Category: About a Dating Sim Where Dating Is Impossible

A new year had dawned.

The sound of church bells stirred the sleeping city, and lives ready for tomorrow stirred to stretch and move forward.

Though it was a cycle that repeated year after year, such moments still felt special to many.

Among those welcoming the new sun was a female knight who had overcome the limits of her gender to become one of Emperor Dragases’s close confidants.

And while she would normally be scanning her surroundings with clear determination, the knight’s blue eyes today were lost in a haze of emotional recollection, busy reliving the events of the previous night.

Even her lips—usually trained to appear stoic—trembled faintly with suppressed joy as Ivania walked confidently down the halls of the citadel.

Many basked in the prosperity and energy of Mistra, but in that moment, none could match the radiance of Ivania.

Not even Sophia, the Empress and a woman respected across the empire for her noble status as Emperor Dragases’s wife.

Ever since revealing her identity, Sophia had been a frequent visitor to the Emperor’s office, often accompanied by Maria.

It didn’t take long for Sophia, heading to meet the Emperor, and Ivania, leaving the Emperor’s chamber and walking toward the training grounds, to cross paths.

The moment they noticed each other, their expressions split in stark contrast.

“Oh, Your Majesty the Empress! A very good morning to you.”

“…It seems Dame Ivania is busy even at this early hour.”

“Of course. One must never treat His Majesty’s orders lightly.”

“You’ve grown quite skilled with words in my absence.”

“I’ve come to realize that, if one wishes to win another’s heart, one must refine themselves.”

“…”

As Ivania greeted her with a radiant smile, Sophia’s eyebrows twitched in restrained irritation.

Naturally, Ivania paid her no mind. The two had never shared a warm relationship. After all, Sophia had once tried to weaken surveillance and manipulate Ivania into lowering her guard.

With such a strange rivalry now established, the exchange of pleasantries was little more than formality.

“Well then, Your Majesty, I shall head to the training grounds. I hope we meet again—when His Majesty has no orders for me.”

“….”

And with those final words, Ivania departed. All Sophia could do was watch her retreat, powerless to respond.

In the silence that followed, only Maria—wide-eyed and clueless—murmured softly between the two women.

“W-Wow… So His Majesty finally…”

“Maria.”

“Eek!”

“…Perhaps we should check if there’s any other news today.”

“You’re in a particularly sour mood this morning…”

Sophia’s steps, once headed toward the Emperor’s office, abruptly turned in another direction.

Maria, flustered by the sudden shift, could only pretend not to notice and follow with nervous sweat trickling down her temples.

Soon even Maria left, still trying to soothe Sophia’s mood, and the hallway was once again filled with silence.

But not for long—another set of footsteps echoed shortly after.

“…I warned him. This is a terrible time for this.”

Halid Murtat.

The new commander of the Murtatis, a man known for his unconventional loyalty to the Emperor, made his displeasure known the moment he appeared.

Had his warning been ignored? What he had just witnessed was disgraceful—unworthy of a ruler famed for his self-discipline and abstinence.

“To indulge in women at a time like this, despite knowing how dangerous things are…”

Frowning, Halid glanced toward the direction the women had gone before turning his eyes toward the Emperor’s office. Could it be that Dragases’s legendary restraint had finally worn thin?

If so, the empire had already lost its last shred of hope to withstand the Ottomans. The nation held together only by the central force that was Emperor Dragases—without him, there was nothing.

Halid’s hesitation lingered for a while.

The warm sunlight brushed his skin again and again as he stood silently, weighing his thoughts. Then his eyes dropped to the sword hanging from his waist. He stroked the hilt a couple of times, and finally, with no more doubt, his feet began to move again.

And when he flung open the office door, what he found was the Emperor staring silently at an open map. But that calm figure wasn’t enough to swallow the sharpness of Halid’s questioning.

“I warned you when we first met—Ottoman movement is imminent. And yet here you are, plyaing with women?”

Even as he hurled accusations, Halid’s right hand slowly drifted toward his sword. It was a noticeable motion.

Naturally, the Emperor’s gaze first went to Halid’s hand creeping toward the hilt. Yet the Emperor showed no reaction. He simply returned his gaze to the map.

“I won’t claim I felt nothing for the woman. But that’s all. Even if the memory of last night lingers in my mind, there is still far more to be done. I won’t let myself cling to it.”

A cold, clear response—devoid of hesitation. No one could accuse him of being caught in sentiment. For someone who had always lived ascetically, there was nothing out of character here.

Was it the truth? Halid’s doubts continued to circle without resolution. But further confrontation would do no good. He slowly withdrew the hand that had reached for his sword. Still, his half-lidded eyes did not soften.

“I’ll remember your words. Don’t forget, Your Majesty. The enemy you must face is the Ottoman Empire, fully prepared and waiting.”

“To think I’d hear my own resolve echoed back at me, Halid, by someone else.”

With a chuckle, the Emperor replied.

A prepared victor, summoned by history—that was how he viewed the Ottomans. Even if Halid’s loyalty was uncertain, his wariness of the Ottomans was something the Emperor could respect.

And truth be told, Emperor Dragases’s actions thus far had earned Halid’s trust. It was almost amusing now to warn Dragases of the Ottomans—who had been more vigilant than anyone in standing against them.

Reflecting on how foolish his own words had been, Halid turned his attention to the map.

“Now that I know Your Majesty remains wary, I wish to hear your plan.”

“What is it you seek from me, Halid?”

“I want a full explanation of where Your Majesty is focusing and the reasons behind that attention.”

At those words, the emperor raised his head and looked at Halid. And the warrior who had abandoned everything received the emperor’s gaze with calm composure.

Without the slightest hesitation, he opened his mouth with the same arrogance and confidence he had shown from the very beginning.

“Of course, I am the son of the most hated traitor in the Empire, and a traitor who turned his back on the Ottomans. However, just because I abandoned everything doesn’t mean I cast away my experience and knowledge of the Ottoman affairs and movements.”

“……”

Halid was right.

No matter how well the Jews had developed their information network, or how much the Venetians, feeling threatened by Ottoman expansion, had cooperated, there were clear limits.

And even the information thus obtained would pale in comparison to the knowledge possessed by a former high-ranking Ottoman officer.

Yet the emperor did not speak readily.

Halid, who grasped the meaning faster than anyone else, responded with silence, and so silence fell upon the audience chamber.

A confrontation that did not seem likely to end quickly. But even such a standoff must eventually have an end. And it was the emperor who spoke first.

“Albania.”

“I haven’t heard the reason yet.”

“Due to its rugged mountain terrain, Albania is naturally resistant to Ottoman invasions. Moreover, as it borders the Adriatic Sea to the west, supplying it by sea is much easier. And if a crusade is formed, it’s obvious from the current strength of the Ottomans that the main forces and the Morea region will be split.

If we already hold Albania by then, we’ll have a direct link to southern Serbia. That will not only make coordination with the crusaders much easier, but will also force the Ottomans to spread their strength across three fronts—near the Danube River, Larissa, and Albania—allowing us to hinder their momentum to some extent.”

“Magnificent, Your Majesty.”

A satisfied smile crept across Halid’s lips.

Halid Murtat—the man who called himself a traitor and abandoned everything—was now convinced that his decision had not been mistaken. There had been good reason for his father, Evrenos, to take an interest in this emperor.

‘So this is why Father always said he was born too late.’

After all, was this not the man who had kept a declining empire together this long?

To restrain the Ottomans—rising unopposed and shaking off all forms of resistance—this level of insight was only to be expected.

After a short laugh, Halid pointed to Albania on the map with his right index finger and spoke.

“As Your Majesty has predicted, the Ottomans also place high value on Albania. Even so, they have not yet secured complete control. The difficult terrain makes it hard for their power to fully extend, allowing the local lords to maintain a semi-independent status. The Christian lords of Albania enjoy considerable freedom, which has long been a source of controversy even within the Ottoman ranks.”

“That’s not all, is it?”

“No, Your Majesty.

Though the Ottomans have not fully subdued Albania, that doesn’t mean Albania is entirely free. The Sultan demanded hostages from the Christian lords, and many boys were taken to Edirne to undergo devshirme training. Through this system, they were reborn as loyal servants of the Sultan and granted new estates.

Among them, one youth, despite his age, drew the attention of the Sultan and the praise of many warriors. As he rose to prominence, Albania began to fall rapidly to the Ottomans.”

Albania, depicted on the map.

As they looked at it, the emperor and Halid met eyes in the air above the map.

The emperor’s gaze sharpened with a sudden realization, and Halid’s expression lost its former smile. In a composed tone, Halid continued:

“Seeing how swiftly he is pacifying Albania, many are reminded of Alexander the Great’s wisdom and valor during his conquests. And so they have begun calling him this.”

At last, the emperor slowly closed his eyes at Halid’s words.

But closing one’s eyes does not shut out reality. Both Halid and the emperor knew this well, and thus, the next words came without delay.

“Skanderbeg.”

The emperor’s eyelids trembled faintly. Fortunately, his voice did not. In an even tone, he asked Halid:

“Would it be accurate to say the Ottomans have already gained a firm foothold there?”

“Not yet.”

Not yet.

The emperor quietly repeated those words to himself and turned his gaze back to the map. The Ottoman flags spread across the map were undeniable proof of a growing threat. And amid the overwhelming presence of the Ottomans, only a pitiful few flags fluttered precariously on their own.

Just then, the sound of hurried footsteps echoed through the corridor.

A soldier ran with all his strength, his footsteps loud.

Clearly a messenger—but even so, his face was unusually grim. Almost collapsing into a bow inside the chamber, the soldier cried out:

“Y-Your Majesty! Urgent news! The Ottomans have mobilized and are marching on the capital!”

At that, the emperor turned to look at Halid.

Halid withdrew the right hand he had been using to point at the map. And under the emperor’s gaze, the traitor’s son met his eyes with a hard-to-read expression and spoke in a cryptic tone:

“It begins now. Steel yourself, Your Majesty.”

Ivania came to visit while the Emperor was still filled with worry.

Perhaps she had been bothered by the fact that every meeting so far had been with her drenched in sweat from training—this time, Ivania appeared quite neat and tidy.

Even so, instead of looking embarrassed, she tried hard to maintain an cool expression.

It was clear she knew why she had been summoned. Her demeanor was only natural, after all.

The Emperor had never had private meetings with his ministers before. And wasn’t there a strong public reason behind this one as well?

There was no need for unnecessary speculation. So, Ivania let out a deep breath she had tried to suppress and spoke in the most respectful tone she could manage.

“I heard Your Majesty summoned me.”

“…Ivania, is it?”

The Emperor’s response was slower than usual, likely due to exhaustion.

But he had always lived buried in endless work. Countless worries and harsher trials in the past had steeled him.

His tired, unfocused gaze quickly regained clarity. Gesturing toward a chair, the Emperor looked at Ivania.

“Sit. There are things we need to talk about.”

“If that is Your Majesty’s will, I will obey without question.”

Ever dutiful, Ivania’s shoulder-length blonde hair swayed as she moved—something that briefly caught the Emperor’s eye.

But he quickly shook his head and began speaking about the reason he had summoned her: Halid’s origins.

“Ivania, I’ve called you because there are certain concerns about the man newly appointed as commander of the Murtati.”

“Oh? I thought that flippant knight was in charge of the Murtati?”

“I thought so too.”

Ivania’s eyes widened in surprise at the unexpected revelation.

The Emperor had felt the same way when Francisco brought the man in, so he fully understood her reaction.

He had assumed Francisco would continue overseeing the Murtati as well, only for someone completely unforeseen to appear.

Francisco may have been a madman, but compared to this new figure, he seemed almost sane. The thought was so absurd that a laugh escaped the Emperor.

From his origins to his behaviour, the newcomer was anything but ordinary.

At the very least, his first impression had been unforgettable. Whether in a good or bad way, he had certainly left his mark. With that in mind, the Emperor continued.

“The man appointed as the new commander of the Murtati was recommended by Francisco and also came forward on his own. However, his background is… problematic.”

“…So that’s what Your Majesty meant by ‘origin,’ isn’t it?”

