Category: About a Dating Sim Where Dating Is Impossible

After abandoning the campaign toward Karaman, Murad immediately chose to return to Edirne.

Fortunately, few Muslims dared to openly oppose the Caliph’s message.

Most merely expressed regret. Considering how great an opportunity this had been, it was hard to imagine what emotions must have weighed on Murad as he chose to retreat.

And once he arrived in Edirne, the first thing he did was not a triumphant parade or a celebration banquet.

“Çandarlı Halil, Turahan, and Ishak. Through this campaign, I’ve come to a sobering realization of what the Ottomans lack. Thus, I seek a way to overcome it.”

“My Sultan, what is it that you found so urgent?”

Even if Halil had been informed of the situation through letters, it would have been impossible to grasp the full scope of it.

From his perspective, stationed in Edirne, it was difficult to fully understand the Sultan’s haste.

Aware of this, Murad refrained from showing frustration and instead spoke frankly about what he had come to understand during the campaign.

“Though the Ottoman army is strong, I could not be certain it was truly my army. We must possess a force powerful enough to crush our enemies even without the aid of the beyliks. To face the encroaching enemies on all sides, I need my own army—not that of the beyliks.”

“…Your words are wise. Even if trust was secured through marriage alliances, such relationships always have their limits. If that is how Your Majesty feels, then I have no objections.”

Once even Halil voiced his agreement, Murad hesitated no longer.

Numerous administrators gathered at the Edirne court to begin discussions, and seasoned commanders shared what was lacking and what needed reform.

The Sultan listened closely to every word and devoted himself wholeheartedly to preparing a sweeping reform.

Perhaps thanks to his passion and attentiveness, the reform plan was swiftly completed. Without hesitation, the Sultan announced a bold reform that would transform countless aspects of the army.

“From this point forward, all military forces will be divided between the Kapıkulu, who serve directly under me, and the Tımarlı Sipahi (or Zeberlü), who serve under the beyliks or those granted land. New organizations shall also be established.”

What the Sultan most urgently felt was the need for a standing army—forces directly under his command.

Relying on taxes and summons to gather troops was a fatal flaw, especially with the Ottoman Empire facing threats on multiple fronts.

In times of crisis, a ready force had to be available. Moreover, they needed the power to wage war without leaning on the strength of vassals.

The Kapıkulu were precisely the new organization Murad envisioned to meet those expectations.

“The Kapıkulu will be directly salaried under my command and stationed in major fortresses or cities, such as Edirne. The infantry will be divided into six Ocaks (corps), each assigned distinct responsibilities. Additionally, Sipahi who have not been granted land, as well as those selected through the Devshirme system, will be reorganized into Kapıkulu Sipahi under this new system.”

As the centerpiece of the reforms, the Kapıkulu received the Sultan’s greatest attention—and the largest share of the announcements.

“The six Ocaks will consist of the Janissaries, Azebs, Cebeci, Topçu, Humbara, and Lağımcı. The Janissaries, my personal guard, will henceforth be maintained at a strength of exactly 6,000. They will be my elite warriors.

The Azebs will be composed of those who did not qualify for the Janissaries or who await placement. If vacancies arise among the Janissaries, they will be selected from the Azebs, with priority given to those who prove their bravery in battle.

The Cebeci are not combat soldiers, but craftsmen responsible for producing and maintaining weapons. In peacetime, they will craft and manage arms for the Janissaries, and in wartime, they will handle logistics and transport.

The Topçu are specialists in artillery. They will be trained not only in cannon firing but also in gunpowder handling to minimize accidents. Ultimately, their mastery of loading and firing will accelerate siege operations.

The Humbara are those who construct and maintain artillery. Their mission is to keep cannons in optimal condition, mastering disassembly and reassembly to ensure flexible deployment in the field.

The Lağımcı will conduct specialized engineering operations in coordination with the other Ocaks. They are being created specifically to develop siege tactics for fortresses that are difficult to conquer, aiming to reduce casualties.”

This was a clear different from the previously disorganized structure. The Sultan believed that fostering specialization among soldiers was the key to enhancing the army’s efficiency.

Though the Ottomans had been forced to retreat due to Dragases cunningness, Murad recognized that cannons—capable of collapsing fortress walls and applying immense pressure on defenders—would inevitably reshape the future of warfare.

As much as he longed to establish armories and begin mass-producing artillery immediately, the Sultan knew what had to take priority. He resolved to deal with the most urgent matters first.

“Additionally, the Kapıkulu Sipahi will be divided into three regiments, stationed respectively in İzmir, Bursa, and Edirne. They will act as mobile reinforcements to aid regional forces under invasion, and will also serve as standing troops in expeditions. Intense training awaits them, but I swear by my name as Sultan that their service will be justly rewarded.

With that, the organization of the Kapıkulu is complete.”

One of the key lessons Murad drew from the Anatolian campaign was that he had no forces under direct royal command in the provinces. Hence, he decided to station the Kapıkulu Sipahi in the three major Ottoman strongholds.

