Category: About a Dating Sim Where Dating Is Impossible

The battlefield was once again engulfed in a cacophony of screams and battle cries.

The surprise assault from the rear seemed to have unsettled even the Janissaries, disrupting their formation. As a result, the clash of blades, which had nearly come to a halt, gradually regained its intensity. Responding to this, he should have swung his sword, but his legs, once drained of strength, did not recover so easily. All he could do was hold his ground.

However, the Janissaries were quick to assess the situation. Even in the face of an ambush, victory was assured if they could sever just one head.

Realizing this, the Janissaries closed in all at once.

Desperately, he swung his sword, tracing arcs in the air to deflect the incoming blades. Time and again, steel clashed with steel, ringing out in harsh echoes. But it was impossible to fend them off completely with an exhausted body. Each time a piercing, grating sound tore at his ears, fresh scars were carved into his armor. Finally, unable to withstand the impact, he collapsed onto the ground.

“Haahh!”

With a loud battle cry, a severed head tumbled onto the bloodstained earth.

Turning his gaze, he saw a familiar and welcome sight—knights clad in armor, smeared with blood.

No matter how skilled the Janissaries were, they could not withstand the sheer force of knights clad in plate armor in the chaos of battle. With each mighty swing of their swords, bodies crumpled to the ground. Once the knights had secured the immediate area, one of them approached Constantine.

“Are you alright, cousin?”

“Still alive, I see.”

A hollow chuckle escaped his lips.

It was the very knight who had once asked if he could call him “cousin” should they survive. It seemed he possessed both skill and leadership, having carved a path through the chaos with a small group of knights. As soon as he grasped the knight’s outstretched hand, his ‘cousin’ effortlessly pulled him to his feet, adding a few lighthearted words.

“I have fought countless infidels before, but never have I encountered foes as tenacious as these. And never have I seen anyone fight so fiercely as you, cousin.”

“But thanks to that, we’ve succeeded. You saw the banner, didn’t you?”

“That’s why I came for you. Let’s get you there, cousin.”

With that, the knight supported him as they moved together with the other knights.

Yet, unease gnawed at his mind.

The sounds of battle, which had briefly flared up, were once again dying down. Though he had no proof, a grim certainty settled in his chest—of the hundred who had charged, only these few remained.

Among the knights hacking their way forward, there were only six.

Did that mean the rest had perished?

Blood flowed freely.

The blood of comrades and enemies alike pooled on the ground, mingling into a deep crimson swamp. It was bitter. They had clashed swords in the name of faith, in the name of their sovereign, in the name of their homeland—yet in the end, the blood they shed was the same colour.

Still, he could not afford to falter.

Though their blood was the same, the convictions within their souls were not.

As these thoughts took hold, one of the knights leading the charge suddenly crumpled to the ground.

“Brothers…!”

With only that brief cry, the knight fell, clutching his bleeding abdomen. His armor had been pierced at the joints.

And before him stood a Janissary.

Yet, unlike the others, there was something different about this one.

From his ready stance to the precision in his movements, he exuded an aura that set him apart. The sword in his hand gleamed like starlight, fueling the ominous certainty in his mind.

Slowly, he scanned his surroundings.

The encroaching wall of enemies was impenetrably thick. The knights, their spirits faltering, could no longer break through. Recognizing this, the others instinctively closed ranks, their backs pressed against each other, forming a final stand around Constantine and his cousin.

Blades glinted from all sides, ready to strike.

And the Janissary who had felled the knight moved his lips.

Though the distance was too great to hear clearly, the meaning of his words was unmistakable.

“Cousin, it seems we shall end this battle in a manner worthy of remembrance in history.”

“In that case, do not hold me up any longer. At the very least, I should be able to fight with all my strength before I die.”

“Then I have no regrets! After all, I have called a king my cousin!”

With those words, the knights and Janissaries clashed once more.

The knights bore down with sheer force and relentless aggression, seeking to overpower their foes. The Janissaries, nimble and unpredictable, wove through the battlefield, disrupting their opponents with erratic strikes.

His cousin, no longer supporting him, grasped his sword with both hands and charged headlong into the battle.

The battlefield still roared with the sounds of hooves and war cries, yet he had a feeling that the battle would end here.

And so, he steadied his stance.

So that, at the very least, he could die knowing he had fought to the bitter end.

He had failed to save the empire, but he could still salvage the last vestiges of his pride.

Ironically, among the knights, outnumbered as they were, a gap had formed—one that needed to be filled.

And he would be the one to take that step forward.

His opponent was not the other Janissaries.

It was only one man—the one who had felled the knight in a single strike.

He was strikingly handsome, his face as pale as powdered marble, his sharp nose and well-defined features giving him an almost otherworldly beauty.

Yet within his cold, expressionless gaze burned unmistakable scorn, fury, and hatred.

Slowly, the Janissary approached, his pink lips parting to utter words in Greek.

“You are in quite the pitiful state, Your Highness Dragaš.”

“So you haven’t forgotten, after all.”

“Someday, I wanted to have a conversation with Your Highness, so I remembered you.”

Despite his words, his stance was aggressively ready. His brows furrowed as he stepped forward with his left foot as a pivot, launching himself toward me. With my injured leg, trying to meet his charge head-on to absorb the impact was out of the question. Even supporting my own weight was a struggle. So, I chose to let myself be pushed back, releasing the tension in my trembling legs.

—Kagagagagak!

A dreadful screech of metal rang out as my blade clashed with his. Like a serpent flicking its tongue, his sword slowly pressed against mine, forcing me to push back with all my might. If this turned into a contest of strength, I would inevitably be overpowered. Just then, my weakened legs finally gave out, causing my balance to crumble.

It was a crisis.

But at the same time, it was my one and only chance to avoid certain death.

I let go of my sword.

A bone-crushing impact surged through my shoulder, but I clenched my teeth and rolled away. Fortunately, my opponent did not pursue. He merely pointed his sword at me, his lips curling into a mocking smile.

