Category: About a Dating Sim Where Dating Is Impossible

I had assumed that Murad sought a decisive battle, and that narrow perspective had blinded me.

But now that I understood his true intentions, there was no time to waste. The cities of central Greece were already harbouring resentment due to the harsh measures imposed to control the plague.

These were people who had been weighing their loyalties between the Ottomans and the Empire. If Murad were to appear in the rear rather than at Nemeapatre, how would they react? It was obvious—they would declare allegiance to the Ottomans without hesitation and turn their swords against the Empire.

“Therefore, we must begin retreating immediately.”

“But, Your Highness, if we do that, Nemeapatre will not hold for long. What will you do if this is exactly what the enemy desires?”

“Nemeapatre is not the issue. If Athens falls, we will be isolated in enemy territory.”

Unlike other cities, Athens was directly under my governance, so I didn’t think it would fall easily. The real problem was time. No matter how long Athens could hold out, if it fell before we arrived, it would all be meaningless. It was wiser to retreat while there was still some room to maneuver. Of course, we would need to ensure that Nemeapatre was rendered useless before abandoning it.

“Adrianos, select three hundred soldiers along with a trusted officer. They must be men who are prepared to face death.”

“…Surely not, Your Highness!”

“Exactly that. At this point, it is inevitable that Nemeapatre will fall to the enemy. We must inflict as much damage as possible as we retreat.”

It was fortunate I hadn’t naively believed that the original plan would proceed smoothly. This was why people always needed a contingency. And this wasn’t just any fire—it was Greek fire. To the looting soldiers, its inextinguishable flames would inflict catastrophic damage. As these thoughts crossed my mind, Adrianos, his face twisted with emotion, spoke in a strained voice.

“…Your Highness, though circumstances leave us no choice, please remember that the people living here are also subjects of the Empire.”

“Adrianos, rest assured—I will not become the bloodthirsty murderer you fear.”

The decision was made. Just as I stood to dissolve the war council, the mercenary captain, who had been sent out briefly, returned. Ivania approached, seemingly oblivious to her sweat-soaked blonde hair.

“Your Highness, I have observed the enemy as instructed. However, they still have not begun a siege and continue to maintain their encirclement.”

“Are they maintaining a standoff to distract us?”

It was a stroke of luck that I managed to discern Murad’s intentions, even belatedly. His passive stance now made sense—he wanted to conserve his forces and settle the battle in one decisive stroke. Even if a battle were to occur, we would face only a portion of Murad’s forces, equal in number or fewer. Now, when their forces were divided, was our best opportunity.

“Set up decoys in armor to disguise our numbers and ensure they don’t realize our retreat. We shall withdraw under the cover of darkness.”

Even if this was bait meant to draw us out, they wouldn’t expect us to abandon Nemeapatre entirely. I resolved to pursue Murad and strike his rear. Clenching my fist tightly, I reaffirmed my determination. The battle was far from over. I continued to push myself relentlessly.

And so, we began the retreat.

It took days to evacuate the civilians, gather supplies, and prepare for the withdrawal to minimize the damage from the impending flames. During this time, the Ottoman forces showed no significant movement. Now that I understood their intent to fix our attention on the forces encircling us, such passivity was preferable. If they realized we were retreating and tightened the encirclement, we would have been hopelessly trapped.

All that remained was to scorch the earth. Once the gates were breached and the enemy poured into the city, Greek fire would engulf the streets. For this purpose, I left behind a force of three hundred—the death squad. A cause so precious that men would risk their lives for it made even death bearable: faith, country, and the safety of their families. The officer in charge of this mission was Nikefos, a resolute man who spoke with solemn determination when he visited me before the retreat.

“Your Highness, we are prepared to lay down our lives and fight the infidels to the very end. Please, grant our wives and children not only the sorrow of losing us but also the joy of victory.”

“…When the time comes to inscribe names into the archives of history, yours will be among the first I write.”

“It has been an honor to serve alongside you, Your Highness.”

The death squad was made up of men who had already resolved to die. And the living could not linger with the dead. Though the knowledge of leaving comrades to certain death weighed heavily on the soldiers, there was no time to dwell on sentimentality. Athens had to be saved. Central Greece had to be kept out of Murad’s grasp. This sense of urgency and desperation permeated the entire force.

Before the retreat began, I addressed the troops.

“Remember the brave men who remain behind for our sake. Etch into your hearts what we must do for those who will fall with the hope of victory.”

The response was a heavy silence. Was there truly anyone among them who didn’t want to stay and honor the fallen by fighting alongside them? Yet, with heavy hearts, we left Nemeapatre behind.

It was the start of a painful pursuit.

Fueled by tension and the knowledge that time could not be wasted, we focused solely on tracking the enemy’s movements. Had they bypassed the mountains? If so, even finding their trail would be exhausting. Perhaps we were already too late… Such thoughts didn’t last long, as signs of a camp appeared almost as if to taunt us. Had they not worried about being pursued? Perhaps they assumed we would remain holed up in Nemeapatre.

The truth revealed itself about a week later.

Standing before us were the white-capped soldiers we hadn’t seen during the siege of Nemeapatre—the Janissaries, the Sultan’s elite guard, arrayed in flawless formation, facing us as if they had anticipated our pursuit. Their ranks were so perfectly ordered that it seemed they had expected this moment all along. An unease, like an erupting volcano, spread through my entire being.

Something was wrong.

What was it? The answer lay with the enemy. The banners of Murad, which had been absent during the siege of Nemeapatre, were nowhere to be seen among the Janissaries either. Why wasn’t Murad’s banner here? The Sultan’s guard should indicate the Sultan’s presence, shouldn’t they?

…Where the Janissaries are, the Sultan must be…

A chilling sensation ran down my spine.