Ivania swallowed hard and nodded repeatedly. The Emperor answered with a light glance that conveyed affirmation.

But simply saying his origin was a problem wouldn’t be enough. So the Emperor didn’t hide the details of Halid’s background.

“He calls himself Halid Murtat. He is the son of a traitor who turned his back on the Empire and defected to the Ottomans. He himself has lived as a soldier for the Ottomans until now. His father, in particular, is quite well-known among the troops. So I ask you to keep his background strictly confidential, and also to ensure that the soldiers don’t bring it up. I fear it would only stir unnecessary conflict.”

“I see… I understand, Your Majesty! You can count on me!”

Fortunately, Ivania showed no particular resentment toward Halid’s background. The Emperor was able to breathe a sigh of relief in his heart.

Though he hadn’t shown it, he had been worried—especially after her reckless behaviour during the recent conflict with the lords of central Greece.

He had feared she might harbor a deep hatred for ‘traitors,’ but her swift and calm acceptance made those worries seem foolish. Perhaps it was also proof of her deep loyalty to the Emperor.

Looking back, the Emperor realized how long he had known Ivania.

A boy who had sworn to drag the despairing back to their feet, and a female mercenary captain shunned by every employer.

A series of faint coincidences and unexplainable events had brought them together, and they had stayed together ever since—sharing nearly a decade of time.

The Emperor looked at Ivania with fresh eyes, recalling the past.

The time he was startled upon discovering her odd tastes. The day she came to him while trembling from the aftereffects of overworking her young body. The countless battlefields they had survived together.

Not every moment with Ivania had been tender or happy. It wasn’t love, either. The Emperor felt no burning desire for her.

His emotions were calm, not passionate. Still, it wasn’t just about rewarding her for her loyalty and devotion over the years, either.

‘Then how exactly do I feel about Ivania?’

The Emperor’s gaze deepened as he stared at her, lost in thought. Ivania wasn’t a perfect warrior, nor was she a perfect woman. The serious, reserved side of her he sometimes saw now seemed like a distant memory. And there was not even a trace of the fiery passion poets and artists so often sang about. So then—what was it that he truly thought of her?

“…Your Majesty…? Do you still have more to say…?”

His silent staring must have made her self-conscious. Ivania, who had just been replying with confidence, now began to fidget, her eyes wandering. If this continued, the atmosphere would surely grow awkward.

Realizing this, the Emperor shook off his thoughts and regained focus. What came to mind instead was Ivania’s continued loyalty and service. And with only the two of them present, he made his decision. With a softened gaze, he spoke again.

“Now that I think about it, it’s been quite some time since we’ve had a proper conversation. Though I did provide reward money, there were many occasions during the Morea campaign where I failed to pay you appropriately.”

“N-no, not at all, Your Majesty! That’s not true! In fact, it was a tremendous opportunity for us to gain honour and reputation we would never have achieved otherwise. It was a fair exchange with mutual benefit!”

“To hear you say something like that—you must have been studying quite a bit.”

“…T-the soldiers under my command helped me a lot.”

Lately, the emperor had sensed that Ivania had become more serious—so this was the reason.

The thought hovered unspoken in his mouth, a silent monologue.

Ivania, groaning under the strain of unfamiliar studies.

A faint smile touched the lips of Emperor Dragases, who had always maintained a strict and serious demeanor.

Unfortunately, Ivania, who had bowed her head to hide her flushed face, couldn’t see it.

“Have you had any trouble training the non-commissioned officers?”

“Of course not! Though everyone seemed worn out from training, they are all grateful for Your Majesty’s consideration. It’s rare to find an employer so generous to mercenaries who’ve been injured—those who’ve lost arms or legs and can no longer take to the battlefield.”

It was a time when most disabled veterans received little attention after the war.

In such a period, the emperor’s new non-commissioned officer system was a bold innovation.

He reemployed experienced veterans as training instructors, ensuring they had a future beyond the battlefield.

It appeared that the mercenaries had welcomed the change.

If it could be maintained, it would surely improve the overall quality of the troops.

Of course, none of this would have been possible without Ivania.

“Ivania, this is your achievement. In many ways, meeting you may have been a turning point for me.”

“I-I never imagined you, Your Majesty, would say such a thing…”

“To be honest, I never thought the commander of a mercenary company would be such a young woman.”

“…Nor did I expect the employer to be such a young boy.”

“And yet even now, though I am no longer a boy, you still follow me.”

“P-People change. Just as Your Majesty has grown, so too has the direction of my loyalty.”

The emperor was inwardly impressed.

To hear such words from Ivania’s mouth—how much time and effort had she poured into studying to get to this point?

When they had first met, he had even feared the outbreak of a riot.

Looking back, they had both undergone a great deal of change.

And it wasn’t just Ivania.

The emperor, too, had changed.

With a voice still tinged with a warm smile, he spoke again.

“Ivania.”

“Y-Your command, Your Majesty.”

“I still don’t know exactly how I feel about you.”

“…Those words…”

The emperor learned, through Ivania, just how much a single sentence could shake a person.

Her face, flushed just moments ago, drained of all color in an instant.

When Ivania snapped her head up, her blue eyes—trembling with deep turmoil—met the emperor’s gaze.

Only then did she finally see the smile on his lips.

But because of the words he had just spoken, she couldn’t grasp what that smile meant.

Her confusion did not fade easily.

And there was only one thing that could settle Ivania’s shaken heart:

The emperor’s next words.

“But I know this—I can trust you, and I do trust you.”

At that, the smile disappeared from the emperor’s face.

What replaced it was a serious, resolute expression, like one making a vow.

A decision he had long delayed had finally arrived at his doorstep.

This moment, granted before all deferrals expired, was his last chance.

If he turned away now, there would be no next time.

Clenching his fists beneath the desk where they wouldn’t be seen, the emperor at last voiced his decision.

“…And so, today, I intend to spend more time with you.”

“Your Majesty!!”

With a jump, Ivania threw herself over the desk and into his arms, sending the chair clattering to the ground.

The emperor nearly toppled over as well, but in her excitement, Ivania couldn’t be bothered with such things.

“Your Majesty! Your Majestyyy~~~!!”

“Thank you for everything, Ivania. And I’ll be counting on you from now on as well.”

“Your Majestyyyy!!!”

The emperor could have sternly scolded her for losing composure in her joy—but he didn’t.

Instead, he gently patted Ivania’s back as she clung to him, unwilling to let go, and simply hoped the decision he had made was the right one.

Although Francisco found Halid distasteful, his presence was proving to be a great help in many ways.

The first of these was the fact that Francisco could now focus solely on the Latins.

He had been overwhelmed with work trying to manage the Murtatis as well.

Though he didn’t think much of Halid, he had to acknowledge the facts: thanks to him, Francisco could now commit fully to his original role as commander of the cavalry. Of course, that didn’t mean all the problems were solved.

“Fine, I’ll admit Halid’s got some ability.”

That was the first thing Francisco said as he barged into the office unannounced.

The Emperor gave him a puzzled look at the abrupt start, lacking any context or lead-in.

“Unexpected. After biting his head off, now you admit he’s competent?”

“Just look at how quickly he’s instilled discipline among the Murtatis. You have to give him credit. But that’s not the problem, cousin.”

“Then let’s hear it.”

Halid Murtat.

Calling himself a traitor, he was now putting his experience as a former Ottoman soldier to full use.

The Murtatis had already been divided into small squads under his command and had rapidly established a clear hierarchy.

Now they were moving on to equipping themselves with arms.

The matter currently occupying the Emperor’s attention was, in fact, Halid’s proposal about the “armament of the Murtatis.”

The idea was to maintain the basic structure where the Murtatis funded their own equipment, but in cases where one couldn’t afford it, the government would provide it on loan.

From this, the Emperor finally saw a chance to implement specialization.

Since the Empire had failed to maintain a proper military structure following its sudden collapse, its military-related industries had been critically weakened.

Most armor and weapon supplies were imported through trade with Venice and Genoa.

There were virtually no local guilds handling military equipment, and especially in the case of arrows—which were consumable and used up quickly—introducing division of labor would pose little resistance.

Given this, it was natural that the Emperor had been preoccupied with those matters rather than keeping a close eye on Halid.

Which made Francisco’s warning hit all the harder.

“Halid’s background is dangerous, no matter how you look at it.”

“I’ve given that matter quite a bit of thought myself.”

“No, cousin. I mean we need a solution now.”

Francisco voiced his concerns with a grave expression. It was something he had long worried about—and the Emperor, too, had occasionally agonized over the issue.

But the difference in urgency was stark. The Emperor was buried in a mountain of responsibilities across all sectors, while Francisco was dealing with soldiers on the ground. Taking a deep breath, Francisco continued.

“Word is spreading among the troops that the son of Evrenos is in Morea.”

“…Not exactly good news.”

“Right. We’ll need to defuse that somehow.”

No doubt the name had slipped in front of the troops the day they went to meet Halid. Evrenos wasn’t just someone who’d defected to the Ottomans—he had earned distinction there and was the very architect of the devshirme system.

The resentment toward him was inevitable. Even if Halid claimed to have abandoned everything inherited from his father, not everyone would readily accept it. After some thought, the Emperor made a decision he had already been leaning toward.

“It can’t be helped. We won’t fully disclose Halid Murtat’s background. Instead, we’ll say he was a high-ranking officer from the Ottoman side and leave it at that.”

“…Well, I suppose that’s the best we can do.”

“I thought you’d be calling for his immediate expulsion.”

“Like it or not, he’s helping. Reality is, sometimes you’ve got to work with people you don’t like.”

Francisco shrugged with a bitter smile. It was true. Kicking Halid out now would only throw all the work back onto Francisco.

And if anyone understood that reality best, it was him. If even Francisco, the one most opposed to Halid, had accepted the situation, there was nothing more to worry about.

The Emperor turned his attention elsewhere.

“If that’s settled, then there’s no issue. But it’s not good to keep his identity hidden from everyone. Summon Ivania. She may be a woman, but she’s a commander too. She should be informed.”

“Fair enough. I’ll bring her right away. Just wait here.”

Having resolved to pay attention to Ivania, ignoring her now wouldn’t be right.

Stroking his chin, Francisco offered his usual cheerful grin and agreed lightly.

Now that the heavy matter of Halid’s background was more or less settled, a change of tone made sense. As he hummed a tune and walked away in obvious relief, the Emperor couldn’t help but let out a small chuckle.

“…Ugh!”

“Oh my, Sir Francisco?”

“…An honor to see you, Your Majesty the Empress. Now, if you’ll excuse me!”

Letting out an involuntary groan the moment he opened the door and saw Sophia, Francisco offered a rushed bow before dashing away.

His figure quickly disappeared down the hallway. Did he run away? The Emperor, without realizing it, gripped his quill so tightly the veins on the back of his hand stood out.

Sophia, too, stared after the vanished Francisco, but unlike the Emperor, her gaze soon shifted—toward him.

Her black eyes, always serious seemed unusually sticky today. The Emperor’s response to that gaze was to look away. But turning one’s eyes didn’t block the ears.

“So… you’ve finally decided to make your move?”

A single question, brimming with curiosity.

To this, the Emperor chose silence—yet as if expecting that very response, Sophia stepped closer. In an instant, silent filled the room.

Where once official matters had echoed through the office, now only the soft sounds of measured footsteps remained. At last, the gentle rustle of a dress brushing against the chair signaled the beginning of Sophia’s advance.

“I’ve spoken so often about the importance of a healthy marital relationship… I’m starting to feel a little hurt, you know.”

“…Is there a specific answer you’re hoping to hear, my lady?”

“I already told you. A healthy marital relationship.”

“……”

If there was one person the Emperor found most difficult to face, it would be Sophia.

From their first encounter, which had been anything but pleasant, the two had clashed time and again due to political circumstances.

Then, a few years ago, their dynamic shifted unexpectedly—and the Emperor still hadn’t quite figured out how to define their relationship. Especially since he had always drawn a clear line between friend and foe.

When he recalled how she had nearly plunged Morea into crisis for the sake of her homeland, Sophia seemed firmly in the enemy camp.