“Look at yourself, Your Highness.”

The honorific was nothing more than a mockery.

The man, with a crescent moon in his grip, continued to sneer, to scorn, to look down upon me.

“Who will remember a millennium of glorious history when they see this pitiful sight?

Drenched in blood, rolling in the dirt, covered in dust—who would recall the brilliance of your past?”

The battle had already tilted in his favor. The reason was simple.

“Your legs tremble, having lost their strength. You have even let go of your sword.

Is this the so-called glory that you noble ones have so desperately clung to?”

Though our main force had arrived as expected, it was not enough to completely break the enemy’s morale.

“Now, release your rotting grip on time.

Let it flow freely. The old era has set, and as is natural, a new one must rise.”

Like a judge pronouncing a death sentence, he approached with deliberate slowness.

I had no sword in hand.

Even if I tried to fight with my bare hands, I had no strength left.

This was the price I paid for discarding my weapon in a fleeting bid for survival.

But as long as I had bought even a moment, there was still hope.

A voice rang out, clear and resolute, refusing to allow surrender.

“Cousin!”

A sword flew toward me from the direction of the voice.

Spinning through the air, it crashed to the ground, rolling between the dirt and blood.

Both I and the Janissary locked eyes on it.

Realizing his mistake too late, he rushed forward, but the gap between us was too wide to close in an instant.

Without hesitation, I seized the fallen sword with both hands, drawing upon strength from an unknown source to rise.

I met his incoming blade head-on.

—KAAAANG!

The clash of steel erupted, sharp and deafening.

As our blades locked, a grating screech filled the air.

Amidst the violent friction, the Janissary suddenly cried out in anguish, his voice breaking.

“You Knew—!”

We pushed and pulled, neither side willing to yield.

I couldn’t afford to deflect his blade; if I did, my stance would collapse.

He, too, was unable to retreat.

“Why did you come so late?!”

The battlefield roared once more.

The uproar suggested that Ivania had done her part well.

I had to hold on.

Even though I had failed to protect my people.

The blade and the sword clashed.

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

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

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

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

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

Yet, the tide of battle remained unchanged.

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

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

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

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

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

At this rate, he would be captured or slain.

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

A loud clang.

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

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

Blood sprayed.

Agonized cries followed.

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

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

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

And so,

He raised his sword high.

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

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

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

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

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

Resignation and faint hope mingled in his words.

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

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

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

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

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

A hollow chuckle escaped him.

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

But it was not only his eyes that shone.

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

—Clang!

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

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

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

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

But his body betrayed him.

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

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

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

And in that moment, another realization struck him.

The sound of clashing blades had begun to fade.

He closed his eyes.

No tears came.

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

He did not look to the heavens.

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

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

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

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

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

Was this where he would die?

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

The thought blurred everything else.

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

Death would claim him.

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

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

The earth trembled beneath him.

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

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

“…Horses.”

Again.

Again.

Again…!

He tightened his grip on his sword.

But it was too late.

Blades rained down upon him.

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

Yet—he was not dead.

That was all that mattered.

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

And at that moment—

A thunderous crash erupted behind the Janissaries.

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

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

It all began with the matter of a deserter.

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

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

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

—Did we really have to go that far?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I ask this of you, Adrianos.”

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

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

“As you will, Your Highness.”

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

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

“I… I stand before Your Highness.”

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

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

Whose fault was it?

Who was to blame?

The answer pointed squarely at him.

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

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

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

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

For just a fleeting moment, he felt at ease.

But a moment of humor was all they could afford.

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

“That is correct, Your Highness.”

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

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

“I will not be a man of mere words.”

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

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

That was the story they would create.

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

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

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

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

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

If…

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

“Your Highness!”

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

“Your Highness! Your Highness!”

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

Even then, the soldier did not step back immediately.

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

The long silence was broken.

At last, the Janissaries began to advance.

Murad’s banner was still nowhere in sight.

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

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

And that morale fueled their terrifying prowess on the battlefield.

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

A battle of one hundred against three thousand.

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

Yet, this was reality.

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

“Hamahara.”

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

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

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

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

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

Sensing something amiss, the Janissaries hesitated.

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

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

Had he ever wished for something so desperately?

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

Surely, the Janissaries, too, were hesitating.

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

A long silence followed.

Only the pounding of his own heart filled his ears.

Then, the Janissaries began to advance once more.

He gripped the hilt of his sword with both hands.

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

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

“Speak.”

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

Rather, his tone grew almost cheerful.

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

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

Cousin? Out of nowhere?

“If you survive, cousin.”

“So… it begins now?”

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

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

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

Fate approached.

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

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

This was the reason he had turned to Latin knights.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Brothers in faith.”

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

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

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

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

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

A human tax.

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

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

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

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

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

Then, the prince himself broke it.

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

This was the harsh truth.

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

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

A powerless nation might as well collapse entirely.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Would it be success or failure?

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

“Did it fail?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The prince closed his eyes in quiet contemplation.

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

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

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

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

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

Knowing this, Adrianos’ sigh was inevitable.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“…Your Highness?”

Ivania’s gaze wavered.

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

Adrianos, too, sensed something ominous.

Yet, the prince did not hesitate.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Your Highness…!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No matter how fiercely a fire rages, it will eventually die down if there is nothing left to consume.

The same held true for the inferno that had once seemed to engulf all of Nemeaptare. And as a fresh breeze swept in, dispersing the thick smoke that had choked the air, the full extent of the devastation was laid bare.

It was almost a mercy if the remains were still recognizable as human. The collapsed ruins of buildings, the tangled wreckage, and the countless bodies warped beyond recognition by the wind and flames painted a scene of utter ruin.

No one spoke of victory.

Not the prince who had chosen to retreat to Athens, nor Murad himself, who had driven the prince into this desperate position.

