘activities,’ you mean military?”

“I am still verifying the truth, but considering Skanderbeg’s achievements thus far, it’s difficult to grasp why he would abruptly stop. Unless something in the Ottoman movements has changed.”

“…Surely not.”

A loosened siege of the capital, and the sudden halt of Skanderbeg’s conquests.

There must be a connection between these two events. And the emperor suspected that they were deeply linked. There could only be one cause.

‘Has he noticed Morea’s approach to Albania?’

Perhaps the Ottomans deliberately loosened their grip to draw out evidence of an alliance between Morea and the Christian lords of Albania.

If Murad was that desperate to secure a pretext, it was entirely plausible. That is, assuming the rumors were true. Even so, it was a possibility worth investigating. And so, Emperor Dragases gave the order to Halid.

“It seems the Ottomans attention is turning away from the capital. Look into the truth of these rumors, Halid. We must watch how the situation unfolds.”

“If that is Your Majesty’s will.”

Responding in his usual arrogant tone, Halid turned and left. Watching his retreating figure, the emperor could no longer contain his anxiety and sprang to his feet.

There had never been time for rest to begin with.

For two years, the Ottomans had seemed dormant. But now, in some form or another, they were moving behind the scenes. It was a clearly difference from their former method to rely on brute military force alone.

No one could say how much they had changed. But even that change alone posed a grave threat to the empire. In that moment, the name Halid had mentioned surfaced again in the emperor’s mind.

Çandarlı Halil, was it?

Something is changing.

Before the uncertain intentions of the Ottomans, this was the only conclusion the emperor could draw.

Several years had passed since Osman had personally taken action.

It had been about two years since Emperor Manuel had barely reclaimed the Thracian region, only to lose it again and see the capital besieged.

The year 1430 was fast approaching. During that time, some things had remained unchanged, while many others had shifted. The most notable among them was none other than the news of Ivania’s pregnancy.

At first, her frequent nausea was dismissed as a simple bout of poor health, but as time went on, even the swelling of her belly could no longer be hidden.

Thanks to this, Ivania was relieved from all her duties and allowed to rest in her own designated chamber. But the real issue lay elsewhere. Ivania was an unmarried woman. The fact that a close female associate of the emperor had conceived a child without marriage was enough to stir gossip.

What’s more, the child’s father was none other than Emperor Dragases—a truth all the high officials knew but dared not speak aloud. Of course, it was arguably better than the emperor showing no interest in women at all and making his courtiers sigh in despair over the lack of an heir.

Even so, the situation wasn’t one they could fully celebrate.

“This only brings trouble. His Majesty, who has until now upheld the virtues of the Church, suddenly fathers a child without a marriage… Surely chaos will follow.”

As Bishop Nikephoros began his usual complaints—never having approved of Ivania from the start—Francisco shook his head in frustration. While the bishop worried about the criticism aimed at the emperor, Francisco was more concerned about Ivania’s absence itself.

“That’s not the problem, Bishop. If she’s out, someone has to take over her duties…”

Trailing off and glancing sideways, Francisco scowled. There was only one person who annoyed this otherwise flippant man so deeply. And that very person, Khalid, simply shrugged, alternating his gaze between the bishop and Francisco with his usual arrogant smirk.

“We all expected this the moment His Majesty took a woman into his bed, didn’t we? It’s fortunate we even have a child out of it.”

“Muslim or not, I thought your kind didn’t look kindly on extramarital affairs.”

“His Majesty proved he hadn’t forgotten his responsibilities even in intimacy, and he’s already begun preparing accordingly. You may be uncomfortable as a clergyman, but isn’t that enough from the perspective of a vassal? What exactly are you so upset about?”

“My issue, you idiot, is that one of us now has to take on all the work that woman used to handle.”

“And that’s just something to accept and follow, isn’t it?”

“No, I mean—actually, forget it.”

Realizing too late who stood to lose by continuing this argument, Francisco waved his hand as if swatting the air, cutting himself off. He deliberately avoided looking at Halid, who had plastered a mocking grin on his face. But no amount of Halid’s fancy speech could erase the concerns weighing on the inner circle.

Even Ivania herself wasn’t exempt.

Though she smiled and stroked her swelling belly with joy, she couldn’t fully give in to the happiness.

“I’m glad to have His Majesty’s child… but I won’t be able to assist him for a while.”

“Francisco won’t be thrilled.”

Morea was already short on commanders.

It wouldn’t be easy to fill Ivania’s absence. Eventually, either Francisco or Halid would have to step into her role. Francisco would hate either outcome—if he were chosen, his workload would increase; if Halid were, it would look like he had gained the emperor’s favour. Francisco’s grumbling was already easy to picture. He was that predictable.

But the emperor had no intention of overworking Ivania, not even slightly.

In fact, he was already thinking ahead to her postpartum recovery. Hygiene and medical standards in the medieval era were far from ideal. Even with the empire’s relatively advanced technology, there were still many obstacles a mother had to overcome.

Truthfully, he had never expected to have a child in his lifetime. As such, he had never properly prepared himself for parenthood.

Could he truly be a good parent?

The doubt lingered. But in both his life before coming here and his life afterward, he had seen examples of good fathers. He might not become the best parent, but he could at least strive to follow their example.

The child would likely be excluded from power for the empire’s sake, and born into the stigma of being a bastard in the medieval age. All the more reason, then, for him to shower the child with love. With that resolve, the emperor gently held Ivania’s hand.

His heart remained strangely calm—too calm to call this love. But the sense of responsibility came to him clearly, carried by Ivania’s warmth.

Responsibility.

He mouthed the weighty word again before looking into Ivania’s face. It had been nearly ten years since they’d met, this unruly woman. Compared to the women of her time, she was considered late to bear a child—and one born without a marritage at that. Yet Ivania beamed with joy, radiant with delight.

“Hmph, he’ll have to work harder now. We must ease His Majesty’s burden.”

Her smile turned mischievous, imagining the pained expression that would surely twist Francisco’s face. The emperor watched her silently for a moment, then began to smile himself.

“In any case, take care of yourself. Francisco is doing his best, after all.”

“Sigh… I never thought I’d live to hear such concern from Your Majesty…”

“If it’s a daughter, I pray she takes after anyone but her mother.”

“Y-Your Majesty! That’s no way to speak of me!”

“Then act more proper. Much more than now.”

“…Then I hope he’s a boy. And if he is, I hope he’s nothing like you, Your Majesty.”

“He’d better not be.”

While Ivania pouted in mock offense, the emperor’s expression stiffened. She missed the change, as he had turned away. He was still lost in the unfamiliar word turning over in his mind.

Child…

Something he had never once seriously considered. And yet such a being was now growing within the woman before him, preparing to come into the world.

The strange emotion that had arisen when he first learned the news would never leave him. But as time passed, that vague emotion was gradually taking on clearer form.

Responsibility? Or duty?

Would “obligation” be the right word?

Even repeated questioning brought no definite answer. What was certain, though, was that the burden on the emperor’s shoulders had grown heavier once again. Carefully laying his free hand atop Ivania’s, the emperor quietly reaffirmed what he must do now—as a father.

I must protect it.

I will protect it.

With that resolve, the Emperor slowly opened his mouth.

“Just give birth safely. Don’t worry about the criticism from others. Even if I have to ask the bishop personally, I’ll make sure the child receives baptism without harm.”

“Y-Your Majesty…”

In this world, even baptism was often denied to illegitimate children. The fact that Ivania, a woman of low status whose only merits were her beauty and minor martial skill, was now carrying the Emperor’s child was already an enormous scandal. Considering how many people shunned illegitimate children, the Emperor’s decision was astonishing. Tears welled up in Ivania’s blue eyes.

The Emperor, who had been quietly watching her, gently stroked her hand one last time before rising to his feet.

“I must leave now. I stopped by on my way to answer my brother’s summons. There’s much to do, and I’m sorry I can’t give you more attention, Ivania.”

“…Please don’t say that, Your Majesty. I’m the one who’s grateful.”

“This will be the last time—for now. I don’t know when the next will come, so let me say goodbye in advance.”

With those words, the Emperor lightly embraced Ivania. It was no wonder she was startled by such unexpected tenderness. Her eyes went wide, and she was left fumbling for words. Taking advantage of her stunned silence, the Emperor quickly left the room.

The reason he departed in such haste was none other than Andronikos.

Since arriving in Morea from the capital, Prince Andronikos’s condition had remained the same. It showed no signs of improving, but at least it wasn’t worsening either. As such, he spent most of his time bedridden. Still, he did what he could to assist with administrative matters and occasionally summoned Emperor Dragases to talk—just as he had now.

Whenever he called for the Emperor, it was usually to have a serious discussion.

This time was no different. Upon entering Andronikos’s bedchamber, the Emperor was greeted by a familiar voice.

“You’re a little late, Konstantinos.”