Yet, considering how cooperative she had been afterward, she had certainly proven herself a valuable ally.

That alone was enough to give him a headache—yet the situation became even more maddening when she, contrary to all expectations, declared she would not engage in infidelity.

And so, for the past two years, he had kept his distance as much as possible.

Yet during that time, Sophia continued her advances. Now, only one choice remained: how the Emperor himself would respond. Lifting his gaze from the paperwork, he looked directly at Sophia.

She, in turn, met his eyes without the slightest hesitation, a confident smile playing on her lips.

She was a woman completely beyond his understanding.

Swallowing down words he couldn’t bring himself to say, the Emperor finally made his decision.

“Very well. I don’t know what your intentions are, but I’ll accept that our alliance has reached a new turning point. I’ll put the past behind us.”

“That’s a far more favourable outcome than I expected. So… will you now begin fulfilling your duties as a husband?”

“…In return, you must accept that I will prioritize others above you. That was the foundation of our pact. I now present it to you as the same condition you once gave me on the day this marriage was sealed.”

“…Heh… I didn’t expect those words to come back to me like this.”

“Is that your answer?”

As if being interrogated, Sophia covered her mouth with one hand, her eyes crinkling into a smile.

“I accept your condition. It’s not like I will be your first anyway…”

“………”

“…Oh? You’ve gone quiet all of a sudden?”

“…………….”

Even Sophia, with her sly demeanor, hadn’t expected this kind of reaction.

Just moments ago, the Emperor had been staring her down with unwavering resolve—now, he quietly turned away, lips firmly sealed. At that sight, Sophia felt something new: an unfamiliar wave of anxiety.

“…No. No, surely not. I mean, surely, that can’t be…”

“……….”

“…Can’t… be?”

His silence was the answer.

Even in the Middle Ages, which prized chastity, it was rare for someone to truly remain pure—especially for men.

Monks who reject the world might be the exception, but nobles, who were bound to produce heirs, could hardly neglect reproduction.

Given that, Sophia had never even considered this possibility.

Only after a long, drawn-out silence did she speak again.

“…This won’t do. Negotiations are off.”

“…What ridiculous nonsense are you—!”

The shout that nearly burst forth never made it out of his mouth.

A completely unexpected, gentle sensation silenced him. It lasted only the briefest moment—yet to the Emperor, it was like the world had come crashing down.

A shock beyond words in the blink of an eye. The moment passed, and by the time he registered it, Sophia had already turned away.

“…I can’t be the only one who’s a first.”

With those final words, Sophia walked out of the office.

Left alone, the Emperor could only stare blankly at the door through which she had vanished… then clutch his head in utter dismay.

The training ground where the Murtati had gathered.

There, the son of Evrenos made it clear through word and deed exactly what those who had defected to the Ottomans thought of the Empire.

Those who had once lived under the name of the Empire no longer felt any pride in that past—instead, they had simply submitted to a new master.

Just as the son of Evrenos had said moments ago: the name “Rome” was nothing more than a faded relic of the past, at least to the Murtati and the Turks.

A name that could not even protect its own land and its own people.

That was the current reality of the Empire.

The emperor could not shake off the complicated feelings this truth brought. But regardless of the emperor’s state of mind, the son of Evrenos took the lead, and the emperor and Francisco quietly followed behind him.

It was partly due to their ongoing conversation, but also because it seemed wiser to keep a bit of distance from the Murtati.

After walking several dozen steps away from the gathering, they reached the edge of the training ground. There, the son of Evrenos turned to face the emperor.

“…Originally, I had planned to reveal my origins around this time, but it seems the chatty knight beside you couldn’t keep his mouth shut. I’ve said what I needed to. Now, it seems it’s Your Majesty Dragases’s turn to speak.”

“What, bitter about it?”

“Perhaps you should hang a reed on those lips before you start flapping them.”

“And maybe you ought to break your back and learn a bit of humility.”

Though the man spoke in a leisurely, calm tone, the emperor didn’t miss the flash of sharp hostility in his eyes when he glanced at Francisco.

Francisco, being who he was, wasn’t one to let it slide either and immediately shot back.

The atmosphere turned tense for a moment, but both men quickly stepped back as they caught the emperor’s gaze.

Though their exchange had been short and harsh, it was useful to the emperor nonetheless.

A man who chased fame—that’s what Francisco had called him.

The emperor turned that quick assessment over in his mind.

Certainly, he was a rude man. But the man’s rudeness was, in its way, proof of just how much trust the Empire had lost among the people. This too was just another facet of its decline.

Having long since accepted the reality of the Empire’s decay, the emperor felt no anger. That allowed him to maintain his composure and continue the conversation.

“The name you must surpass—is it your father, Evrenos, that you mean?”

“…Predictable, wasn’t it.”

Though his answer was simple, the man raised an eyebrow, showing a flicker of interest.

It was a more welcoming reaction than expected.

Fortunately, the conversation continued—barely, but steadily. It was in their best interest to keep things going this way. With Francisco grumbling beside him, the emperor pressed on.

“But I know nothing of your abilities. How do you intend to prove yourself?”

“If meeting here, in the very training ground where the Murtati are gathered, isn’t proof enough… then I have the skill to read the wind, judicial knowledge, a pedigree suitable to lead the Murtati, and insight into the true strength of the restructured Ottomans. Take your pick.”

“I’ve already heard that the Ottomans have been undergoing reforms.”

“Then you should also want to know how they plan to come for you.”

“…What do you mean?”

The emperor had indeed heard about the sweeping reforms carried out in the Ottoman ranks.

The more he learned about how Murad, the prepared victor, had reshaped their military system, the more deeply he felt that the Ottomans’ rise was only a matter of time.

But this man was talking about something else entirely. The emperor’s instincts told him so, and as soon as they did, the man—realizing he had piqued the emperor’s interest—smiled.

“If you accept me as your commander, I will gladly bear the symbol of traitor.”

“The son of a national hero. Is that not enough for you?”

“Rather than be remembered as the son of a hero, I want to be remembered for my own name. That is my desire.”

“Your father betrayed the Empire, and now the son betrays the Ottomans?”

“A true lineage of betrayal. Do you even think at all? What could His Majesty possibly trust in you?”

As soon as he heard the emperor’s musing, Francisco began to sneer.

And it wasn’t exactly wrong. By his actions alone, the man was clearly of a traitor’s line.

One who had betrayed the Empire to join the Ottomans, and now sought to betray the Ottomans in turn. Who was to say he wouldn’t betray the Empire again?

Faced with this obvious question, the man scowled deeply and responded.

“I don’t like the sound of that.”

“You don’t like being called a traitor?”

“My father is my father. I am myself. Isn’t this simply a contest between the Empire and the Ottomans? Why should those who chose a better future be called traitors?”

“Because that’s what it means to lack loyalty, you fool.”

“Loyalty alone—without a promise of a future—won’t earn anyone’s allegiance.”

The man maintained his insolent tone toward the emperor, and Francisco continued to condemn him.

As their tension escalated, what the emperor focused on was not their bickering, but the man’s words. He reached out to stop Francisco from replying further, and asked a question.

“Then you’ve come now because you see a real chance?”

“…If it weren’t for you, I would never have come.”

The man’s face was still red, a remnant of his earlier argument with Francisco.

But knowing what was more important, he turned away from Francisco and met the emperor’s gaze directly. Rude, yet confident—the son of Evrenos spoke without wavering.

“The Ottomans have continued to grow stronger, but the previous sultans never had everything prepared like they do now. That’s why this military reform holds so much significance. Only someone like you, who truly sees the tides of the times, can stand against the Ottomans.”

“What exactly makes it so significant, son of Evrenos?”

“The Anatolian beyliks and the royalist factions, long divided, have finally united under the banner of a holy war. And leading this movement was none other than Grand Vizier Çandarlı Halil.”

“Çandarlı Halil…?”

“Yes. Under his command, the Ottomans are now ready to tear apart the net you’ve so painstakingly cast around them.”

“Oh, great—just fearmongering. Anyone can say that.”

Still unable to drop his sarcastic tone, Francisco kept jeering. But the son of Evrenos didn’t waste his breath responding.

Instead, he cast a cold glance at Francisco and, with a bitter smile, offered a prediction—one so expected it was all the more cruel.

“If the first step is an offensive against the Thracian region, then it’s no idle threat we can overlook.”

“…!”

Thrace referred to the region near the ancient capital of a thousand years, Constantinople. Of course, an Ottoman offensive against Thrace had already been anticipated ever since Emperor Dragases was crowned as co-emperor.

But no matter how well-prepared one is, the shock of such a moment can never be completely erased when it finally arrives. The emperor, before he realized it, clenched his teeth and swallowed back the sigh that had almost escaped his throat.

And if Thrace falls, Murad’s next target is obvious: Constantinople, the thousand-year-old city protected by triple walls. Even if it cannot be conquered, an immense pressure will surely be applied. When Dragases ascended the throne, everyone in the capital must have known this day would come.

And yet, they cheered as they watched his coronation. They had accepted the cruel wait for the moment when their newly crowned emperor would lead an army into Constantinople.

A wait that could last not just years, but decades.

‘So this is what the true meaning of a cruel wait is.’

The emperor recalled the moment he met his brothers before the coronation. Andronikos, who mediated the discussion despite his injured leg, and John, who had made a difficult decision.

Not just his brothers—their father, Manuel, who had lived his entire life as emperor, also spent that life in a miserable wait. All for one single hope.

As the emperor became lost in these thoughts, Francisco took over the questioning.

“I’ll admit you gave us important information. But does that mean we should use you? You haven’t shown your abilities as a commander.”

“I know how the Turks fight. I also have battlefield experience from serving beside my father. Most of all, I have the lineage necessary to command the Murtati. Isn’t that enough for Morea, which is gasping for breath without a single capable soldier?”

“And who exactly is calling you a capable soldier?”

“That’s enough.”

Just as it seemed an argument would flare up again, the emperor intervened. During the brief exchange, he had made up his mind.

This was the capital that had accepted a cruel wait that might last for decades. If he could answer their faith, then lineage did not matter. Looking at the man, the emperor asked:

“State your name, Evrenos.”

“…Ha. Cousin, this man is not someone you can trust.”

While Francisco sighed, Evrenos’s son burst into laughter. Laughing as if he was truly enjoying himself, he then knelt before the emperor.

The disrespectful attitude he’d shown moments before vanished like a mirage, and he replied in a tone of utmost formality.

“I have cast aside everything I inherited from my father. I am no longer Evrenos—I am Halid Murtat.”

“Murtat?”

“You’ve used the name Murtati, so I thought you might know… but were you seeking the old meaning? Very well. Allow me to tell you what this name means.”

He had come here having rejected the name of Evrenos. Halid, who had abandoned the name given to him and taken on a new one, drew the sword hanging at his side and held it up with both hands, offering the hilt toward the emperor.

But the emperor simply looked down at Halid without a word. Finally, Halid revealed the meaning behind his name.

“Murtat means ‘traitor’ in the Turkish tongue, Your Majesty.”

“…Then what is the meaning of this sword?”

“If Your Majesty is truly the nemesis of the Ottomans, then this is the second sword you must take in hand. You already have the cross beside you—now take the crescent that leans toward you.”

“…”

After a moment of hesitation, the emperor grasped the offered hilt. It was a sword of an entirely different shape, and so it felt unfamiliar in his hand. Noticing this, Halid stood up once more.

“You’ll need to grow accustomed to it quickly, Your Majesty. The Murtati follow you for reasons entirely unlike those of your other men.”

“…”

“…You can speak properly like that? Then why didn’t you just do so from the start?”

“A fine comment from a chatterbox knight who cannot keep his word.”

Halid was once again bickering with Francisco. But the emperor no longer had the time to pay them any attention.

He focused solely on adjusting to the weight of the sword now in his hand—while replaying Halid’s words over and over in his mind.

Now that he had learned more about the man he was about to meet, the emperor couldn’t help but fall into deep thought.

“There are about two thousand Murtati stationed at the training grounds. Considering we only have a hundred men under our command right now, any attempt at a forceful suppression would be reckless.”

“…It’s a bit unsettling.”