Who could possibly look upon this sight and dare to call it a triumph? Neither side had achieved its goal. The prince had failed to assassinate Murad, and Murad, too, was about to face failure.

“…Recover the bodies, without distinction between friend and foe. Begin searching for survivors at the same time.”

“S-Sultan… If we do that, it will take too long to pursue the prince.”

The lieutenant’s concern was understandable. After all, what was the very reason the Janissaries had been sacrificed? The plan had been to delay the prince’s retreat long enough for the main force to encircle him from both sides. Considering their original objective, this was nothing but a poor move.

And yet, Murad could only shake his head.

“The Janissaries who served as our shield have been all but annihilated. It was the right decision to send them in first, but against the prince’s army, better equipped than our own, the losses were inevitable.”

Moreover, the original strategy of resupplying through Nemeaptare’s cooperation had to be reconsidered. How could there be enough food left in this scorched city to feed over a thousand soldiers?

The men were already exhausted from the forced march. The only saving grace was that the Sipahi cavalry remained intact.
But deploying cavalry alone against the prince’s heavily armed troops was far too great a risk.

Thus—

“Send a letter to Edirne. Tell them to bring every soldier that was mobilized.”

“If we do that…”

“If you speak any further, your loyalty will become arrogance. Hold your tongue.”

Murad’s cold, cutting voice silenced the lieutenant, who hesitated for a moment before quietly withdrawing.

His concerns were obvious. He would have insisted that some troops remain to stabilize the court.

And indeed, hushed voices of unease already murmured in the palace.

Though Murad’s military achievements had so far silenced most doubts, one lingering threat remained—

—As long as his missing younger brother Mustafa lived, Murad’s claim to the throne would never be secure.

If he suffered even a single defeat here, his position would be at risk.

Losing four thousand soldiers in an unexpected fire attack was a devastating blow.

Even for the mighty Ottoman Empire, losing four thousand Janissaries without a proper battle was an undeniable loss.

Murad clenched his jaw, grinding his teeth, his fist tightening as he turned his gaze southward.

Dragases, if you intend to stake everything on this war, then so shall I.

And even if you do, I will prove beyond doubt that a dying empire cannot be saved. I will make you bear the weight of your foolish sacrifices, born from hollow hope.

This was fate.

The will of God.

A prophecy that could not be denied.

Murad would break this foolish rebellion against divine will here and now.

As he was reaffirming his resolve, a harsh, furious voice rang out from behind.

When he turned toward the sound, he saw a captured soldier, clad in chainmail blackened with soot, bound and restrained.

A soldier of the prince’s army.

The Sultan’s men cursed and struck the captive, forcing him to kneel before Murad. His face, swollen from beatings and bruised purple with welts, lifted to meet Murad’s gaze.

Yet there was no resignation in his eyes.

Only unwavering conviction and resolute determination.

Murad studied him for a long moment before speaking.

“Is he a prisoner?”

“We caught him meeting with a suspicious individual. Unfortunately, the contact escaped, but we managed to capture this one. We thought he might be of use to you, Sultan.”

The soldier’s words dripped with hatred.

And then Murad realized—these men were the Janissary survivors, those who had barely escaped death.

Murad closed his eyes briefly before speaking in a calm, measured tone.

“I acknowledge your loyalty and efforts. You may withdraw.”

“But—”

“Go. Leave, collect yourselves, and return when you have sharpened your blades once more.”

The soldiers bit their lips in frustration but ultimately obeyed, withdrawing with stiff, reluctant movements.

Murad watched them go in silence before finally speaking again, his gaze unfocused, as if addressing no one in particular.

“Do you see it? The silent screams of those consumed by the flames.”

The captive soldier remained silent.

But it did not matter.

Murad was not speaking to him—he was speaking through him, to the prince himself.

Without hesitation, Murad continued.

“I ask because I thought perhaps you would understand. After witnessing the atrocity your people have committed, do you truly feel nothing?”

“This was your doing!”

The soldier, who had remained silent until now, suddenly roared with fury, his voice thick with righteous anger.

“Don’t think we’ve forgotten! We were silent only because we lacked the strength to speak! We have never forgotten the massacres you committed in Anatolia!”

“Is that your excuse, after burning the very people you swore to protect?”

“Because we had no power!”

For a brief moment, even Murad hesitated.

The despairing, resigned voice of a man from a dying nation, backed into a corner, struck a chord deep within him.

The soldier had realized the moment he saw Murad that he would not leave this place alive.

And so, he had already abandoned all hope for survival.

That was why he spoke so boldly.

“We were weak, so we fell. We were weak, so we lost everything. We were weak, so we died. And when I understood that, I swore to follow my prince to the end.”

“That was fate. Do you refuse to submit to the will of God?”

“…When everyone else said the same, there was only one man who spoke differently.”

—This too is a trial given by God. Through our own efforts, we shall prove to the heavens that we are worthy of His choice.

Those who had always given up, whether out of helplessness or submission to divine will, turned away from the one who had risen anew, believing that this time would be no different.

This time, too, failure would come.

This time, too, the people would fail to unite…

But he completed a task deemed impossible, delivering a message more powerful than any words could convey. A belief, unspoken yet deeply embedded in the hearts of all who followed the Prince.

The soldier, now even more resolute, parted his swollen lips and voiced his conviction without hesitation.

“Do not act so arrogantly, O Sultan. God has yet to choose a side.”

Murad met the soldier’s gaze for a long while before tilting his head skyward with a sigh. He thought the man before him was a fool. But that was not all.

To instill such unwavering faith, even in a mere soldier—was Dragases truly such a formidable presence among the people of the Empire?

Unable to contain himself any longer, Murad pressed down on the soldier with a voice more resolute than before.

“You place your faith in a hollow figure like Dragases? Even after witnessing the horrors he has wrought? Look upon this city, reduced to cinders. Where do you see hope in this?”

“Even a single ember left in the ashes can reignite the flames.”

“A lone ember is not enough.”

“That is why I have resolved to become kindling.”