The assumptions I had taken as obvious turned into daggers stabbing at my heart. My initial thoughts had been correct—Murad wanted a battle. But that didn’t mean a battle near Athens or a direct clash of armies. His goal was encirclement and annihilation. The appearance of retaking central Greece had merely been bait.

Murad wasn’t here.

He was…

Adrianos’s trembling voice interrupted my thoughts.

“…It’s a trap, Your Highness!”

//

“Sultan, the prince has abandoned the city. It seems he has realized the Janissaries’ movements.”

At the soldier’s report, the young Sultan smiled silently.

“A wise decision, Dragases.”

But there was one flawed premise in your judgment. I simply used it to my advantage.

The young Sultan, Murad, glanced around the tent he had occupied for so long before standing up.

“I’ve stayed too long in this cramped tent.”

With those words, Murad stepped outside, gazing toward the walls that lay in the distance. Under the dark night sky, little could be seen, but he revealed his excitement to the soldier by his side.

“Look. The gates will open on their own.”

“Your will shall be done, Sultan.”

“I admire your faith. Then I shall grant you the opportunity to witness with your own eyes the fulfillment of my will.”

“What do you mean by that…?”

The soldier turned in the direction Murad pointed, and his expression froze in shock. It was just as Murad had said. By the Sultan’s will, the gates of Nemeapatre were opening on their own. Watching this, Murad couldn’t hold back his laughter any longer.

“Raise my banner. It is time to announce that the true master has returned.”

Tension takes its toll the longer it persists.

That is why it is essential to balance vigilance with moments of rest, preserving as much strength as possible. This is especially true in war, where both stamina and focus are critical. However, even such efforts have their limits. The mood in the city had begun to shift. Initially, the citizens cowered in fear at the sight of the 6,000-strong army. Now, they were beginning to voice complaints.

“Your Highness, at this rate, we might end up fighting the citizens before we even face the Sultan.”

The unrest was still minor, but would a spark so easily extinguish itself once lit? It was only natural that Adrianos’s face had turned pale upon realizing the gravity of the situation. The very trick intended to deceive the Sultan might now strangle us instead. At the same time, I harboured a different thought—that this unrest might ensure the Sultan would entertain no other possibilities.

But above all, my confidence stemmed from calculated predictions.

As the aggressor, Murad could not afford to delay indefinitely. While his advance might not be as swift as before, Sultan Murad was undoubtedly marching toward Nemeapatre. His arrival was imminent. Of course, such confidence was meaningless if I kept it to myself. Thus, I summoned my close aides, Ivania and Adrianos, to explain. Their roles were of utmost importance.

“Do not worry. The Sultan will come to Nemeapatre. In fact, this unrest among the citizens will serve to blind and deafen him. Once the gates are opened and the enemy swarms in, we will lure them into the flames and cut them down. Victory is within reach.”

“But Your Highness, there is no guarantee the Sultan will act as we expect.”

“…You’ve grown remarkably cautious of late, Ivania.”

“Your Highness, this concerns your life. Even though I am but a woman, I take pride in serving at your side,” she replied earnestly.

Honestly, I was moved. This was the same Ivania who once drained my spirit with unnecessary physical displays of affection, now transformed. While inwardly shedding metaphorical tears, I presented the reasoning behind my conviction that Murad would head for Nemeapatre.

“Nemeapatre is a critical stronghold located between two mountain ranges. If Murad intends to supply his forces overland rather than by sea, he must take it. Moreover, Venice fears the growing Ottoman influence in the Aegean and would not turn a blind eye to Ottoman maritime resupply. While they may resent us, they are pragmatic enough to prioritize their national interests over personal grievances.”

“Indeed… If you’ve already considered all of that, I have no further objections,” Adrianos finally conceded.

At last, everyone seemed to agree.

With newfound resolve, Ivania and Adrianos prepared for the Sultan’s forces with greater fervor. Meanwhile, the citizens of Nemeapatre continued to escalate their protests against the harsh requisitioning.

Clashes between soldiers and citizens began erupting throughout the streets. There was no room for sorrow. Far crueler actions would soon follow. Before long, I would rob them of their homes and livelihoods.

The strategy to open the gates, set the city ablaze, and annihilate the enemy inevitably demanded sacrifices from the citizens. Yet, there was no alternative… Such thoughts dulled the edges of my guilt. Then, suddenly, I felt a chill. When had I become someone who rationalized the sacrifices of others for my own reasons?

Overcome with unease, I shut my eyes tightly, my vision shaking from inner turmoil.

When had I begun forcing sacrifices on those unprepared for them, telling myself there was no other way? I grew fearful—fearful of how far I might change as I fulfilled my duties and responsibilities. But I quickly shook my head. This place was destined to become a battlefield.

“…Perhaps it’s simply the tension getting to me.”

I reassured myself, believing the pressure of focusing on the enemy had drained me. As I steadied my thoughts and prepared to send another letter to Sofia, I heard the hurried sound of footsteps approaching from beyond the door. A seed of dread sprouted in my heart. Sure enough, a soldier burst into the room, panting heavily as he all but shouted:

“Your Highness, the enemy! They’ve appeared!”

At those words, I shot to my feet and bolted outside. The situation must have been communicated quickly, as a horse was already prepared. Without even a word of thanks, I leaped onto the saddle and spurred the horse forward, galloping toward the walls.

The sudden shift in the soldiers’ morale unsettled the citizens, who had been in a state of agitation. Seeing the horse charge through, they screamed in panic.

Fortunately, rushing over had paid off.

I quickly spotted the mercenary captain, her sweat-drenched blonde hair flying wildly as she shouted orders. Ivania was addressing the frozen soldiers, who had been paralyzed at the sight of the enemy’s massive army, issuing instructions one by one.