Edirne and Bursa, being capitals, were obvious choices. İzmir, facing Constantinople across the Aegean, was strategically important. If a hypothetical enemy were to invade northern Anatolia or cross the Sea of Marmara, these forces could swiftly strike back.

However, just because the Kapıkulu system had been announced did not mean the reforms were finished.

“The next proclamation concerns the organization of the Zeberlü forces.”

The Zeberlü refers to the soldiers whom the Sipahi—those granted lands or cultivation rights—are obligated to mobilize during wartime.

From now on, those who hold such lands or rights will be called Timar Sipahi, and it is hereby announced in advance that cultivation rights may not be inherited.

In exchange for mobilizing a designated number of soldiers according to the value of their land or rights, they shall be exempt from taxation.”

If the Kapıkulu were to become the backbone of the Sultan’s army, then the Zeberlü would serve as the protective outer layer.

But they were by no means negligible. A significant portion of the military would still be composed of them. In fact, perhaps they were the true core.

Having now declared the structure of the Zeberlü, the Sultan pressed on without rest to announce the next formation.

“And I shall also conscript a portion of the cavalry owned by the nomadic tribes and the beyliks to form the Akıncı. They will carry out guerrilla operations, such as harassing the enemy’s rear with light arms. I wish to entrust this crucial mission to Turahan Bey, who proved his loyalty during previous campaigns.”

At that moment, the Sultan’s gaze subtly shifted toward Turahan, who was kneeling in obedience.

“Turahan, can you do this?”

“I shall repay the grace you’ve shown me with victory.”

“Those words alone are enough. I believe in the son of Yiğit.”

Satisfied with the response, the Sultan shifted his gaze without hesitation. He still had more to say. Such was the significance of this reform—it entailed sweeping change.

“The Azaplar will also be newly reorganized. From now on, those who wish to prove their courage in battle and earn spoils shall receive equipment supplied directly by me and take their place on the front lines. There shall be no restrictions on who may apply.”

The Sultan let out a small sigh. Yet this was no sigh of regret or resignation. It was the lingering breath of passion, born from the feverish excitement that stirred in his chest.

Finally, still seated on his throne, he looked around the court. Everyone was busy organizing the reform decrees he had just proclaimed. No one spoke a word.

If they were thinking it over, that was good.

Better methods might yet emerge from such deliberation.

Murmuring to himself, the Sultan delivered his final declaration.

“Lastly, to ensure the safety of Gallipoli and stabilize the connection to Anatolia, I intend to construct two fortresses near the Dardanelles Strait. Do not hesitate to repurpose any abandoned churches, ruined fortresses, or crumbling walls in the vicinity. All of this is to bring peace and stability to the people.”

When all of this is done, the Ottomans will be stronger than ever.

By then, even Dragases web will no longer be able to halt the Ottomans’ ascent. More than that—Murad turned his gaze to the Sadrazam who stood quietly with bowed head beside him.

Çandarlı Halil, who had declared his loyalty for the sake of the Prophet’s prophecy, was still by the Sultan’s side. As soon as he sensed Murad’s eyes upon him, Halil respectfully lowered his head further and murmured in the softest of voices:

“Worry not, my Sultan. I swear that this humble servant shall tear through the web Dragases has spun.”

“I ask it of you again.”

“Of course.”

No matter how fiercely one struggles, a soaring bird cannot be held down forever.

Çandarlı Halil’s final words were spoken so softly they barely registered, but they were clear enough for the Sultan to hear.

And having heard Halil’s vow, Murad turned his gaze back to the front. The court of Edirne remained covered in silence. But all present surely knew—it was the silence before the wings unfurled.

“And you must know this as well, Dragases.”

When this silence ends, the one who has been forcibly held down will show no mercy.

---

TL : That’s a lot to remember. You might as well forget it since you will eventually know of them during battle. And all of the military reforms also occurred in real life.

Ottoman Military Camp.

With just a single order to advance, everyone in the camp was prepared to move out willingly.

It was a campaign to unify Anatolia under one rule.The cause was clear, preparations were complete, and victory seemed all but certain.

However, an unforeseen variable ruined the Ottoman’s plans.

That variable was none other than the Mamluk’s intervention.

“O Sultan of the Ottomans, Ashraf Barsbay, the Sultan of the Mamluks and Protector of the Caliph, first wishes to express his deep disappointment toward the principalities, including Karaman and Candar, who threatened your throne. Despite having a true enemy of the faith, they disgracefully turned their blades against fellow Muslims, and he did not hesitate to denounce them for it.”

“What are you really trying to say?”

“Nevertheless, Ashraf could not suppress his sorrow and chose to discipline them by sending harsh letters of condemnation. The Caliph, upon hearing Ashraf’s counsel, also lamented this fights among Muslims and gladly decided to mediate. Thus, even those who stirred the chaos could not help but bow their heads in shame.”

“I asked you what you mean to say by sending me this head.”