The Emperor reflexively parted his lips to speak but then shut them. He could tell from Andronikos’s gaze that it hadn’t been a question expecting an answer. Their conversations usually began this way—Andronikos tossing out questions with no reply, the Emperor silently sitting down. This was the most natural form of conversation these still-awkward brothers could manage.

“I hear you finally had a child.”

“…Yes, I did.”

“Well now. I can’t say whether that’s something to congratulate or not.”

“In that case, please do congratulate me.”

The Emperor, who had hesitated over the first question, responded without pause to the second. Andronikos stared at him silently, his expression unreadable. After a long pause, he finally burst into laughter.

“So you’ve already made up your mind. In that case, of course I should congratulate you. Congratulations on becoming a father, Konstantinos.”

“Thank you, Brother.”

“The two Empresses seemed to be quite worked up over the news. Empress Joannina, understandably so—but don’t be too harsh with your wife either. They both came to see me, you know.”

“……”

“From the look on your face, I suppose I should stop nagging.”

To see the Emperor—Dragases himself—mouthing words in hesitation, it was hard to believe this was the same man known for his cold resolve. They say you can’t see a person clearly from a distance, and perhaps that was true. Andronikos murmured inwardly. Still, he didn’t dislike this human side. If anything, it made him feel closer.

But what the Empire needed was not humanity.

Andronikos slowly closed his eyes and began to speak of what had been weighing on his mind.

“Konstantinos, why do you think the Ottomans have continued their siege for so long?”

“…Do you have a theory, Brother?”

Indeed, the Emperor had been troubled by the same question. Given Murad’s nature, he would’ve prepared far more drastic measures. The lingering suspicion was due to not knowing exactly what the Sultan was prioritizing.

Had not all the surrounding forces of the Ottomans already fallen?

Even Hungary was still tangled in battles with the Hussites. The Anatolian beyliks had barely survived with Mamluk support, and Wallachia and Serbia were busy recovering from their own defeats. The Empire went without saying.

Perhaps the Ottomans had overextended themselves with repeated campaigns. Still, the fact that they hadn’t loosened the siege of the capital led the Emperor to believe it was to crush any voices opposing reform. But he couldn’t be sure. Could that truly be all the Ottomans sought?

“I hear the capital’s condition has improved lately. The Ottomans are clearly growing weary from the prolonged blockade. Their naval movements around the Golden Horn have slowed, and the Sultan, realizing a complete lockdown is impossible, has withdrawn some troops from certain zones. That’s what Brother John wrote in his letter—surely good news.”

“That’s a relief. Truly.”

“But I still can’t let my guard down.”

Andronikos recalled the despair he had once felt—those humiliating moments when he had no choice but to kneel before overwhelming forces. The days he had thrown away his pride to protect what he could. But what he had felt then was not shame.

“If they’re that exhausted, then why do the Ottomans persist in this siege? There have been far too many events to think it’s merely pressure on the capital.”

He had seen firsthand the fragments of strength the enemy had amassed over time.

That enemy, who had taken everything the Empire once had and made it their own. The might of the Ottomans did not end here.

“Remain vigilant, Konstantinos. I have a bad feeling.”

“…I will, Brother.”

It was the instinct of a man who had lived his entire life on the edge of crisis.

Emperor Dragases quietly resolved to heed his brother’s warning.

---

TL : I knew they were going to skip most of the romance and he did say he was going to be more loving towards Ivania, but that’s a shocker.

The peaceful Morea began to tense once more.

The news brought by refugees from the capital was nothing short of devastating. The Ottomans, encircling the triple walls, continued to bombard them whenever they had the strength.

Of course, even such offensives fell far short of breaking the formidable defenses of the triple walls, but the sound of artillery alone was enough to instill fear in the people.

Added to this were reports of fleets assembling near the Golden Horn to monitor passing ships, and the plundering that swept through the region of Thrace. Each piece of news was too serious to be dismissed lightly.

Yet, among all these reports, what stirred the deepest outrage in people was the humiliation the Empire was forced to endure.

It was understandable that the Imperial Guard could do nothing against the Janissaries who had all but seized the Blachernae Palace. Even if it were them, they would have acted the same.

But Murad’s demand that the very people of the Empire destroy their newly repaired triple walls was something they simply could not accept. The triple walls were the Empire’s last great legacy, the final line of defense that had protected the city until now.

To destroy those walls would not only mean surrendering to the Sultan, but also declaring the abandonment of all future resistance. Fortunately, Emperor John in the capital showed resolve and declared he would fight to the end.

And he could make such a decision because everyone in the capital had vowed to endure, holding fast to the pride of their thousand-year history. A cruel waiting period that could last years, perhaps decades.

But no matter how ancient and fortified a city protected by triple walls might be, there were always limits.

Once Morea realized both the capital’s determination and its breaking point, calls grew loud to send reinforcements immediately, setting aside all previous conflicts. Yet these cries were driven by emotion alone, offering no rational or effective plan.

—“Just how do you suppose we save a capital under siege by the Ottomans?”

Still, some continued to cling to hope. After all, it was Emperor Dragases who had overturned even the most hopeless battles with brilliant stratagems. In Morea, a vague expectation spread that he must have made some preparations this time as well. As such hope took root, the emperor’s advisors and allies began gathering in Mistra, drawing the attention of many.

There were Thomas, who had just finished his military service and was resting; Demicleos, who had been dispatched to the provinces to carry out reforms; and those who had already been in Mistra—all gathered together.

Only Andronikos, who had come from the capital in poor health, was absent. Though he had initially shown great resolve, his weary body would not allow it.

“When I lay down in bed, I felt nothing but comfort… But now that I try to rise, my body refuses to follow.”

“Please rest well. Once you’ve regained your strength, come to us again.”

“Yes… Thank you for your concern, Konstantinos.”

Leaving behind only bitter words, Andronikos had no choice but to recover. But aside from his regrettable absence, it was the first time in a long while that everyone had gathered. If not now, it would be quite a while before such a chance to discuss a matter of great importance would come again.

With that in mind, the emperor glanced once around the office where all his key advisors and supporters were assembled. The meeting began with a cold acceptance of reality.

“As you all know, saving the capital is impossible. Let this be the starting point of our discussion, and do not forget it.”

Rather than seeking solutions, it was a statement of resignation. Some clenched their fists in frustration; others received it with composure, and some even seemed intrigued. Yet none showed signs of disappointment—because all had already known it deep down.

Though Morea had rebuilt much of its army over time, it still could not compare to the Ottomans, whose forces were growing rapidly in both size and quality. The difference in national power had always been overwhelming. Until Emperor Dragases rose to prominence, the Empire had been reduced to the level of a mere city-state. A single battle could never hope to close such a vast gap in strength.

Clearly, they lacked the means to topple a prepared victor summoned by history itself.

As everyone quietly turned over this bitter truth in their minds, one person alone raised a question. He knew the gap in power was insurmountable. But what he wanted to know was just how bad the situation in Thrace and the capital truly was. The one who posed this question after some thought was none other than Prince Thomas Palaiologos of Epirus.

“I’ve heard the general reports, but I don’t yet know the full details. Brother, what exactly happened? Are the rumors circulating in the streets true?”

Thomas’s eyes wavered as he asked. The emperor could guess, even if vaguely, what his brother must be feeling. He was still a boy—one who, unlike himself, had never experienced anything truly extraordinary, born royal and nothing more. Thomas was likely torn between the duty to know the truth and the desire to turn away. Before him, the emperor could choose to hide the truth—or even lie.

But Emperor Dragasēs chose instead to tell everything he knew.

“The Sultan mobilized his army at once. And the moment his troops assembled, they seized the entire Thracian region, including Selymbria. This time, perhaps to send a message, they plundered the region thoroughly.”

“How—how could they have gathered an army so quickly? Did the Venetians betray us!?”

“…No. Even the Venetians were caught off guard this time.”

“But how could that even be…”

Thomas trailed off in disbelief, and the others also failed to hide their dark expressions. After all, once the Anatolian beyliks disbanded, it should have taken time to recall and gather the troops. How could the Ottomans mobilize so rapidly in such an unusual manner? Naturally, suspicion arose—and someone began turning that suspicion into conviction.

“It seems the Sultan saw potential in the previous battle.”

All eyes turned to the source of the voice.

The one who finally broke the long silence in the meeting room was none other than the commander of the Murtati—Halid Murtat, the son of a traitor who called himself one as well. Unshaken by the grim news, Halid stood tall and calmly looked around. He who knew the Ottomans better than anyone could now see the answer clearly in his mind—and he was not afraid to speak it aloud.

“In the previous battle with His Majesty, the Ottomans experienced a form of warfare they never expected. They saw an entire city used as a trap for fire attacks. And it was the first time someone conceived the idea of assembling stone throwers. Then, during the siege of Athens, the effectiveness of cannons was proven—especially their superior speed compared to traditional siege weapons.”

“Fine, let’s accept all that. But what the hell does that have to do with the capital being under siege?”

Francisco, who had always looked at Halid with distaste, frowned as he pressed him for an answer. But if Halid were the kind of man to be rattled by Francisco’s words, he wouldn’t be here. With a slight shrug and a small smile directed only at Francisco, he continued.