If they brought in more troops, the Murtati might notice something was off and launch a preemptive strike.

But simply going ahead with the meeting could be deadly if it turned out to be a trap.

The emperor and Francisco would be isolated in the middle of two thousand Murtati—there was no way the two of them could fight their way out.

Even if it was only a possibility, the circumstances made even the man’s stated intent of “serving as a commander” feel suspect.

Why had someone like him come all the way to Mistra?

Unconsciously, the emperor found himself biting his lip.

“The son of Evrenos Bey… Just what is he thinking?”

He had only heard a rough account from the soldier of who Evrenos was, but acquiring more detailed information would be simple enough.

A man who had once served the Empire, only to betray it, crush the Crusaders, seize its former territories, and even devise the devshirme system.

Though Evrenos had long since retired and died, he was far from forgotten in the minds of the people.

Evrenos Bey.

Given all that he had accomplished, there was no reason for his child to suddenly throw in with the Empire.

From the Empire’s perspective, he was a loathsome traitor, but to the Ottomans, he had earned honours befitting a founding hero.

So why would his son come all the way to Morea?

The emperor’s mind was troubled—there was no way to read such a man’s true motives.

Still, there was no avoiding the meeting. A man of this caliber could stir a tremendous rebellion using those two thousand Murtati.

If things simply ended with a peaceful standoff, that would be ideal—but if the man sensed anything suspicious and made the first move, the consequences could be severe.

After much deliberation, the emperor finally furrowed his brow and came to a decision.

“With that much of a numerical difference, provoking them hastily would be foolish. Pull the soldiers back. I don’t like it, but we’ll meet him on his terms.”

“Are you sure? There’s still a chance they might suddenly rush us.”

“In that case, you’ll take responsibility and clear the way.”

“Well, guess I’ll have to. I only just became the emperor’s cousin—can’t go down this easy.”

Francisco, arms crossed and trying to joke around, kept tapping his forearm with his right index finger.

He wasn’t the only one feeling the tension. The emperor too, for once, failed to keep his lips from tightening with unease.

The only thing that remained lively was the hand resting on his sword hilt.

What kind of man would they be facing?

Holding only questions tangled in doubt, the emperor finally began to move.

“We can’t delay any longer. Let’s head to the Murtati’s encampment.”

“Hope this ends well.”

“….”

“…Sorry for dragging you all into this. You’ve heard His Majesty’s order—return to your posts. Keep what you learned to yourselves as best you can.”

This time, the emperor said nothing more. Sensing the gravity of his mood, Francisco also dropped the jokes and focused on dismissing the soldiers.

Thankfully, the troops obeyed the command, even if they were still bewildered. Still, the fact that Evrenos’ son had come to Mistra would likely be impossible to keep secret.

Their intense reaction had been too great, and for good reason. Knowing this, Francisco couldn’t bring himself to order them more harshly.

How could he blame the soldiers under such circumstances?

Letting out a long sigh, Francisco rubbed his forehead and muttered with sincere frustration:

“If this really turns out to be a trap after all this trouble, I’m killing that bastard first.”

He followed behind the emperor, who had already begun walking. Tension burned between the two of them as they headed for the training grounds.

Neither spoke a word the entire way. The only thing that disturbed the silence was the cheerful noise of those unaware of what was going on.

A few greeted the emperor with polite bows, but the matter was too heavy for him to return the gestures, and he passed them without a word.

Eventually, as the crowds thinned and they arrived at the edge of the training grounds, the emperor came to a stop. Partly to ease his nerves, but more so to gauge the atmosphere inside.

When Francisco also stopped beside him, the emperor asked:

“You only issued a summoning order to the Murtati, correct?”

“Yeah. It takes time to gather that many, after all. And there were a lot of them—so we had to narrow it down. The ones who came to Mistra are mostly the selected few. We were too busy with troop assignments and such until now, so I only just got them here.”

“That’s a relief, at least. If they’re merely assembled, we might not need to worry about an organized resistance.”

“Once again, my actions turn out to be the saving grace.”

Even as they exchanged a few short words, both men were cautiously surveying their surroundings. Only after doing so did they finally step forward again.

It was only natural, but the moment they entered the training grounds, countless eyes turned toward them.

The Murtati, who had just begun forming small groups and talking noisily, all fell silent at once, turning the air heavy with tension.

In the midst of this tense situation, the emperor and Francisco turned their attention to a single man—he alone among the crowd had risen and was approaching them.

Judging by his relatively smooth face, he looked to be in his thirties. Black eyes with unsettlingly intense pupils, a sharply pointed aquiline nose, and a beard that connected to his sideburns—he walked toward them with unwavering composure and a commanding presence.

The moment the emperor laid eyes on him, he understood. And Francisco’s words, which followed soon after, confirmed his suspicion.

“That’s him, cousin.”

“…That man is Evrenos’s son.”

The emperor had muttered it under his breath, but the man’s eyebrow twitched in an odd way. Had he heard it?

The emperor silently praised the man’s sharp ears before placing his hand calmly on the hilt of his sword.

Francisco, noticing the emperor’s movement from the corner of his eye, clenched his right hand into a fist and stepped forward. The man’s eyes slowly scanned the two of them, as if measuring their wariness.

A single misstep from anyone would undoubtedly spark a fight.

While the emperor and Francisco stood in a silent standoff with the man, the rest of the Murtati were not idle.

Those gathered at the training ground had sensed the shift in atmosphere and were quietly rising, grouping together. No one had drawn a sword yet, but it was only a matter of time.

If there was to be dialogue, something had to change—and it was not the emperor, but the man, who made the first move.

“…If you’ve already figured it out, why didn’t you bring soldiers with you?”

His voice showed no emotion—calm and subdued, it was impossible to discern what thoughts lay behind the question.

Yet even without knowing his true intentions, the emperor couldn’t ignore the opportunity this question presented.

With a sidelong glance, he checked on the quietly watching Murtati at the edge of his vision before responding.

“What do you mean, figured it out?”

“…That this meeting could easily turn into a fight if it goes poorly.”

“There are two thousand Murtati here, and only a small force immediately available to oppose them. We simply chose the path that would provoke less.”

“Hmm… Makes sense, coming from someone who understands the current state of things.”

The man nodded at his own answer, gaze fixed on the ground. Only after lifting his head to look back at the emperor did his strange behaviour stopped—and then, just slightly, he raised the corners of his lips in a faint smile.

“You may lower your guard. …If you’ve gone out of your way to avoid the path that leads to conflict, then it’s only right that I show a corresponding degree of restraint.”

“…Hey, I can put up with you being informal with me, but the man in front of you right now is the Emperor of the Thousand-Year Empire. You really ought to watch your tone.”

It was clear the man knew exactly who he was talking to. And yet, he still showed no deference befitting the emperor’s station. Francisco bared his teeth as he spoke, his expression sharp and alert—far from the usual carelessness he displayed. The faint smile that had been on the man’s face vanished without a trace.

“Don’t throw the authority of the Roman Emperor at me. I am not a Roman, I am a Turk—and he has not yet earned my loyalty. Why should I bow to a name that couldn’t even protect its own lands and people?”

“And you think you have the right to say that? The son of a traitor who helped take those very things away?”

“And still, you bring up a name that couldn’t even keep the loyalty of that traitor?”

“…Did you really come here because you want to be a commander?”

Francisco’s exasperated voice scattered into the air, while the emperor simply stood in silence, grappling with his emotions.

A nation too weak to protect its own land and people—he was being forced to confront the reality of a crumbling empire once again.

And perhaps because of that, he failed to notice the man’s piercing gaze as it focused on him with interest.

“Before my father passed away, there was a name he often mentioned.”

Those words, oddly forceful in how they attached themselves into the emperor’s mind, finally pulled him back to the present.

Though his mind had been consumed with worry, he and Francisco—who remained vigilant, watching the Murtati’s movements—both turned their attention silently to the man and his strange demeanour.

The man gave a wide, unrestrained smile.

“There’s only one name I need to surpass.”

As the conversation went on, the tension had begun to ease little by little.

The gathered Murtati gradually returned to their own conversations, their interest slowly shifting away.

Only the three men at the center of the standoff remained.

The strange confrontation lingered for a moment longer, until Francisco, seeing that the Murtati were no longer paying close attention, let out a long, weary sigh.

It had already been two days since Francisco had confidently announced himself.

And two days was more than enough time for the emperor to begin doubting Francisco’s claims.

Wasn’t it possible he had lied just to avoid being overworked?

Considering Francisco’s personality, it was a story that seemed all too plausible.

With that growing suspicion, the emperor had quietly abandoned any hopes and even set aside his interest in the Murattati—until at last, Francisco reappeared in the imperial office.

“Sorry, cousin… but it seems the new commander is a bit reluctant to show himself. I think his background might be a lot harder to accept than we thought.”

“His background, you say? Just how serious could it be, if even he is so wary of revealing it?”

“He seems to need reassurance. He wants to be sure Emperor Dragases will trust and appoint him.”

Francisco gave a awkward smile and avoided the emperor’s gaze.

The emperor, in turn, furrowed his brow and rested his chin on his hand.

Just what kind of background would warrant this much caution?

Given the nature of the Murattati, he had already considered the possibility that the man might have served under the Ottomans. But if even Francisco’s own soldiers reacted strongly, then surely the emperor’s subjects would know the truth too.

At that moment, it was only natural for suspicion to take root.

A trap?

The candidate’s unwillingness to appear in the palace—especially when he was almost certainly from Ottoman territory—was suspicious.

If the Ottomans had been able to detect the movements of Venice, then they had likely caught wind of the reforms in Morea as well.

Perhaps they saw this as a perfect opportunity for assassination. But even if it was a trap, it couldn’t be dismissed lightly. It could also be a rare chance to expose Ottoman agents already embedded in Morea.

Right now, with even the smallest amount of time being precious, anything that might delay the Ottomans was worth the risk.

The problem, of course, was that the price might be the emperor’s own life. But such speculation was valid only if the new commander truly was a spy.

It was also entirely possible that he simply had such a controversial background that he refused to set foot inside the palace. Either way, the figure Francisco had recommended was intriguing enough to spark the emperor’s curiosity.

“…Very well. But you’ll be accompanying me, cousin. It could be a trap.”

“I’d like to bring her with us, too… but I’m guessing that’s a no?”

“Ivania is out of the question. As you know, the backbone of our army lies with our non-commissioned officers.”

The emperor’s reply was firm, even to Francisco’s half-hearted request.

Given the severe lack of capable officers in Morea, the importance of the NCO corps had only grown.

With commanders unable to micromanage every detail, each unit needed the flexibility to respond to rapidly changing situations.

And right now, the only people capable of that were the mercenaries who had long served with Ivania. Some of them were even expected to serve as future instructors, responsible for raising a new generation of sergeants.

For that reason, Ivania had to pour all her knowledge and experience into her work in Morea.

Faced with this unwavering stance from the emperor, Francisco simply shrugged and replied with his usual nonchalance.

“I know, I was just saying. I only meant that going in alone could be dangerous.”

“From someone who’s about to become a commander? Are you saying you can’t vouch for the man you recommended?”

“I told you—he’s the type who chases fame. But whether that fame is as a commander or as an assassin… that’s the part I’m not sure about.”

“Irresponsible as always.”

“Then you’d better bring your sword, cousin. Just in case.”

The emperor silently moved his lips a few times, unable to bring himself to speak.

He clearly wanted to reprimand Francisco, but the knight had already placed a hand on his sword hilt with a casual smile.

He must have known, at least on some level, how ridiculous he sounded.

So, in the end, the emperor said nothing—and instead did as Francisco suggested and equipped himself.

“If I die there, you won’t be remembered as my cousin—you’ll be remembered as a traitor. Keep that in mind.”

“Come on, we made it through hell together. Don’t pin treason on me now.”

While the two exchanged their usual pointless banter, the emperor finished preparing.

He wore a simple, light outfit: a deep purple cloak and a single sword. No extravagant embroidery, no ornate engravings, not even a ceremonial crown adorned his head.

This plain appearance only highlighted his strong, warrior-like presence. Some might find it disappointing—but not Francisco. In fact, quite the opposite.