“Don’t stand there gawking like fools! You are soldiers of His Highness! Raise your spears! If you can’t bear to look at them, then stare directly at the sun until you go blind! That would be more useful than this!”

For the first time, she looked dependable. Still, now wasn’t the time to dwell on such an odd sentiment.

“Ivania, have there been any clashes yet?”

“Your Highness… no, not yet. They’ve only just appeared. Whether they plan to besiege or assault us, they’ll likely set up their positions first.”

“Where’s Adrianos?”

“He’s formed a separate security team to calm the agitated citizens. He said he’d be better suited for it than me, considering I’m a woman.”

Judging by her snarky tone, she was clearly upset. If we survive this, I might need to work on mending their relationship.

Despite the alarming news of the Ottoman army’s arrival that had spurred me to rush over, the situation wasn’t as dire as I had feared.

---

This perception changed two days later.

As I stood atop the walls, looking down at the advancing Ottoman army, I realized something that had missed due to the distance. The flag of Murad was nowhere to be seen.

I couldn’t believe it. I checked again and again, but the absence of another critical detail turned my reluctant suspicion into certainty.

“…The Janissaries are missing.”

I scanned the ranks repeatedly, but their iconic white caps were nowhere to be found. Though I wished to deny this reality, I had no choice but to accept it. Without Murad’s banner or the presence of the Janissaries among the enemy ranks…

What could this mean?

Suddenly, a possibility I hadn’t considered before flashed through my mind. Until now, I had believed that Murad was solely focused on defeating me, the Prince of Morea, to solidify his victory. But what if that assumption was wrong? What if he was exploiting that very belief?

While the rear cities were relatively stable, this was only because they were far from the Ottoman forces. True, Venice controlled the sea, but that didn’t entirely rule out the possibility of a flanking maneuver. What if Murad and the Janissaries bypassed us by crossing the mountains?

Though such a route would result in stragglers and significant wear and tear, what if they managed to cross the range and make contact with the cities in central Greece? The consequences were all too clear.

At last, I understood why Murad’s advance had been so slow.

The Sultan hadn’t prioritized speed because he had been stationed near Larissa. He had allowed our defensive posture to remain unchallenged, even knowing we wouldn’t risk an open-field battle. How could I have overlooked such a possibility? How could I have been so complacent, assuming we were the only ones employing schemes?

“Ivania, Adrianos. Emergency war council.”

“Your Highness?”

“Has something happened…?”

I clenched my teeth. If I could use stratagems, so could the enemy. If I failed to anticipate something, the enemy might very well have accounted for it. How could I have forgotten such an obvious truth? Struggling to suppress the wave of self-reproach, I finally managed to speak.

“Athens is in danger.”

Murad’s true target wasn’t the Morean forces stationed at Nemeapatre.

He intended to reclaim central Greece first.

The preparations for the battlefield proceeded smoothly.

As a result, Nemeapatre had been utterly transformed—into the perfect stage for raging flames to engulf it. The Greek fire hidden among the barricades scattered throughout the alleys would ignite at the opportune moment, leaving any soldiers who entered the city helplessly trapped.

Under the guise of preparing for a siege, the evacuation of civilians had also been carried out. It might seem like a waste of time, but it was necessary to mitigate the inevitable criticism that would come later.

However, the most crucial factor remained Murad’s movements.

In tracking Murad’s actions, no one proved more instrumental than Sophia. It was fortunate that they had joined forces out of mutual necessity. The disdainful gaze often directed toward the Jewish people ironically dispelled suspicions of her being an enemy spy. Yet, Sophia had her limitations—her lack of knowledge about warfare meant she couldn’t discern which pieces of information were truly critical.

This, of course, only added to the prince’s burden. From the distant court of Nemeapatre, he had to dictate exactly what needed to be uncovered and reported. Scouts were sent out multiple times a day to guard against enemy detachments, and the growing discontent among citizens and influential figures as the occupation stretched on had to be managed to remain within tolerable bounds. Sadly, there wasn’t a single capable individual he could entrust with even one of these tasks.

Ideally, he would have delegated some of the work to give others experience. But now, when even a single failure could prove fatal, there was no such luxury. For this reason, Ivania and Adrianos, who had recently joined him, were assigned solely for tightening military discipline.

Still, Murad’s actions were the top priority, and Sophia’s letters were the only clue to understanding them.

---

“Here’s the Sultan’s movement you were so keen to know about.

There doesn’t seem to be any significant military activity in Asia Minor. However, it’s worth noting that the Sultan is advancing southward at a much slower pace than before. He’s only just arrived near Larissa. This is a far cry from the rapid march we saw during the Bulgarian campaign.

Hoping this letter reaches you promptly, I’ll end it here.”

---

Nearly a month had passed since the prince began his campaign of Nemeapatre, yet Murad’s forces, which should have appeared long ago, remained in Larissa. Considering the time it took for letters to travel, it seemed likely that his arrival was near. Still, something didn’t sit right. Why would Murad hesitate?

He had already crushed the Bulgarian rebellion and swiftly defeated the rival who had challenged his claim to the throne. Murad’s support within the Ottoman Empire was undoubtedly solid, and there were no political obstacles to his advance.

The most plausible explanation was logistical delays. The approaching winter loomed large, and if Murad was stockpiling supplies in anticipation of a prolonged siege, it made sense. After all, Larissa was a fertile agricultural region and a major granary. Harvested crops could be readily used, which wasn’t a bad idea—but neither was it the best. Winter was likely the key factor influencing this cautious approach.

Murad was no stranger to Greece’s rugged terrain, filled with mountains and hills in the central and southern regions. He was the one who, anticipating the inevitability of attrition in such conditions, had struck at Constantinople to draw Morea out. Would such a leader willingly initiate a campaign during a season that demanded immense resources?