“Of course, those prior experiences aren’t the only reason. That insolent knight is correct: the two events are too far apart to be directly linked.”

“Then what exactly are you trying to say, Muslim? Is there truly a way to save this nation hidden in that arrogant tone of yours?”

“…But judging by the looks on your faces, many of you seem too angry to let me finish.”

“Of course we are!”

The Morean representatives had already been uneasy about sharing the room with a former Ottoman officer. The one who reacted most aggressively was Thomas Magistros. How could his arrogance before Emperor Dragases himself be taken well?

His sharp retort triggered a backlash. Even Plethon and Demicleos, usually calm and respectful, began siding with Magistros.

“Magistros is right. Even if you are a Muslim, surely you haven’t forgotten how to show respect to His Majesty. What’s with that arrogant tone of yours?”

“It’s nonsense that he’s a Muslim to begin with! Who’s to say he’s not a spy? Your Majesty, having an enemy of the faith in this room puts us all in danger!”

“The bishop speaks the absolute truth. Expel him at once, Your Majesty!”

The arrows were finally nocked, now aimed directly at Khalid. As the advisors’ protests continued to pour in, Emperor Dragasēs slowly turned his gaze to Khalid. Despite not having a single ally in the room, Khalid’s lips curled upward in a faint smile. Just then, Prince Thomas stepped forward to mediate the tense atmosphere.

“You are all right. Commander Halid of the Murtati has clearly shown an arrogant and insolent attitude toward my brother. However, even so, His Majesty has not issued a single rebuke. Can we, then, presume to judge Halid’s fate ourselves?”

“…That’s…”

“…The bishop and the scribes may not realize this, but Morea is currently suffering from a shortage of commanders. If we lose Halid, there will be no one left to lead the Murtati.”

“Can’t you lead them yourself!?”

“Do you even hear yourself right now!?”

Francisco’s attempt to be respectful was quickly shattered. His thunderous outburst was so fierce that even stern, learned men like Plethon and Magistros flinched. Surely it carried the weight of all his pent-up frustrations. Amid all this, one person who had stayed silent until now finally raised her head.

The sole woman in the council room.

The blonde, blue-eyed knight smiled calmly as she looked at Emperor Dragases.

“What’s the point of continuing this argument among ourselves? I will follow only Your Majesty’s decision.”

“……What the… Why are you suddenly so calm?”

“Hehehe… Isn’t this what they call the ‘composure of the victor’?”

“Oh, heavens above…”

Even Francisco, who had been raging just moments before, could only let out a helpless sigh at the state of Ivania. The once spirited and resilient female knight had vanished, replaced by a strange lady behaving like a demure gentlewoman.

But the Emperor could not afford to concern himself with her condition—there were far graver matters demanding his attention.

At last, Emperor Dragases, who had been silently listening to his ministers, finally opened his heavy lips.

“Halid is a man who cast aside everything that no one else dared to abandon and came to me. As a former officer of the Ottomans, he knows their inner workings better than anyone. In fact, it was he who used his own experiences and knowledge to guide me toward what needed to be done.

That said, I do not mean to claim that Halid is always right.

Of course, I understand that your anger is justified.

However, we do not endure merely to give vent to our rage. Nor have we gathered here simply for the sake of venting frustration.”

“…Your Majesty.”

The reply came in a voice that was part sigh, part admiration—a stifled moan wrung from the heart. It was the very image of the ruler they had longed for—one who remained unshaken by emotion and concerned only with the survival of the empire.

The ministers slowly bowed their heads, silently indicating their agreement. Only then did the Emperor turn his gaze once more to Halid.

Halid Murtad.

The man branded a traitor—and son of a traitor—immediately grasped the meaning behind that gaze.

“…As it happens, the Ottomans are currently undergoing sweeping military reforms. Such reforms inevitably bring great changes within, and naturally, opposition is bound to grow. The Sultan must have seen this campaign as a chance.”

“To silence those voices of opposition through a successful campaign, while also gaining hands-on experience in the use of artillery.”

If Halid was correct, then this expedition was done with political intent. But Emperor Dragases had already discerned Sultan Murad’s nature. The young Sultan never chose methods that benefited only himself.

He always selected the path that would not only strengthen his own position but also rob his enemies of theirs. A man who pursued total victory—that was Murad’s nature.

…Murad, are you hiding something more?

Could those two aims truly be all there was to it? Dragases could not be certain. He simply lacked the evidence to voice his suspicions. Yet in the recesses of his mind, a faint sense had already taken root—that this was not the end. And that made his current ignorance all the more frustrating.

—But mere contemplation alone will not win us this desperate war.

Only meticulous preparation and planning can guarantee even the faintest sliver of hope.

Mulling over this truth once more, Emperor Dragases slowly shook his head.

“…In that case, we shall seize this moment—while the Sultan’s attention is fixed on the capital—to form a new alliance.”

“An alliance? But will the Western Church truly aid us?”

He tried to hide it, but the joy in his voice could not be completely concealed. Prince Thomas’s unrestrained enthusiasm stirred curiosity in everyone present. In front of them all, the Emperor began outlining the first step of a strategy he had long pondered.

“To gain the support of the Western Church, we must show that a Crusade can indeed succeed. This alliance is part of instilling that confidence—and also a strategic necessity that we must secure at all costs.”

“Incredible, cousin! Venice? Genoa?”

“The Christian lords of Albania.”

“…What?”

Francisco’s stunned response hung in the air for a beat—before Emperor Dragasēs resumed speaking without pause.

“Not long ago, Halid informed me that the Ottomans are seeking complete domination over the Albanian region. Even the mass refugee migrations of recent years were, in hindsight, a blatant step in that direction.”

“In that case, I understand even less, Your Majesty. How could we possibly intervene in a region already under Ottoman control? I beg you—please share your plan with this feeble old man.”

“Fortunately, it is not the Ottoman main force that is currently working to subjugate Albania. The region is undoubtedly of interest to them, but its mountainous terrain and their ongoing reforms have limited their deployment. Because of this, the Albanian lords have so far managed to retain some freedom.

Unfortunately, the one leading the Ottoman forces in Albania is a man of exceptional capability. The Ottomans call him Skanderbeg.”

“Skanderbeg?”

“It means ‘a man like Alexander the Great.’”

Halid swiftly answered Demicleos innocent question. Naturally, Demicleos scowled deeply in response. For the Turks to carelessly use the name of that great conqueror was nothing short of insolence. Regardless, the Emperor now chose to share his conclusions with all present.

“And I believe this is our final chance to assert influence over Albania. Thomas.”

“Yes, brother.”

“Upon your return to Epirus, immediately begin reforms. Maintain a moderate stance toward the Albanians and ensure that word spreads—I want them to know that we are watching events in Albania closely.”

“I shall do so.”

“And Francisco, for the time being, focus on organizing the cavalry units with Albanians at its core, rather than Latin soldiers. We must give the impression that we are employing Albanians without discrimination. Please, do not complain.”

“…Ah, well. I suppose there’s no helping it~.”

“Magistros, while the reforms are underway, I want you to thoroughly oversee the exemption policies—make sure the refugees resettling around Thessaly and Athens are properly granted tax and military service relief.”

“As Your Majesty commands.”

“Plethon, I ask that you guide the students at the Academy so they are not swayed by the turmoil in the capital.”

“With Your Majesty’s words, how could I possibly refuse?”

“My request of Bishop Nikephoros is much the same. Please help keep the people calm. I ask the Church to engage in charitable efforts to prevent discrimination or violence against the refugees. If you need troops, I will send Ivania.”

“Your concern for all things marks you as a true and virtuous sovereign, Your Majesty.”

“And lastly—Ivania, you will leave the non-commissioned officer training to the instructors. Instead, focus our forces on patrols to prevent public disorder among the refugees. Be ready to respond to support requests from Bishop Nikephoros or others, if necessary.”

“If it is Your Majesty’s will… always.”

Only after issuing all these orders did Emperor Dragases finally allow himself a breath.

He drew in and let out his breath several times before slowly raising his eyes to look again at the ministers and allies gathered before him. They were all different individuals, with their own beliefs and ambitions.

Yet at this moment, they were united in purpose.

Etching that truth into his heart, the Emperor began drawing the map in his mind. One question loomed above all:

—How will the Ottomans move next?

---

TL : Nah, they gonna introduce Skanderbeg soon.

For decades, the emperor who had singlehandedly supported the empire had finally closed his eyes.

Despite the city being under siege, the procession to mourn the revered emperor’s death paid it no mind and made its way to the funeral.

But among those who should rightfully have been present, several were noticeably absent. Demetrios Palaiologos had secluded himself in his appointed quarters ever since Emperor Manuel’s retirement, so his absence was expected.

But even Empress Joannina, wife of Emperor John, was nowhere to be found. Fortunately, in the midst of widespread grief, no one paid much attention to the Empress, whose presence had never commanded strong notice anyway.