A strange feeling crept over Murad—something almost akin to pity.

This was no ordinary soldier. His words were too measured, his beliefs too firm. He was clearly a man who had known knowledge and thought deeply upon it.

Moved by this sentiment, Murad offered the last mercy a Sultan could grant.

“With your faith and eloquence, you could serve a far greater purpose. Instead of futilely resisting fate, why not embrace it and help build a prosperous future? I will give you time to reconsider.”

At that, the soldier’s brows trembled ever so slightly. Even he had not expected such generosity—to be spared by the very man who had razed his city and slaughtered his kin.

But soon, the soldier lowered his head.

And Murad was no fool. He knew well what that gesture meant.

“O Sultan, your mercy is truly boundless. The kindness you have shown me today, I will never forget for as long as I live.”

“….”

“…However, I cannot forsake the hope that His Highness Constantine has given me.”

Murad closed his eyes.

If he were to release this man, he would only writhe in agony until death found him.

Had this soldier resisted thoughtlessly, he would have been cut down without hesitation. But this man knew exactly what he was doing. He was not a beast reveling in slaughter, but a man who fought with conviction.

And so, Murad opened his eyes once more.

His right hand reached for the hilt of his sword.

“I shall ensure that those like you do not waver. You who wander blindly in the name of hope, you who are trapped by the illusion of a thousand-year reign—I shall guide you toward the true will of God.”

“…O Sultan, grant me but one final word.”

“Speak.”

The soldier hesitated for a moment before shutting his eyes tightly.

“Those who follow His Highness Constantine choose to die in hope rather than live in despair.”

“…And you are one of them?”

The soldier remained still, silent.

Only then did Murad realize—the final words he had permitted had already been spoken.

His blade rose high into the air.

Moments later, crimson droplets sprayed skyward in its stead.

And with that, Murad could no longer deny it.

“Dragases… So long as you live, the Ottomans will never truly rule this land.”

He murmured to himself as he gazed upon the lifeless body before him.

He had always regarded Dragases as an enemy, had fought him with all the skill he possessed. Yet, he could not deny the truth he had long ignored—deep down, he had wished to match wits with the man.

For it was not enough to simply topple a decaying empire.

Murad had longed for a worthy adversary, one who would elevate his own glory in the process.

But in chasing “honor,” he had perhaps overlooked something far more crucial.

Dragases was weak. By Ottoman standards, he was but a mere nuisance, an insignificant fish in a vast sea.

And yet, Dragases wielded a weapon unlike any other.

He had cast aside arrogance and all earthly desires.

He had honed hope into a blade sharper than steel.

When Murad marched into battle, he carried honor in his heart.

But Dragases…

He carried hope.

And honor alone could never shatter hope.

If he were to triumph, he needed something more.

Something that could stand against hope itself.

And Murad knew exactly what that was.

“Struggle all you like, Dragases.”

Your despair will follow.

Enjoy your fleeting relief while it lasts.

As the Prince Intended, the Gates Opened

However, this did not mean that the prince’s wishes had been fulfilled. Through the open gates rode Murad, advancing slowly on horseback. Kneeling before him were the city’s elites—the very same people who had once stood face to face with the prince. The elites solemnly extended their arms, welcoming Murad with reverence.

“We bow before our lord, our ruler, and our protector, the Sultan!”

Murad looked down at them with a satisfied smile. The betrayal of Nemeapatre was inevitable. Dragases intent to establish a new ruling order in central Greece, keeping the native powers in check, had never been about coexistence. It was a demand for submission. The elites, unwilling to let their possessions be taken while fully conscious, chose to serve the Sultan instead.

Murad, in turn, was a man who knew how to show magnanimity and generosity to those who served him—along with how to neutralize his rivals. If Dragases sought to subdue them through authority, Murad would make them willingly offer their loyalty through his tolerance.

“I have heard of the hardships you endured under Dragases rule. Fear not. My army will not pillage Nemeapatre.”

“We are endlessly grateful for the grace and mercy bestowed by the Sultan!”

But Murad knew these words were meaningless. After all, wasn’t Dragases a meticulous man? No matter how quickly the Ottomans struck, Dragases would never allow critical supplies to fall into enemy hands. Replenishing supplies would inevitably mean demanding the city’s resources himself. Rather than forcing it, Murad had prepared the stage so the elites would offer everything willingly. His approach proved successful.

The elites of Nemeapatre were deeply moved and bowed their heads sincerely before the Sultan.

On the battlefield, all eyes were on Murad, gazing at him as their Sultan. From afar came the sounds of clashing swords, and Murad closed his eyes in satisfaction. Everything was prepared. The only task remaining was to seize Nemeapatre quickly and strike at the prince’s rear.

“Command the unit leaders to advance. Put the slave soldiers at the forefront to prepare for any potential resistance, and raise the banners to inform the citizens that I have arrived.”

The Ottoman soldiers followed the order without question. As thousands of soldiers marched in unison, it felt as if the earth itself trembled. Murad, momentarily lost in his reverie, opened his eyes and let out a faint laugh.

“Today will finally be recorded as the day the world changes.”

Watching his forces advance into the city, Murad resolved as such.

Yet the plan envisioned by the prince now turned into a trap, tightening around its own origin.

Three hundred members of the suicide squad were locked in fierce combat with enraged citizens. Though the citizens were poorly armed, their overwhelming numbers held advantage. Under the cover of night, with no clear distinction between friend and foe, the suicide squad struggled against the sudden ambush.

“You filthy looters! Dragases is no different! All he cared about was his own safety!”

The cries of anger said it all. Once, Dragases had deliberately incited the citizens’ discontent to open the gates and lure Murad inside, but now that strategy had backfired. The citizens acted as Dragases had anticipated—only the timing was off. The price for that error would be the annihilation of the suicide squad.