The logic didn’t add up at all.

---

“What are you scheming, Murad?”

Murad’s recent maneuvers revealed a clear intent. His strategy was designed to draw Morea’s forces out of the Peloponnesian Peninsula, cutting off any reliance on the terrain for a war of attrition.

He planned to deploy his powerful infantry and cavalry to annihilate the Morean army in a decisive battle, thereby completely erasing the empire’s influence over central and southern Greece. This was a clear effort to crush Morea. And yet, suddenly, he was stockpiling supplies in preparation for winter?

Murad desired swift and decisive action. His aim was the collapse of the empire’s remaining strength. To achieve that, he planned to utterly annihilate Morea’s troops.

Had this reasoning been flawed?

Had it been a misstep to assume Murad would concern himself with the army I command?

A wave of dizziness came over me. I leaned back in the chair, closing my eyes. In the mental map unwinding before me, I could see a young Sultan with his face obscured by a dark shadow. His confident smile was the only visible feature as he slowly, deliberately advanced his forces southward.

It was impossible not to feel anxious when faced with his inexplicable decision to advance so gradually when he could easily charge forward. Was it simply to unsettle me, or was there another scheme at play?

I needed certainty. I needed to understand what Murad was planning.

But how? What further deductions could I make from the clues in this letter? This was the man who had deceived Venice by withdrawing the coastal fleet from Asia Minor. He might have even realized that Morea was acquiring intelligence through some means and could be deliberately misleading us. Surely, his intent was to provoke anxiety and lure us into a trap.

…Yet, the fading confidence in victory was undeniable.

I had gambled on a near-desperate strategy against Murad. If he failed to see through it, it could result in an unprecedented victory. But if he uncovered it, the flames could engulf us instead. It was time to consider the worst-case scenario.

This brought to mind the strategy built on the premise that victory through military force alone was impossible. Ideally, we would defeat the enemy in Nemeapatre with a single, decisive strike. But failing that, the Greek fire would be deployed to cripple Nemeapatre’s functions as both a fortress and a city. Its value as a strategic stronghold would be thoroughly diminished before we retreated. That was the first step of the plan: to shatter Murad’s momentum and bind his army with a carefully laid trap.

Only naïve fools pin their hopes on luck in the face of crisis.

This world, however, had taught me the necessity of cunning and preparation over innocence. Perhaps that was why I felt an even stronger urge to ask this question:

What are you plotting, Murad?

The invention of gunpowder and the emergence of cannons changed the world.

Their power could pierce even the sturdiest armor in an instant and eventually bring down the most formidable fortress walls. From the moment this potential appeared, the medieval era began its gradual decline.

Yet, the end did not arrive immediately. Though crumbling, the era still remained medieval. Even if gunpowder and cannons announced the begging a new age, the legacy of the medieval period could not be dismissed lightly.

Greek fire was a prime example.

During the rise of Islam, when the empire faced imminent collapse at the hands of the Islamic fleet besieging Constantinople, an inventor devised a liquid incendiary weapon. Flames that burned even on water proved to be an overwhelming force in naval battles.

However, its applications were not limited to maritime warfare. Experiencing its incredible effectiveness, the empire utilized Greek fire in various situations.

The prince was confident that Greek fire would still be effective, even on the brink of the medieval era’s conclusion. Though the quantity produced fell far short of expectations due to its difficult manufacturing process, no other weapon could so thoroughly disrupt an opponent as fire that could not be extinguished with water.

Especially at the moment when the enemy poured through the open gates, certain of their victory, the sudden appearance of flames engulfing their surroundings, combined with the point of a spear aimed at their throats, would shatter their composure.

Thus, the prince personally oversaw the planning, inspecting alleyways to determine the most effective places to unleash the flames. He also intended to delay evacuating the city’s residents as long as possible. Premature evacuations could raise suspicion about the harsh measures enacted thus far.

This decision might earn him a reputation of notoriety. Yet, if it meant repelling the Ottomans, he would bear that burden willingly. It was a painful choice, but one made knowing that not everything could be saved.

“This spot will do. Mark it on the map.”

“As you command, Your Highness.”

Secrecy was foremost in this operation. Thus, instead of skilled guards, the prince chose attendants with unwavering loyalty to accompany him. On the map of the city’s layout, the attendant marked the locations the prince identified as key points. These were ideal places to trap the enemy by setting ablaze pre-positioned barricades and driving them into the inferno.

Once these crucial ambush sites were identified, the prince would return to court to address the next task awaiting him: the backlash from the city’s leaders over the harsh military demands.

“Why is only our city and its people subjected to such disadvantages? The citizens’ discontent is at its peak! You’ve already taken substantial wealth, and yet you continue to seize more. How is this any different from outright plunder?”

“May I ask, is this punishment for us maintaining a somewhat neutral stance?”

They weren’t wrong. The prince had resolved to sacrifice Nemeapatre because of its Ottoman sympathies and its strategic importance as a critical stronghold for their southern advance. What would happen if the enemy was allowed into the city amidst fierce battles?

Looting and massacres were inevitable. Moreover, this was not just ordinary fire—it was Greek fire. When the raging inferno finally subsided, all traces of prosperity would have been consumed entirely.

Of course, revealing such intentions outright would only lead to immediate rebellion. The prince shook his head and replied:

“This is a fight to defend our faith against the Ottomans. You, too, are well aware of their overwhelming strength. I acknowledge that our preparations may have been excessive. However, consider this: Accusing those who stand for their faith of plundering because they demand readiness is a grave insult. Reflect on this deeply.”

Of course, they would not comply so easily. Some turned pale at the mere mention of opposing the Ottomans, while others flared with anger, shouting in protest.