Meanwhile, as ships one after another left the harbor to escape the growing Ottoman pressure, Empress Joannina held her younger brother in a tight embrace.

“Take care of yourself, Demetrios.”

“I hope only good things await you, Sister. I’ll deliver your message to Father in your stead.”

Kantakouzenos spoke with a brave face to reassure his sister. He’d always thought of her as a tomboy, but he never imagined she’d go this far. He kept such thoughts to himself. Soon, his gaze shifted from Demetrios to another figure.

The next man he faced was Andronikos, brother to the emperors and once the ruler of Thessalonica.

The prince, whose legs had grown weak and needed a servant’s support, offered the only words he could before his departure.

“Take care of my brother. He must be deeply grieving. Stay by his side and serve him well.”

“I won’t forget Your Highness’s advice.”

“Good. I like your spirit.”

Andronikos shrugged slightly, as though a burden had been lifted from his shoulders. That sight made Kantakouzenos’s brow twitch. Perhaps they hadn’t been close, but today was still their father’s funeral.

Was he truly leaving without even showing his face, without any hint of emotion? The same discomfort he’d once felt from Emperor John now surfaced again. He could no longer hold his tongue.

“You’re not going to attend the former emperor’s funeral?”

“Demetrios! That’s far too—!”

His question may have seemed rude. It was enough to fluster Joannina, who scolded him on the spot. But Andronikos neither became angry nor shed tears.

For the briefest moment, he almost seemed to smile before he slowly turned and made his way to the cabin. Then, just as silence seemed to settle, his voice cut through—quiet, yet firm enough to dispel all doubt.

“There’s nothing left for me to say to Father.”

With that, Andronikos disappeared from the deck. Though his voice had been calm, the weight behind that one sentence was beyond easy judgment.

It was a decision so heavy that Kantakouzenos felt ashamed for having misunderstood and asked such a question. A dull ache began to stir in his chest. It wasn’t just the capital’s emperor—everyone was preparing for battle.

And that included Prince Andronikos, whom many had thought had long since given up everything.

As Kantakouzenos pondered this, a sudden, sharp pain flared in his side. He clenched his teeth to suppress the scream that nearly escaped, then turned to glare at the culprit.

“Sister…! What was that for?!”

“You’re the one who asked such a rude question! Do you have any sense in that head of yours?!”

“Urgh! Okay, okay! I get it! I’m sorry!”

She pinched him mid-sentence and so forcefully that not even a grown man like Kantakouzenos could resist. He held back from crying out but couldn’t stop a tear from slipping down.

He deeply regretted not wearing armor just to avoid drawing attention—never had he cursed that decision more.

Seeing her brother’s pitiful state, Joannina backed off with a broad smile.

“If you can’t even handle that, don’t forget to wear your armor. Got it?”

Despite the throbbing in his side, Kantakouzenos couldn’t bring himself to resent her. He had thought her old, eccentric, mischievous self had completely faded—but it hadn’t.

Recalling how she used to tease him with that same smug grin, he finally realized their farewell had come.

“…Yeah.”

Perhaps there was more he could have said.

But he held back. A single, short word marked the end of their goodbye. Demetrios Kantakouzenos—heir of a noble family who stayed behind to defend the capital—accepted a farewell that offered no certainty of reunion.

To linger any longer would be indulgent. The distant thud of cannon fire and the groaning city walls called him back.

Without hesitation, Kantakouzenos turned and disembarked from the ship.

Soon after, the merchant vessels began to raise their anchors one by one. From the deck, Joannina gazed at the receding figure of the ancient city. Once brilliant, now fading—a place where the remnants of greatness and the ruins of collapse coexisted.

It was the city of her birth and her childhood. As she took it all in, she spotted a familiar figure standing still, staring up at the ship.

“…Farewell!”

She waved vigorously at the man. Whether he saw her or not, she couldn’t tell. Without a word, the man watched the ship’s departure before turning and walking away from the pier.

And so, the capital was left behind. Isolated. Joannina and Andronikos had departed.

It was about two weeks later that the two of them arrived in Morea.

Because they had escaped just before the Golden Gate was sealed off, they managed to avoid capture by the Ottomans. The weather was good, and though the refugees aboard were somber, they maintained order. With the exception of having no one to converse with, it had been a satisfactory first voyage for Joannina.

And at last, as they entered the domain of Morea, they disembarked at the port of Nauplion, where a familiar face awaited them. By sheer luck, Emperor Dragases had personally come to check on the incoming refugees.

“Your Majesty! …Ah!”

Joannina, nearly dashing forward in her joy, abruptly stopped herself as she recalled the presence of a rival—the blonde woman who had once called her a threat.

She didn’t know the woman’s name, but there was no mistaking the need for caution. Wary, she quickly scanned her surroundings with a sharp gaze, checking whether the woman might be nearby.

Once she confirmed there was no such threat near Emperor Dragases, her voice rang out with excitement.

“Your Majesty! Your Majesty!”

Even amid the murmur of the gathered refugees, it seemed he heard her. The emperor, who had been calmly observing the flow of people, suddenly began to turn his head, searching. And the moment their eyes met, Joannina was already running toward him, acting on pure impulse. Had no one stopped her, she might well have thrown herself into his arms. Fortunately, Andronikos reached out swiftly and grabbed her by the arm, preventing disaster.

Naturally, Joannina wasn’t going to take that quietly.

She snapped her head toward him with a sulky glare that practically shouted, What’s your problem?! In response, Andronikos let out a heavy sigh.

“I understand your joy, but you must restrain yourself. Don’t forget the position you’re in.”

“…I know. I just wanted to see him up close.”

“I’m sure you did. But you’ll be seeing him from now on—often. So be patient.”

She could have kept sulking, but her opponent was once the Ruler of Thessalonica, and he was still politely addressing her as the wife of the current emperor.

She couldn’t bring herself to dismiss his words. In the end, Joannina accepted Andronikos’ rebuke and stayed put. Still, it was obvious she wouldn’t last much longer like this. Fortunately, the emperor approached soon after.

But he wasn’t alone.

Trailing behind him was the overly cheerful—or, depending on one’s mood, obnoxious—knight Francisco, showing his face with an irrepressible grin.

“Oh-ho! Picked up another woman already?”

“That’s not what this is. Watch what you say if you don’t want to be misunderstood.”

“Oh, come on. Then what’s with that look, cousin? She’s glaring like she’s going to bite me for even saying that.”

“Even if it’s not—”

The emperor, beginning to respond irritably, fell silent as soon as his eyes met Joannina’s.

One thought passed through his mind:

I’ve been had.

By the time he turned back with a shudder of betrayal, it was already too late. Francisco was too busy whistling smugly with a satisfied smirk to even notice. As the emperor shot him a cold glare demanding an explanation, Francisco replied shamelessly:

“You really are something, cousin! I can barely handle two tasks at once, and you’re out here juggling two women!”

“Francisco… Is this revenge for entrusting you with command of the Murattati?”

“Of course! It was hell out there!”

The emperor wanted to press further, but the growing storm of Joannina’s icy wrath forced him to let it go.

“…So your sweet words last time were just to string me along, weren’t they?”

“…”

“You really thought staying silent would help? No use—it’s all burned into my memory now!”

Emperor Dragases faltered, unsure how to deal with the mess. Francisco, the traitor, simply averted his gaze toward the distance, acting as if he wasn’t even there. At this critical moment, salvation came from the quiet observer nearby—Andronikos.

“That’s enough, Empress.”

“…Can’t we talk a little more?”

“Unfortunately, time is short. I must ask for your understanding.”

“…I suppose it can’t be helped. I can always finish the conversation later.”

Joannina tried to cling to a shred of hope, while Andronikos cut her off firmly. Thanks to him, Emperor Dragases was able to sigh in quiet relief. Only Francisco clicked his tongue in disappointment, while Andronikos shook his head.

“Don’t think it’s over. You’ll still be the one to soothe her later, Konstantinos.”

“…I’ll keep that in mind.”

“More importantly, I’m sure you understand what we need to discuss the moment you see these refugees.”

“Of course. I had planned to question a few of them to get a clearer picture of the situation, but with you here, that won’t be necessary.”

“I would have liked to rest, but sadly.”

“If you’ll allow it, we’ll prepare a room for you. You’re not well, are you?”

The emperor couldn’t ignore Andronikos’ condition, seeing the clear strain in his body. Though he didn’t know the full details of his illness, it was obvious Andronikos could barely move without assistance.

After an unfamiliar and surely rough voyage, it was natural to be concerned for his health. But Andronikos only gave a wry smile in response.

“That’s why I must speak quickly—before my time runs out, I want to be of use. Give the room to the empress instead. I imagine she’d be most pleased.”

“Absolutely!”

Having withdrawn from the conversation briefly, Joannina now eagerly jumped back in. The lively spark in her voice made the emperor’s head throb.

Preparations to confront the approaching Ottoman forces, now right on their doorstep, were slowly reaching completion.

