Category: About a Dating Sim Where Dating Is Impossible

The old era fades, and a new one rises.

As the pattern of warfare, established over centuries, begin to shift, the once-unshakable principles of common sense crumble. Those who fail to adapt will be cast aside, eroded by time and forgotten. But those who do will survive. And those who perceive the tide of the era will, as their rightful reward, seize its dominion.

The moment news arrived that the Prince had led the Morean army into Athens, Murad’s cold, sunken gaze fell upon the wagons loaded with gunpowder barrels.

“If your plan was to stall for time, then I shall commend you.”

There was no mistaking the Prince’s intent—to prolong the war and force the Ottomans to suffer continual attrition. That was, after all, the only viable strategy a small state could employ against a great empire. Furthermore, in a siege where the forces were evenly matched, the defenders held the overwhelming advantage.

Murad, however, had come prepared. He had brought with him the defining weapon of this new age.

“But if that is all you have, then you will no longer be able to stand in my way.”

Now that it was clear the Prince sought to deadlock the front lines—and that his entire army had gathered in Athens—there was nothing left to hinder him. Not when he possessed the era’s most formidable weapon. There was a reason none of his retainers had voiced opposition when he had declared his intent to cut off the Prince’s escape.

Noticing Murad’s gaze fixed upon the wagons, the soldiers hurriedly stepped forward to remove the covers. One by one, they uncovered the hidden ace up his sleeve. Murad reached out, feeling the cold, unyielding touch of metal beneath his fingers.

A weapon of such magnitude and presence should have been discovered long before now and it should have drawn the Prince’s attention. However, the method Murad devised had prevented such information from leaking out.

“How many have been prepared?”

“Sixteen in total, Your Majesty.”

A weapon difficult to transport, sluggish in movement, and highly susceptible to environmental factors—one not easily deployed in battle. Murad had simply changed the approach. Rather than moving them as completed weapons, they had been transported in parts and would be assembled directly on the battlefield.

Brushing the dust off the cannon barrel with deliberate care, Murad spoke:

“Your despair lies in the flow of time.”

The walls will no longer protect you.

Athens, once one of the centers of the Hellenistic period.

Yet its former glory had faded, its brilliant prestige now belonging elsewhere. Among the fragmented city-states of central Greece, it had at least managed to retain some facade of order under the rule of the Duchy of Athens, allowing it a enjoy a degree of prosperity.

But it had never quite lived up to its name.

Still, Murad showed no disappointment. He merely fixed his sharp gaze upon the double-headed eagle banner fluttering atop the Athenian walls.

The Prince had fallen neatly into his trap, entrenching himself in Athens just as Murad had intended.

From here, the only question was when to unleash the cannons.

While the fortifications were being established, Murad accompanied by his most vigilant guards, set out to survey the area around the city walls, seeking answers. Before long, his brows knit into a frown.

“Too many hills.”

This was a battle fought before proper cannon deployment strategies had been fully developed. No matter how much Murad himself had recognized the potential of gunpowder weapons and supported their use, their true might could not be realized until enough experience had been gained.

Especially among his soldiers.

Cannons had been used in battle before, but never on such a scale. This would be their first full-scale deployment. Given that, the presence of these hills—obstacles that would hinder the trajectory of the cannonballs—was more than enough to irk him.

At the end of his survey, Murad accepted that there was only one place where bombardment could bring down the walls.

Only the northern wall lacked the natural advantages provided by the terrain. More precisely, it was the most suitable position for an artillery assault. However, deciding where to concentrate the bombardment did not mark the end of Murad’s deliberations. That much was obvious. Simply reducing the walls to rubble and forcing an urban battle would not be enough.

Even the destruction of the walls was to serve as a bait. Bait that would lure the Prince into action.

“Dragases, did you anticipate the presence of cannons as well?”

The fact that the Prince had chosen to entrench himself in Athens rather than retreat to the Isthmus of Corinth made his objective clear—stalling the front lines and buying time. At first glance, it seemed like a simple war of attrition.

But Murad found the true reason behind the delay.

Epirus.

Though on paper recognized as an independent state, Epirus was a vassal bound by blood ties. Its army was little more than a reserve force, ready to move at the Empire’s—or rather, the Prince’s—command.

He was waiting for the right moment—for the Epirote forces to seize the Ottoman rear. Or perhaps his true aim was to force Murad to retreat and divide his army. Or maybe, it really was nothing more than a prolonged battle of attrition.

But for any of these possibilities to succeed, Athens had to endure.

The Morean army, led by the Prince, had to hold out.

Murad had no intention of allowing that to happen.

For a Sultan who now sought not mere ambition, but resolute victory, what he needed was not honor, but overwhelming force—the kind that would shatter the Prince’s very faith.

In the end, everything depended on the bombardment of the northern wall.

A barely noticeable smile crossed across Murad’s lips.

What better way to announce the dawn of a new era?

The power of the cannon was not limited to the destruction of walls alone.

The sheer presence of such weapons on the battlefield would be enough to crush enemy morale.

At some point, Murad’s gaze had already moved beyond the collapse of the walls, toward what would follow.

The Prince had no fleet capable of relocating thousands of Morean soldiers in an instant.

If the walls fell, he would have no choice but to abandon Athens and flee toward Corinth.

A final, desperate stand in Athens would only lead to annihilation.

A man foolish enough to overlook that would never have lasted this long.

Yet, Murad suddenly realized even this line of thought bordered on arrogance and shook his head.

“I will no longer allow arrogance to cloud my vision.”

The bombardment had to be decisive—enough to bring down the walls.

But he could not rely on cannons alone.

The Prince was bold enough to lead a charge the moment the cannons were being reloaded.

Murad understood this—and he would use it against him.

A keen mind would quickly grasp the power of cannons.

And once the Prince recognized their threat, he would undoubtedly attempt to neutralize them at all costs.

Murad would set a trap.

Scattering iron spike traps before positioning the artillery was one option.

Planting wooden stakes to break the knights’ charge before sending in the Sipahi cavalry to engage them was another.

But too many had already died.

If he wished to preserve his soldiers, another method was needed.

And then, an idea struck him—another way to utilize the cannons.

He would make the cannons both the center of his attack and the bait.

It was the best way to minimize casualties.

As the knights engaged in chaotic battle, the cannons, pre-positioned on the flanks, would fire—not at the walls, but at the densely packed enemy cavalry.

Once the bombardment ended, the encirclement would begin.

Murad had already realized in previous battles that the knights were the Morean army’s core strength.

If their momentum was crushed here, then the Morean forces—now deprived of their cavalry advantage—would no longer be able to stand against the Sipahi.

Only then would the true consequences of the wall’s collapse unfold.

Once the walls fell, the Prince would be forced to make a swift decision.

At the same time, Murad needed to provide him with an escape—something to divert his attention and ensure his retreat.

Something significant enough to lure him away.

A sacrifice.

The Prince had sacrificed much to save his dying homeland—his desires, his followers, even his own life.

A final, desperate hope.

But this time, sacrifice alone would not be enough.

Murad lifted his gaze, fixing his eyes on the double-headed eagle banner.

His fist clenched tight.

It had always been deemed an impossible war.

A battle fought under overwhelming disadvantage, where merely preserving their strength was considered a fortune in itself. And yet, they had fought each time, staking their lives on the struggle. Even when others would call it reckless, even when it seemed reckless beyond reason. If they had managed to carve out a path for survival, was that not enough?

He thought so, yet he could not deceive his own body.

Almost collapsing as soon as he dismounted, he barely managed to stagger into his tent. The moment the fabric of the tent concealed him from view, his body crumpled. His trembling lips struggled to exhale, each breath growing heavier beneath the weight of the helmet pressing down on his head. Yet his hands, shaking violently, could not muster the strength to remove it.

There was no strength left.

He had expected this. From the moment he had mounted his horse with wounds left untended, he knew better than anyone that his body would reach its limit. And yet, the sheer loss of control, the inability to command his own limbs, was enough to send him into a spiral of dismay. It felt as if his breath would stop.

Right here. Right now.

At that moment, he felt a hand grasp the ties of his helmet.