Unable to hold back any longer, Murad asked with a low, gritted voice. The severed head before him was none other than that of Little Mustafa.

There was no mistaking it. Murad clearly remembered what his youngest brother looked like.

There was no pity for a brother who had risen against him only to return as a lifeless head. Only rage surged within him as he sensed the Mamluks true intentions.

And even though the Mamluk envoy must have noticed the Sultan’s fury, he continued to speak in a soft, gentle tone.

“Those who belatedly realized their sins under the rebuke of the Caliph and Ashraf pondered deeply how they might earn forgiveness.
This—this is the result. The principalities, including Karaman, made both your rival and their own leaders bear the punishment for starting conflict among Muslims.”

“And so Ashraf sent me to apologize on their behalf to the Sultan of the Ottomans, who suffered due to their foolishness. He also wishes to convey that the Caliph grieves greatly over the fighting among Muslims.”

“Then shouldn’t they be the ones to apologize? Is my question too difficult for you to understand? I’m asking why you have come here instead of them.”

“I heard the Sultan of the Ottomans was a wise man, yet you still do not understand and question me again,”

At last, even the Mamluk envoy’s expression shifted slightly in response to Murad’s sharp reproach—though it was a very faint change.

A subtle, mocking sneer appeared at the corners of his lips as he gazed at Murad.

“This is the earnest message from the Caliph and Ashraf Barsbay, the Sultan of the Mamluks: Cease this futile fighting among Muslims. Must I repeat myself several more times for you to understand?”

Crack.

A chilling sound slipped through Murad’s tightly clenched teeth as he fought to suppress the roar that almost escaped his lips.

The officials around him saw the Sultan’s fists trembling with bulging veins and could easily guess the depth of his rage—and they sympathized with it.

Unifying Anatolia was within reach. And at the very moment he was about to take the first step toward that great achievement, he was obstructed.

How could he not be furious?

Yet even amid his burning anger, Murad still heeded the whisper of reason.

We are not yet strong enough to defeat the Mamluks.

The Mamluks’ message was clear:

They intended to use this opportunity to establish dominance over the Turkic principalities. Their talk of “holding leaders accountable” essentially meant that they had replaced the rulers with ones loyal or submissive to the Mamluks.

For Murad, it was as if his hard-earned victory was being stolen away at the last moment.

And yet, challenging the Mamluks directly was not an option.

Though the Janissaries had been founded through the devshirme system, infantry still had its limitations.

It would be arrogant to claim easy victory over the legendary Mamluk cavalry. This was still an era when elite cavalry forces decided battles.

Even with the Ottomans access to Anatolian horse stocks, they could not guarantee superiority against the Mamluks hardened traditions of cavalry warfare.

And that wasn’t the only concern.

If a war broke out against the Mamluks, the Ottomans would have to focus all their strength on that front, leaving Rumelia dangerously exposed.

And that would inevitably stir Murad’s most dreaded enemy—Dragases.

The moment even the slightest opening appeared, Dragases, lying in wait, would drive a cold dagger into the Ottoman heart.

Thus, only one answer remained:

If he could not win a frontal confrontation, he must retreat. But it was an excruciating decision.

To withdraw just as preparations for battle were complete would greatly tarnish the Sultan’s authority.

Blaming it on the Caliph’s intervention might win some understanding, but it would not ease Murad’s heavy heart.

Finally, after a long silence, Murad lowered his head.

“…Fine. I will obey the Caliph’s word. Since Mustafa’s death has been confirmed, there is no longer even a justification to strike Karaman. This is what you wanted, isn’t it?”

“It is enough, O Sultan. We only pray that Allah continues to favour the Ottomans. If I may, I would offer one small piece of advice.”

“You think you can advise me?”

Facing Murad’s biting sarcasm, the Mamluk envoy shook his head once, then replied calmly:

“This is the final message left by Ashraf as well. He said that the Sultan of the Ottomans now faces a most formidable adversary.”

“A formidable adversary, you say.”

“How many men have you ever acknowledged as your equal?”

At those words, a searing pain exploded in Murad’s head.

Through the burning agony came the image of a man he had once met face to face—The final defender upholding a crumbling thousand-year empire,

The last hope emerging after centuries of waiting, The enemy who, knowing all odds were against him, still dared to challenge the Ottomans:

The Sultan’s great nemesis.

“Dragases. Dragases is involved in this affair!”

The Mamluk envoy offered no further response. He simply gave a respectful salute and departed Murad’s tent.

Neither Murad, nor his commanders, nor the guards at the tent made any move to stop him.

Silence descended.

Murad no longer suppressed his rage. He closed his eyes tightly, planted his hand firmly on the table, and trembled, his eyebrows quivering with fury.

The Mamluks intervention had been suspiciously swift — and exceedingly precise.

Still, Murad had assumed it merely reflected how closely they monitored Anatolia’s affairs; he had never once suspected another force’s involvement.