“Still sharp as ever.”

“I’m walking straight into what might be a trap. I’ll wait nearby for now—go alert the local troops. A fight could break out.”

“…Thoroughness is the greatest virtue of any soldier. Understood, cousin.”

With a smile and a bow, Francisco left the office ahead of him. Left alone once more, the emperor placed his hand on the hilt at his waist and fell into thought.

He was moving under the assumption that this could be a trap—but he couldn’t forget the possibility that it wasn’t.

“If it isn’t a trap… then what kind of person would need to hide their origins so carefully?”

Though it wouldn’t be an exaggeration to say the emperor had a kind of “future sight” in this era, his knowledge was not absolute.

It was thanks to this broad but imprecise knowledge that the empire had gained a much stronger position than in recorded history—and that the Ottomans had been weakened.

But the emperor’s understanding was too basic. The only figures he knew by name were John Hunyadi of Hungary, Skanderbeg of Albania, and Vlad III.

Among them, the ones who had once served under the Ottomans were Skanderbeg and Vlad III.

However, Vlad III’s period of activity came much later—it was far too early for him to be appearing now.

And assuming the person to be Skanderbeg was too positive. Would someone who was once a Janissary and had been granted the position of lord truly abandon his domain and join the Murtati?

That sounded far too good to be true. Moreover, Skanderbeg’s fame hadn’t even begun to spread yet. If it were really Skanderbeg, the soldier under Francisco’s command wouldn’t have reacted that way.

The only thing certain was that he had to meet the man in person to find out the truth.

“…I suppose it’s time to move.”

It hadn’t been long since he sent Francisco out, but the emperor could no longer wait.

With everyone’s attention now fixed on the new commander candidate, there was no way he could focus on his paperwork anyway.

Instead, he quickly checked himself once more—already dressed and ready to go—rested his hand on the hilt of his sword, and walked out of his office without hesitation.

But even after leaving the imperial office and palace behind, preparations were not yet complete. There remained the issue of positioning the soldiers Francisco had dispatched, so they could storm in all at once if necessary.

Thus, it would take some time before the emperor and Francisco could regroup.

When Francisco returned with the soldiers, the emperor wasted no time questioning him.

“Where exactly did you agree to meet this person you mentioned?”

“At the training grounds where the Murtati train. The Murtati from all around Thessaly have been gathered there.”

“A place where, if we recklessly deploy troops, we might instead provoke organized resistance.”

“…Huh? You think so?”

Francisco blinked blankly, clearly caught off guard, and then his expression hardened. He hadn’t considered that possibility—understandable, given the difference in their roles.

Francisco was merely a cavalry commander, while the emperor had always fought with political considerations in mind, as supreme commander. Still, from this exchange, one truth became apparent.

“It seems, as you said, that the man does have some aptitude as a commander.”

“…So if you’re right, if we respond too forcefully, there might be an rebellion in the heart of Mistra?”

“And if an rebellion does occur, regardless of the reason, the Muslims now under Morea’s rule will not look upon it kindly. It would be a major blow to Morea. Even if all the Murtati are killed or wounded in the process.”

“If this is all deliberate, then they probably know full well that we’d want to avoid such a thing.”

At this, Francisco and the emperor locked eyes.

Was this truly someone simply reluctant to reveal his origins—or had the Ottomans set a trap with the intent of threatening Emperor Dragases himself?

The soldiers, brought here with little explanation other than “this is important,” now began to feel the weight of the situation as well. Meanwhile, the emperor’s gaze grew sharper.

“A commander capable of leading the Murtati… You said he served under a famous figure, didn’t you? Do you know who that was, Francisco?”

“Tch. If things have gotten this far, I suppose I can’t avoid saying it. He specifically asked me not to reveal anything until you met him yourself, but I guess there’s no helping it now.”

Scratching the back of his head with a troubled look, Francisco hesitated for a moment. But he soon remembered what truly mattered and opened his mouth.

“He didn’t give his own name. Instead, he said this—he’s the son of Evrenos Bey, a general of the Ottomans.”

“Evrenos Bey?”

“You don’t know him either, cousin?”

The name meant nothing to the emperor—he had never heard of it before. It made the man’s reluctance to reveal his lineage all the more puzzling.

But the real reaction came from the soldiers who had been dragged here. The moment “Evrenos Bey” was mentioned, a murmur rippled through them, growing louder until finally one soldier stepped forward, his voice trembling.

“Y-Your Majesty… Forgive my rudeness, but I must ask. Is it true? Is Evrenos’ son truly here?”

“You know who Evrenos is?”

“Your Majesty… Evrenos was once a general of the Empire, but he defected to the Ottomans, led the charge against the last crusades, and more than anything…”

The soldier faltered, eyes shut tight. He bit his lower lip repeatedly, unable to bring himself to say the next part. But he wasn’t alone—many soldiers were visibly agitated.

Only Francisco and the emperor, watching quietly, remained composed, waiting to understand the weight of the name “Evrenos.”

Their patience was rewarded moments later.

The soldier finally spoke again, his voice now subdued and grave.

“…He was the one who proposed the implementation of the devshirme system.”

At those words, the emperor and Francisco could only let out a simultaneous sigh.

---

TL : Devshirme system is what the Ottomans used to recruit people to become janissaries. Recruit might not be the correct word considering they forced mostly Christian boys in the Balkans to be their elite troops. They forcefully took boys from Christian families, converted them to Islam and trained them to the point where betraying the Ottoman didn’t even come as a dream.

Once, the emperor had voiced his agreement with the ideas proposed by Gemistos Plethon.

A new ideology to replace the Church, the redistribution of land that had become excessively concentrated, and a wave of innovation that had to be achieved no matter the cost—Plethon’s proposals aligned closely with the thoughts of Emperor Dragasēs, who understood better than anyone the wretched state of the empire at the time.

That was why the emperor had taken the risk of provoking the Church’s backlash by appointing Plethon as the head of the Academy.

However, in truth, the emperor’s path appeared to diverge somewhat from the one Plethon had envisioned.

This was evident in the reaction of a scholar who introduced himself as Thomas Magistros.

Using a recent commotion at the Academy as a pretext, the emperor had summoned him for a conversation, and before he realized it, Dragasēs found himself intently listening to what Magistros had to say.

“I believe Your Majesty has already realized that the authority of this country can no longer sustain everything. The capital’s isolation aside, repeated failures have completely eroded the people’s trust in the government. It is only natural.”

In fact, it wasn’t that the ruling class had failed to see this. One of the former emperors, John VI, had sensed the danger of the accelerating separatist movements in the Morea and appointed his own relative as prince.

This marked the beginning of the Despotate of the Morea. And the reason emperors throughout history continued appointing blood relatives as princes had nothing to do with symbolism—it was simply that the empire had collapsed to the point that it could no longer govern the Morea directly.

The intentions of the previous emperor, Manuel, had followed a similar line of thought.

Outside the capital, the Morea was the empire’s last remaining territory.

Therefore, granting one person full authority over it would effectively turn the Morea into a formidable internal rival, in addition to the external threat of the Ottomans.

And yet, Dragases had been able to rule the Morea completely, solely because of Manuel’s trust in him.

On this topic, both Magistros and the emperor said no more. The emperor chose to keep listening, while Magistros seized the rare opportunity to speak with all he had.

“But Your Majesty, you understood this reality well.

You recognized that the more a nation tries to suppress everything, the more it merely exhausts itself. That’s why you granted freedom to the cities. Your reform of the tax system was surprisingly streamlined as well. While the taxes are still high for many, but cutting unnecessary jobs used for unnecessary taxes is a positive change overall..”

“Magistros, do you truly believe I will reshape this country just as you wish?”

“I do, Your Majesty.

It is precisely because I believe I can aid Your Majesty in this journey that I have come to Mistra. Do not hesitate to adopt the West’s advanced military science and equipment—train professional soldiers. With mediocre troops, we cannot overcome the Ottomans military might.

If there is a devastating gap in national power and the number of troops we can gather, then the only path forward is to improve quality. A corps of professional soldiers, ready for deployment at any moment, could determine the survival or extinction of this nation in a war fought against time.”

“Hmmmm…”

The emperor found himself unconsciously letting out a groan.

Should he follow Plethon’s idealistic themes, or Magistros call for cultivating professional troops?

In hindsight, the path he had taken so far was closer to Magistros vision than Plethon’s.

If he had met Magistros earlier, he might have elevated him long ago. Not that it was too late now.

The long-standing issue of finding capable personnel had finally come to a head, and this was a time when someone with both determination and ability was desperately needed.

Magistros competence hadn’t yet been proven, but his arguments were grounded and brimming with conviction.

After a brief period of contemplation, the emperor made his decision.

“…My thoughts are not so different from yours. Magistros, your vision and the path I pursue will likely continue to align in many ways.”

“As I thought! I knew the wise Emperor Dragases would not be unaware of the true state of things!”

“Therefore, I wish to appoint you as the successor overseeing the reforms currently underway in Thessaly and Athens.”

At this point, Magistros appointment was all but confirmed.

There was no way an emperor desperate for a competent administrator would let someone like him walk away.

The only matter left was what role to assign him.

The emperor was torn between sending him to assist Thomas upon his soon return to Epirus, or appointing him as the successor to Demicleos.

Ultimately, the emperor leaned toward the latter.

“There is already a foundation laid by Demicleos, who was leading the reforms. I want you to identify what needs improving and work to stabilize the system. And if there is ever anything you wish to suggest or consult on, do not hesitate to reach out to Mistra.

I will always be waiting to hear your thoughts.”

“…To be entrusted with such a weighty task so suddenly… I am overwhelmed with gratitude for Your Majesty’s trust. I shall do everything in my power to prove worthy of the faith you’ve placed in me!”

It was only natural for Magistros to be flustered—he’d been handed an important role after just one conversation.

His face was full of astonishment. But that quickly gave way to joy. Overcome with emotion at having been given a better outcome than he could’ve hoped for, the passionate scholar bowed his head.

It was at that very moment—right as the two were deep in a serious conversation—that a familiar face suddenly burst in.

“Hey, cousin! I found it! I found it!”

A young man with a cheerful demeanor came rushing in, unable to contain his excitement, still dressed in his surcoat.

He had traveled all the way from Iberia, where the Reconquista was underway, to distant Greece—a knight of the crusade, and the man in question was Don Francisco.

His usual flippant aura was nowhere to be seen, replaced instead by sheer joy. Unfortunately, in his excitement, he failed to notice that someone else was already there beside the emperor.

“I found it! I really found it!”

“Francisco, I don’t mind if we’re close in private… but if someone else is present, can you at least show some manners?”

“Huh? Oh—uh?”

Only after the emperor’s remark did Francisco finally turn his gaze to the Magistros.

He could have been furious at the disrespect shown toward the Dragases Emperor, but the quick-witted Magistros had already realized how close the two men were and held his tongue.

Even so, the tension in the air was inevitable. Concerned by the awkward silence, the emperor spoke again.

“Then, Magistros. I will arrange lodging for you—take some time to rest. Before long, you will be assigned a post and a guard detail to carry out your duties.”

“I am simply grateful for Your Majesty’s consideration. Then, I shall take my leave and await your summons.”

The Magistros quietly left the office, following the emperor’s command.

For a brief moment, the only sound in the room was Francisco’s embarrassed muttering. Once the Magistros’s footsteps had faded into the distance, Francisco let out a deep sigh.

“Looks like I ended up chasing him out without meaning to.”

“So, what was it that you were so worked up about? What exactly did you find?”

“That’s right! That’s it! I found them—Murattati!”

Only then did the emperor recall who had been given authority over the Murattati.

Francisco, responsible for the Latins and the cavalry, had also ended up in charge of the Murattati due to a lack of suitable commanders.

Because of that, he had been busy with work he never expected to take on, barely able to manage a smile as he scrambled from one task to the next.

But even as time passed, no suitable replacement was found, and it had already been several years since he’d taken command of them.

Everyone had quietly come to accept that Francisco’s command over the Murattati would continue indefinitely.