A gentle touch, carefully undoing the knot, an unmistakable act of kindness. Slowly, the straps loosened, and the helmet was lifted away. The rush of cool air met his skin, and only then did his ragged, erratic breaths begin to steady. As soon as he regained some sense of calm, he raised his gaze to see the one responsible for the touch.

As expected, Ivania stood before him, watching with eyes filled with concern.

The moment she saw his exposed face, she bit down on her lower lip.

“…So this is why you had your armor and helmet painted red, Your Highness.”

With her words, something dropped to the ground. A soft splatter—drip, drop. He didn’t need to look to know what it was. Blood. Thick, warm droplets seeping from wounds reopened, falling onto the dirt below.

Ivania’s fingers, rough with calluses from years of wielding weapons, traced the bloodstained skin of his cheek.

“How much of this… was truly your intent?”

“All of it was my will.”

“Liar.”

His gaze met her uncharacteristically solemn blue eyes, and at that moment, he closed his own. That was answer enough. She was right.

His original plan had been different. He had not intended to divide his forces so recklessly. His goal had been to preserve what little strength they had, to maintain an equal balance of power by crushing the city-states of central Greece that had joined the battle too late.

But in the end, he had cast that plan aside for one reason alone.

For all the careful conditions he had considered, he had failed to account for his own body.

“Ivania, as a warrior, you must already know the answer. Can I stand on the battlefield again?”

“…At this rate, you may truly fall in battle.”

Fall.

Before, he might have accepted such a fate without hesitation. But now, it was different. The empire’s survival was hanging by a thread. If he collapsed here, everything they had struggled to hold together would be finished in an instant. It was the one outcome that had to be avoided at all costs.

And so, he had no choice but to believe.

To trust those who still followed him, despite the blood he had spilled, despite the countless sacrifices he had made.

“Then we will go to Athens. We will regroup there.”

“You’re not heading straight for Corinth?”

After the battle ended, Murad’s expression remained grim as he assessed the casualties caused by the ambush.

And the more unsettled Murad became, the more anxious his retainers grew. The success of the ambush was, after all, proof of their failure to maintain vigilance. Though the Sultan’s elite troops had managed to rally and repel the enemy despite being caught off guard, Murad found no comfort in that fact. The only reason the Morean army’s ambush had failed was a lack of soldiers. And yet, look at the losses they had suffered.

Unable to contain himself any longer, Murad slammed his fist against the table and rose from his seat.

“No less than three thousand have died.”

His retainers bowed their heads, as if afraid to meet his gaze. Even though they had successfully repelled the ambush, three thousand casualties had been sustained. If not for his leadership, the chaos might have been even greater. That thought made it impossible for Murad to suppress his anger. No—he should not suppress it, even if the target of his fury was himself.

“This was my failure. I entered the battlefield without properly assessing the situation, and in doing so, I made the grave mistake of dividing my forces. Worse still, I failed to realize where the enemy’s true main force was during the ambush.”

And the prince had masterfully led him to that conclusion, even going so far as to feign his own death. Only now, after time had passed, did Murad truly understand the prince’s resolve and how meticulously he had prepared.

Closing his eyes for a moment, Murad retraced the battle from the prince’s perspective.

Even the defectors they had encountered earlier had been a deliberate ploy to deceive him. The first ambush had been deliberately sloppy, soothing them into a false sense of security, while the delayed encirclement of the flanks had been designed to prevent movement from the Sipahi. And finally, pretending to encircle the enemy while secretly holding back the right wing as a reserve force to check the newly arriving Christian reinforcements—

The prince had surely been lurking nearby, waiting for the moment Murad divided his forces to hunt down the scattered remnants.

Enduring humiliation and disgrace without hesitation, solely driven by his unwavering desire to save his homeland.

“But now, the Morean army will unite once again.”

Murad opened his eyes with certainty. Dragases scattered forces would regroup somewhere and resume their resistance. And he had a strong suspicion where that would be.

It was Paliotes, the leader of the Christian forces who had arrived late but earned recognition for helping drive back the Morean army, who finally put Murad’s thoughts into words.

“You believe they will head to Athens?”

Just as Paliotes suspected, Murad had identified Athens as the Morean army’s likely destination. It was a city where the prince still held strong influence in central Greece. Thebes had been another possibility, but remembering that the city harboured little goodwill toward the prince, Murad ruled it out.

Athens. A city of long-standing prosperity, with a significant port and infrastructure. The prince would use it to buy time.

However, before addressing these matters, Murad first needed to rebuke his vassal’s arrogance.

“I do not recall giving you permission to speak.”

“…My apologies…”

“Do my words as Sultan amuse you?”

“….”

Murad had acknowledged Paliotes contributions only to prevent lingering resentment over their setback. But with his sharp gaze, he had closely observed the man’s every action. Anyone harbouring ulterior motives would eventually face punishment—but for now, he delayed his judgment. The losses from the ambush were too severe.

Sensing the Sultan’s displeasure, Paliotes wisely held his tongue, barely managing to avoid overstepping his bounds.

But Murad’s decision remained unchanged.

“Wicked Christians, you will surely pay for the lives of those three thousand.”

Murad clenched his right fist tightly, hidden from the eyes of others. However, a more pressing matter had just presented itself, demanding his attention. Constantine Dragases.

Through this ambush, Murad had come to a bitter realization—only Dragases could truly oppose the might of the Ottomans. He wondered if it was mere coincidence that he recalled the words spoken about Dragases by the soldier he’d encountered in Nemeapatre.

This too may be a trial from God; we will prove to the heavens that we are worthy of His choice through our own efforts.

“A trial bestowed by God…”

Under normal circumstances, he would have laughed at the absurdity. How ridiculous, for one who rejects the will of God to speak of divine trials. But Murad could no longer dismiss it so easily. Those who fail to overcome their trials are unworthy of fulfilling prophecy’s promise. As the heat of his anger slowly began to cool, a cold and ruthless instinct whispered within him.

Dragases, are you the trial that God has sent me?

He had vowed long ago to crush Dragases, to topple the final hope of the millennium-old empire. And the more he pursued that goal, the more he understood why Dragases was called the last hope. A knight and a king, a figure who could unite people on the battlefield and in spirit. A miraculous last hope for those resigned to ruin.

Thus, he would let him go.

He would allow the prince to lead his followers into Athens.

“We will advance slowly, mending the losses from the ambush at our own pace—slow enough to give the prince ample time to enter Athens.”

Everyone present signaled their agreement, except for Paliotes, who looked bewildered, unable to comprehend the Sultan’s reasoning. Was he planning a siege? Paliotes confusion was justified—this was different from the usual course of action. Yet Murad showed no sign of hesitation.

With a devout silence, his eyes alight with a cold, burning flame, Murad calmly took his seat.

Go on, retreat into your fortress.

No matter how high your walls may be, they cannot protect you from the Sultan’s wrath.

The development was nothing short of perfect.

Even Murad, who possessed keen insight and tenacity, had ultimately been deceived.

How many sacrifices had been made to achieve this? Of course, it was gratifying. The surge of triumph was undeniable. At last, as the battlefield unfolded according to his will, the prince nearly lost even his greatest weapon—his negative judgment. He even entertained the thought that perhaps now was the time to put an end to this battle.

To reach this point, he had concealed his very survival, even from his own soldiers. He had deliberately discouraged his people, sending them into Murad’s hands to preserve his remaining strength. Not only that, but to divert Murad’s attention in a direction far from the main force, he had sacrificed hundreds of soldiers as mere pawns.

Even that had not been enough. To exploit Murad’s suspicion of feints, he had deliberately initiated the first attack with a feeble arrow volley. He had even delayed the encirclement of the Sipahis on purpose, drawing them into the fight.

He had fought so hard for victory.

Just once—just this once—could he not claim a great triumph?

But excessive greed only invited disaster.

Tearing himself away from the lingering temptation, the prince turned his gaze to the battlefield—a place where life after life was coming to an end. Only then did he steady himself, calmly resuming his command.

“Relay to Ivania to push the troops forward. We must not give them a chance to rescue the Sipahis.”