But if Dragases had a hand in this, the situation changed entirely. By Dragases subtle urging, the Mamluks risked nothing.

At the very least, they could expand their influence over the Anatolian principalities by stopping Ottoman expansion — and ultimately strengthen their own dominance.

In the end, it was simply a case of the Mamluks and Dragases interests aligning.

Even so, Murad could not simply let it pass, for he had already been forced once to retreat by a net Dragases had woven. And because he had experienced it once, he failed all the more to anticipate it again.

—To think the web he spun would be this persistent, this intricate.

“Truly…”

The more Murad thought about it, the faster his anger cooled. What replaced it was not bitterness, but awe — a respect tinged with admiration for none other than his sworn enemy.

Without realizing it, Murad’s eyebrows had begun trembling, not from rage, but something else altogether.

“You have prepared far more than I ever imagined, Dragases.”

At that moment, Murad felt a deep shudder run through him.

He had thought Dragases resolve was extraordinary when he burned an entire city to the ground, but even that had underestimated him.

His determination to save a country on the verge of destruction operated with an almost unimaginable thoroughness.

Dragases pressed forward relentlessly, walking a risky tightrope where a single misstep would mean ruin.

Each move Dragases made became another blow that blocked the Ottoman Empire’s ascent to its golden age.

Small, seemingly insignificant actions piled up, weaving a net — like countless thin strands of thread forming a powerful trap— that ultimately stopped the Ottomans.

Having regained his composure, Murad looked around at the commanders gathered near him. Then he issued a short, firm order.

“Everyone except Ishak Pasha and Turahan Bey, return to your posts.”

“As the Sultan commands.”

The order had barely left his lips before the others promptly left the tent. Soon, only Ishak Pasha, Murad’s close friend, and Turahan Bey, his loyal vassal, remained. Murad gazed at them for a moment, then spoke.

“This makes the second time we’ve been forced to retreat without even fighting.”

Though Murad’s tone was calm, it was impossible to imagine the turmoil that lay behind those words. Turahan and Ishak immediately grasped the weight they carried. Yet Murad’s face remained composed and still.

“Even so, it was not without gain. Through this campaign, I have come to many realizations. I have seen and felt things I had never recognized before. And I believe the same is true for you, Turahan, Ishak.”

“You speak truly, my Sultan.”

“I am certain of it now.”

Turahan nodded solemnly in agreement. Ishak did not speak aloud, but his silent resolve was clear.

In that unspoken understanding, Murad lifted his hand from the table and clenched it tightly, the veins on the back of his hand standing out sharply. Without hesitation, a fierce light of ambition flashed in his eyes.

“I will not allow my soldiers to bear the disgrace of being labeled cowards who fled without a fight! I will not let this humiliation happen again! I, and the Ottomans, have already endured enough humiliation — twice is more than enough!”

The Sultan, who had until now tolerated everything in silence, now cried out.

Tears did not fall, but the grief in his voice was unmistakable. Feeling the depth of his anguish, neither Turahan nor Ishak could say a word. Considering all the shame Murad had endured, it was only natural.

And then, the Sultan, still trembling, struck the table once more and pleaded.

“Help me, Ishak, Turahan!”

“My Sultan, how can we serve you?”

“Speak freely, and hold nothing back! Tell me all you have thought and planned!”

Murad’s gaze no longer lingered in that tent.

It reached far away, across the Aegean Sea, where his true enemy awaited. Dragases — the last hope supporting a crumbling thousand-year empire — was moving to pull down the destined conqueror. But Murad would prove all such efforts futile.

With that resolve burning within him, the Sultan declared to his loyal retainers — and to his enemy:

“I will remake my army! Never again — never again — will we retreat without fighting!”

As the celebratory banquet in Manisa was slowly coming to a close, the attendees unexpectedly came face to face with a surprising figure.

“This child’s name is Ahmed, my eldest son. I will gladly acknowledge him as a prince, and he shall accompany us on the next campaign.”

Those most shocked by Murad’s proclamation were none other than the local lords.

Whether they had forged marriage alliances or joined Murad’s cause later, none of them had anticipated that the Sultan had a child.

That was how thoroughly the young Sultan had hidden his son, only revealing him once he was certain his power was secure.

It was little wonder that the lords collectively shuddered upon realizing the Sultan’s meticulousness, even if that had not been Murad’s true intention.

“…Whoa, so many great and important elders gathered here.”

Despite receiving what must have been a proper education, perhaps his inherently free-spirited nature still showed through.

It was a muttered comment, but loud enough for Murad, standing nearby, to hear.

What should he do? Should he scold the boy for forgetting proper decorum befitting the occasion, or be grateful that the boy had grown up bright and unburdened?

Even Murad, who had made countless decisions thus far, found it hard to settle on an answer to this dilemma.

In the end, Murad chose to simply let it go. It wasn’t until long after the banquet ended that Prince Ahmed was thoroughly scolded by Ishak.

Regardless of Ahmed’s future, the banquet in Manisa had yielded much for the Ottomans.