“How dare you speak such blasphemy?! We are a vassal state serving the Sultan! How can you expect us to join in treason against our lord?”

The room fell into a tense, uneasy silence. The prince rose from his seat at the head of the table and surveyed the faces of the influential figures gathered. Nemeapatre, being distant from Mistra, was an area where the prince’s influence was weak.

Even the creation of the city council had devolved into little more than a tool for calming the existing powerholders. It was no surprise that these figures, who represented the old order, looked unfavorably upon the prince’s efforts to introduce a new one.

As always, a gamble was necessary.

The prince understood that it was time to take another step forward on the tightrope suspended between life and death, survival and destruction. His hand moved toward the hilt of the sword at his waist.

“In that case—!”

The weight of the sword pressed against his palm as he drew the silver blade. A sharp, metallic sound resonated as the sword was unsheathed, and with a reverse grip, the prince drove it into the table before him.

The blade pierced through the wood with a resounding thud, and the onlookers instinctively imagined the splintering of bones. The shattered fragments of wood scattered across the room, a clear and ominous symbol. Turning his gaze to the gathered leaders, the prince spoke with unwavering clarity.

“…You must choose. Will you be slaves to the Sultan, or citizens of Rome?”

No one maintained their composure under his intense, gleaming stare. Only then did the prince withdraw the sword. Having subdued them with fear, it was time to offer reassurance.

“The losses suffered in this war will be compensated in due time. I swear, in the name of the Prince of Morea and the legacy left to me by my mother, that the city’s reconstruction will be ensured. So, do not be afraid.”

“…We will follow Your Highness,” one of them replied reluctantly.

Though they yielded, the prince had no illusions that his promise would be fulfilled immediately. The reconstruction of Nemeapatre would be a strictly calculated endeavor. Morea could not afford to invest its resources in a city that had been friendly to the Ottomans. The priority was to secure and fully dominate cities that had sworn unwavering loyalty.

“Very well, you may all withdraw.”

The leaders retreated, subdued and shaken. The prince watched their departing figures. How many among them truly believed in or hoped for the restoration of the empire? Slowly, he closed his eyes. No one is granted the power to protect everything. The limited strength each person possesses forces them to prioritize whom and what they must safeguard.

Now, the most critical matter was Murad’s next move.

Constantine, the prince marching north from Morea, and Sultan Murad, descending south to meet him.

Many observers of Balkan affairs identified the vicinity of Larissa as the likely clash point between the two forces. The area, dense with long grasslands, was believed to offer a tactical advantage by neutralizing the Sipahi cavalry.

However, these predictions were undermined by the unexpectedly slow pace of Constantine’s advance. There were various reasons for the delay: securing supply routes, gathering more accurate geographical knowledge…

But the lieutenants knew there was another, more significant reason. Although the prince had not voiced it outright, they could sense that his deliberate pace was not without purpose. Adriano, the young and spirited deputy commander, watched the prince’s figure ahead and fell into thought.

“His Highness wouldn’t have ordered this march without a plan.”

There must have been a reason why he had instructed Adriano to gather a considerable amount of Greek fire. Yet, the prince remained silent, refusing to elaborate on any strategy. Adriano did not see this as a lack of trust. He recalled the prince’s earlier warning to his retainers: just as they had eyes and ears, so too did their enemies. It was a clear caution against spies.

“Then I shall trust in Your Highness’s will.”

Adriano’s resolve was not misplaced. The true reason for the prince’s slow advance lay with the city-states of central Greece. By deliberately including several key cities along his march, he apparently sought to encourage them and secure supply routes.

However, his primary aim was to gauge their sentiments. Though nominally subordinate to the prince, central Greece was still technically under the Sultan’s domain.

Morea, positioned as an intermediary, acted as a steward of sorts—presenting itself as both an agent and ally of the Sultan, collecting taxes and delivering tributes on his behalf. This arrangement had been the result of the last war.

Expecting full subjugation within just a year was an empty hope, especially since the harsh measures taken in response to the Black Death had already sown plenty of resentment.

Furthermore, Constantine had come to grips with reality, thanks to the cautious advice of Demicleos and Plethon. The city-states had yet to decide whether they would become part of the Empire or remain under the Sultan’s rule. And what could be more terrifying in war than a threat looming from one’s rear?

Thus, the prince moved his army close to these cities to send a warning, ensuring they did not entertain other allegiances lightly. A distant force of ten thousand might inspire fear, but a closer force of six thousand was far more immediate and tangible.

Even so, the prince’s worries did not diminish. No matter how much he planned and maneuvered, ultimate victory was the only true solution to this uncertain situation.

Knowing how difficult victory would be, his concerns grew all the more burdensome.

But relinquishing the reins was not an option.

On the exact day marking one month since news of the siege of Constantinople and Sultan Murad’s southern advance, Constantine entered Nemeapatre in December 1421. Upon arrival, he declared a state of war and enforced enlistment so severe they were almost harsh. It was a far cry from the gentle ruler his subjects had once perceived him to be. Naturally, not only the soldiers who had fought alongside him but even the officers began to question his transformation.

Why was the prince acting so differently?

Why was he halting the advance instead of pressing forward?

The answer soon became clear in the military council that followed.

“Our battlefield will be here, at Nemeapatre.”

“…Your Highness, a siege is an effective way to buy time, but in situations where victory is crucial, it could isolate our forces and prove disastrous. Would it not be wiser to draw the enemy closer and use the terrain for guerrilla tactics?”

Remarkably, even Ivania, who was known for her silly remarks, offered a sound opinion for once. Had she finally awakened to her role as a commander? It was enough to bring tears to Constantine’s eyes—if he had been the kind of man who cried easily. Even Adriano seemed surprised by Ivania’s change, though he chose not to dwell on it, given the weight of the matter at hand.