On the day the prince left Nemeapatre, the citizens, realizing they had been abandoned, grew even more furious. Hadn’t he driven them so harshly, claiming it was to resist the Ottomans? Yet he had been the first to flee. It was only natural for revolt to break out across the city. Even amid this large-scale revolt, the suicide squad had managed to endure solely due to their superior armaments and minimal unity.

But it was only a matter of time.

The clash of blades, the sound of spears scraping against chainmail, and the cries of anguish filled the air. Agonized screams were drowned out by the furious shouts of repressed rage, and headless bodies spurted crimson fountains, heralding the imminent arrival of the conqueror. The pounding of hearts pierced by spears became the drumbeat of a ruthless military march.

Watching the slain, the revolting citizens began to organize themselves, fear and frenzy compelling them to form ranks.

The sight forced the lieutenant leading the suicide squad to grit his teeth in frustration.

Has God truly forsaken the prince? Has He forsaken this land?

The lieutenant was faced with a choice.

Should they hold out until the Ottoman forces fully entered the city? Or should they initiate the fire attack earlier than planned? The lieutenant understood what was needed to win this desperate battle.

As the leader of the suicide squad, the prince had personally explained the plan to him in detail. Though initially horrified, the lieutenant had eventually nodded, burdened by the responsibility of knowing that the success of the fire attack could decide the empire’s fate.

The damage dealt needed to be catastrophic. But could they hold out until the right moment? The dilemma gnawed at him. The cries of fallen comrades hastened his decision. This was the torment of one who bore the burden of lives. Having resolved to die, the only concern now was the success or failure of the fire attack. But at this rate, the suicide squad would be wiped out before they could even attempt it.

The lieutenant made his decision.

“Commence the fire attack! Burn everything—everything!”

“But, sir…”

The soldier holding the torch hesitated. It was an unimaginably massive plan to burn down the entire city. It was impossible to estimate how many lives would be lost in the process. Understanding this hesitation, the lieutenant grabbed the torch from the soldier. Ignoring the startled cry of the soldier, the lieutenant approached the jar filled with Greek fire.

“O Lord, I rise for my faith, and now I throw myself into hell for the sovereignty and freedom of my family.”

Before the lieutenant could move the torch, flames had already begun to rise from the city. Other detachments, unable to hold out any longer, must have made the same decision. The lieutenant could not suppress the tears that welled up. How could the sight of sparks spreading far and wide from the flickering flames be so both beautiful and tragic? Soon, under the light of the flames, he saw citizens advancing and Ottoman banners marching beyond the barricade. Without hesitation, the lieutenant threw the torch into the jar.

A pillar of fire erupted instantly.

At last, the citizens faltered. And in that brief hesitation, the fire spread wildly, fanned by the wind, scattering sparks in all directions. These embers, which might have extinguished quickly if they were ordinary flames, became the citizens’ fatal mistake.

“F-fire! My body’s on fire!”

“Aaaaah! No! Aaaagh!”

The Greek fire devoured its victims in an instant. Neither water nor the strongest wind could put it out. In fact, the more water was poured on, the fiercer the flames became. Horrified, the citizens began to flee. Early attempts to extinguish the fire failed entirely, and the most critical stage of the flammable strategy was overcome. Before long, the flames that started near the barricades spread to the nearby homes.

Those who had followed the prince’s evacuation order early on survived. Those who refused met their end, screaming in unbearable heat. Amid this chaos, the Ottoman vanguard halted their advance.

“W-what is this? How could the flames spread this fast?”

The inferno consumed everything.

When they turned to retreat, they found their path already devoured by the ravenous flames. Soldiers who had rushed forward for glory now found themselves trapped, one by one consumed by the fire. It made no distinction between the innocent and the combatants. The determined detachment, prepared to die, the citizens who had risen up against oppression, and the Ottomans dreaming of a new world—all of them were consumed by the flames.

“Aaaaaah! Aaaaagh!”

The wind carried screams and the massive sounds of collapsing buildings to the survivors, who stood frozen in horror. They saw the writhing figures still trapped in agony, their burned skin offering no break from the searing heat. Their bloodied, burnt throats swelled, silencing even their screams. The fallen disappeared into the blackened smoke that swallowed everything.

“This… this is hell…”

Someone muttered as they watched the black smoke writhe and slither like a living creature, hungrily consuming corpses. Murad, who had been smiling with delight at the victory within his grasp, now wore a contorted expression. He appeared both sorrowful and regretful, yet a faint sigh of relief escaped his lips.

“…I see now. This entire city was a trap you set.”

He had anticipated that they might use Greek fire. But to use the city walls as a cage and burn the entire city to the ground—who could have foreseen such a strategy? The cost was horrifying: countless soldiers, unaware of the trap, met a gruesome death.

Yet it wasn’t just the soldiers who perished. The citizens, forced to sacrifice themselves for the plan’s success, and the soldiers of Dragases must have also met tragic ends in the flames. Truly brutal. Deeply heartbreaking and regretful.

At this moment, Murat felt pity for Dragases.

“Did you truly believe that this was the only way to protect what you hold dear? To throw away everything you vowed to safeguard, just to defend the empire?”

To save his dying nation, Dragases had thrown tens of thousands of lives onto the scales without hesitation. The conviction—and madness—of a man willing to burn everything for his homeland sent shivers down Murad’s spine.

“What is the worth of a thousand years? What is the worth of an empire?”

Was the millennial empire truly worth sacrificing tens of thousands of citizens? To risk everything for a homeland ruled by an emperor who had repeatedly endangered his life? Murad could not comprehend how someone with the ability to soar high, if they only abandoned the title of a prince of the millennial empire, could remain so shackled by the glories of the past.

“…I will set your soul, bound to the old era, free. I will end your stubbornness, trapped by the illusion of a thousand years. So, show me more. This cannot be the end. You, who were willing to burn tens of thousands to protect your nation, would not have staked everything on a single trap.”

The determination of someone who dared to burn tens of thousands to save the millennial empire. Dragases would not have been foolish enough to risk everything on one city. Grinding his teeth, Murad resolved.