The infantry under Ivania’s command served as the anvil to pin down the enemy’s main force. Now was the moment when the ferocious assault on the extracted Sipahis was taking place. They could not afford to allow the enemy to regroup and withdraw without gain.

And now, the immense resources poured into equipping his troops were paying off. How could he not feel proud to see his soldiers standing their ground against the mighty Ottoman army, an accomplishment no one in Europe had easily achieved?

A formation of pikes, reinforced by heavy infantry guarding its vulnerable flanks—a simple, steadfast strategy. Yet, the stronger the soldiers’ training and the higher the quality of their equipment, the more formidable this formation became.

The Ottomans, mostly light infantry, had been caught off guard by the ambush and were unable to fully leverage their numerical advantage. This was a historic day—the first time the Morean army had gained the upper hand in open battle after enduring nothing but retreats and defeats.

Yet, despite the infantry’s success, the most crucial role in this battle still belonged to the knights.

The Sipahis had been created precisely to counter Western Europe’s powerful knights. Even the mighty Ottomans had been forced to acknowledge the martial prowess of these warriors. It was only fitting to use the knights against them. And now, with the Sipahis entangled, soldiers wielding massive, scythe-like weapons closed in, accelerating their attrition.

Ordinarily, the prince himself would have clashed with the Sipahis. But this time, another figure had taken his place.

“I told you to bow your heads, you infidel scum!”

A bold knight, tossing aside his broken lance and drawing his sword. A man with an easy confidence, one who called the prince his cousin without hesitation, now demonstrated his courage on the battlefield. Just before speed clashed against speed, he twisted his blade with skillful precision, beheading his enemy with effortless ease—his wealth of experience evident in every motion.

Just keep going.

A rare smile crossed the prince’s lips, unable to suppress his satisfaction. If things continued as they were, crushing the mighty Ottoman army in a decisive victory would no longer seem impossible. Even the prince himself briefly allowed such a thought to take root—let alone the others.

However, ever aligned to danger, the prince swiftly noticed the subtle shifts in the battlefield.

Ivania’s advance had slowed compared to the initial ambush. The Ottomans, who had previously been in complete disarray, were now forming ranks. Their movements were becoming precise, like interlocking gears turning in perfect coordination. The prince trembled, his shoulders quivering as he gazed up at the moonless night sky.

“Even a single victory, gained by a mere stroke of luck, is not permitted…”

A commander forced to retreat from a battle that seemed all but won—what greater disgrace was there? Cursing himself, the prince clenched his reins. Not yet. But once the Ottomans had fully regained control, even the opportunity for retreat would be lost. Now, while they still held the advantage, while they could still be sure the enemy would not give chase—this was the perfect moment to withdraw.

One final strike—then a swift retreat.

Unlike before, the prince donned his bloodstained helmet, raising his lance high as he bellowed from the depths of his chest:

“We launch our final assault now. We will drive them back in one decisive strike and then withdraw! Adriano on the right flank must remain alert for any possible ambush!”

His teeth ground together in frustration, the sound grating in his ears. Though his helmet concealed his expression, everyone understood his feelings.

Even so, his voice remained firm.

“And I shall lead the final charge.”

A roar erupted in response, and with that, the prince spurred his horse forward. Having kept himself in reserve precisely for such a moment, there was no allied force blocking his path. Like a force drawn irresistibly into the enemy’s flank, the prince and his knights surged forward. He caught a glimpse of their shocked expressions, but he did not hesitate. His lance was already leveled at them.

—BOOM!

Piercing through multiple bodies, the prince cast aside his broken lance and drew his sword. With a single swing, another head was sent flying.

The imperial banner had long since been raised high. The twin-headed eagle, symbolizing both the empire and his lineage, now fluttered in the midst of battle—a message in itself. The same message Murad had once sent when he deceived them by concealing his elite guard and his banner.

If you can do it, so can I.

The battlefield resounded with cries of panic. The return of the supposedly dead prince shattered the enemy’s morale. The Ottomans, who had barely managed to restore their ranks, faltered once more. Seeking to deepen their disarray, the prince scanned the battlefield for the enemy commander’s banner.

And at that moment, his gaze locked onto a man exuding an undeniable presence.

A figure clad in garments adorned with disciplined luxury, radiating the confidence of a true warrior. Even in this dire situation, he remained calm, surveying the battlefield with keen eyes, adapting and commanding with unwavering composure.

Among all the men the prince had ever known, only one could display such unshakable resolve.

And the prince immediately recognized him.

“Murad…!”

The prince found himself in a dilemma.

Should he charge at Murad now, gambling everything on a decisive strike? Or should he retreat as planned, waiting for his trap to tighten further?

The answer was already decided.

The prince stared at Murad for a while before finally turning his horse around and withdrawing. At the same time, shouts carrying his intent echoed across the battlefield.

—”Retreat! Retreat!”

It was around this moment that another presence emerged beneath the dark night sky. Knowing exactly who they were, the prince felt a bitter taste in his mouth. Even as he oversaw the rear guard of his retreating army, ensuring they wouldn’t be pursued, he couldn’t help but let out a sigh.

“So this is the limit after all.”

—”Retreat! Retreat!”

The call repeated over and over, urging those reluctant to abandon their victory to withdraw. The prince watched for a long time as the new forces in the distance approached before finally raising his voice himself.

“The battle is over! Retreat! I command all of you—retreat!”

—”Retreat! Retreat!”

Like an echo bouncing off unseen walls, the order eventually moved the soldiers. Setting aside their lingering regrets and unfulfilled hopes, the Morean army slowly began its withdrawal. Though the surprised Ottoman forces hurriedly reorganized and attempted pursuit, their shattered Sipahi and scattered infantry were insufficient for the task. Even Murad seemed to recognize this and refrained from sending the Sipahi after them.

Fortunately, the newly arrived forces did not recklessly close in. Realizing that the right wing, led by Adrianos, remained intact, the  Greeks merely kept their distance and steadily moved to join the Sultan’s camp. Watching them, the prince muttered to himself in a low voice.

“One day…”

One day, I will return before you all as a brilliant hope—one that no one will ever doubt.

—”Retreat! Retreat!”

The final cries rang out for the last of the lingering soldiers. Only then did the Morean army fully let go of their longing for victory.

Only one man, the prince himself, still held onto the embers of his burning passion despite the grim battlefield.

The battle was over.

But the war was not.

With that thought repeating in his mind, the prince finally turned his back on the battlefield.

At the time when Murad’s forces clashed with the prince’s army…

Not far from the battlefield where the fate of the nation was being decided, three thousand soldiers stood atop a hill, unnoticed by either side. The Greek officers leading them had come to a realization—their intervention, at the right time and place, could change the tide of battle entirely. In short, they were observing the situation, waiting to see which side would gain the upper hand.

Under the pretense of hunting down scattered remnants, they had distanced themselves from the main battlefield, securing an opportunity to tip the scales. There were few as relaxed as they were at this moment. With blood being spilled and cries of agony echoing through the air, they savoured the scene like fine wine, contemplating their next move—a luxury afforded by their years of experience.

It had always been this way.

They were the ones who had to welcome new conquerors in place of fallen governments. Those who, amidst shifting tides, had to decide where to point their blades to protect their lives, wealth, and families.

They were the true power behind the city-states of central Greece, the very reason they had maintained independence between the empire and the Ottomans. These were men who had long grown accustomed to watching blood pour from headless bodies and ever ready to throw themselves into danger when needed.

And now, even these men had gathered under a single leader—a middle-aged man who hid an unrecognized passion within his calculating gaze: Paliotes. Each of the city-state rulers smiled at him with gratitude.

“Paliotes, thanks to your timely counsel, we were able to pull back from that hellish battlefield. I don’t even know how to begin expressing my gratitude.”

“It was only natural. Are we not bound together by fate?”

“Indeed, we share a common destiny.”

Amidst their satisfied laughter, Paliotes and his allies never took their eyes off the battlefield. Missing even the smallest clue could mean failing to discern which way the battle was turning. Normally, their influence would have been too insignificant to even consider swaying the battle. But a single unforeseen variable had changed the equation. And only Paliotes had been granted the knowledge to see through the veil concealing the truth.