Of course, compared to the Ottomans, who had been preparing for this for years, it was pitifully insufficient.

The attack had come too suddenly, and there hadn’t been nearly enough time to prepare. Yet thanks to the remarkable achievements of Emperor Dragases in what was clearly a doomed fight, a brief moment of stability and peace had come to the city.

And just when they thought they had finally reclaimed peace—it turned out not even ten years would pass before it crumbled again.

—Not that no one saw this coming.

Most people had no illusions that the peace between the Empire and the Ottomans would last.

Even the fragile alliance that had barely sustained it had now collapsed, leaving the Ottomans with no reason to hesitate.

It was universally expected—though grimly—that the Ottoman offensive would begin soon. And that very doubt had instilled a strange calm in the people.

The ancient city, with a thousand years of history, simply accepted the fate that had come knocking with solemn grace.

As a first response, twelve hundred able-bodied men were assigned to defend the triple walls.

Those without equipment followed behind priests and monks carrying censers, laying their hands upon the walls as they prayed.

They hoped the city’s greatest legacy, which had protected it for so long, would not fail this time either. Beneath the blue sky, the faded city steadily completed its preparations to face destiny.

Meanwhile, footsteps echoed across the terrace where the emperor of the capital resided.

In the open space with a view of the sea, the emperor sat in a chair, leaning back and silently watching the golden sunset.

The owner of the footsteps saw his back and, rather than approach immediately, first scanned the area. Only when it was certain no one else was around did he step forward and speak.

“I came upon hearing Your Majesty’s command, delivered through Secretary Sphrantzes.”

“I thought it was too soon… Kantakouzenos. Before I give you your orders, I want to ask you something.”

“Speak freely, Your Majesty.”

“Do you have no regrets about staying by my side?”

At those words, Demetrios Kantakouzenos, brother to the Empress, stared intently at Emperor John’s back. Naturally, he couldn’t see his face, nor could he guess what the emperor was thinking.

But the man standing before the golden sunset, which seemed to wash away all color, was still the emperor of this faded city. And Kantakouzenos himself was still a nobleman bearing the duty to protect it.

He made that clear.

“I do not know what moved Your Majesty to say such a thing. Still, I can give a definite answer: I will defend this city. So long as Your Majesty remains here, I will remain as well.”

John didn’t reply right away. He only murmured something to himself—too softly for Kantakouzenos to hear from that distance. Yet there was no place for inquiry. The emperor finally responded long after Kantakouzenos had spoken.

“…Thank you, Kantakouzenos. That one sentence brings me comfort.”

“Your Majesty?”

“I thought I had already made my decision, but I was still hesitating. Thanks to you, I can finally follow through. That’s why I entrust this task to the one I trust the most. Listen well, Kantakouzenos.”

“I am listening.”

“I hear the Ottoman fleet hasn’t yet entered the Golden Horn.”

“That is true, but positivity would be unwise. It will likely be sealed off in the near future. All the Venetian and Genoese merchant ships anchored there plan to depart before then.”

The situation was dire, but Kantakouzenos remained calm. Everyone had braced for this since the day Prince Dragases ascended the throne.

It was far more rational to seek practical measures than to despair over what had already come to pass. That clarity gave Kantakouzenos the composure to face reality clearly.

Perhaps pleased with his answer, the emperor let out a faint laugh, swept away in the sea breeze.

“Yes… The city will once again endure a long and bitter trial. A wait that may have no end is now nearly upon us.”

“If Your Majesty understands that, then I’m glad.”

“At the same time, I’ve come to realize that the fate of this city and the future of our empire no longer lie here.”

It was a truth everyone knew, yet none dared say aloud—until now, when it came from the lips of the emperor. Seeking to grasp its true meaning, Kantakouzenos glared fiercely at John’s back.

But the emperor never turned to face him. Was there nothing to do but wait? Suppressing a sigh, Kantakouzenos chose to remain silent and await the rest.

But the silence dragged on.

Just as he was about to break it, the emperor spoke again.

“I’ve kept your sister here for too long. See that she and Andronikos board a ship and take refuge with Konstantinos in Morea.”

There was only one sister Kantakouzenos had—Joannina Kantakouzene, the Empress. Though their marriage had been purely political and their meeting had been mismatched from the start, at least one of them had harbored deeper feelings. Knowing that, Kantakouzenos could not easily accept the command. He had to ask again.

“…Your Majesty, are you serious?”

“Those who remain here are those who have chosen to wait. But your sister is someone who has been waiting all along. I do not wish to make her wait any longer. Andronikos, with his experience ruling Thessalonica, will be more helpful offering counsel in Morea than he would be here.”

Now, instead of speaking, Kantakouzenos simply gazed at John with a complex expression. Surely the emperor must have sensed that stare. Yet he still did not turn around—he only answered in a subdued voice.

“If you’ve guessed why I haven’t looked you in the eye… I ask that you pretend not to notice.”

“Your Majesty, how could you…”

How painful must your heart be to give such an order… The rest of his words were swallowed by the distant sound of cannon fire. Both men instantly knew. From this moment on, the Ottoman siege would begin in earnest.

The emperor could not remain seated.

John rose from his chair and shouted.

“Begin the siege. Lock the gates tight and move building materials to repair the damaged walls.”

“…I will follow Your Majesty’s command.”

“Before that.”

As Kantakouzenos hurried to leave, the emperor called out with one more order.

“See to their safety as well.”

It was displeasing.

Yet even as he bit his lower lip in frustration, Kantakouzenos answered naturally.

“I shall not forget, Your Majesty!”

With that, Kantakouzenos departed.

Alone again.

No sooner had that thought crossed Emperor John’s mind than another familiar presence approached—one whose voice he always welcomed.

“Will you truly be all right, Your Majesty?”

At Sphrantzes’s question, John finally burst into laughter—pure and genuine, without a trace of sorrow. Sphrantzes bowed his head in silence, watching the emperor laugh.

Only after some time did John finally answer.

“If I were all right, I wouldn’t be hiding my face.”

“I thought as much.”

“You still love teasing me, Sphrantzes.”

“Then let me offer a formal apology in hopes of your forgiveness.”

“No need. I will go to see my father. Attend me.”

“……”

For a moment, Sphrantzes was at a loss for words. Sensing the hesitation, John finally turned to face him. His face was clean, without tears, and full of gentle smiles.

“So it seems something has happened to my father.”

“…I’m sorry, Your Majesty. The former emperor didn’t want to burden the younger generation—those who must bear the empire’s future—so he asked us to keep it secret…”

“Is he in critical condition?”

“I’m sorry, Your Majesty.”

“Then we must go at once, before it’s too late. Lead the way.”

At the emperor’s command, Sphrantzes silently nodded.

The two left the palace grounds without even a proper escort. Even the imperial guards had been assigned to the defense of the triple walls. There were no longer enough men left to protect even the emperor.

Though it had fallen into decline, the streets where many once walked were empty today. The silence that covered the quiet roads was broken only by the occasional distant sounds of cannon fire and the faint, stifled prayers of those crushed by the heavy atmosphere.

It was not a welcome sight, yet it was one that had become familiar—and would have to be embraced as familiar from now on.

Even as he hurried along, the Emperor of the capital cast glances around the streets, letting himself sink into reflection.

Meanwhile, Emperor John and his secretary, Sphrantzes, arrived at their destination.

It was the monastery into which former Emperor Manuel had voluntarily entered after laying down his crown. Despite the bleak state surrounding the capital, this place remained devoted to spiritual pursuit and was no more welcoming to worldly visitors than before.

That was why black-robed monks emerged from somewhere to block John and Sphrantzes as they attempted to enter.

“Your Majesty, this is a place where monks undertake silent atonement. No matter who you are, you may not enter at will.”

“…So they say. Will you step back?”

The monk spoke firmly, and Sphrantzes turned his bright, clear eyes up toward John. The Emperor of the capital mulled over the monk’s words: even an emperor may not enter. As he repeated this thought over and over, a pleased curve formed on John’s lips. At last, he removed the crown from his head with his own hands and replied.

“I do not come as an emperor, but as a son wishing to see his father. I ask you to allow me in.”

A plea stripped of imperial authority or noble dignity. Upon hearing it, a smile spread to Sphrantzes as well. The secretary turned again to the monks and asked,

“His Majesty responds thus to your statement. What will you do?”

“…Very well. But please maintain silence inside.”

The monks reluctantly stepped aside. Without hesitation, John and Sphrantzes entered the monastery. Despite being located in a decaying millennium-old city, the monastery retained a serene atmosphere steeped in faith.

It felt removed entirely from the despair outside. The interior was much the same.

Sunlight filtered in between the small windows, floating gently across the hallway.

Had John come here alone, he would surely have wandered in confusion. But with the capable Sphrantzes by his side, there was no such trouble. Together, they made their way through the quiet monastery and finally found what they were seeking.

There was someone unexpected there as well.

“See, Your Majesty. I told you that John would come on his own, even without being summoned.”