By securing the lords’ support, Murad had not only stabilized Anatolia but also publicly revealed the existence of the heir he had so carefully hidden, thus reassuring everyone about the succession.

It also became an opportunity to restore the confidence of his officers and soldiers, who had been disheartened by their less-than-stellar performance in Greece.

Discipline among the troops did not waver either. Murad’s army, having set aside fleeting pleasures, now brimmed with sharp resolve as they awaited their Sultan’s command.

Though unexpected challenges lay ahead, what awaited them was closer to celebration than disaster.

Gazing at his well-ordered troops, the Sultan felt it in his bones.

— Now is the time.

Before preparing for the next campaign, Murad stood before his soldiers to fuel their fighting spirit.

He did not hesitate. If anything, he was so certain that the perfect moment had come that he worried his hands might tremble from the overwhelming excitement.

His voice, thick with passion, reached out to the troops.

“I have achieved victory. Yet it is not a complete victory.”

Regrettable, but true. The followers of the Little Mustafa had been scattered, but Little Mustafa himself still lived.

As long as Mustafa remained alive, true peace could not come to the Ottomans.

Everyone present knew this, but they held their breath for one reason: hunting down Little Mustafa would mean all-out war with the Karamanid Emirate, a major force in Anatolia.

“Behold, warriors of the sacred prophecy. Beyond the horizon, those who stand in the way of Ottoman’s rise toward fulfilling the prophecy still await us.”

The Turkic principalities rallying around the Karamanids were surely mobilizing to resist Ottoman wrath by now.

Murad vowed to Allah that he would prove all their efforts futile, clenching his right fist tightly.

“I shall strike them down.”

A sudden, icy silence fell over the assembly. The air grew so heavy and cold it seemed to chill everyone to their very core, but within that stillness, a sacred fire burned.

No more words were needed. There was no point speaking further to those already prepared. Murad lifted his gaze to the heavens and concluded his declaration with a few final words.

“Thus, you too must raise your weapons. The time has come. With the swords we grasp, we shall fulfill the prophecy!”

“Allahu Akbar!”

While most Islamic dynasties were rotting away and being cast aside, the Ottomans stood apart.

They were devout Muslims, advancing steadily for centuries to fulfill the prophecy of conquering the city surrounded on three sides by the sea—the ultimate goal of the holy war.

It was their unshakable faith that moved the people. Even as they cheered, Murad’s soldiers had no doubt in Ottoman victory.

That same conviction burned in Thomas, commander of the Epirote forces.

The moment he heard the declaration to campaign against the Karamanids and other principalities, Thomas felt a spinning sensation sweep over him. But collapsing in front of others was not an option.

He bit down hard on his lower lip, enduring the dizzy spell with all his might. Even so, the shock he felt did not lessen.

‘Must I stand by and watch the Ottomans devour Anatolia, brother?’

Even from the previous battle, Morea—the last hope of the crumbling empire, led by Dragases—had lost most of its forces and teetered on the brink of destruction.

If the Ottomans conquered all of Anatolia and once again turned their blades toward Greece, how long could the withered empire possibly withstand them? Constantinople, protected by its triple walls, might remain safe.

But Epirus and Morea, where the empire’s final strength was concentrated, would not escape a tragic end. Realizing this, Thomas found himself, for the first time, regretting his earlier decision to serve alongside the Ottomans.

‘If only I hadn’t witnessed it.’

If only he had remained ignorant, he could have continued to challenge them.

Like so many others before him, Thomas found himself staring up at an impregnable wall. He had already accepted that the disparity between the Empire and the Ottomans was hopelessly vast.

He had already known it would not be an easy struggle. Yet even with all that in mind, the despair he now felt was something altogether different.

And in the wake of that despair came doubt.

Was Dragases, his brother who was called the empire’s last hope, still choosing to challenge them even knowing this difference?

Thomas, who had breathed out both admiration and despair the moment he saw the Ottomans’ orderly army and the endless procession of tribute sent by the local lords, could not deny it.

Things that he had never seen within the Empire existed here in abundance.

In Anatolia, the people had already grown accustomed to Ottoman rule and, outside of the active battlefields, they maintained peaceful lives.

The Ottoman army did not pillage their own people, and even cities devastated by war were filled with certainty about their future.

‘Is this what you meant, brother, when you spoke of a prepared victor?’

While the Empire had wandered aimlessly for centuries, the Ottomans had been steadily advancing.

Standing before the results born from that difference, all Thomas could do was suppress the tears that threatened to burst out.

Accepting these contrasting emotions, the Ottomans were steadily completing their preparations for flight.

Thus, following the Sultan’s declaration, preparations for a new war began in earnest.

With the support of the local lords added in, the Sultan’s forces, which had originally landed in Anatolia with twelve thousand troops, had, despite some casualties, grown into a mighty army nearly twenty thousand strong.