Distant clashes of steel and shouts of war echoed across the land. The air was thick with the fear of death and the frenzy of slaughter, all justified in the name of honor and conviction. With every breath of this battlefield’s intoxicating air, Paliotes felt his heart race. Like the others, he closed his eyes, as if savouring the ominous heat of battle.

But what filled his mind was not the battlefield.

It was a single man.

Each time he closed his eyes, the memory surfaced vividly.

The night after the battle began, when everything under the sky had vanished into shadow, one figure alone had emerged from the darkness. When Paliotes first heard that this man had summoned him, his reaction had been pure disdain.

“Dragaš… dares to summon me?”

He had agreed to the meeting for one reason alone. As soon as he learned of the Janissaries’ annihilation, he had moved swiftly to stabilize the shaken Ottoman command. The most crucial task was to delay the Morean army’s retreat for as long as possible.

Rather than engage in a hopeless fight with their diminished forces, stalling through negotiations was the wiser choice. But for that to work, the other side had to show interest in talks as well.

Fortunately, with the prince’s fall, that condition had been met.

Thus, Paliotes assumed that the prince, now cornered, had hastily sent envoys seeking peace.

But peace had never been an option.

Not even if they all perished here.

The massacre at Nemeapatre had already spread throughout Greece. How could they possibly make peace with a man who had thrown thousands, perhaps tens of thousands, into the flames just to halt Murad’s advance? His burning resentment had turned to confusion in an instant.

The shadowed figure approached, limping, without even a single attendant to support him. He had received no proper medical treatment, his body wrapped in blood-soaked bandages, his armor stained and dirty under the faint moonlight.

At that moment, Paliotes knew exactly who stood before him.

“Dragaš.”

Who in the Balkans did not know that name?

The final hope of a dying land.

The last defender.

The lone lighthouse standing against the stormy sea.

But Paliotes refused to accept such sentiments.

How could a man who used innocent lives as bait for fire attacks be called hope?

If that was truly the case, then perhaps it would have been better if hope had never existed at all.

Yet even as these scornful thoughts filled his mind, he found himself unable to voice them.

Before him stood a man utterly wrecked by war.

His complexion was drained of life, his eyelids heavy as if they might close at any moment. His lips, slightly parted, struggled to draw breath. His armor was drenched in blood, its source unknown.

Could this wretched figure truly be the prince Dragaš?

No noble figure Paliotes had ever seen had come to a negotiation in such a state. It was not only a matter of respect for the other party but also an opportunity to present themselves in a manner befitting their honor and glory. But Dragaš was different. He had arrived just as he had emerged from the battlefield, still bearing the marks of brutal struggle, standing before Paliotes without pretension.

After exhaling a breath laced with pain, Dragaš finally lifted his head and spoke.

“Are you the commander?”

“And you must be Dragaš.”

“I won’t waste words. Deliver this message to the Sultan—tell him we have been defeated.”

“There’s no need for that. If I capture you here, it’s over. No, in the first place, there was no need to burn Nemeapatre.”

Paliotes did not trust the empire. Given its history, his skepticism was entirely justified. And because of that, his loathing for Dragaš—the so-called last hope of the empire—was all the greater.

“Why did you burn Nemeapatre to the ground? Was your country truly worth such a sacrifice? Were you so desperate for the throne? Was Rome’s so-called glory so precious that the lives of thousands meant nothing to you?”

The questions Paliotes threw at him were the same questions everyone had for Dragaš. Some accepted his decisions as necessary; others could never forgive them.

“Is the empire truly so important? Do the rulers not see the fallen beneath their feet, blinded by their supposed glory? If that is what an emperor is—someone who drinks the blood of innocents for his own greed—then you are no different. A demon who would cast others into the fires of hell for power!”

At last, the prince answered.

“The power of man was far too insignificant.”

“What nonsense are you spouting?”

“A man’s hands are too small to hold onto everything. No matter how tightly one grasps, everything slips away like grains of sand.”

Dragaš clenched his right hand into a fist. Slowly, but firmly.

“So I had to let go of some things, one by one. So that even if some slipped through, I wouldn’t lose my grip entirely.”

At that moment, Paliotes saw something different in the battered prince. He understood why people called him the last hope.

“The old glory that was lost—”

The prince no longer cared about the honor once associated with the name of Rome.

“I will not loosen this grip as long as it is to protect the sovereignty and freedom of those who follow me.”

“…”

“Even if I must burn cities, even if I must set the world itself ablaze… even if tens of thousands of lives stain the cross I bear—if, at the end of it all, peace remains for those who follow me, then I will do so without hesitation. That is my answer to you.”

—Unconsciously, Paliotes’ hand, gripping his horse’s reins, trembled.

Lost in deep reminiscence, Paliotes opened his eyes once more. Now, he understood why the prince was considered the last hope. He now knew that Dragaš was a man willing to give everything for the empire.

And yet—

“It’s time. Time to serve the Sultan.”

—Once distrust takes root, it does not fades so easily.

The moment the prince’s fate became uncertain, Murad lost the momentum he had displayed until now.

The one he wished to fight was the man heralded as the last hope of a thousand-year empire—not some insignificant lieutenants lacking even a shred of fame. The only consolation was that, despite Murad’s open disappointment, discipline within the army remained unshaken. In fact, his troops burned with even greater resolve. The best example of this was the Greek officers who had joined them late.

“Your Majesty, now that the enemy has scattered, this is the perfect opportunity to annihilate them completely. We humbly request permission to lead a detachment and exterminate the fleeing remnants.”

Their request was reasonable. Having hesitated before pledging allegiance, they now sought to prove their worth and secure some measure of standing in Murad’s favour. More importantly, deploying them meant preserving his own core forces. There was no reason to refuse.

“Very well, I grant you the opportunity.”

“We are deeply, profoundly grateful for the Sultan’s boundless generosity.”

Thus, three thousand Christian soldiers, having volunteered for the task, set out to hunt down the remaining enemy forces. As Murad watched their eager departure, he considered the consequences of his decision.

If they succeeded, it would serve as undeniable proof that central Greece had submitted entirely to his authority. If they suffered losses, he could use their protection as a pretext to station troops, further pressuring Venice.

A campaign, with all its immense costs, must bring not one, but multiple gains in a single stroke. As a ruler, Murad reassured himself that he had chosen the most efficient course of action. It was a sound decision. Yet, as he issued orders, his voice carried an uncharacteristic laziness.

“Establish fortifications. This will be the final opportunity for those who have yet to declare their submission.”

Even if the prince was dead, Murad had no intention of loosening the noose that had been placed around his neck. He would leave no room for doubt or resistance. He vowed again and again. By stationing his forces and conducting a silent show of strength, he would press the cities of central Greece into casting off Morea’s influence completely.

With that, Murad’s army moved swiftly to construct their base. Engineers led the way, erecting wooden wall, while tents rose upon leveled ground. The resulting fortress-like stronghold was as solid as any permanent fortification. Inspecting its completion, Murad eventually made his way to his quarters.

His mind was restless.

Seated on the edge of his bed, he muttered mockingly about the man he had once regarded as his greatest adversary.

“No matter how exceptional one’s abilities or how unyielding one’s will, in the end, all unfolds according to Allah’s will.”

The prophecy would be fulfilled. The will of God had already determined the outcome. Against such forces, human resistance was pitiful and insignificant.

And yet…

What was this lingering regret and unease stirring in his chest? The same thoughts ran over and over in his mind. Shaking his head, Murad finally closed his eyes.

—

How much time had passed?

When Murad opened his eyes again and turned his head, the world outside his tent had already been swallowed by darkness. A sharp gust of cold wind brushed against his face. Sitting there in a daze, he soon realized sleep had completely abandoned him.

A breath of fresh air. That was what he needed.

Stepping outside, he found the night utterly still. The full moon had vanished, leaving only the torchlights flickering along the perimeter of the camp.

A peaceful night.