“…You’ve managed to find time in your busy days, John.”

The woman holding the wrinkled hand of the aged monk lying in bed was someone John knew well. The warm mother who had always cared for her children—Empress Dowager Helena—welcomed him with a gentle smile.

“I had a small wager with him. I said you’d come without needing to be called, but he insisted on being stubborn. Still doesn’t understand his children at all…”

“Mother…”

But John could not feel joy wholeheartedly. The moment he looked into the lifeless eyes of Manuel, he understood how little time remained.

The thought that he hadn’t visited his father sooner weighed heavily on him. Empress Dowager Helena, observing silently, slowly rose and stepped back.

“It seems you two have much to say to each other. I’ll take my leave for now with Sphrantzes. Have your talk.”

“Then, Your Majesty, I shall accompany Her Majesty the Dowager.”

With that, Sphrantzes stepped away in sync with the Empress Dowager.

At last, the father and son were alone after many years. John, unable to speak at first, sat in the seat his mother had left. He reached out and gently touched the aged monk’s hand resting on the blanket.

The hand, dried like an old tree, was calloused and coarse. As John caressed it, his throat tightened, and he could not bring himself to speak.

It was the old monk who broke the silence first.

“…I heard a familiar sound.”

“……”

“…The Ottomans have returned, haven’t they.”

“…I’m sorry.”

“There’s nothing for you to apologize for.”

After that, the two spoke no further for a while. Outside, the occasional boom of cannon fire continued. After several of those sounds, the monk lying still closed his eyes softly.

“I was a father who drove his beloved children into slaughter… who made them fight one another. Rest is not something I deserve. I regret it each time I think of Theodoros, whose fate remains unknown. I wish I had done better by him.”

“Father.”

“Still… it was a wish I could not abandon.”

Manuel’s eyes, already drained of light, surely recalled unforgettable images behind their heavy lids—the moment the city he was meant to protect collapsed by his own hands, the corpses reaching out to him, the flames devouring even the rubble and ruined walls with greedy hunger. Perhaps in that moment, he foresaw the empire’s end. John could not fully understand what his father felt.

But the trembling of Manuel’s hand and eyelids conveyed his heart.

His shaking hand could barely grasp John’s fingers. So feeble was his grip that a mere movement would break it, and yet John could not dismiss it—he knew that this was the last of his father’s strength.

“I speak not as your father, but as an emperor.”

“…”

“Lead your brothers well, John.”

“Father.”

“…Take care of the children I leave behind. And do not doubt yourself.”

Manuel tried to open his eyes, but his weary lids were too heavy now. Sleep was descending. Realizing this, John pressed his face to Manuel’s chest without hesitation.

The frail body, sensing a familiar touch it hadn’t felt in so long, trembled for the last time. Holding that tremble, the old monk resisted the pull of slumber long enough to whisper—

“…John.”

That was the end.

The former emperor accepted sleep as it came. His breath slowed, and the pulse that had long sustained his old body began to fade.

Only then did John rise again. The Emperor of the capital kissed the index finger that had gripped his own—but he shed no tears.

“Sphrantzes, are you still outside?”

Rather than reply, Sphrantzes entered the room. He had known for some time that the old emperor’s life was nearing its end. Even with the emperor’s composed tone, he likely guessed what had happened. He could have accused John, asked why he was only now revealing this in his grief. But the Emperor said nothing.

He couldn’t—because he understood, however faintly, the heart behind Manuel’s choice.

“Let us begin preparations for the funeral.”

“As Your Majesty commands.”

This time, Sphrantzes nodded quietly.

Moments later, the Empress Dowager re-entered with Sphrantzes support and gently caressed Manuel. John watched, not missing a single detail.

The revenge from the Ottomans—long foreseen ever since Emperor Dragases was enthroned as co-emperor—was carried out with an unparalleled thoroughness.

The sword that was originally meant for the Turkic principalities like Karaman was now pointed at the ancient capital. Before long, a force of no less than eight thousand soldiers swept through the Thracian region.

If not for the triple walls, the city might have already fallen.

The other areas without those walls stood no chance of holding.

The lands that had been barely secured through Manuel’s cleverness were thus returned to Ottoman hands.

The speed of it shocked everyone. Those who had doubted Ottoman supremacy abandoned their hostility when, within a month, much of Thrace—including Selymbria—fell. But the Ottomans vengeance didn’t end there.

“This is not enough. I have yet to hold to account those who broke their oath.”

The Sultan no longer cared for the Thracian region that had accepted Ottoman rule. Instead, his gaze turned toward the ancient capital itself—Constantinople. With no power left to resist the Ottomans, Murad’s decision quickly turned into action. Thus began a suffocating siege.

The surviving Ottoman fleet from the previous war assembled near the Golden Horn, and an army of eight thousand blocked every land route to Constantinople. The ancient city was isolated again, just like years before.

Only one thing was different this time:

—There was no one left to call for help.

All the capital could do in response was muster its meager forces. The soldiers were deployed to the walls by the other emperor, John, and as they prepared for a siege, the people gathered in churches to pray. A long trial of patience had begun for the city.

It was during these siege preparations that the Ottoman envoys arrived.

Among the envoy’s was a boy who looked far too young, accompanied by a man who guarded him confidently, shoulders straight. Yet it was the Janissaries escorting them that drew the most attention. The personal guard of the Sultan, loyal only to his command.

Seeing the Janissaries, the Imperial Guard remained on edge. Dozens of them entered the palace.

If they harbored any hidden motives, who could stop them? And if they couldn’t be stopped, how were they to interpret their presence in a diplomatic envoy?

Everyone who witnessed the procession had the same question. Even the emperor of a thousand-year-old empire was no exception.

The audience chamber of the Blachernae Palace.

As they entered, the Janissaries formed a tight formation reminiscent of a square phalanx. Only the front was left open, revealing just two figures at the center—a young boy and an Ottoman officer standing proudly at his side. It was the officer who first raised his head towards John.

“This is the son of your lord, the Sultan. Show your respect.”

“Your lord, is it…”

The very first words were already infuriating. John murmured bitterly to himself, but couldn’t fully suppress the rage boiling inside him.

Thanks to the dedication and cunning of Emperor Manuel, the Empire had freed itself from Ottoman vassalage decades ago.

And yet they still claimed them as vassals—how shameless. John clenched his fist tightly to restrain the urge to scream at them to leave.

Just as his lips began to tremble with fury, someone behind the throne made their presence known. The emperor turned instinctively, but even before looking, he knew who it was by the voice.

“Have patience, Your Majesty.”

It was Georgios Sphrantzes, the secretary who had followed the former emperor. A loyal and silent servant of the throne.

With dozens of Janissaries in the palace, any outburst would only give the enemy the advantage. Perhaps this was even meant as provocation. Just as Sphrantzes had said—now was the time to endure.

So, instead of unleashing his anger, the young emperor chose to challenge the envoy with a voice that trembled ever so slightly.

“Do not spout nonsense. The Empire may have once allied with the Ottomans, but we were never your vassals.”

No one believed that the alliance still held any weight now. But it was essential to assert that they had never been vassals—to remind them that they had once stood as equals.

Whether or not that meant anything to the Ottoman envoy—Ishak Pasha—was unclear. Ishak briefly curled the corner of his lips, then approached with deliberate confidence and laid a letter on the ground.

“Take it and read. The merciful Sultan offers forgiveness for all betrayals up to now. The conditions for his mercy are written within.”

“…Bring it here, Sphrantzes.”

“As you command.”

As Sphrantzes stepped forward and bent down to retrieve the letter, Ishak Pasha’s voice echoed softly through the chamber.

“Cowardly emperor.”

An insult so casually thrown in the heart of the court. The one most startled by it was the young boy in the envoy. But Ishak Pasha merely shrugged in the face of the glares turned on him.

Coward, he said. John ground his teeth quietly at the insult, emotions roiling beneath his calm. That was all he could do.

As Sphrantzes returned with the letter, he murmured a quiet consolation:

“You endured well, Your Majesty.”

The gentle, reassuring tone of the small voice calmed John. Only then did he regain his composure and close his eyes for a moment.

“Is this what it means to endure?”

He hadn’t realized how painful it would be to suffer in silence for the sake of a vague and distant future. And in this audience hall, filled with Janissaries, there was no one he could share that burden with.

As emperor, he could show no weakness before the Ottoman envoys. The pressure to remain composed demanded even greater endurance.

So John reaffirmed his vow:

“I will not let Constantine—that child—suffer all this in my stead. As I swore before the Lord in my father’s name, I will be his scabbard until the end.”

Now that he had earned his father’s trust, he would repay it—no matter the cost. Motivating himself forward with that conviction, John found clarity. He was now ready to face the letter’s contents. In a calm voice, he urged Sphrantzes:

“Sphrantzes, read it aloud.”

“…From the Sultan of the Ottomans, Murad, to the Emperor of Constantinople.”

As John braced himself and the Ottoman envoys remained silent, Sphrantzes began to speak. And thus, through his voice, Murad’s roar echoed in the hall.