And now, suddenly, he claimed to have found someone? The emperor’s suspicion was understandable. He gave Francisco a half-lidded glance and spoke in a stern voice meant to intimidate.

“I’ll say this now: they must have a certain level of competence.”

“Seems they served under someone fairly well-known. Didn’t seem like a devout Muslim so much as someone chasing fame. But when it comes to commanding the Murattati, I can’t think of a better choice.”

“And someone like that would be without complications?”

“Well… yeah, their background might rub you or others the wrong way. I don’t know the details myself, but when I asked one of their soldiers, they practically had a fit. Might be best to keep their origins under wraps, cousin.”

“So they’re from a fairly notorious background?”

“Come on, isn’t ability what matters most? We don’t have the luxury of nitpicking backgrounds if they can lead the Murattati.”

“That’s… true. I suppose you have a point.”

Francisco’s steady reply left Emperor Dragases with no room to argue.

It was true that Francisco, as the cavalry commander, was shouldering more than his share of burdens.

A proper commander for the Murattati was sorely needed.

Especially in Morea, where competent officers were virtually nonexistent, anyone with sufficient ability would be invaluable. Which naturally raised the question—who exactly was this supposedly “well-known figure”?

“I still haven’t the faintest idea who this famous person might be.”

Even with his future knowledge, Dragases couldn’t know everything—not perfectly. Especially when it came to lesser-known figures of this era.

Sure, names like Skanderbeg, John Hunyadi, Joan of Arc, Vlad III, and Jan Žižka were well-known, but they wouldn’t have studied under any of them—not when they came from territory under Ottoman control.

So it was only natural that the emperor found himself pondering deeply.

But for Francisco—who had finally glimpsed hope of escape—staying silent was simply impossible.

“This isn’t the time to be guessing! I’m talking about someone who can lead the Murattati! I’m already dying trying to manage the knights, and if I have to keep dealing with the ever-growing Murattati on top of that, I really will die! Please, cousin—have mercy!”

“If you’re that confident, then bring them here. I’ll have to see what kind of person they are for myself.”

“Yes! Finallyyyy!”

Francisco could no longer contain his joy and looked up to the heavens with a triumphant cry.

Had the Magistros been there to witness the scene, he surely would have wondered what on earth had caused it.

The emperor turned his gaze away from the knight, who was now crying out with a mix of joy, anguish, and relief, and looked out the office window.

The sun was still shining warmly, and the work ahead remained ever plentiful.

There was a time when nearly all order within the Empire had collapsed.

No one had the right to lay blame on anyone else.

The downfall was the price paid for prioritizing internal power struggles over uniting against the invasion of foreign forces. The decline proceeded with terrifying speed.

That this hopeless situation even managed to change at all was thanks only to a stroke of luck bordering on divine providence—and to the devotion of Emperor Manuel. And only at the very brink of ruin did a “final hope” emerge to begin building a new order to replace the old.

That hope was none other than Emperor Dragasēs.

Even standing at the edge between destruction and survival, the Emperor never stopped looking beyond it.

Years ago, when the capital had lost its vitality under heavy pressure and constraint from the Ottomans, Dragasēs had brought a large number of scholars and intellectuals who had fled to Morea into his service.

Among them were even those deemed heretics by the Church for promoting radical ideas—such as Gemistos Plethon, now serving as the academy’s director.

So, when a messenger brought news concerning the Academy, the Emperor naturally assumed that the opposition he had long anticipated from the Church was finally surfacing.

It was fortunate that he realized this assumption was mistaken as he made his way to the site.

“A debate is escalating?”

“It seems something Director Gemistos said during his lecture caused a stir. Another scholar who had come seeking academic exchange objected to his claim, and the atmosphere became increasingly hostile.”

“Hostile enough to warrant military intervention?”

“Not many are actively joining sides yet. But since this was meant to be a public lecture…”

“It seems the director is making an effort.”

Striving to encourage diverse scholarly exchange while drawing public interest—it was certainly a commendable effort. It gave the impression of preparing for the future.

The Emperor allowed himself a subtle smile. The Academy had been neglected for too long due to the overwhelming demands of governance. As a patron, it wasn’t ideal to interfere too much, but being too indifferent wasn’t wise either.

“That’s the place, Your Majesty.”

“Hmm… At least it looks respectable.”

The Emperor had provided funding and land for the Academy, but this was his first time actually visiting it.

The compensation for the land had been so generous—by medieval standards—that there had been virtually no backlash or need for follow-up reports.

Though the Academy didn’t possess the grandeur or ornate quality of a cultural landmark, it wasn’t shabby either, having been refurbished from a former manor. Its style leaned toward practical simplicity overall.

The only particularly eye-catching feature was the outdoor lecture hall created by remodeling the garden.

From there, loud voices could be heard clearly—even by the Emperor.

The Academy wasn’t far from the central court of the city, so naturally passersby had started gathering. As the messenger had said, it was the kind of situation that could easily spiral into a public brawl.

To prevent that, a familiar face had appeared with a group of soldiers.

“This could turn into a riot. Prevent civilians from approaching recklessly! Maintain the perimeter until His Majesty decides how to proceed!”

Perhaps due to spending most of her time training future officers, the once-smooth blonde hair of the knight had dulled with dust. Yet her commanding presence had only grown sharper.

She had clearly mobilized immediately upon hearing the news, though she had only a dozen soldiers in tow. Still, they were heavily armed. The clinking of their armor alone caused curious citizens to instinctively back away.

Letting out a sigh of relief, Ivania turned her head—only to lock eyes with the Emperor. The weariness on her face was quickly replaced by a burst of energy.

The golden-haired knight ran up without hesitation, a bright smile blooming on her face.

“Your Majesty!”

“I’m glad to see you’re devoted to training.”

“I—I didn’t expect to meet Your Majesty under such circumstances…”

Only then remembering her dust-covered, sweat-stained appearance, Ivania lowered her head in embarrassment. She even took a subtle step back, wary of possibly offending the Emperor’s senses.

Though he could have teased her about it, the Emperor chose instead to spare her the discomfort by focusing on the matter at hand.

“You moved quickly despite your training schedule. Maintain the blockade as it is.”

“By Your command, Your Majesty.”

With so many eyes on them, Ivania could not let go of formal protocol. Even so, she couldn’t quite hide the flush that had spread across her cheeks.

Once again, the Emperor turned away as if he hadn’t noticed, and walked toward the Academy along the path cleared by the retreating crowd. In his path, Ivania stood alone, barely holding back a laugh as she clenched her fist in silent triumph.

By the time the Emperor reached the vicinity of the outdoor lecture hall, it was clear who had been raising their voices loud enough to stop passersby in their tracks.

“I’m not saying every reform you propose is wrong. But it’s undeniable that some of your ideas are completely outdated!”

“Outdated? They’re time-tested systems! What do you think forms the foundation of a nation?”

“Have you spent so long chasing the false gods of Olympus that your entire worldview has regressed to the past? These delusions of yours are laughable!”

“Aha! So you’re just another one of those blinded by the Church’s nonsense. Clinging to lofty fantasies that only drag our people deeper into ruin!”

These were not the stylish techniques of esteemed scholars. The anger and disappointment they felt toward each other were far too raw.

Other attendees, caught in the middle, looked visibly uncomfortable and couldn’t bring themselves to intervene. The situation was clearly in need of an outside force to break the impasse.

The Emperor was more than willing to be that force.

“It seems the Academy has grown lively in the time I’ve been away, burdened with my duties.”

The calm, weighty voice cut through the noise like a blade. Everyone turned reflexively toward it—and the moment they recognized the figure who had spoken, gasps and shouts of surprise rang out.

“Y-Your Majesty!”

“It’s Emperor Dragasēs!”

“What!? That’s Emperor Dragasēs!?”

Elders with years of experience and young scholars burning with passion alike jumped to their feet in astonishment. It wasn’t just the authority of the crown—Emperor Dragasēs commanded overwhelming support among the people of the Empire, including Morea.

Nearly everyone present counted themselves among his admirers.

Naturally, the two scholars at the heart of the conflict couldn’t possibly continue their quarrel in his presence.

“We are honored by your presence, Emperor Dragasēs.”

“Constantinos, Your Majesty.”

Only Gemistos Plethon, who had a measure of personal connection with the Emperor, used his given name, Constantinos. But Dragasēs and Constantinos were both names of the Emperor.

Accepting their greetings with grace, he looked from one scholar to the other, as they still stiffened with tension.

“I had thought it was a simple academic debate driven by enthusiasm for scholarship, but upon listening more closely, it seems the two held quite strongly different views. It sounded more like a dispute over the direction this nation should take.”

Though there had been no formal ceremony prepared, he stood with the same composure as always.

The Emperor had no intention of asserting authority in front of scholars who had attained such learning in their own right.

After all, had he not personally invited Gemistos Plethon himself?

No matter how lofty an Emperor may be, someone like Plethon deserved respect.

And this very attitude was the embodiment of the ideal ruler people had long dreamed of.

The two scholars, once again bowing deeply to show their respect, began speaking through Plethon.

“It is shameful to have troubled Your Majesty with our dispute. I fear something I said during the lecture unintentionally offended someone, and in turn, provoked a rebuttal to the reforms I have long advocated. You may rest easy, Your Majesty.”

“Plethon speaks thus. What say you?”

“It pains me that a scholar of such stature would try to smooth over this matter in such a way. However, since Your Majesty first heard of the controversy over the reform proposal, it would be proper to address that matter first.”

The scholar who had debated Plethon still looked visibly tense.

Yet he hadn’t lost himself in anger so far as to forget whose presence he was in—his voice gradually grew more composed.

“Georgios Gemistos Plethon, a man who has achieved considerable scholarly merit in his own right, argued for the necessity of reform on the grounds that the Church and monasteries own far too much land and wealth. I do not deny this. In fact, I even praised Your Majesty’s past reforms that abolished several monasteries.”

“No issue so far…”

“The problem lies in his call for the restoration of the themata system.”

“You take issue with restoring the themata?”

“It simply no longer fits the current realities of our nation.”

The themata system.

A policy once created during the Empire’s time of crisis, it was essentially a form of military land grant system.

By assigning soldiers to specific territories, it enabled rapid mobilization in times of need—its goal was to repel foreign invasions.

Its effectiveness was clear, having supported the Empire for centuries.

And yet, the scholar standing before them was openly denying the restoration of the themata.

“What made the themata possible was the attachment of soldiers to land. And we had a population large enough to mobilize a sizable army. But do we still have enough land and people left? While we struggle to stabilize recently recovered regions like Thessaly and Athens, how many people can realistically be mobilized?”

“Land has already been secured through prior reforms. As for the declining population, it has simply not been properly counted due to the prolonged wars. But if we include the number of refugees flocking to the now-stable and thriving Morea, the implementation is certainly within reach, is it not?”

Unable to endure the critique any longer, Gemistos Plethon finally countered.

But it was as if the opposing scholar had been waiting for this—he raised another objection.

“Then how do you propose we control the themata? Even during the Empire’s golden age, we failed to fully suppress rebellions led by factions. And now, with the central government barely functioning and most of its authority in ruins, how can we be certain of the themata’s loyalty?”

“At the time, the Empire was in a transitional period lacking firm legitimacy. Most emperors failed to get support from across the social spectrum as Your Majesty has, through your struggle against the Ottomans. But Your Majesty is different. In the darkest hour, when all others had given up, Your Majesty stood alone and led an impossible campaign—and triumphed. You have demonstrated both your ability and your legitimacy as a true protector! If that legitimacy is what sustains this nation, then restoring the themata is entirely feasible!”

“No one man’s authority lasts forever! Your Majesty, it was because my own thoughts aligned with yours that I came to Mistra in great hope. But the idea of governing the provinces through direct control is all but impossible now. Your promise to free the provinces must fully end the era of oppressive centralized rule. Please do not forget, Your Majesty: the more the state tries to control everything, the more its resources and finances are drained.”

“Your Majesty, the themata have already proven their value in times of crisis. I can say with confidence that there is no better system currently available to bolster our insufficient military. Even if implementing them in full is difficult under current conditions, the pursuit alone may yield viable solutions.”