“I share Ivania’s opinion. While Nemeapatre is indeed a strategic choke point, many city-states in central Greece are still wavering between the Sultan and us. A prolonged siege would likely push them further away.”

“I do not deny the validity of your points. However, the aim is not to hold a siege but to repel the enemy.”

“…Is that even possible?”

Though Constantine was known for his measured words, it was difficult to believe his declaration under such circumstances. No matter how firmly they had resolved to follow him, the boldness of his claim was not easy to accept. But Constantine had already devised a plan—a strategy he had envisioned from the time he first gathered his retainers to prepare for war.

“It will be a lure. Nemeapatre will serve as bait to draw in the Sultan.”

“A lure, Your Highness?”

Ivania questioned with evident doubt, her bright blue eyes reflecting both curiosity and disbelief. To address their concerns, Constantine revisited the fragment of ‘future knowledge’ that had come to him. Whether one called it foresight or knowledge of what was to come, it was the only way to overcome their numerical disadvantage. At last, he began to share his thoughts.

“I will open the gates for them.”

“Your Highness!?”

“Your Highness!”

The meaning behind opening the gates was clear. Even though both Ivania and Adrianos knew full well that the prince would never betray them, their instincts brought forth near-screams of disbelief. Naturally, Constantine was not one to be swayed by such reactions. Ignoring the startled expressions of his vassals, he pressed on with his explanation.

“Opening the gates does not signify surrender. It won’t be us opening them—it will be the citizens of Nemeapatre. Unable to endure the harsh demands, they will invite the Ottomans in, hoping to drive us out. That’s when the enemy will seize the opportunity and march into the city.”

An urban battle that would exploit the city’s terrain to inflict heavy damage on the enemy while minimizing unnecessary movements. That was the prince’s aim. Using the labyrinthine streets of the city as the battlefield, he would neutralize their numerical advantage with far fewer troops. Of course, such a plan alone would eventually be overwhelmed by sheer numbers.

“And once enough of their forces are inside, we will set the city ablaze with the Greek fire we’ve prepared. The flames will sever their lines, and we’ll deploy our Spearmen to drive the scattered enemy troops into the inferno.”

Fire attacks typically require meticulous preparation and are heavily dependent on weather conditions. For ordinary fires to become truly threatening, a tremendous amount of flammable materials would be required. However, Greek fire was the empire’s formidable secret weapon—its flames could even burn upon the sea. Worrying whether such flames would prove sufficient was foolish.

Clearly, neither Ivania nor Adrianos had considered this approach. Both stood agape, unable to find words. Yet, Constantine had been preparing this strategy ever since he realized he would face Murad.

Choosing Nemeapatre as the main battlefield was a calculated decision. This was a strategy that would devastate the city, so he had deliberately chosen a location sympathetic to the Ottomans. Even if it fell, the losses could be mitigated.

He had resolved long ago:

Cities that favored the Ottomans would be abandoned. But those that remained loyal—they would be protected.

“…So the harsh measures were intended to draw the sultan’s attention after all,” Adrianos murmured.

“To deceive the enemy, you must first deceive your allies. From the start, I never believed half-measures would fool the sultan,” Constantine replied.

At the same time, his understanding of Murad’s motives made the plan possible. Murad sought to utterly crush Morea’s military strength, stripping the empire of all its remaining power. As long as Morea’s forces remained intact, the Ottomans would always feel a threat at their rear. This, Constantine intended to exploit. This time, he would succeed where countless others had failed.

If he could recreate the miraculous improvisation of János Hunyadi in the Battle of Belgrade, which shattered the seemingly unstoppable Ottoman momentum…

With Ivania and Adrianos still reeling from shock, Constantine clenched his teeth.

“Murad, I did not rise only to fall here.”

Fate’s decree of destruction, the heavy shadows of resignation and despair cast over his people, and even the great tides of history themselves—

He would overturn them all.

Leaving behind the ruins of the villages, the soldiers departed, while the ones stationed atop the fortress walls merely watched. This had already happened several times, so neither side seemed overly tense. They merely glared at one another, their brows furrowed.

The soldiers stationed atop the supposedly impregnable walls often clicked their tongues as they watched the Ottoman forces march away with their swords unsheathed. Even so, there was no way they could storm out through the gates—they could only sneer.

“Which village is it this time?”

“Hmph, it seems they’re resorting to provocations, knowing they stand no real chance.”

On the 54th day of the siege, the Ottomans, who had stormed in with overwhelming momentum, were unexpectedly refraining from direct engagement. Instead, they pillaged the surrounding areas while avoiding casualties.

As a result, Constantinople found itself in an endless standoff. After a few siege attempts during the initial stages, the Ottomans had shown little movement, and the eerie silence had persisted ever since.

Despite the Ottomans’ passive stance, no one in the capital dared to suggest launching an attack. The catastrophic failure of Theodoros’ overconfident campaign had served as a harsh reminder that Constantinople could not stand against Murad. As a result, while the 8,000-strong forces worried over potential conflict, the situation became deadlocked, concluding in an unpleasant standoff.

Thus, the ongoing standoff, aside from the diminished influence of the war advocates and the fact that troops had been mobilized, was eerily quiet, to the point it could almost be called peace. Naturally, this uneasy peace was thanks to the imposing triple-layered walls. But more fundamentally, it was because Murad’s focus wasn’t on this ancient city. His eyes were set elsewhere, and during the prolonged siege, he endured, patiently working to achieve his true aim.

Patience always bears its reward.

Within his tent, Murad let out a cheer and laughed as the news he had long awaited finally arrived.

“Indeed, it was inevitable! The moment they realized they couldn’t fight where they had intended, they moved swiftly!”