“I have long promised freedom of faith to the Christians and faithfully upheld it. I honored the alliance made in my father’s time and preserved peace with you.

But from the moment I inherited the title of Sultan, you cast aside both the alliance and the oath made before God.

I punished Thrace because they broke their vow to God. And now, I come to exact the price of your betrayal—not only from your city, but from you, Emperor.”

“……….”

 

“Though there may be no trust left, the alliance between us was forged in our fathers’ time.

In honour of my father’s legacy and the alliance he established, I shall grant you generous and merciful terms of peace.”

“And what are those terms, Sphrantzes?”

“…First. Emperor John of Constantinople shall come to the court at Edirne and kiss the foot of the Sultan to swear his fealty as a vassal.”

At that moment—

Ishak, who had been silently listening to Murad’s letter, stepped forward once more.

The imperial guards attempted to draw their swords, but were quickly restrained by the dozens of Janissaries already occupying the center of the court.

Ishak Pasha glanced around at the scene and then burst into a mocking laugh as he turned his gaze to the Emperor of the capital.

“Do you now understand what I meant by calling you ‘our lord,’ Emperor of Constantinople?”

This harsh insult once again shook John’s composure.

His face flushed red with fury and agitation—undeniable proof of his anger.

However, he soon calmed himself by drawing long, slow breaths.

If they were provoking him this deliberately, it was surely because they had something planned.

That thought was the only thing keeping John steady.

“…You said ‘first,’ so I assume there’s more. Go on, Sphrantzes.”

“…Second.”

Even Sphrantzes, who always seemed so blunt, faltered at the next condition—it was not something easy to speak of.

But continuing to stand silently would benefit no one.

With the Sultan’s envoys provoking them this persistently, there was no telling when John might snap.

At last, Sphrantzes gave a short, strained sigh and pressed on.

“…The repaired triple walls shall be torn down by the Emperor’s own subjects.”

“……”

Surprisingly, John did not visibly react to this statement.

He merely blinked a few times, brought his right hand to his lips, and began stroking his chin repeatedly.

But he couldn’t completely hide the trembling of his fingers.

A long silence followed, broken only by the Emperor himself.

“…How bitter this is.”

Was this the fate of a fallen nation?

A wretched reality, one that might seem obvious enough to warrant surrender.

Indeed, countless others had already turned their backs on the crumbling empire.

John had never completely abandoned it, but he had once accepted it himself.

But he would not accept it any longer.

If this was a time for endurance, then he would endure—and prevail.

John silently recalled, over and over again, the lands lost in helplessness, the deaths he could only watch in powerlessness, and the vow he once made: to become a scabbard.

Now, that vow moved him.

“Leave.”

The Janissaries immediately grew tense, their presence sharpening like blades.

Ishak narrowed his eyes into a piercing glare.

The imperial guards placed their hands on their hilts, ready for what might come next.

It was a standoff so taut that blood could spill at the slightest command.

And at that edge of catastrophe, it was a boy—one who had been silently watching the exchange—who finally spoke.

“I cannot understand you, Emperor of Constantinople. Why do you reject peace?”

“Peace, you say?”

“You were the ones who broke the alliance first. It was your side that brought war upon us. And yet we’ve demanded no brutal tribute in return. All we ask is a vow of vassalage and for the walls to be torn down. Why must you respond with such outrage?”

“If the Sultan demands I lick his foot, I could do it. If he wants me to bow my head, I could kneel. But I will never concede the triple walls.”

“And what could possibly make those walls so sacred—?!”

The Emperor of the capital hesitated.

Not because he lacked an answer, but because too many came to mind.

What could the triple walls mean?

The final legacy of a thousand-year-old empire in decline?

The last bastion holding the empire together?

Or simply crumbling stones that once symbolized a lost glory?

To all these questions he threw at himself, John shook his head.

“The restoration of the triple walls is proof—of the trust this city’s people have placed in my brother. It is a pledge to wait, no matter how long it takes. That is why I cannot yield them. Son of the Sultan, leave my sight and tell your Sultan this, word for word: I will hold to my trust in my brother to the end. This city shall not surrender.”

“Are you going to drag everyone in this city to their deaths?!”

“That’s enough, Prince Ahmed.”

A harshly growling Ahmed was stopped by Ishak stepping in front of him.

With a gentle gaze, he looked back at the prince, then turned once more to John.

But unlike the warmth he showed Ahmed, the eyes he now cast at the Emperor were cold as a hunting hound’s—bared fangs behind a predator’s roar.

“Then seal your gates tight and never open them, fool. Remain the emperor of your city, if you must. The Ottomans shall rule all beyond those gates. That is the Sultan’s final message to you.”

With those words, Ishak turned and began to lead Ahmed out of the audience chamber.

The Janissaries who had occupied the court slowly withdrew, casting fierce glances around as they retreated.

Only after they were gone did the imperial guards finally let out sighs of relief.

But John had no time to share in that relief—he was already deep in thought.

The Ottomans had already surrounded the entire capital.

The siege would likely continue for a long time.

Perhaps even years.

In the face of such a prolonged ordeal, what must he do?

After some deliberation, John called out.

“Sphrantzes, are you still nearby?”

“Of course, Your Majesty.”

“…Summon Kantakouzenos.”

“Which Kantakouzenos do you mean, sire?”

“You know perfectly well what I call her. Don’t play your little games. I mean Kantakouzenos, the one charged with the defense of the capital.”

“…As you command, Your Majesty.”

With a quiet bow, Sphrantzes withdrew.

Through the less footsteps and fading presence, John confirmed the young secretary had left properly.

While the empire sought change by lending strength to Emperor Dragases, the Ottomans did not sit idly by.

Sweeping military reforms were underway, new talents were emerging, and seasoned warriors with past experience were returning to the front lines one by one.

But that was not all. Sultan Murad’s unwavering will for reform was carried out with conviction, and as a result, the Ottoman state gained strength so formidable that its former self seemed almost laughable.

None of the Christian powers—especially the declining empire or those too busy fighting each other to recognize a true threat—could possibly understand this new force.

Yet the true power of the Ottomans no longer resided solely in their disciplined military.

Çandarlı Halil Pasha.

The strategy he had proposed when he stepped forward had now been refined into a fully-formed plan. As Grand Vizier, he understood exactly what was needed to tear through the web Dragases had spun—and had succeeded in forging the tools to do so.

He also understood what was necessary for the Ottomans to ascend even further. In the solemn silence of the Edirne court, Çandarlı Halil Pasha now began to lay out his vision.

“Sultan, only now am I truly ready to offer you a plan to tear through Dragases web.”

“Speak.”

Murad’s reply was brief, but it carried an immeasurable weight of conviction. The vow he had made to fulfill the prophecy of the Prophet was still remembered. Halil offered his respects to that resolve and began presenting his strategy.

“I have long advised Your Majesty to shatter the unity of the Christian forces.

Though we Ottomans, favoured by Allah, have repelled all prior Crusades, it is also undeniably true that we have shed more blood than necessary in doing so. If we can strike before they unite against us, it may be possible to fulfill the Prophet’s prophecy with far less bloodshed.”

This was not to underestimate the strength of the Christians.

The Ottomans had always respected the arms and tactics of their Christian foes. In truth, the key to victory in the last Crusade had been the overwhelming advantage in terrain and logistics. Just because past battles were won did not mean future ones would be.

A prepared victor does not grow arrogant in pursuit of his triumph.

“As a first step, I aimed to win over Wallachia.

However, due to the recent unrest within our own lands, it’s possible they may have developed other intentions. It is of utmost importance to reassert Ottoman authority, to ensure the Christians do not misread our past instability. A loser who inspires no fear will never command reverence.”

While Sigismund struggled with the Hussite Wars, Hungary’s anti-Ottoman policy had focused on maintaining buffer zones like Serbia and Wallachia. This had indeed protected Hungary from direct harm—allowing Christian resistance to the Ottomans to continue. It was only natural that Halil would take note.

Any Christian alliance against the Ottomans would inevitably require Hungary’s participation.

Then the key was to bind Hungary’s feet so it could not act.

“There is, at this time, one target more suitable than any other for restoring Ottoman prestige. A party that has dared to defy us—abandoning its treaties of tribute and peace, acting on nothing more than hollow hope, and now challenging Ottoman supremacy.

That foolish party is none other than Emperor John of Constantinople.”

As he spoke these words, the figure in Halil’s mind was none other than Dragases.

Even Halil, who thirsted for Ottoman dominance, did not deny that Dragases was a rare and capable man. But those who put their faith in him would soon see how foolish that faith truly was. Halil reaffirmed his resolve and continued.

“John not only appointed himself emperor without Ottoman approval, but he also carried out unauthorized repairs on the triple walls of Constantinople—reducing tribute payments to do so. This cannot go unpunished. The harsher the punishment, the easier it will be to win over Wallachia.

Thus, I humbly beg of you, my Sultan.”