Though the two seemed to be locked in heated debate, they soon remembered who the true judge was—and both turned their words toward the Emperor.

For the Emperor, it was both unsettling and compelling—each side made valid points.

Indeed, it would be a lie to say the idea of restoring the themata had never crossed his mind as a solution to the military shortage.

It was, after all, one of the most useful concepts among the few he had learned.

And yet, as he listened to Plethon’s opponent, he realized it was not such a simple or sweet solution after all.

The restoration of the themata would not solve everything.

It was an obvious truth, but one he found himself contemplating anew.

Sensing this shift in the air, the opposing scholar seized the opportunity to press further.

“Your Majesty, while the themata were once useful, they are wholly incompatible with today’s circumstances. Beyond what I’ve already said, if we attempt to field a force larger than our capabilities, how will we manage logistics? What about equipment? What about troop readiness? A decline in quality is inevitable. Moreover, tying troops to local regions would slow mobilization—should we miss a crucial opportunity to go on the offensive, how much farther will our goal decline? To reclaim the lands that once belonged to the Empire, we need a system that allows for flexible movement. Please, Your Majesty—make the bold decisions needed to restore the reign of this nation, this Empire, this Rome.”

—Until now, Plethon had kept his composure despite his passion.

But at this final statement, he let out a cry that was almost a scream.

“Rome! Always Rome again!”

Tears streamed down from the furrows beside Plethon’s eyes.

The old scholar clutched his chest and wept openly—so different from his usual calm demeanor.

“How long must people keep dying in the name of Rome? Even after seeing this nation, and the people living in it, collapse while chasing after unattainable glory, how do you still not understand?”

Unattainable glory.

That phrase darkened the faces of all in the lecture hall.

Some may have simply found it distasteful.

But others felt a bitter truth in it, and a few quietly bowed their heads.

Though most could not accept Plethon’s wailing, there were some who understood deeply.

Among them was Emperor Dragases himself.

“….”

“Your Majesty… I believe that you know. You must know what caused this nation’s painful fall. Think of how many sacrifices were forced upon us in the name of Rome. And if even more sacrifices are needed for that name, then I would gladly give up being Roman.”

“…Plethon.”

“Your Majesty, do not forget. We are not Romans. We are Greeks—Greeks who have no need to be bound by the name of Rome.”

For an emperor who had already chosen to prioritize the people who followed him over past glories, it was only natural that Plethon’s words would tug at his heart.

But he couldn’t just repeat Plethon’s ideas.

The people did not want to be Greeks—they wanted to be Romans.

They had vowed to resist their fate as Romans, and saw themselves as heirs to Rome’s legacy and traditions.

And so, rather than respond to Plethon’s words, the Emperor asked the other scholar for his name.

“…It would be best to avoid topics like reforms or policy for the time being. I will arrange a more suitable venue for productive discussion later. For now, both of you are dismissed. What is your name?”

“…Thomas Magistros, Your Majesty.”

Still deep in thought over Plethon’s anguished cry, the scholar gave his name.

Thomas Magistros.

The Emperor spoke it once aloud, gave a small nod, and issued his final order.

“Though it was a debate, raising one’s voice so harshly in a public lecture is still unseemly. There will be a light reprimand for this—you shall accompany me.”

“If that is Your Majesty’s will.”

Magistros accepted the command without resistance.

Now that the new scholar’s stance had been made clear, there was no need to remain longer.

Without hesitation, the Emperor turned away from the academy—leaving behind the many gazes fixed upon him.

With the return of Prince Thomas of Epirus, Emperor Dragases was finally able to step down from his role as regent.

However, Thomas was still young and lacked any notable accomplishments, leaving his authority weak.

To compensate for this, the emperor volunteered to become Thomas’s guardian himself. Of course, it was no easy task for the ruler of Thessaly, Athens, and all of Morea to also dedicate attention to Epirus.

Thus, someone had to be appointed to assist Thomas in the emperor’s stead.

The problem was that there was no one particularly suitable among the emperor’s retainers to send.

What Epirus needed at this stage—just as its foundations were being laid—was not a military expert, but someone confident in administration.

And the emperor was already struggling to find suitable commanders to lead his own reorganized military. Ivania was busy training noncommissioned officers for the Paramone–Alagia formation.

Francisco was burdened with the Latin troops, the Stradioti, and even the Mourtati. Any further reduction in manpower would make it impossible to move forward.

No more personnel could be spared.

The emperor considered sending Gemistos Plethon, who had relevant experience, but this was the time when Plethon needed to focus on nurturing future talent.

The academy had only just begun to operate after the war, having finally secured a teacher. It was far from fully established, and removing Plethon now would be too much.

Besides, Plethon was fundamentally a scholar. The emperor had already worked hard to calm the church’s opposition.

For both Plethon and Dragases, maintaining the current situation was the safer choice. Not that there was a better alternative.

Bishop Nikephoros of Morea, currently serving as the region’s bishop, was also not an option.

His mere presence secured the church’s support for the emperor. Regardless of his abilities, Bishop Nikephoros had to remain by the emperor’s side to ensure stability in Morea.

Without realizing it, the emperor let out a deep sigh, laced with frustration.

“In the end, that leaves Demicleos, by process of elimination…”

The issue was that Demicleos was currently spearheading the establishment of the public assembly and adjusting the laws for each region on behalf of the emperor.

Though things were starting to get on track, this was still the critical foundational period that could determine the success of the next several decades. Pulling him away was not a decision to make lightly.

Thus, the emperor found himself in a rare dilemma so intense it made his head throb.

Not sending anyone to assist Thomas in governing Epirus wasn’t even worth considering. Yet pulling a key official from their duties would undoubtedly cause setbacks in that field.

Perhaps if the emperor personally made up for the shortfall, things might somehow function. But given the punishing workload and stress he already bore, that was far from a wise solution.

While each official handled their designated responsibilities, Dragases was the one orchestrating the entire reform. Most of these reforms had been his own sole decisions—there was no one else to delegate them to.

“…I need to think on this,” he muttered.

A sigh from the emperor was never meaningless.

Leaning back in his chair in a rare moment of looseness, the emperor was far from his usual strict, solemn, and serious self.

Whenever no one was watching, he would occasionally allow himself to rest in this manner.

But even then, true rest avoided him. The empire’s circumstances were so dire that even falling asleep felt like a luxury.

Even now, as he slouched, the emperor’s thoughts were racing—searching for a suitable candidate.

“If I absolutely must send someone, then Demicleos would be the right choice.”

It was deeply regrettable to send him away before the newly forming administrative system was complete—but change was just as necessary in Epirus.

The recent focus on Thessaly and Athens had caused the governance of Epirus to suffer naturally. A shortage of capable personnel had directly led to a lack of administrative capacity.

That was why the emperor intended to delegate most of his authority in Epirus to Thomas and the person who would support him. He would do everything he could to provide aid whenever possible—but direct involvement on his part was no longer realistic.

After all, Dragases had more than enough on his plate. Not only was he leading the reforms, he was also devising strategies to prevent the rise of the Ottoman golden age.

Given the current situation, Demicleos was clearly the best choice.

The real question was—if he left, who would take over the reforms in Morea? Whoever it was, even if lacking experience, needed to have a firm grasp of why the reforms were necessary.

Not just because Dragases said so, but because they personally believed it was essential for the country’s future.

“…As reluctant as I am, perhaps sending Plethon would actually be better…”

Considering his fame as a scholar, it was a reasonable option. But even as he spoke the words, the emperor found himself shaking his head.

It wasn’t that he doubted Plethon’s intellect—but implementing institutional reform required a particular kind of aptitude.

Demicleos, already acknowledged for his capabilities and even active as a judge, was far more reliable in that regard.

Either way, the painful truth remained.

There simply weren’t enough capable people he could trust. The emperor knew this all too well—and that’s why he could never truly rest.

---

About three days later, a change came over the once-peaceful atmosphere of Mistra.

The only sounds in the emperor’s office were the scratching of a quill and the strangely overlapping rhythm of quiet breathing.   *Quills are feather that people used to write in the old ages.

Just three days prior, the office had been Dragases alone—but now, for some reason, it was bustling with unexpected guests.

Calling them “guests” felt slightly off, but either way, even with new arrivals, the emperor’s naturally stiff air did not soften one bit.

“Ugh, it’s suffocating… I know we’re working, but I seriously want to get out of here…”

Despite being scolded countless times for frequent mistakes, the Jewish maid Maria always managed to wear a bright, cheerful smile.

Yet even she had no way to deal with Emperor Dragases. What fun could she possibly have talking to a man as impenetrable as a fortress, one who didn’t crack a single smile no matter what was said?

It was a perfectly reasonable thought—but Maria’s mistake was forgetting that not everyone was reasonable.

“You can’t complain already, Maria. How do you expect to serve properly like that?”

“Sophia, you’re the weird one… I mean, what’s so fun about staring at him like that? Emperor Dragases is the ultimate fortress of chastity, you know. He’s practically a monk—completely uninterested in women.”

Swallowing her last words mid-sentence, Maria subtly turned her gaze to glance at the emperor. Though he rarely had time to groom himself due to overwork, his appearance was always neat, except for his naturally curly hair.

That said, his impeccable self-discipline likely explained his tidy image. Still, perhaps he was too disciplined—so much so that he had yet to lay a hand on any woman, including Sophia.

“Honestly, even if he did try something, I doubt any woman would be thrilled about it.”

Emperor Dragasēs was regarded as an ideal sovereign due to his strict self-discipline and unwavering devotion to the welfare of the empire.

The consequence of this was an excessively inflated reverence. Not only was he not someone easy to approach, but he also seemed virtually flawless, which only intensified that distance.

The few exceptions were women who, by intention or by circumstance, had managed to grow close to him.

As such, Maria’s observations were entirely reasonable, every word of them.

“Isn’t that actually a good thing, though? It means he’s a decent man deep down, and yet easy to monopolize.”

Unfortunately, her remark was wasted on someone who had no intention of accepting it. Sophia sat in one of the nearby chairs, resting her chin on her hand.

At first glance, she appeared to be deep in thought, but in truth, her posture was simply to give her an excuse to gaze at the emperor for a long time. Her dark eyes darted about tirelessly, tracking his every movement as always.

The moment that brazen stare reached him, the emperor let out a sigh and set down his quill before turning toward Sophia.

“Still at it?”

The remark carried multiple implications, but Sophia understood immediately. The way she smiled in response said it all.

“We’ve only just started getting close.”

Sophia’s eyes softened briefly, then lifted playfully with mischief. Like a cat waiting to be entertained, she looked at the emperor with a teasing glint in her eye.

This look marked the most notable change in Sophia ever since she started visiting not for urgent news or important information, but for no reason at all.

Naturally, it wasn’t a welcome change for the emperor.

“Madam, as I’ve said before—let’s not waste each other’s time…”

“And you’ve been saying that for two years now. Isn’t it time you realized which one of us is really wasting whose time?”

She cut him off before he could even finish. The air darkened quickly, shifting from lightheartedness to a heavy, tense atmosphere. Only Maria, who had quickly backed up toward the door after sensing the shift, let out a dazed sound like “Uwaaah~.”

At this point, rather than confront her head-on, the emperor chose silence. He had a plan in mind, yes—but if it were discovered prematurely, the consequences could be explosive.

Between Joannina and Ivania, the emperor’s plate was already overflowing. There simply wasn’t room to include Sophia as well.

But having seized the rare opportunity, Sophia clearly had no intention of backing off.

She continued pressing him with her gaze. Meanwhile, the emperor, picked up the quill again and busied himself with the rest of his paperwork.

How much time had passed?

Suddenly, the silence was broken by quick, confident footsteps that echoed clearly in the emperor’s ears. As expected, a soldier acting as a messenger burst into the room, pushing aside a startled Maria in the process.

“Your Majesty! A report from the Academy you are sponsoring—!”

“I was planning to go there myself. It sounds urgent, so I’ll hear the full details on the way.”

“Ah—yes, of course!”

There was no way the emperor would miss such a chance.

As if he had prepared for this moment long ago, he wore his cloak with fluid ease. No one even had time to stop him. Leaving only a quick gasp of awe behind, the messenger dashed out. Peaceful silence returned to the office once more.