Aside from the hushed whispers of a few soldiers, the atmosphere within the encampment was the very image of an ideal army—rigid discipline, watchful eyes scanning the surroundings, patrols moving in tight formations, ready to fight at a moment’s notice.

And yet, an inexplicable unease gnawed at Murad.

“…Am I simply lacking sleep?”

Pressing his fingers against his forehead, he turned to head back into his tent—

Then he heard it.

A sound concealed beneath the crackling of fire. The wail of the wind.

A strangely familiar sensation…

His narrowed eyes barely had time to register the thought before a sharp, metallic clang shattered the night.

— Tchaang! Ching!

A split second later, the unmistakable whistle of arrows slicing through the air reached his ears. Soldiers collapsed the moment the projectiles found their mark.

Murad’s lips twisted into a smirk.

“A raid, is it?”

So this was the desperate measure they resorted to when backed into a corner. Murad could not help but pity the prince once more. Had he been surrounded by more experienced and capable officers, he would never have needed to take to the battlefield himself. And now, these incompetent fools, who had already sentenced their lord to death, were offering up his final hope in one last, futile act of defiance.

How could he not pity them?

Without hesitation, Murad strode toward the direction from which the arrows had been fired. The enemy seemed to be reloading, as no further shots followed. But now that their presence had been revealed, preparation was necessary. The soldiers raised their shields, staring into the darkness.

It was then that a lieutenant turned his head, startled by Murad’s presence so close to the front lines.

“Your Majesty, why have you come here—”

“Enough. What are the casualties? How much damage has been sustained?”

“It was a sudden ambush, so we expected severe losses, but… the enemy force appears much smaller than anticipated. Only a dozen or so have been wounded.”

“A feint, then.”

Murad had considered the possibility of a large-scale attack, but the minimal casualties suggested otherwise. Were they merely trying to draw attention? If so, the delay between volleys indicated they had used inexperienced soldiers as bait. A pitiful, crude tactic. Worse still, now that their plan had been uncovered, they would have to brace for near-total annihilation.

If they had launched this assault without fully accepting that risk, they did not even deserve mercy.

They were mere beasts, willing to throw away lives for the sake of their own petty self-indulgence.

Murad immediately surveyed the area and gave his command.

“It’s a diversion. Reverse formation at once. The real attack will come from the rear.”

“As the Sultan wills.”

The moment the order was given, the entire camp was filled with the sound of loud instruments. Murad, having already guessed the direction from which the enemy’s main force would strike, turned his body toward it. How many still followed the prince’s lieutenants? No matter how numerous they were, they would still be nothing more than a handful compared to his own army.

Mounting the horse that his attendant had brought, Murad spurred it forward, galloping swiftly toward the other side.

He had nearly arrived when—

Clang! Clang! Clang!

Just like during the initial ambush, the sharp clash of steel rang out, and a group of men burst forth from the darkness. They were heavily armored infantry clad in chainmail—undoubtedly the remnants of Morea’s shattered forces. They had crept forward in silence, suppressing even their war cries in an attempt at stealth, but their armor betrayed them. The resounding noise rendered their efforts meaningless.

For now, a skirmish had broken out due to the Ottomans being caught off guard, but once the army fully reversed its formation, the enemy would be crushed in an instant—mere grains of sand against the tide.

Murad gently stroked his horse’s mane and slowly closed his eyes.

This was the final stronghold.

As the Sultan of the Ottomans, as a commander witnessing assured victory, and as a warrior who had longed for a battle with his greatest foe—Murad’s judgment was sound. There was only one fundamental flaw in his reasoning.

And if one assumption was wrong, no amount of effort could lead to the correct answer.

A deafening roar erupted from behind.

Murad’s mind went blank.

The enemy before him was already on the brink of annihilation, so how could such a fierce and resolute battle cry arise from their ranks?

No—was there even a commander left on their side capable of rallying morale like this?

As questions flooded his mind, a single thought flashed through him—his own strategy.

Separating the Janissaries, concealing his position by avoiding banners—his own stratagem for deception.

But what was more effective at hiding one’s location than death itself?

A flicker of realization returned to Murad’s vacant gaze.

As he hastily scanned the battlefield, it was already too late.

From the direction of the earlier ambush, a contingent of well-drilled Morean soldiers was advancing, their spears leveled against the Ottoman army’s exposed rear.

Leading them, of course, was the most battle-hardened commander remaining in Morea—a golden-haired, blue-eyed mercenary captain.

“Advance! Drive them back! Press the attack!”

Even if Morea lacked experience and skilled officers, they had one decisive advantage—the superior armament of their soldiers.

Ottoman troops, struggling to form a proper defensive line against the sudden assault, began to fall one by one.

The agonized screams and cries of the dying sent a surge of adrenaline through Murad’s veins.

“Send the Sipahi to the right flank. Cut them down.”

He clenched his teeth, but he would not lose his composure.

Even through the rising fury, his mind remained cold and calculating.

The enemy had formed a pincer maneuver, attempting to encircle his forces, but their formation was not yet complete.

The Sipahi cavalry on the flanks were still intact. If they could strike before the trap was fully sprung, they could break through.

The Sultan’s command was relayed instantly.

The Sipahi, led by scouting parties, mounted their horses in haste and charged across the battlefield.

But as if they had been waiting for this moment, another force emerged.

“The King’s cousin is here! Bow your heads before him!”

Knights.

Western Europe’s living war machines—renowned for their devastating charges and formidable combat prowess.

The Sipahi, trained specifically to counter them, collided with the enemy cavalry in a brutal clash that stalled their advance.

To make matters worse, some of the approaching infantry suddenly shifted off course, rushing to reinforce the knights and ensure the Sipahi were tied down.

It was only then that Murad realized—this was no mere ambush.

The enemy’s true target had been the Sipahi all along.

And there was only one man capable of orchestrating such a maneuver.

His suspicions were confirmed by the desperate cry that rang out across the battlefield.

“Dragaš! Dragaš is there!”

At that moment, Murad instinctively turned his head—

And his eyes met those of a knight atop a horse.

The figure was clad in bloodstained crimson armour, their face hidden by a helmet.

Yet as soon as their eyes met, Murad knew.

---

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Murad, having vowed to personally defeat the prince, took actions befitting that oath.

With his main force—now reinforced with 5,000 fresh troops, alongside 3,000 slave soldiers, 2,000 Sipahi cavalry, and 1,000 Janissaries—he launched a relentless pursuit. There was no one to stand in his way. The Morean army, already fleeing after losing their commander, had no means to resist his advance.

Thus, as he passed through Nemea and smoothly entered central and southern Greece, Murad witnessed something unexpected—his own Janissaries retreating in disarray. The legend of his undefeated army had been shattered. Worse still, blinded by a moment of glory, the Janissaries had defied the sultan’s direct orders. With nothing but shame, they bowed their heads.

“We have broken military law and will cleanse our dishonor with death.”

The Janissaries, seeking to atone through death, awaited their punishment. But instead of chastising them, Murad chose to show them mercy. Without a moment’s hesitation, he granted them his pardon.

“The shame you feel is punishment enough. Do not forget it—carry it into battle.”

His mercy had the intended effect—it reignited the warriors’ pride. As Murad watched them burn with renewed determination, a satisfied smile crossed his lips. Having endured heavy losses since the start of the war, his army desperately needed a spark to restore morale. And as if in answer to his silent wish, reinforcements arrived—not just remnants of defeated forces but also soldiers from cities in central Greece, now swearing loyalty to the sultan.

With this, Murad restored his army’s strength. Now, he commanded nearly 10,000 troops: 2,000 Janissaries, 3,000 slave soldiers, 2,000 Sipahi cavalry, and an additional 3,000 Christian support who had joined his ranks.

Even Murad, determined never to let his guard down, felt a brief flicker of awe at his overwhelming advantage. His soldiers, too, understood their dominance, yet their discipline remained unshaken. The massacre at Nemeapatre had only deepened their hatred for the prince.

What was this so-called “Thousand-Year Empire” that it would commit such atrocities? To the Ottoman soldiers, especially those from Rumelia, the empire was nothing but a weak, corrupt relic of the past—not something worthy of their loyalty. This sentiment only intensified their resolve.