Overwhelmed with rising emotion, Halil looked up at the Sultan and made his plea.

“It is time for the Ottomans, in the name of the Ottomans, to reclaim all the mercy and tolerance we have shown.”

These words of Çandarlı Halil moved Murad—and the Ottoman state.

The beast that had once been forced to lower its head now roared once again.

“I shall do as Halil says. Raise the army. Let the Emperor of Constantinople learn who truly rules this land.”

But even after making this decision, the Sultan could not entirely dispel his doubts. Dragases, after all, had previously stirred the Mamluks to block the unification of Anatolia.

If he sensed the Ottomans moving again, he would surely try to interfere. Of course, it would be impossible to completely conceal the movement of thousands of troops—but nor could their intentions be allowed to be seen too clearly.

After a moment of contemplation, the Sultan devised a way to hide their forces.

“Yet I do not wish for my intent to be revealed too soon.

We shall deceive them. I will issue an order for the construction of a fortress near the Dardanelles. Hide the soldiers arms among the convoys transporting stone and grain, and summon the troops under the pretext of gathering laborers for the fortification. This may divert the enemy’s attention.”

“As the Sultan wills it.”

As the assembled Ottoman ministers bowed their heads, Çandarlı Halil’s mind was already busy calculating the next move. But nothing could be achieved in a single stroke.

If rushing doesn’t lead to quick results, then there’s no reason to be impatient. Suppressing his desire to reveal his next proposal at once, Halil repeated his vow inwardly.

“This too is but one step toward the fulfillment of the Prophet’s prophecy.”

Those who endure are destined to see their reward. Since it is the will of Allah, Halil ended his contemplation and bowed to the Sultan.

Thus, before the military reforms had even been fully completed, Sultan Murad’s personal campaign was decided.

The only difference this time was that Prince Ahmed, whose identity had long been concealed, would accompany the campaign. The Ottoman army, however, was already well-prepared—perhaps more than ever before.

It was no longer a force that relied solely on high morale and discipline. In less than a month, 8,000 able-bodied men had gathered in Edirne.

And when these 8,000 men once again took up arms under the pretext of punishing the empire, the Christian powers were powerless to act.

From the beginning, the Ottomans had concealed the true purpose behind the recruitment efforts near the Dardanelles. Even taking that into account, the sheer fact that thousands of troops had been mobilized across the region in such a short time proved the success of Murad’s reforms. By the time the Venetians realized the Sultan’s forces had gathered, it was already too late.

“To conceal the true purpose of the troop gathering.”

Thanks to the Sultan’s deception, Venice and most other powers had no idea what he truly intended. The same held true for Dragases, who relied heavily on intelligence from Jewish communities and the Venetians.

And so, the offensive across Thrace began.

With careful preparation and deception, no one could stop the war once it began.

Only the pitiful garrisons of fate offered any resistance. But with just a few hundred defenders, they could do nothing to change the course of the war. Like ants struggling beneath a vast shadow, they were crushed.

Flames and terror spread, while walls and resolve collapsed without resistance.

The unusually permitted, indiscriminate looting was turning cities and villages that had barely begun to rebuild back into ruins.

Above the wastelands scattered with countless corpses and arrows, the Ottoman banner fluttered proudly. Even Prince Ahmed, who had joined the campaign with his father’s army, found himself questioning what he saw.

“Is this… truly the fate of a conqueror?”

Ahmed had survived the siege within one of the besieged cities. He had vaguely imagined the fate of a fallen city, but seeing it with his own eyes was another matter entirely.

Still just a young boy, he was too stunned to speak, staring blankly at the devastation around him. His gaze eventually landed on the corpse of a parent, clutching a child even in death. That was when Ahmed summoned his soldiers.

“No more… this has to stop! No further looting will be allowed! Everyone, cease at once! This cruelty has gone too far! Those who do not wish to tarnish the name of the Ottomans—stop right now!”

He must have expected his men to obey without question.

But what he got instead was a united protest, the soldiers speaking with an air of grievance.

“B-but, Your Highness Ahmed! This is the honored right of a warrior, one even recognized by the Sultan himself. Most of us staked our lives in this campaign for that very right. How can we be denied the spoils we’ve earned with our blood?”

“…You’re saying my father gave that order.”

Ahmed’s expression twisted strangely as he uttered the word father. It still didn’t feel real, even though he’d been told the Sultan was his blood relative.

Perhaps that was to be expected—had he ever truly felt any familial bond? Still, he had no intention of rebelling. He might not have been able to regard Murad fully as a father, but he was undeniably his Sultan.

“…Very well. But at least show some restraint.”

“We are grateful that Your Highness understands.”

Having successfully defended their right to plunder, the soldiers cheered and clapped each other on the back. All Ahmed could do was command them to exercise moderation.

Lips trembling, the boy ultimately swallowed the words he had wanted to say. In this moment, he had neither the authority nor the justification to say more. But the fire in his eyes had not died.

“If I cannot order it directly, then I will persuade my father.”

The banner symbolizing the Sultan rose high over the ruins of the city. His father—the Sultan himself—would be there. While the soldiers busied themselves looting,

Ahmed took his horse and set off. He kept his eyes fixed forward, refusing to acknowledge the horror still spread across the streets.

At the end of that road, Ahmed met the Sultan.

The young Sultan was enjoying a moment of rest under a clear blue sky, even as his soldiers scoured the city for spoils. That made Ahmed all the more determined to plead his case.

Dismounting with a grace beyond his years, he approached Murad. The Janissaries, recognizing Ahmed’s face, silently stepped aside, and the meeting commenced.

“Sultan, I beg you—put a stop to this looting. This is far too cruel.”

Murad, still gazing at the drifting clouds, may have found the sudden request unexpected. Yet he responded as if he had anticipated it all along, his voice calm and unwavering. There was no sign of surprise at the directness of the plea—only the cool demeanor of a Sultan asking for justification.

“So you came running to speak of mercy.”

“The punishment is already enough. On the way here, I saw a child dead in their parents arms. Must such heart breaking deaths be allowed to continue? Is that truly the duty of a conqueror?”

“What is it you’re trying to say, Ahmed?”

“…I believe we have been too harsh. Sultan, it is time to show them mercy.”

“Mercy, you say.”

Only then did Murad’s gaze shift to Ahmed. But there was no affection in that look—not the slightest warmth of kinship. He was judging Ahmed as a vassal, not a son. And his answer came like a sentence.

“The Ottomans promised these people freedom of faith.

Under the name of the Ottomans, they were able to end centuries of chaos. Under our banner, they enjoyed peace, stability, and prosperity. Yet now they raise blades against us in the name of that same freedom. You speak of mercy? Then tell me—how should the Ottomans respond to such betrayal?”

“Perhaps what we offered them wasn’t enough.”

“If so, they should have shown greater loyalty, not drawn their swords. If they will not obey Allah, how can they ever be loyal to the Ottomans? Why should we grant mercy to those who reject both?”

“……”

Even Ahmed, who had tried to argue, could no longer speak. Murad’s words were not untrue. The Ottomans were conquerors—invaders, yes—but also tolerant and merciful rulers.

Their generosity, offered to those who submitted, was unparalleled in their time. And to those who said it was not enough, Murad had chosen a simple solution.

“Ahmed, I made a vow long ago.”

“…I’m listening.”

“I vowed to cut away everything that eats away at this empire’s roots.”

With those final words, Murad ended his moment of rest.

If the Sultan was moving again, then by extension, the looting by his warriors would also cease. But that would not mark the end of Ottoman retribution. Only by thoroughly crushing all who dared defy their rule could true peace and stability be achieved.

And so, Murad stepped toward his horse.

“If they cannot be roots, then they are merely weeds. We must cut them down again and again to protect the roots from harm.”

“…Is that what you call Ottoman mercy?”

“I simply take back what was once granted in the name of the Ottomans.”

Mounting his horse with ease, Murad looked down at Ahmed. The boy, still far too young, wore a cold, mature expression unbecoming of his age. But the quiet fury in his eyes was unmistakable—he had not accepted a word of this.

Even so, Murad looked away without hesitation and addressed the Janissary who had remained at his side.

“Though the city has fallen, their hearts have not yet been conquered. Still, there’s no need to punish them further. The true ones deserving retribution remain unscathed—and that is where we will go.

Of course, it would be wise to send a messenger ahead first.”

Only then did Murad’s gaze return to Ahmed.

The boy, who spoke only with his eyes, stirred something strange in Murad. Determined not to let it show, the Sultan steeled himself and gave his command.

“I will head to Constantinople.

And Ahmed, I will send you as my envoy. Go there ahead of me with Ishak Pasha and urge their surrender. This will be the last mercy the Ottomans offer. Convey my words exactly.”

“…Very well. If the Sultan so commands, I will go as your envoy.”

“I will give the order once the camp is relocated. Make sure you’re not delayed.”

Ahmed’s eyes glinted even more darkly, as if he were barely holding something back. Murad stared at those burning eyes for a long moment—then turned away without a word.