“If the name of the millennial empire has bewitched you so thoroughly, then I will gladly destroy it myself.”

Standing before the burning city, amid the screams of its people and the horrified stares of his soldiers, Murad made his vow again and again.

Not Long After Murad Opened the Gates of Nemeapatre

The prince stared at the Janissaries before him, lost in deep thought. It had been only a day since the standoff began. Too short a time to fully grasp the enemy’s intentions, but their actions—maintaining distance and firing arrows from afar—provided a clear enough answer. Biting his lip, the prince let out a sigh filled with frustration.

“They’re blocking our retreat…”

If they attempted to push forward and retreat by force, a decisive battle against the Janissaries would be inevitable. Conversely, if they turned back toward Nemeapatre, their rear would be endlessly harassed.

Murad had laid out two choices before the prince and was pressuring him to decide: would he march back to Athens, or return to Nemeapatre to engage Murad in a decisive battle? Either way, the Morean forces would suffer losses. The prince was now forced to weigh his options, knowing full well that any decision would cost his army dearly.

“So that’s what he’s been scheming—using his elite guard to tie us down.”

The prince had never imagined that Murad would use even the Janissaries as bait. That shock had driven him to abandon Nemeapatre and decide to retreat just days ago. Now, he had to understand why Murad was making such a dramatic statement, using the Janissaries as sacrificial pawns to buy time.

Logically, Murad, who needed to focus on the siege, had deliberately deployed his elite troops as an advance unit. What did that mean?

Eventually, the prince’s thoughts led him to a conclusion. Though he couldn’t quite believe it, everything started to make sense. A hollow laugh escaped him, but his face quickly turned cold and tense as he clenched his fists tightly.

It was clear now: Murad somehow knew that the gates of Nemeapatre would open. Once inside, he would seize Nemeapatre in a single stroke and use the time bought by the Janissaries to strike the Morean army from the rear.

“Well, of course. If we’ve been using spies, there’s no way the Ottomans haven’t been doing the same.”

With a self-deprecating sigh, the prince began to agonize over another possibility. Had their plan to use Greek Fire for a scorched-earth attack been discovered as well? It would be one thing if Murad knew about the gates opening and infiltrating the city.

But if he also anticipated the timing of the fire attack, he could neutralize it and turn the Greek Fire against them, resulting in the worst-case scenario. The issue was that this concern was already out of his hands.

Now, the Morean army had only one thing left: the uncertain success of the fire attack. If it succeeded, they would survive. If it failed, it would all end here.

The prince once again placed the weight of his options on the scale. Should he return to Nemeapatre or continue the retreat? Either way, they would lose their influence over Central Greece. This was something he had anticipated ever since deciding to abandon Nemeapatre, so the loss of additional cities was not a new factor.

The only weight he could add to the scale was the possibility of victory.

If the fire attack succeeded, returning to Nemeapatre would be the best move. But the Janissaries would never allow it so easily. A chaotic, grueling battle was inevitable. This was far from the prince’s intention of minimizing soldier casualties.

Even if the fire attack was a resounding success, Nemeapatre would be left scorched and barren. Facing an inevitable clash with the Janissaries without the resources to sustain his troops would be suicide—a gamble he wasn’t willing to take.

And the prince had no intention of gambling.

The moment the Janissaries had forcibly dragged him into this standoff and he realized his predictions were wrong, he knew he couldn’t match Murad. The overwhelming gap between the Morean and Ottoman forces was undeniable—something they would have to overcome one day, but for now, it was unbeatable.

This was not merely a numerical disadvantage, nor was it a lack of equipment.

What the Ottomans Have, but Morea Does Not

It is the presence of exceptional subordinates and officers, armed with capabilities forged through vast experience.

If the prince manages to take down one, the Ottomans’ subordinates and officers will take down five. If the prince holds one front, another collapses entirely. Even with Ivania’s aid, it’s futile. Even if they fall short of Ivania’s caliber, there are others nearly as capable who can easily overwhelm his own lieutenants, including Adrianos.

The prince is cautious by nature. While he may gamble, it is only in those life-or-death moments where that gamble alone leads to survival. At his core, he is an exceedingly cautious man.

He cannot afford to risk everything in pursuit of the best possibility, only to lose all possibilities entirely.

The prince knows well what he is called—and he knows it is not far from the truth. The “last Hope” is called so because it truly is the last. If he falls, the final remaining strength the empire has painstakingly gathered will collapse entirely. This is not arrogance. It is simply the truth, as no one has yet emerged to replace him.

Now that it has become clear that he cannot easily defeat Murad, it is far more rational to move toward achieving the strategy he originally envisioned. For this, the prince acted swiftly just before the war broke out. He is confident that his plans will bear fruit. The only thing required is time.

He must endure.

Who knows better than he that patience is the one and only answer that can save the empire and his fate, both on the edge of collapse? Endure. Endlessly endure. Only those who endure can grasp the best possible future. The prince repeatedly calmed and controlled himself.

And yet, and yet…

—Crack.

Between clenched teeth, anger twisted and seeped out. His tightly trembling fists shook, and faint bloodshot veins emerged in his eyes. He had demanded sacrifices from innocent people—solely for the sake of victory. If this was all he could achieve, what had he demanded their sacrifices for? Even as waves of guilt and self-reproach surged over him, the prince once again forced himself to calm down.

To break the overwhelming momentum of the Ottomans, to halt the relentless advance of the audacious Murad, and for the sake of a better future…

After trembling for some time, the prince finally called for a messenger in a shaky voice. The ominous aura surrounding him left the messenger pale as he prostrated himself on the ground. Closing his eyes tightly, the prince steadied his heart.

Endure.

Endure!

You must endure!

Only after repeating this mantra of endurance dozens of times did the prince finally manage to speak.

“…Retreat.”