Amid these developments, Murad, who had so far only received fragmented reports, summoned the Greek officers who had most recently clashed with the prince.

“I have read the reports, but I need to hear the details from you. Speak without a single falsehood.”

Only then did Murad learn how the prince had fallen.

Upon hearing that the prince had led just a hundred knights against the Janissaries and emerged victorious, Murad let out an involuntary sound of admiration. However, just three days after that hard-fought triumph, the sultan’s Christian supporters launched a surprise attack on the weary Morean army, exhausted from their forced marches. Fierce skirmishes erupted everywhere, with neither side able to secure a decisive advantage.

Then, once more, the prince personally led his knights, directing charge after charge with unmatched precision and boldness. With sharp judgment, fearless decisions, and his own martial prowess, he systematically repelled the sultan’s forces.

Defeat seemed certain. As the battle tipped toward utter despair, the Greek officers could only watch in horror, their faces dark with hopelessness.

“It was precisely at that moment that Prince Dragaš fell. He suddenly lost his balance and was thrown from his horse. The enemy was so stunned that, despite the battle seeming lost, we managed to snatch victory at the last moment.”

Hearing the Greek officer’s account, Murad could not hide his sorrow. Why had the prince fallen just before securing a hard-earned victory? The answer came with the officer’s next words.

“We believe exhaustion was the cause. The timing was… remarkable.”

“Exhaustion, you say…”

Murad slowly nodded. It was a reasonable conclusion. No one could deny the prince’s frugality, austerity, and tireless diligence. Even Murad himself had heard much about his ceaseless devotion to governance. No matter how iron-willed a man might be, relentless fatigue compounded by fierce battles would push anyone past their limits. No human, no matter how exceptional, could escape the constraints of the flesh.

Yet reason and instinct spoke in contradiction.

Something—whether his emotions or a deeper instinct—urged Murad to keep following the prince’s trail. Had he not hastened southward precisely to prevent the Morean army from entrenching itself? If he could intercept them at the Isthmus of Corinth before they reached Athens, the truth of the prince’s fate would become undeniable.

“Even so, the remnants still pose a threat. We must eradicate them completely to restore stability.”

“As the Sultan wills.”

And so, Murad continued his pursuit of the Morean army—to put a definitive end to the prince, should he still live. But as the gap between them closed, Murad was forced to confront reality. The further he advanced, the more frequently he encountered Morean deserters.

“Could it really be…”

Surrounded by Ottoman soldiers, the deserters surrendered without resistance. They relinquished their weapons in silence, their faces clouded with resignation. There was no trace of defiance, no clenched fists trembling with suppressed rage, no eyes burning with the desperate determination to save their dying homeland.

Murad felt a deep disappointment—but he could not bring himself to halt the pursuit.

Yet the reports from his scouts and trackers painted a bleak picture. The remnants of the Morean army had begun scattering in all directions. Only a few small groups displayed any will to resist; the rest had abandoned the fight entirely.

At last, Murad could no longer trust his own instincts.

If the prince still lived, surely among his men there would be at least one warrior who would stand firm, one soul who would cry out with the same unwavering spirit as that nameless soldier Murad had faced a month prior. Surely, they would not be scattering like this.

Murad lifted his gaze to the sky and allowed his bitter thoughts to escape aloud.

“Is he truly dead?”

There was no one beside him to answer.

Another month had passed since the news spread that Nemeapatre was ablaze, the Janissaries who had threatened the prince had been defeated, and the prince himself had fallen in battle, unable to withstand the assault.

During this time, supplies, including food, were transported by the relatively intact coastal fleets of Asia Minor, which had survived the recent naval battle against Venice. Naturally, this made a certain presence impossible to ignore—like a thorn lodged in the throat—due to its strategic significance in maritime transportation. With a map of Rumelia (the Balkans) spread out before him, Murad openly displayed his displeasure.

“Thessalonica. Even in this state, it refuses to move.”

To Christians, it might have held some significance, but to the Muslim Murad, there was only one reason to focus on Thessalonica: it was the second most crucial strategic point for controlling the Aegean Sea, after Gallipoli.

Situated precisely in the western midsection of the Aegean, Thessalonica functioned as the empire’s second-largest trading hub after Constantinople, capitalizing on its geographical advantage. Even the weak-willed Mehmed had imposed tributes from Thessalonica to pressure it, making further explanation unnecessary.

Naturally, this also made it a point of contention between the Ottomans and Venice.

The Ottomans sought to develop a navy to challenge for supremacy over the Aegean, while Venice was desperate to maintain its dominance and expand its colonies. Thessalonica, where neither side had yet gained an overwhelming upper hand, had become a disputed territory.

This was why Murad viewed his current campaign as an opportunity to bring Thessalonica into his grasp. He believed that if the empire or Morea were in crisis, Thessalonica, which had always remained isolated, would finally be forced to act.

Was it foolishness, or had it simply seen through his intentions?

Either way, the ruler of Thessalonica did not move as Murad had expected. Even as the empire crumbled, Morea was shattered, and even upon hearing that his own brother had perished in battle. Unexpectedly, the same was true for Epirus, a puppet state supposedly established by the prince. Though Murad had not encountered them at Nemeapatre, his forces had clashed with the prince’s troops multiple times, allowing him to grasp the true composition of their army.

It was purely Morea’s forces—nothing else. The prince had not even reached out to his puppet state, Epirus. After some contemplation, Murad arrived at a single conclusion. If his thoughts were correct, then the prince had truly made a desperate sacrifice, holding on to a sliver of possibility in the bleakest of circumstances.

“So all of these strategies and resistance were merely a move to conceal his final strength.”

The war was beginning to show signs of dragging on far longer than Murad had anticipated. Though the prince was dead, his followers still remained, and to achieve his original goal, Morea had to be utterly destroyed.

If the remnants of Morea’s forces managed to retreat into the fortresses the prince had prepared in advance, the attrition would only grow worse. The moment they crossed the Isthmus of Corinth, Murad’s original objective would become unattainable.

Meanwhile, as he was forced into prolonged and inefficient warfare, the strength Morea had stockpiled would inevitably shift to Epirus. In the end, Morea would be reduced to ashes, but the empire would merely replace it with Epirus, allowing the cycle of tiresome resistance to continue. Even if Murad wanted to turn his forces against Epirus immediately, the political landscape of the Balkans made it impossible—because of Venice.

The Ottomans and Venice had already clashed once over Durazzo. If the Ottomans were to seize control of Epirus now, it would undoubtedly raise Venice’s suspicions. In an extreme scenario, Venice might even impose a complete naval blockade on the Ottomans.

Given that the Ottoman fleet had yet to fully recover from its previous defeat, provoking Venice any further was unwise. But the most chilling realization was what these facts implied.

It was proof that the Constantine had foreseen all of this—that one day, the Ottoman sultan would reach this exact conclusion.

“Marvelous. Simply marvelous.”

He had intended to intercept the prince at his leisure and he had even succeeded in drawing him out of Morea—only to ultimately move in accordance with the prince’s designs. The battle had returned to square one.

The moment Morea’s remnants succeeded in escaping through the Isthmus of Corinth via Athens, a series of grueling sieges would inevitably follow. To prevent this, Murad now needed to pursue them with all possible speed.

As these thoughts settled, a hollow laugh escaped him. So even this prince, after all, had succumbed to fate? Fate and trials favour heroes. Those beloved by fate do not die easily. They may be bent and broken countless times, yet they rise again. In that moment, Murad heard fate’s whisper.

—The prince is alive.

Logically speaking, it was an absurdly slim possibility. Reports had stated that he had acted as bait, suffered through a chaotic battle where his guard was annihilated, and then fallen while commanding against a sudden assault. Even if he had survived, he was likely clinging to his last breath. And yet, Murad was certain—the prince, somewhere, was leading his forces and devising a plan to defeat the Ottomans, to defeat him.

While contemplating what that plan might be, new figures entered Murad’s office. They were his loyal retainers.

“Sultan, the army from Edirne has arrived.”