Prince Dragaš of Morea had finally taken action. Though it wasn’t clear when the preparations had begun, the sight of soldiers gathering in Athens suggested they had been readying themselves even before receiving urgent news of Constantinople’s danger.

Had Murad’s focus on Venice’s maneuvers and Mustafa’s activities allowed this opportunity? In this window, Morea had likely completed significant preparations for war.

Once they realized the Ottoman forces were targeting the Empire, they had likely abandoned their cautious stance and begun advancing north. Overcome with anticipation, Murad continued reading the letter sent by his spy. The estimated size of Dragaš’s forces was 5,000 to 6,000. Though numerically insufficient, the spy reported that the equipment of Morea’s troops was astonishingly advanced.

Sending someone familiar with military organization had been a wise decision. The soldiers’ armament provided clear distinctions: those with chainmail and long spears, others with light armor, short swords, and shields, and even a few wielding massive scythes. This information was invaluable for Murad, though it was likely a nightmare for Dragaš.

However, the information on the officer corps was underwhelming. They were mostly unknown figures, aside from one former bureaucrat elevated to vice-commander by Dragaš’s trust, and a mercenary captain who stood out somewhat. Even this seemed to have been learned only because of their rank; none of them appeared to be proven leaders.

The spy, as if emphasizing this point, declared that there was only one truly threatening figure in Morea.

“My Sultan, despite the dire circumstances, the city remains calm, and its people go about their daily lives.

Though none can stand against the Janissaries, the soldiers led by Dragaš are brimming with morale. They may not match the Janissaries in strength, but they are prepared to die fighting them. This is all due to one reason—Dragašes himself. If he is captured, Morea will surely crumble in an instant.”

Murad smiled at the acknowledgment of his rival. What a monarch worthy of respect! The rivalry between the Emperor and the Prince was infamous even within the Ottoman Empire. Many factions had even sought to place the Prince on the imperial throne. However, Dragaš had refused the title of Emperor for one reason alone: his unyielding resolve not to plunge the nation into the chaos of civil war.

As for his personal life, no rumours of indulgence in luxury, lewdness or corruption had ever emerged about Dragaš. Not a single scandalous story that often accompanies men of power, nor whispers of unconventional preferences in the absence of such rumors. What could this mean? In recent memory, how many rulers had inspired such unwavering trust among their people?

One could not help but admire the sheer determination that had brought him this far, driven solely by the desire to save his nation teetering on the brink of destruction. And perhaps the truest form of respect was to sever the lingering attachments and delusions that such a noble figure could not yet let go. There was no longer any reason to remain here. After calming his laboured breaths, Murad spoke to his soldiers.

“Lift the siege. We will strike Dragaš, who has begun marching north from Morea.”

“As you command.”

Soon, cries relaying the order to withdraw echoed in all directions. Murad’s focus had long since shifted elsewhere.

Though he had drawn Dragaš out, it was certain that the prince would never advance as far as Edirne’s vicinity. Had the siege persisted, Dragaš would likely have chosen guerrilla tactics, balancing his political standing with minimizing losses among his troops.

But since Constantinople was not Murad’s true goal, such efforts would have been meaningless. Dragaš, too, must have realized this and would undoubtedly halt his advance at a certain point.

It was no longer possible to lure him further. Once Dragaš deemed the situation hopeless, he might even retreat to preserve his forces for the restoration of the Empire. Murad held a subtle certainty about this possibility.

Of course, the solution was simple.

To those who long for hope, one need to only present the illusion of hope.

“Dragaš, I will move as you wish. A moving bait is far more tempting, after all.”

No matter how much he tried to avoid battle, if Murad personally descended upon the battlefield, Dragaš would be unable to retreat so easily. War was not merely a contest of brute force between soldiers. Conflicts between nations involved countless factors beyond physical strength. And so, Dragaš inevitably faced limitations he could not overcome.

“Truly unfortunate.”

From Dragaš’s actions and words, it was evident that he had confidence in his abilities. Indeed, his capabilities were indispensable to the Empire. However, overthrowing the firmly established succession would have required plunging the nation into civil war.

Thus, Dragaš remained a prince—for the sake of preventing the Empire’s division and preserving its strength. Murad would not say that choice was wrong. But he would ensure that Dragaš learned the two sides in every decision.

Resolving himself, Murad stepped out of his tent. For over a month, he had gazed at the triple-layered walls. Their crumbling state, as if symbolizing the decay of the Empire, drew a smirk to his lips.

“Foolish ones, bolt your gates shut and never open them. You are the rulers within these walls, and I shall rule all that lies beyond them.”

And the moment I have control over everything beyond your gates, you will open them yourselves.

---

Please review this Novel on Novel Updates even if its a bad review for more frequent updates

Clang, clang.

The sound of chains and armor clashing echoed through the air. The training grounds were filled with soldiers, showcasing what it meant to be disciplined and battle-ready. Men clad in gleaming chainmail, standing straight with spears in hand, stood with determination burning in their eyes.

These were the forces that Morea had cultivated, every ounce of its strength gathered here. In the silence broken only by faint breaths, I slowly ascended the podium. Thousands of soldiers in formation turned their gazes toward me.

They all must have known.

They were Morea’s army, the empire’s last remaining strength. My chest tightened unbearably as if weighed down by a stone. Brave soldiers who had willingly taken up their spears, even knowing they were destined for a battlefield where survival seemed impossible. To these warriors, I spoke:

“Today, we march to knock on the gates of heaven.”

Looking at the unwavering soldiers, I felt a surge of both deep admiration and pity. While their unyielding stance was a testament to the success of their training, it also reminded me of the grim reality that I might soon lose them. I bit down hard on my lower lip, shaking off intrusive thoughts.