Breaking the Last Hope of the Millennial Empire

Murad believed that to bring down the empire, he first had to defeat Constantine Dragases. Unlike Constantinople, which had been reduced to a mere city and its emperor trapped within its gates, Dragases had accomplishments and followers of his own.

Indeed, the Christian forces in Greece, inspired by Dragases’s propaganda, had rekindled their will to resist. The threat this posed to the Ottomans could be gauged by looking at the Crusades.

Although every Crusade had ultimately ended in failure, the mere fact that the Western world remained vigilant was enough to demonstrate their potential danger. The Crusades had failed not because they lacked strength, but because they failed to establish clear objectives, coordinate with local forces, and unite under a leader with sufficient reputation to rally their armies.

However, if Dragases were to join a future Crusade, all these weaknesses would be addressed.

Dragases’s actions following Murad’s decision to campaign in southern Greece were clear and deliberate. From the time of the Bulgarian campaign, Dragases had been watching Murad, swiftly mobilizing his forces when Murad’s attention was focused on Mustafa and the Bulgarian revolt. While others underestimated Murad, Dragases alone had prepared to confront the new Sultan. A man who so keenly observed Ottoman movements would surely know where to strike.

Moreover, Dragases was not only the last defender of the millennial empire but also the final hope of the Christian forces in the Balkans. While the imperial schemes may have played a role in inciting the Bulgarian rebellion, the larger credit belonged to Dragases. His victories in prior wars against the Ottomans had undoubtedly stirred the dormant spirits of the Christians.

Thus, in a standoff between the Ottomans and Christian forces, Dragases was the only figure capable of uniting the fragmented Christian factions of the Balkans, entangled as they were by conflicting interests and ethnic tensions.

And if Dragases were to build his reputation further by defeating the Ottomans, who had already crushed multiple Crusades, what would follow?

Dragases’s sharp judgment and decisiveness would become a dagger aimed at the heart of the Ottomans, leading the Crusaders. His growing fame would serve as a rallying point to unite Christians under one banner. Ultimately, Dragases’s participation in a Crusade would mark the emergence of the most threatening force the Ottomans could face.

Murad briefly envisioned Dragases.

A man who stood firm as the millennial empire teetered on the edge of collapse, defying the whispers of doom and pressing forward, step by step. Stubborn, self-righteous, and paranoid, yet the only royal figure with a steadfast belief in saving his homeland. A foolish yet tragic individual, blindly devoted to the values of responsibility and duty that had faded from the minds of other noblemen.

This was why Dragases could be Murad’s nemesis.

This was why Dragases was the only adversary who could genuinely threaten the future of the Ottomans.

And Murad had no intention of leaving Dragases and his forces intact. As the creaking sound of the slowly opening city gates echoed, Murad stared at the scene before him and muttered to himself.

“I trust that someone as smart as you has realized what it means to abandon Nemeapatre.”

The outcome of the opening battle was critical. It wasn’t just about the soldiers’ morale; it was the first step that could shake the stability of a nation. Especially if a city that had resolved to hold its ground fell swiftly, the resulting panic would be immense. This was precisely what Murad aimed for.

The fall of Nemeapatre would solidify the stance of central Greek cities, which had been wavering between the empire and the Ottomans. It would send a decisive message about where their loyalties should lie. Murad could already anticipate how the defection of these recently stabilized cities would impact Dragases and his plans.

A Conqueror Who Fled Without Even Fighting a Proper Battle

Central Greece would quickly turn into enemy territory. Trapped in the heart of hostile lands, Dragases would find himself entangled by the Janissaries, ultimately allowing a three-pronged attack to close in on him. The turning point was the collapse of the 6,000-strong Morean army—a pivotal moment that would signify the definitive end of the empire. Dragases would now be plunged into a long and agonizing dilemma.

Should he return to Nemeapatre to prevent the cities of Central Greece from defecting? Or should he retreat all the way to Athens, prioritizing the risk of a disruption in his rear?

If he chose the former, the Janissaries would not overly trouble Dragases’s army. After all, even if he returned, the battle awaiting him would not be an open-field skirmish or a defensive standoff but a siege. Meanwhile, the Janissaries could steadily advance and seize one rear city after another. In the end, Dragases would be forced into unfavourable battles, unable to protect what he had originally set out to defend.

If he chose the latter, the role of the Janissaries would become crucial. Despite their strict discipline, the Janissaries were both an elite guard and light infantry. Rather than engaging the heavily armored Morean army in close combat, they would conduct guerrilla warfare—nighttime ambushes and hit-and-run tactics to exhaust the Morean forces.

During this time, the cities of Central Greece would raise armies to prove their loyalty to the Sultan. Even if Dragases managed to defeat the Janissaries, his weary Morean troops, worn down by long marches and skirmishes, would face the Sultan’s loyal forces next.

Murad knew well the pain of losing the Janissaries, the backbone of the Ottoman army. If Dragases were to truly defeat the Janissaries, it could slow the Ottomans expansionist ambitions in the future.

But Dragases had already placed an equally costly piece on the board.

No, perhaps it was even more valuable than the Janissaries—who, with the Balkans still under Ottoman control and the Devshirme system intact, could be replenished within a decade. Standing before the fully opened gates of Nemeapatre, Murad reaffirmed the correctness of his decision.

“And you, Dragases, must also understand why the last hope is called the last hope.”

Dragases had misjudged his own position, and the empire had misjudged him as well. Dragases had chosen to preserve the empire by avoiding civil war, and the empire, relying on this tendency, had gambled recklessly. This was the greatest and final mistake Dragases had made.

“The last is called the last because once it falls, everything ends.”

Dragases was both a knight and a king.

As such, he was a figure who had to constantly expose himself to danger. Yet, at the same time, his death would end the game entirely.

He was the final hope holding up the millennial empire.

Murad’s advance slowed significantly once it became clear that the prince’s march was progressing far more sluggishly than anticipated.