“I see… Have you considered what I told you?”

“It was deemed safe, and we implemented it immediately. Preparations are already underway across all of Rumelia to act according to your will, and what is needed for this campaign is being readied as we speak.”

At those words, the sultan smiled quietly. A prince clinging to a fading era and himself, striving to bring in a new one—what could be more fitting as a symbol of this struggle? Slowly, Murad turned south, recalling the vow he had once made in this very place. He had granted a brief relief, allowing his enemy to savour it.

“Your despair is nothing more than the tide of history.”

And he would stand at the forefront of that tide, pursuing the last hope the prince had left behind. Nothing in war is ever certain. Yet at this moment, one truth was undeniable.

The relief was over.

A reckless strategy—drawing the attention of 3,000 Janissaries with only 100 men.

Even the Supreme Commander himself had become the bait in this high-stakes gamble, which ultimately led to Morea’s victory. The excitement of this miraculous triumph refused to decline. Was it truly that desperate a situation in everyone’s eyes?

At the very least, it seemed that this battle had restored the shaken loyalty of the soldiers. After all, the most impactful factor must have been the general personally charging into mortal danger to buy time.

Yet, there was an even more striking achievement.

“Your Highness, I’ve compiled an estimate of our casualties from this battle…”

Adrianos’s expression suggested he had something to say. Why was that? As I pondered, the answer lay closer than expected.

Right beside me, having propped myself up from the bed, clung something even stickier than the blood and fat I had only just managed to wipe off my face.

“Uuuh… Your Highness…”

“…What is this?”

“I should be the one asking. So, was Dame Ivania truly your mistress?”

“Rather than let you misunderstand, I must reveal a shocking truth—you see, I am still a virgin.”

“W-what!?”

Even amid this absurd exchange, Ivania continued rubbing her cheek against mine, like a puppy seeking affection. Normally, I would have coldly dismissed her and sent her away, but right now, I didn’t feel like doing that.

No matter how bizarre my first impression of her had been, she had stayed by my side, faithfully serving me for nearly a decade. Surely, she deserved some form of acknowledgment for her devotion.

Perhaps that was why my demeanor had softened more than usual. Normally, Ivania would hesitate before suddenly ambushing me with her advances, yet this time, she openly indulged in such gestures.

Thinking back, I had been much more relaxed before I began my training. It was remarkable how much a person could change. Even I found it strange.

Adrianos, however, did not seem amused.

“Jokes aside, let’s return to the matter at hand. In this battle, we suffered a relatively minor loss of about 200 casualties. Meanwhile, the enemy sustained close to 2,000. Encouraged by this victory, I suggested we pursue them and expand our gains, but…”

“A chase would cost us time. Adrianos, this war has now become a battle against time. Even if we annihilated all 3,000 Janissaries, if we remain trapped here, the ultimate victory still belongs to them.”

“I understand that, logically. I do. But… it still feels like a waste, does it not? This was a perfect chance to wipe out the Janissaries.”

“Even if we could not kill them all at once, they are nothing more than a piece of flesh we managed to tear off the enemy. It may hurt them more than other wounds, but it’s not enough to overturn the outcome of the war.”

As I continued my grim practicality, Adrianos’s voice only grew louder. Was he losing his temper? Perhaps this was how others viewed Morea as well.

If we can do it, why don’t we? If we have the power, why don’t we go all out?

His eyes reflected those very thoughts. Perhaps he had even voiced what many others dared not speak aloud.

“Why do you so severely underestimate yourself? Look around you! Have you not already proven yourself? You stopped 3,000 with just 100 men. After such an incredible feat, how can you still lack confidence?!”

His emotions struck me head-on. He clenched his fists, trembling with frustration, barely restraining himself out of respect for his liege.

Should I say something?

As I hesitated, carefully weighing my words, a voice interrupted his near-explosive fury.

“Only those who have never fought on the frontlines would spout such nonsense. Are you truly upset about this? Or do you still not understand?”

“You—!”

The one who spoke was already infamous within the army.

Despite Morea’s weakened state, he brazenly addressed a member of the royal family as ‘cousin.’ While his lack of decorum was one thing, what truly made him stand out was that he had survived until the end.

His courage and martial prowess were undeniable, and since I personally allowed him to call me ‘cousin,’ few dared to object.

“Hey, cousin. I thought something was off when you burst into tears the moment you saw me… So, were you really in that kind of relationship with that mercenary commander?”

“Enough nonsense. I called you here because it’s time you introduced yourself properly.”

“Your Highness, do you truly intend to acknowledge this man as your cousin?”

“I’m not saying I will make him a member of the royal family. I simply wish to recognize him as a friend whom I can call cousin.”

“You seem a little too agitated… Hey, you. If you truly believe you’ve gauged the full strength of the infidels just by facing the Janissaries that the mercenary commander shattered into pieces, then… Have you forgotten what had to be risked to accomplish that?”

“I was prepared to risk my life from the very start—”

“Where would you even use your life for? Look, you’ve already forgotten. What was at stake in this battle was the life of the lord you serve.”

With those words, the cousin cast off his helmet. His black, curly hair, just long enough to brush against his shoulders, and his dark, piercing eyes—covered in black from head to toe, even with curly hair—made it hard to say there was no resemblance. It was a useless thought, one he hadn’t entertained in a long time.

As Constantine silently observed the situation, still feeling the soft touch of Ivania’s cheek pressing against his own, the fight seemed to end before it even truly began.

The words just spoken must have struck a nerve, as Adriano’s twisted expression shattered. And the satisfaction of seeing that must have been immense, for the cousin grinned in deep contentment before turning back to face Constantine.

“Don Francisco. I fought in the crusade to reclaim the Iberian Peninsula.”

“Castile? Aragon?”       *They are kingdoms in Spain.

“Aragonian. But at some point, the fighting started to die down. I had no interest in lands or titles, so I started looking for another worthy crusade to join. That’s how I ended up all the way here in Greece.”

“So… Castile and Aragon show no particular interest in Greece?”

“Well, now that things are settling down, they do seem to be turning their attention abroad. But this place won’t be easy. As long as Venice dominates the Aegean, maritime expansion won’t be simple, will it?”

The cousin shrugged. He wasn’t particularly handsome, nor ruggedly charming, but his confident smile and easygoing manner drew people in. Meanwhile, Adriano, quietly gauging the situation, slipped out of the tent. He seemed lost in thought. It was slightly concerning, but now wasn’t the time. If he spoke carelessly and word reached Murad, everything could come crashing down.

As if to confirm how dangerous their situation was, a messenger burst into the tent in a flurry. A bad feeling stirred. The moment he saw the messenger’s stiffened expression, he was sure—this was a crisis. But at the same time, he instinctively knew it was another opportunity to break the enemy’s momentum.

And the answer, of course, lay in the messenger’s next words.

“A—A critical report, Your Highness! Scouts report that forces have rallied to join the Sultan’s army and are advancing toward us!”

So they’ve finally come. The noose Murad had been tightening was now pressing against his throat. The Sultan would never have willingly sacrificed his Janissaries. If they had delayed even slightly, Morea would have been forced into a brutal struggle against the combined might of the Janissaries and the rebel forces. In the end, it was only by staking their lives on the line that they had carved out a path forward.

Now, it was time to deceive Murad.

As he was deep in contemplation, the cousin suddenly tapped the hilt of his sword and burst into laughter. He glanced over, puzzled, only to see his cousin grinning broadly, amusement dancing in his eyes.

“I used to think my life was full of twists and turns, but looking at you, I can’t even compare. Now this is a turbulent life, wouldn’t you say?”

“…Indeed. A life of endless chaos, as you put it.”

They had fought for their lives and opened a path forward—only to now face inevitable death. Could there be a more ironic and tumultuous fate than this?

---

Thus, three weeks after the prince secured victory against the Janissaries—

As Murad waited in Edirne for his reinforcements to arrive, doing his utmost to stabilize the chaos in Nemeapatre, an unbelievable report reached him.

Had he not just resolved himself for the battles to come? Yet the more details he heard, the harder it became to deny the truth.