Those who had joined Murad’s army could not conceal their burning excitement. It was a battle to unite the fractured land of Anatolia under one banner. In fact, it would have been strange if they had remained calm.

By the time Murad returned to Bursa, it was clear to anyone that the Ottomans victory was inevitable.

While the principalities had exhausted their strength supporting Little Mustafa’s forces, Murad had not only preserved but even expanded his army.

If the two sides clashed, the defeat of the principalities led by Karaman would be unavoidable. The balance of power had already tipped. Once the Ottomans completed their preparations, they would only ascend higher. The soldiers merely awaited the Sultan’s order to march.

However, Murad did not give the command to advance.

No—he could not.

Just before issuing the order, a severed head, a letter, and an envoy were delivered to his camp.

It was the severed head that caused the most unexpected reaction from Murad.

Murad shoved the box containing the head away as if throwing it. Even that did not satisfy his anger; for a long moment, he panted heavily, then slowly raised his head and fixed his gaze straight ahead.

He could not hide the tremble of fury as he glared at the envoy before him. Yet, despite the Sultan’s wrathful gaze, the envoy maintained a calm and composed demeanor, unfazed.

Finally, the Sultan’s icy voice broke the silence, directed at the envoy.

“What is the meaning of this?”

“I shall answer with the message I was commanded to deliver.”

The envoy’s voice was soft, befitting someone tasked with diplomatic missions. But it wasn’t enough to soothe Murad’s seething anger. Still, the envoy, without the slightest hint of fear, took a letter from within his robe and spoke.

“A message from His Majesty Ashraf Barsbay, Sultan of the Mamluks and Protector of the Caliph, to the Sultan of the Ottomans.”

---

TL : Mamluk is another big Islamic power that lasted from 1250  to 1517. They consist of modern day Egypt, Sudan, Syria, Saudi Arabia, Turkey, Palestine and more. At the time of this chapter, in 1426, the Mamluk Sultanate was larger than the Ottoman Empire. However, the Ottoman Empire later conquered the Mamluks nearly 100 years after this point, following their conquest of the Byzantine Empire

After the Sultan’s decisive victory, the change in the lord’s attitudes was dramatic.

Those who had maintained neutrality until now rushed to send wealth and troops.

Thanks to this, the Sultan’s expanded army looked even more formidable, causing many to surrender at the mere sight of it.

But the Sultan’s forgiveness was not given out of mercy alone—it was a calculated decision. If he acted too harshly, there was a risk that more would join the rebel forces.

Murad’s plan had succeeded perfectly, and in the end, Little Mustafa, having lost the majority of his forces, led the remnants into flight toward the Karamanid principality.

No one doubted Murad’s victory any longer.

The Anatolian lords once again pledged loyalty to the Sultan and sent him generous tributes.

Yet by the time the tributes arrived, the Sultan’s expression had already turned cold.

The worth of loyalty is determined by who pledges it.

“How can I find joy in the loyalty of those who only swear it now?”

There was not a soul who missed the bitterness laced within the young Sultan’s grumbling words.

It was fortunate that only Ishak Pasha and Turahan Bey, who had been summoned to the Sultan’s tent, heard him.

Had the other lords overheard, they might have plotted rebellion again. Yet, the Sultan’s words were right—how could one trust those who bowed only after looking at the tide?

The Sultan’s two loyal retainers silently bowed their heads, tacitly showing agreement.

Neither spoke a word, keeping a tense silence. Confronted with the cold stillness shaped by Ishak Pasha and Turahan Bey, Murad realized he had gotten carried away.

The war was not yet over.

Little Mustafa had escaped alive, and now the Ottomans had to punish the principalities that had joined the rebellion.

If conflict broke out with the lords, it would jeopardize the campaign.

‘I am a Muslim, one who has offered everything to the will of Almighty Allah.’

Patience. Hold fast, you most faithful of Muslims.

The more Murad repeated these words to himself, the more he felt his mind grow chillingly calm.

Once the excitement faded, so too did the anger and turmoil.

Only a prepared victor remained, one who moved solely for the sake of the Ottomans and the Prophet’s prophecy.

After glancing once at his loyal retainers who had wordlessly replied him, Murad resumed speaking.

“Yet I still need them. Therefore, I plan to hold a feast in Bursa to appease them. Does anyone object to this location?”

The Ottomans had two capitals, split between the sea and the empire’s great city of Constantinople: Edirne in Rumelia (Greece) and Bursa in Anatolia.

Murad had chosen Bursa as the feast’s location because it was fitting to prove the land’s stabilization after quelling the rebellion.

However, an unexpected objection arose within the Sultan’s tent.

“Sultan, I humbly request that the victory feast be held not in Bursa, but in Manisa.”

It was Ishak Pasha who made the unforeseen request. Even the usually tight-lipped Turahan looked visibly startled, an unusual sight. Murad himself could not hide his surprise.

“Ishak, what are you saying all of a sudden?”

“There is a reason the feast must be held in Manisa. And it is not because it is my domain. Please, believe once again in my loyalty, for I have abandoned my own lands to serve you.”