The next voice came only after a long while.

“…His Majesty made a very smooth escape, huh.”

“Huhu… I’m sure he knows. That no matter how it happens, he’ll eventually have to form a relationship with me.”

“You’re very composed, Sophia.”

“Well…”

Given the pace of the past two years, Maria’s comment was more than justified. But Sofia, completely unfazed, lightly tapped the quill the emperor had left behind with her index finger and closed her eyes slowly.

“Because His Majesty and I are already husband and wife.”

The Court of Mistra

The emperor, usually buried in his office and engrossed in work, momentarily set down his quill at the rare news brought by a messenger and muttered in a calm tone,

“So he chose to back down, after all.”

The revolt of Little Mustafa had come to an end.

As the emperor had predicted, it ended in a decisive victory for Murad.

It was an obvious outcome. Though Little Mustafa had gathered a decent force by rallying support from the beyliks with the backing of the Karamanids, the limitations were clear.

The true power of the Ottomans—the Sipahi and the Janissaries—remained loyal to none other than Murad.

Had no countermeasures been taken, the Ottomans might have seized Anatolia even faster than Dragases himself had anticipated.

If Murad had one misfortune, it was that his hunch had become all too predictable.

The young and ambitious Sultan fully understood the heavy burden that came with mobilizing troops.

And that was not just Murad—it was something any sensible monarch would know.

War was usually a last resort.

A single defeat could shake the foundations of a nation, given the enormous cost in resources and manpower. That was why Murad sought to seize as many gains as possible with a single move.

Dragases would never have overlooked such a point.

Defeating Little Mustafa’s forces meant more than just quelling a rebellion. It was also a direct blow to the Karamanids, who had supported him.

The emperor knew that the main reason Ottoman dominance in Anatolia hadn’t been fully established was the resistance from the Turkic beyliks, especially the Karamanids. Thus, he could naturally deduces Murad’s next move.

Murad would likely take advantage of the Karamanids weakened state and launch a campaign to finally establish supremacy over Anatolia.

The emperor was certain that the young Sultan, having secured his rule, would continue advancing.

But Murad’s intentions were stopped by something as simple as a single letter.

At last, the emperor, who had been silently observing the movements of the Ottomans in Anatolia, could let out a sigh of relief.

“…With this, the Ottomans advance into Anatolia has been stopped—for now.”

As long as the Mamluks retained their power, the Ottomans wouldn’t dare recklessly push forward. Still, the recent conflict had made it undeniably clear just how capable Murad was and how formidable the army under him had become.

Now that the world knew this young Sultan possessed both talent and ambition, neighboring states would begin to see the Ottomans as a real threat.

And that was reason enough for encouragement. The moment the Ottomans showed any hostility, there was now a far greater chance that these powers would unite against them.

Especially now that Murad knew the Mamluks had a stake in the region, the Ottomans would hesitate to further involve themselves in Anatolia.

From this point forward, any expansion in that direction would inevitably provoke a confrontation with the Mamluks.

Still, there were problems.

The emperor slowly closed his eyes and clenched both fists tightly.

“Next will be the Empire.”

With their path into Anatolia blocked, there was only one direction left for the Ottomans to turn.

Constantinople, proud of its triple-layered walls, may be well-defended, but not all of imperial territory shared such fortifications. Murad, more than anyone, surely knew the Ottomans were not yet ready to fulfill their grand dream of seizing the imperial capital.

That was why they would tighten the noose slowly but surely.

And so, the emperor Dragases could only sink deeper into thought.

---

How much time had passed since then?

Having shed his immediate concerns about the Ottomans, the emperor was now busy reviewing the results of his reforms. Tension in the capital had heightened with the Sultan’s return, but there was nothing Morea could realistically do at the moment.

The more rational choice was to continue building strength. And not all news was grim—on rare occasions, even Dragases received genuinely good news.

Thomas Palaiologos, Despot of Epirus, had finally returned safely after completing his campaign.

Though he brought back fewer than a thousand troops, they represented one of the Empire’s few remaining military assets. Even if there had been some losses, the mere fact that he returned safely was a blessing.

More encouraging than anything else was that Thomas—one of the emperor’s most trusted allies—had returned without injury. Normally, the emperor remained in his study to receive after-action reports, but this time was an exception.

The emperor personally rode out to greet Thomas forces as they approached Mistra. Exhausted by the long campaign, the soldiers’ shoulders sagged as they marched. But what caught the emperor’s eye most was Thomas’ face.

“I’m glad you returned safely, Thomas.”

“…Brother. Once we’re back in Mistra, there’s something I’d like to discuss with you. Would that be alright?”

“Of course.”

“…Thank you.”

His face had grown pale with fatigue—a clear symbol of the hardships he had endured. Whether due to sheer exhaustion or something else, Thomas said no more after that.

Even though the soldiers had loosened up somewhat at the joy of returning home, Thomas remained silent. Out of concern for his brother’s condition, the emperor refrained from any further conversation, and a quiet hush settled over them.

As they continued toward Mistra, Thomas began glancing around at his surroundings.

How long had it been since the two brothers had ridden together in silence? When Thomas finally spoke again, a good amount of time had passed—and they had arrived at Mistra.

“…Even this place, which I thought would never change, has changed.”

It was a single sentence, but it carried many emotions woven together in a curious tone. Still, it was far too little to draw any conclusions from.

It was dangerous to assume another’s thoughts so carelessly. Yet, Thomas wasn’t wrong. Though only three years had passed, Morea—centered around Mistra—had achieved a surprising degree of prosperity and transformation.

“This time we’ve bought was hard-won. Even if it’s just three years, we must make the most of it.”

The transformation over the past three years was entirely thanks to Emperor Dragases. Under his full support, reforms had slowly begun to yield results.

Although not fully independent, a new system of governance by the People’s Assembly, granting significant independence to the cities, had been established.

Furthermore, the seizure of wealth through the dissolution of many monasteries had given the empire much-needed financial breathing room. Many clerics had turned their backs on the emperor as a result, but he had expected as much.

Diplomatic progress had also been made. In exchange for providing troops to help defend Thessalonica, Morea had secured a deal with Venice for the provision of armor.

This was a significant development for Emperor Dragases, who envisioned infantry as the backbone of his reformed army. The glory of the empire’s once-mighty military had long since faded.

For Morea’s largely chain mail-equipped forces, acquiring Western plate armor was essential for building a professional core.

Though the supply was still too limited for widespread distribution, that was a problem time would solve. But for now, there was no need to speak of such matters—Thomas’ expression was far too clouded.

The emperor, sensing no need to press the issue, fell silent. Thomas glanced around the streets of Mistra once more and let out a small sigh.

“Anyone who sees this place will know just how much effort you’ve put into it, brother. On the road to Mistra, I ran into several groups of migrants. They, too, must be aware of your efforts.”

As Thomas said, unprecedented events were unfolding in Morea. While migrants from Constantinople were nothing new, it was exceedingly rare for other ethnic groups—particularly Albanians—to migrate in group.

Beyond the forty thousand Albanians who had already come, more refugees were steadily arriving in Morea, increasing in number, if not at the same scale.

Considering Morea’s prosperity and stability, it was only natural.

The entire Balkan Peninsula now lay under the shadow of Ottoman threat, and Morea was the only place that, however dangerously, could still promise peace.

This was the image shaped by the last hope of a millennial empire. Only at the brink of destruction had the empire—collapsing for centuries—barely found a final chance.

It was no wonder that those who had long resigned themselves to ruin would now willingly follow.

However—

“…But I keep thinking it still might not be enough.”

Street merchants haggled with bright smiles, unaware of the doom approaching just around the corner.

People laughed and cried in the naive hope of a brighter tomorrow. They could live like that only because they trusted and followed Emperor Dragases. Or perhaps, because they had yet to face the true strength of the Ottomans.

Biting his lower lip, Thomas spoke in a voice choked with pain—like a groan of anguish.

“The Sultan once asked me a question.”

“…..”

“He asked if a thousand years hadn’t been enough.”

That question from the Sultan struck Thomas deeply—it laid bare the different perspectives held by Muslims and imperial citizens, even when looking at the same empire.

What tormented him the most was the sheer weight of those thousand years. A weight too immense for any mere human to easily speak of.

“In the face of that phrase—‘a thousand years of repeated despair and failure’—I couldn’t say a word….I could no longer be sure of anything.”

The veins in his hand, clenched around the reins, stood out sharply.

Once a boy who knew nothing, he had come to understand just how dire their enemy truly was—how essential victory over them was to the empire’s survival.

“Brother… Do we truly need this country? Isn’t everything the people long for already being given to them by the Ottomans?”

Order, stability, prosperity.

These three, above all, were the values most important to the people. Thomas wasn’t someone who believed that the state existed for the monarchy’s sake.

Likewise, most imperial citizens saw the purpose of their nation in the values it upheld. And those values—those three—no longer existed in the empire, but in the Ottomans.

Centuries of decline had come from civil wars over power.

At the height of internal strife, the Ottomans set foot on this land, and in that moment, the empire’s fate was sealed.
Even as true peril arrived, the nation, fractured in pursuit of the last remnants of its thousand-year glory, could no longer offer order, stability, or prosperity.

That was the root of Thomas’s painful question.

“Brother, can a nation that offers nothing but empty promises really defeat the Ottomans?”

Before Thomas’s pleading eyes, the Emperor slowly closed his own.

He understood that question all too well, for it was one he had asked himself—again and again—as a student of history. Wouldn’t it be better to simply accept ruin and adapt to the new order that followed?

It was a doubt that still lingered in some corner of his heart. And so, after reaching a quiet resolve, the Emperor finally answered:

“No country can escape the natural order of rise and fall. Thomas, if you’ve seen a thousand years of despair and failure—then understand also what that thousand years means.”

“A thousand years… It doesn’t feel real. For a human, it’s far too long a time to grasp.”

“It was just something I said.”

Thomas’s eyes widened in surprise.

The Emperor, who never spoke frivolously and always maintained a solemn, strict demeanor, had uttered such a thing. When Thomas turned his gaze from the streets of Mistra back to the Emperor—

The Emperor was smiling softly.

“If a thousand years feels unreal, then don’t look at time—look at the people. It’s only natural that one person can’t bear the weight of a millennium.”

“…Is that something an emperor should say?”

“I’m not saying it’s wrong to pursue a thousand years. But life is too short to chase only after that. Even a person’s entire lifetime can’t contain a millennium—So it’s better to look to those who stand with you, even if just for a moment.”

“But we have a duty to carry on a thousand years of history.”

“Then all the more reason to look at the people. It’s not the people who contain a thousand years—it’s the thousand years that contain the people. That’s how time has always moved.”

As he spoke, the Emperor recalled the vow he had once made.

Not to fight for past glory, but for the sovereignty and freedom of those who believed in him.

“Thomas, you said you’ve seen a thousand years of despair and failure.”

“…….”

“Then this time, let us be the hope that shines at the end of that thousand years.”

Even if that hope was destined to be broken.

Even if they would face an end far more miserable than surrendering to fate without resistance. Though he left the thought unspoken, Thomas finally understood the full extent of his brother’s resolve.

He realized just how futile, and how cruel, it was to challenge a foe when defeat seemed inevitable—when overwhelming disadvantage and failure were a given.

People called Emperor Dragases the hope that appeared at the brink of ruin. Even abroad, he was known as the last pillar supporting a crumbling thousand-year empire.

At the same time, there was another, lesser-known description someone once gave:

A light that rose alone in the dark.

A reckless man, who, even when the very belief in salvation had drowned, dared to throw himself into a doomed struggle and declare that he would change fate.

It was because of this that people came to believe again. They believed this country could still change. And Thomas was no exception to that belief.

“The edge of a thousand years…I wonder if we’ll be able to see what lies beyond.”

“Aren’t you curious?”

“I am. I want to see what comes after a thousand years of history.”

Before he knew it, the shadow across Thomas’s face had begun to fade. The two brothers looked at each other for a long time—And then burst out laughing.

Their laughter, mingling with the lively atmosphere of Mistra, scattered unnoticed into the air.