One hundred against three thousand. The Janissaries defeated.

And in the fierce melee, the prince had suffered grave injuries. —And seizing the opportunity, another of his vassals had launched a sudden assault.

“I granted you only a brief moment of relief.”

Murad crumpled the letter in his grasp. That man had fought to the bitter end, going so far as to burn an entire city to save his dying homeland. A stubborn prince with an unyielding will. And yet, even the strongest determination meant nothing without Allah’s favour.

For Murad, who had anticipated a fateful reunion with his greatest adversary, a clash born of both hatred and expectation, this was a disappointing end.

“But Allah did not grant you that relief, did He?”

To minimize losses against his three thousand Janissaries, the prince had personally led his knights. And in doing so, he collapsed on the battlefield, paying the price for disregarding his own grievous wounds.

A futile end for a man whose passion far exceeded the destiny allotted to him.

Murad exhaled, letting go of the last vestiges of hope, and accepted the harsh reality before him.

The long-awaited battle with his sworn enemy, a fight of honor—was not to be.

—The prince was dead.

It was the Janissary who ended the struggle first.

By twisting his body and retreating, he rendered my attack futile. I had been striking down with all my might, and with my opponent suddenly gone, my stance collapsed. Staggering forward, I made a swift decision—if I tried to hold my ground, I would die. Instead, I shifted my center of gravity forward and rolled across the ground once more.

Yet instinct whispered—if I didn’t act immediately, I would die.

I grabbed the blade instead of the hilt. Swallowing a breath, I twisted my body and struck out with the hilt.

—Kagak!

The clash of steel against the hilt.

Beyond it, the Janissary’s face twisted with unreadable emotion.

The moment I felt strength returning to my exhausted body, I deflected his blade to the side.

His stance wavered. He stumbled forward.

There wasn’t enough space to reverse my grip and thrust my sword at him.

Instead, I released my left hand from the blade and clenched my fist so tightly that my knuckles cracked.

—PANG!

“Guh…!”

The Janissary staggered, coughing up saliva from the force of the punch to his gut.

I knew the strike had landed cleanly.

Using the brief opening, I leveled my sword at him.

There was no hesitation.

Even if he was among those I had failed to protect, I had too many others left to defend to be shackled by what was already lost.

With my blade still aimed at him, I closed the distance in an instant.

But he wasn’t a Janissary for nothing.

Despite his pain, he lifted his sword and swung.

—KAAAAANG!

The sharp wail of clashing steel rang across the battlefield.

Cleverly, he struck at the center of my blade’s weight with his own, throwing off my trajectory.

But our attacks were evenly matched.

We swung again, aiming to take each other’s lives.

The battle lessened and flowed, a constant push and pull.

Whenever I gained a step forward with strength, I lost one in skill.

But one thing was certain—if this deadlock continued, we would both perish.

Perhaps realizing the same, the Janissary became more aggressive.

I couldn’t afford to retreat either.

If I hoped to survive against an opponent who had resigned himself to mutual destruction, I would inevitably suffer a fatal wound.

Each time our swords clashed, sparks scattered.

Trading blow for blow, we tested our fates on the razor’s edge between life and death.

Then, at last—

Our blades aligned at nearly identical angles.

Steel pressed against steel, locked together in a battle of sheer force.

Step by step, we pushed forward, neither willing to give ground.

It was only now, with our blades so close, that we truly faced each other.

A Janissary wielding his sword in loyalty to the Sultan.

A Christian monarch wielding his sword in defiance of him.

The first to speak, overcome by emotion, was the Janissary.

“You know this fight is meaningless, Your Highness!”

Even as he spoke, he twisted his sword, seeking an opening.

I blocked each shift, answering firmly.

“There is no such thing as a meaningless fight…!”

Upon hearing my response, his hatred deepened.

He had already been fighting with murderous intent, but now his desire to crush me with sheer force surged even more violently.

Yet—I had glimpsed what lay behind that hatred.

The Janissary before me was the very embodiment of the Empire’s weakness.

The despair of those who had already resigned themselves.

Because the Empire was weak, they had lost.

Again and again, they had been taken from.

They were the ones I had failed to protect.

That was why I had to win.

The enemy before me was a man broken by centuries of decline.

A former citizen who once had no choice but to kneel before an overwhelming foe in order to survive.

If I couldn’t overcome even him, how could I hope to defeat my true enemy?

To protect those who remained, I had to sever those already lost.

The long-forgotten glory I had once spoken of no longer mattered.

I—

—I now fight for the sovereignty and freedom of those who follow me.

—KAGAGAGAK!

“…To think you had such strength hidden in that tattered body!”

The sword slowly pressed forward. Twisting the body or deflecting the blow was no longer an option. This time, one of us would surely fall. And if someone had to fall, it would not be me.

I poured the full weight of my life into my blade, bearing down on my opponent. The Janissary’s body, already weakened, gradually began to crumble. The impact to his abdomen from earlier must have resurged, for he was now drenched in cold sweat, his voice breaking into a desperate cry.

“Why!? Why now of all times!?”

I did not answer.

“Why was my parents’ suffering never repaid!?”

It was too late to turn back. No matter what he said, his loyalty lay solely with the Sultan. He may have wavered, but he would never turn his blade against his master. That was what it meant to be a Janissary—an elite force taught only unwavering loyalty and discipline.

I reaffirmed my resolve. And yet—

“Am I not one of your people, Your Highness!? Your Highness!”

For a brief moment, the strength behind my sword faltered. Seizing the opportunity, the Janissary tried to shove my blade away. But the movement only served to clear my mind.

No. He is not one of mine. He is my enemy—the one who threatens my people. He may have doubts, but that is all they are.

His defense was now wide open. This was the moment.

With all my might, I drove my blade downward.

“Kh…! Aaaagh…!”

He tried to stifle his scream, but the pain was too much to bear. His severed right arm fell to the ground, blood splattering across the dirt.

I raised my sword once more, aiming precisely at his chest. It was then that I saw his face, twisted not in fury or hatred, but in sorrow.

Tears spilled from his eyes.

“I… I can no longer believe in people like you.”

“I never asked you to.”

I thrust my sword down.

The blade tore through his ribs, piercing his heart. As I twisted the steel, a sickening scrape of bone echoed in the air, and blood gurgled up, spilling down the fuller of my sword. His eyes widened, caught between pain and disbelief.

To make sure, I drove the blade deeper.

He must have cursed me in his final thoughts—resented me, hated me.

At last, his trembling body went still.

“If heaven exists, then watch from above,” I murmured.

If you have grievances, take them up with the gods.

I pulled my sword free.

Around me, the Janissaries hesitated, slowly stepping back. Corpses littered the battlefield, making it nearly impossible to distinguish friend from foe. Only I and one other knight remained standing.

Our gazes met. His face was hidden behind his helm, but I could tell—he was smiling.

And indeed, his voice, laced with exhilaration and triumph, confirmed it.

“Look behind you, cousin.”

Perhaps it was exhaustion or relief, but my movements felt sluggish. As I turned, my vision shifted—where before I saw only the dead, now I saw the living.

Warriors clad in armor and gripping long spears stood in formation, their tense expressions barely containing the raw emotion threatening to spill forth.

And finally, when I had turned completely—

There she was.

A woman astride a horse, framed by the fluttering banner of the double-headed eagle.

Her golden hair, gleaming under the pristine sky, cascaded past piercing blue eyes filled with joy and deep affection as she gazed down at me.

Tears welled in her eyes, spilling down her cheeks, yet her voice, though trembling, rang clear.

“The enemy is in full retreat, Your Highness.”

At her words, a deafening roar of victory erupted from all around.

It was only then that I truly grasped it.

We had won.

Tears threatened to spill from my own eyes. My grip on my sword tightened.

There was still a chance.

For the first time, I looked up at the sky I had long ignored.

“Vic…tory.”

The sorrow of losing comrades, the grief of witnessing death, the joy of survival, the overwhelming exhilaration of taking one step forward—everything twisted together into an emotion I could not name.

For a long moment, I did nothing but stare at the sky, lost in its vastness.