Seeing Ishak Pasha’s desperate plea, Murad let out a low groan.

Originally stationed in Manisa, Ishak had abandoned his territory the moment he heard of the rebellion, marching north with his forces.

It wasn’t out of fear—he had aimed to establish a defensive line near the Dardanelles before Little Mustafa’s army could block the Sultan’s landing.

Knowing this, Murad could not easily refuse him.

In the end, he could not turn down the friend who had already proven his loyalty.

“Very well. Manisa was the first to be isolated during the rebellion. Hosting the feast there would best demonstrate Anatolia’s return to stability. I accept your counsel, Ishak.”

“I am deeply grateful, my Sultan.”

“Turahan, what are your thoughts?”

“As the Sultan has decided based on reason, not personal favour, I will naturally follow.”

Had Murad acted purely out of personal affection, Turahan might have been disappointed.

But through the Sultan’s decision, Turahan could be certain that his advice had been accepted. The young Sultan had not forgotten his duty as a leader, wherever he went.

Thus, the celebratory feast commemorating the destruction of Little Mustafa’s forces was set to take place in Manisa.

Upon arriving in Manisa, Murad first donated a considerable portion of the tribute to those who had suffered from the war. This act not only served to soothe the people’s hearts but also signaled the war’s end.

Food supplies were even distributed, an unusual generosity that revived the devastated city with newfound vigor.

By the time the lords were all gathered, reconstruction under Murad’s orders had been well underway for a month, and the preparations for the feast were complete.

One by one, the lords who pledged loyalty to the young Sultan began arriving, along with their entourages.

Manisa, once scarred by war, seemed almost miraculously restored.

Songs celebrating the victory rang out across the city, and one by one, marriage alliances symbolizing renewed trust between the Sultan and the lords were formed.

The soldiers, too, shared in the bounty. Rewarded for their bravery, they indulged in long-awaited pleasures of drink and women.

The feast proceeded in an ideal form, satisfying all.

The lords secured alliances with the Sultan. Manisa enjoyed an unexpected boom. The soldiers thrilled in their rewards.

Yet not everyone wore a smile.

Murad stood apart, expressionless, letting the night breeze wash over him. Even after the sun had set, he gazed down at the still lively city.

Then, sensing a presence behind him, he spoke.

“Now, I believe you owe me an explanation, Ishak.”

“…Yes, my Sultan.”

“Speak. What is the reason for all this…?”

Murad turned to scold his friend—but froze mid-motion.

Someone else was there.

Not the private audience he had expected.

A boy.

A boy no taller than Ishak’s thigh, not even of age yet.

And as soon as their eyes met, the boy knelt and offered a formal greeting.

“I present myself before the Sultan.”

His voice was still high and childish, untouched by adolescence.

Murad stared, glancing between the boy and Ishak.

Slowly, realization crept into his eyes. His pupils, usually so composed and cold, trembled faintly.

Several times, he opened his mouth to speak—but no sound came out.

Only after a long silence did Murad’s voice finally echo through the room.

“This child is…”

And kneeling beside the boy, Ishak Pasha answered in a solemn voice.

“He is your son, whom I have protected until now.”

“…And her? What happened to her?”

“The lady passed away on the day Your Majesty marched for Edirne.”

“……”

Though his power was strong, it was still a matter of raising arms against his own father, the reigning Sultan at the time.

Had he failed, he would have been imprisoned or marked for death by one of his brothers.

Ishak Pasha said nothing of how she had died, but Murad, who knew well the nature of the woman he had once embraced, could easily guess the reason.

‘She feared becoming a hostage.’

The succession had been settled, yet both Mustafa, who had claimed to be the son of Murad’s grandfather Bayezid, and the recent uprising’s instigator, the younger Mustafa, were still alive.

Could even the most cold-blooded Sultan have remained composed if his wife and son had been taken hostage?

Murad endured, struggling to hide his devastating emotions, and looked down at the boy.

The boy, too, seemed overwhelmed by the unexpected turn of events, glancing at Ishak and bombarding him with questions.

“Ishak Uncle, what do you mean I’m the Sultan’s son? Are you saying I’ll be adopted as his heir?”

“No, do not doubt it. You are the son of my friend, the Sultan. A son bound by blood.”

“But the Sultan is right there… how can you joke about such a thing…”

“If you cannot believe my words, ask him yourself.”

Only after seeing Ishak’s immovable attitude did the boy’s eyes begin to waver.

Anyone would have reacted the same upon learning such a shocking truth.

Carrying a truth he could hardly believe, the boy slowly shifted his gaze to Murad. His gaze was pure, but he was too young to grasp the emotions in Murad’s heart.

In the end, it was Murad who spoke first, unable to leave the boy floundering.

“…Ishak, if I recall correctly, I once said that if a son were born, he should be named Ahmed.”

“Yes, that is so. This boy’s name is Ahmed.”