Was the prince deliberately drawing him in? It was obvious that, given his numerical disadvantage, the prince would avoid a decisive battle. If he resorted to guerilla tactics, the losses on both sides would only mount unnecessarily. Murad needed to create political pressure that would force the prince into an open battle.

To this end, he matched the prince’s pace, ensuring the situation couldn’t simply be abandoned on the grounds of its futility. Yet, when Murad finally surveyed the path the prince had taken, he realized something crucial.

“So that’s it. He hasn’t fully secured it yet.”

It was only natural. Just as the prince had sought information on Murad’s movements, Murad had kept a close watch on the prince. In his brief reign of barely a year, the prince had imposed harsh measures to counter an outbreak suspected to be the Black Death.

If he’d had more time, it might have been different, but Murad’s offensive had been perfectly timed. For the prince, hastily leading his forces north, the cities of central Greece—still not completely swayed to his cause—were volatile sparks that could ignite elsewhere at any moment.

And Murad did not miss this opportunity.

Although the authority of central Greece had nominally passed to Morea due to the mistakes of the previous Sultan, the Sultan still held the upper hand in terms of legitimacy. Morea was merely an agent managing central Greece on behalf of the Sultan. In practice, the true ruler remained the Sultan of the Ottoman Empire. Dragases must have planned to gradually eliminate the Ottoman influence through time, taxes, and laws.

However, in the end, it wasn’t the prince’s influence but the Sultan’s authority that held sway over central Greece.

It took little time for Ottoman spies to infiltrate central Greece. All Murad had to do was send a few words to the local elites: Your Sultan has returned. Not long after, Murad was greeted by those who came to bow their heads before him. Of course, some still wavered between the Empire and the Ottomans. But Murad resolved to forgive them, recognizing that they hadn’t rebelled of their own accord—they had merely been forced into submission.

This decision to show mercy bore fruit, granting Murad critical information that would alter the course of the war.

“Sultan, beware of the Greek Fire in Dragases’s possession.”

The ancient weapon, which burned fiercely even on water, would only grow more dangerous if attempts were made to extinguish it. The prince had apparently stockpiled it for reasons yet unclear. Naturally, Murad deduced that the prince was planning to deploy a fire attack.

This was another reason for his slowed advance. The forested terrain near Larissa was perfectly suited for such tactics. Murad organized an extensive network of scouts to meticulously search the wooded areas.

At the same time, he diligently gathered intelligence on the enemy.

“So, they’ve entered Nemeapatre…”

A stronghold commanding the canyon between two mountain ranges, it was an obvious choice. The prince likely selected Nemeapatre as a defensive position, knowing he couldn’t utilize sea routes and needed reliable supply lines. But a prolonged siege wasn’t what Murad wanted. He needed to draw Dragases out. Thus, he devised a ploy involving his banners and his elite guard.

“What are you saying, Your Majesty? You’re going to deploy the Janissaries separately?”

Murad’s vassals voiced their shock and opposition, but he responded unfazed.

“Look. Even you assume it’s only natural for the Janissaries to remain by my side. Why would Dragases think any differently?”

“But the banner is not just a symbol! It represents the Sultan’s authority—”

“Do you think my authority comes solely from a banner?”

Use what everyone takes for granted. Murad was genuinely grateful for the chance to execute a strategy he had devised long ago. Just once. This method, so easily discovered after its first use, would only work the first and final time. How could he not use it against his greatest adversary? Against such a foe, he refused to allow even the slightest complacency. That, in Murad’s own way, was respect.

“The Janissaries, who will flank through the mountains and draw the enemy’s attention, will not engage the enemy directly. They will maintain their distance, harass the enemy with arrows, and slow their retreat.”

The foreknowledge of the enemy’s composition was an advantage. Most of Morea’s soldiers were armed with chainmail and long spears, making them slower and less mobile compared to the lightly armored Janissaries. Even if they pursued with their limited light infantry, what chance would they have against the Janissaries? Moreover, the decision to maneuver through the mountains had another purpose hidden within it.

“If their cavalry gives chase, ensure you are familiar with the terrain so that you can defend against them at any time. Scout the mountains thoroughly as you flank, learn how rugged the terrain is, and ensure you can retreat swiftly if necessary.”

Though the orders were demanding, the Janissaries had the discipline to execute them. Murad trusted his finest warriors, and the Janissaries had proven their capability. Yet, his vassals’ doubts did not end there. As the Sultan’s closest advisors, they pressed him further.

“What do you hope to gain by merely slowing their retreat?”

“I hear that Dragases has been enforcing harsh demands on the citizens of Nemeapatre. This will surely breed resentment. It’s obvious—whatever his reasons, Dragases wants us to enter the fortress.”

“Then isn’t it a trap, Your Majesty?”

“A trap, you say… Let me ask you this: can a trap that fails to catch its prey at the hunter’s chosen time and place truly be called a trap? Or is it simply wasted effort?”

A trap only works when both the timing and location align with the hunter’s desires. No matter what schemes Dragases had planned in Nemeapatre, breaking the “timing” would render them futile. And if the trap failed, the only outcome would be the immediate fall of Nemeapatre.

“Slowing their retreat is to position ourselves behind Dragases. And…”

If the fall of Nemeapatre were announced, how would the cities that had been wavering between the Empire and the Ottomans respond? Murad had already sent them clear instructions: if Dragases fled in defeat, they were to serve him without hesitation. Those cities, already warned and offered a path of reconciliation, would hardly view a retreating Dragases favorably.

“…it also gives other vassals time to prepare to greet me.”

The web had already been cast.

Where Dragases intended to use Greek Fire remained unknown. Whether or not Murad could identify where the fire attack would begin would determine the course of the war. But with the Janissaries tying up Dragases forces, the cities rushing to prove their loyalty to the Sultan, and Murad himself moving to crush Dragases after dismantling the trap, no unforeseen variable could overturn the outcome.

Murad was certain.

The last hope of the millennial empire would fall here.