“But before we go, we must remember why we head for heaven.”

There are many reasons why a person chooses death over life—shame, despair, anger, devotion, love… Yet, in this era, the most effective way to fuel one’s will to die is through religion. To live and die for one’s faith was the characteristic of these medieval times. And for the empire to unite, such a cause was indispensable.

“For centuries, Christendom has been threatened by heretics seeking to place their prophet in Christ’s seat. Time and again, we’ve resisted, but their relentless advance has been difficult to repel… and now they’ve set their sights on taking even this land. They aim to seize our soil, our lives, our sovereignty, and our destiny—all of it.”

At the same time, I stirred the powerful pride that the empire’s citizens still clung to—the pride of living in what remained of the fallen empire.

“And now, they even seek to take from us the very name of Rome. Those who have already ravaged our families and neighbours now wish to trample on what little pride we have left.”

Though the silence remained, the atmosphere began to shift. The soldiers’ resolve grew stronger. Between a fight to conquer and a fight to protect, which inspires soldiers more? I found the answer in their eyes.

“Descendants of heroes… We stand here today to protect the city of cities, Rome, which we have defended for so long. To stand against the tyranny of heretics and safeguard our world, we have wore armor. To protect our families from their greed, we have risen and gathered here. You are defenders. And I believe that you will fulfill your duty with both your bodies and your souls.”

I, too, shall fulfill my duty alongside you on the front lines, prepared to face death.

The moment I finished speaking, the soldiers erupted in a unified roar. Their cries, merging as one, reached my ears clearly:

“Lead us, my prince!”

As I descended the podium, familiar faces greeted me. The first to approach was Ivania, the blonde-haired, blue-eyed knight.

“Are you truly going?”

Of course. I nodded, and her expression twisted slightly, clearly displeased. She wasn’t the only one concerned. Adriano, fully armed, Bishop Nikephoros, who had performed the pre-departure blessing, Judge Demicleos, and even Demetrios Kantakouzenos—known as Dikan—showed visible worry. Everyone shared the same sentiment, except for the elderly Plethon, whom I hadn’t called due to concerns about his health.

“Your Highness, I trust you are aware of how unfavourable this battle is. Do you have any kind of plan?”

“We will avoid open battles.”

Nikephoros’s question was easy to answer. It was obvious that engaging the mighty Ottoman forces in open combat would be senseless. I had never for a moment thought Morea’s forces alone could defeat the Ottomans. This war was not about winning—it was about holding the line. I reminded myself of this as I turned my gaze to Dikan.

“Demetrios, deliver this letter to my father.”

“A letter? What do you mean all of a sudden…?”

“Only my father will understand the meaning contained in the letter, so it is useless even if someone else reads it. Just deliver it to him.”

“But His Majesty Manuel is already under confinement. If I try to approach recklessly…”

“If you’re so reluctant to act yourself, then ask your sister to deliver it instead.”

At the mention of Joannina, his brow twitched. He usually maintained a stoic expression, but it seemed Joannina was his weak point. Whenever her name came up, his reaction made him easy to read. As his weakness was poked, Dikan’s eyes flared with anger, burning like a flame.

“…I’ll deliver it. Though I fail to understand why Your Highness is sending a letter at such a critical time.”

“Good. Then all that’s left is the matter with Epirus, correct?”

“There’s something I need to say about that, Your Highness.”

“Adrianos.”

“Why did you refuse reinforcements from Prince Thomas at such an important time? Even an additional thousand troops would be invaluable right now!”

A perfectly reasonable question. Unable to suppress a smile, I rubbed the corner of my lips as I responded to him.

“Now is not the time to wager everything.”

“What do you mean, Your Highness? Of all people, you should be the most aware of the severity of the situation! How could you act this way?”

“Demicleos, have the orders I gave you before been carried out?”

“Your Highness!”

“…Yes, they have been carried out, Your Highness.”

If that is so, then I have done all I can. Slowly, I lifted my gaze to the sky. Why had I, of all people, fallen into this world under the guise of a visual novel? But instead of seeking answers that would never come, I resolved once again to fulfil the duty weighing upon my shoulders.

“Adrianos.”

“…Do you have a plan, Your Highness?”

“Prepare for deployment.”

“Your Highness!”

Seeing Adrianos’ startled expression, I couldn’t hold back a laugh.

“Finally, Your Highness has…”

“Well, it makes sense, given how things are unfolding…”

“Sigh… If Your Highness was so troubled, you could’ve come to me for comfort…♡”

I ignored the one whose words seemed completely out of place. Instead, I gripped the hilt of my sword tightly.

This was the beginning of a long trial. I had to laugh now if I wanted to avoid succumbing to despair later. With that thought in mind, I burst into laughter for a long while.

Where else would I find moments to laugh during the coming ordeal? Laughing now was the only way I could endure it all.

Even as tears welled up in my eyes and streamed down my cheeks, I kept laughing.

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

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

The moment the capital was besieged was no different.

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

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

Such were those days. Days filled with such emptiness…

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

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

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

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

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

I must do it, too.

I can do it, too…

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

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

Yes.

…It was I who sought to stand alone.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“…..”

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

A hollow laugh slipped out.

I needed to recall my original, pure desire.

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

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

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

“…I wanted to be his strength.”

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

The Court of Morea.

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

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

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

Through Venice, his name spread—Prince Dragases.

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

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

And indeed, it was as he had said.

“The time” still seemed distant.

“…..”

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

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

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

The fate of Theodoros was unknown.

But one thing was clear:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The goal of this war is not victory.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“…How can you be so certain?”

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

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

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

“…A brother of Joannina.”

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

The preparations had already been made long ago.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But Murad had no intention of withdrawing his army.

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

The empire deserved punishment.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then, tell me—

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

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

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