“Ahmed…”

Murad’s eyebrows trembled. Unable to endure the tremor, the young Sultan shut his eyes tightly.

“Take the boy… take Ahmed away. Not yet, not yet.”

“My Sultan, he is your legitimate son.”

“…Grant me time, Ishak.”

“As you command, my Sultan. You heard him, Ahmed.”

Ishak turned his gaze to the boy.

The boy, Ahmed, the son of Murad and the rightful heir of the Ottomans, looked up at Murad with clear eyes and nodded.

“Yes, I heard.”

With that, Ahmed turned his gaze away from Murad.

Still too young to express the emotions that should have welled up, he quietly left the room without saying a word or asking a single question.

Only then did Murad—no longer the Sultan, but simply a man—open his eyes.

“I have forgotten for too long.”

“But it was the right decision.”

“If so, let me ask you this. Ishak, knowing that my son was here, why did you abandon Manisa?”

“After the death of your wife, I placed Ahmed under the guardianship of an imam, enrolling him as an adopted son, and raised him as his guardian. Though I paid him much attention, I deliberately took on the guardianship of other children as well, so that Ahmed would seem unremarkable. All this was to hide the fact that he was your son, in the belief that it was the safest course.”

“…….”

Murad fell silent.

The devotion and prudence Ishak Pasha had shown had been of great benefit to the Ottomans.

Though he had abandoned Manisa, it was because of this that Ahmed had avoided grave danger.

Yet unresolved resentment still stirred violently in Murad’s heart, unsure where to go.

In the end, Murad closed his eyes again.

“Ishak.”

“Speak, my Sultan.”

“I have been a Sultan, but I have never been a father.”

“……..”

“I will acknowledge Ahmed as my son and a prince, but… I do not have the heart, nor the confidence, to treat him as a father should.”

“…Murad…”

“Thus, I ask you…You must become Ahmed’s father.”

The one who opened his eyes then was no longer merely Murad.

It was the Sultan.

The young Sultan, still gazing down at his friend who knelt before him, added one final sentence.

“I will remain Ahmed’s Sultan.”

Before that cold, unyielding gaze, there was little Ishak could do.

He chose to respect his friend’s decision.

Ishak bowed his head in silence, indicating his acceptance of the Sultan’s will, without the slightest hint of protest.

TL : I have change the name of the Genoese mercenary commander, Justinian to Giustiniani. Since this was how he was pronounced in real life too.

---

Roughly a year had passed since Emperor Dragases’ ascension to the throne.

Thus neared the year 1426.

Morea, which had succeeded in reclaiming central Greece, was rapidly reorganized under Emperor Dragases rule, and the capital too enjoyed a rare time of peace.

The main reason, of course, was the declining pressure from the Ottomans.

The Ottoman forces had to focus on crushing the army of Little Mustafa, who had risen in rebellion and laid claim to the throne, inevitably reducing their pressure on the capital and the surrounding region of Thrace.

Seizing this opportunity, Emperor John took a bold gamble.

He halved the annual tribute to the Ottomans and instead resolved to repair the Theodosian triple walls.

Naturally, the Ottomans didn’t sit idly by.

Çandarlı Halil, grand vizier of the Sultan Murad, was ordered to stabilize the rear and immediately sprang into action.

“The Sultan is away, and they seek to fortify themselves in his absence.”

—Oh Empire, do you still dare to engage in a battle where the outcome is so clear?

Though he let out a quiet sigh, the Ottoman vizier moved swiftly.

He issued a call to arms to tighten the pressure on Thrace and assembled reinforcements.

While most of the empire’s elite troops were with the Sultan, the Ottomans were never short on manpower.

Under Halil’s orders, nearly 2,000 soldiers were mustered.

Though most were irregulars poorly equipped, their numbers were enough to instill fear in the declining capital.

While it would be a stretch to directly assault Constantinople, protected by its triple walls, raiding the surrounding countryside was certainly within reach.

And yet, Çandarlı Halil did not launch his attack on Thrace.

There was only one reason.

Dragases.

The man who had pulled the Ottomans down just as they were preparing to soar, using a carefully laid net.

The young emperor—Sultan Murad’s rival and the Ottomans’ sworn enemy—marched just over a thousand men to the vicinity of Larissa upon hearing of the threat to Thrace.

Though neither side had deployed their full armies, the message was clear.

Would they clash, or would they preserve the uneasy peace just a little longer?

After a tense standoff, Çandarlı Halil chose the latter.

“The Sultan commanded me to stabilize the rear. For now, I will act according to your will.”

Had this been the days of tension between the capital and Morea, things might have gone differently.

In the past, even mobilizing troops near the capital would’ve been a threat in itself.

But now that Dragases had established a relationship of trust with Morea, the game had changed.

Halil had no choice but to pull back.

Regretful as it was, now was the time to yield.

The shrewd vizier cast away any lingering hesitation.

But that didn’t mean he had abandoned his resolve to sever the Empire’s lifeline.

“But Dragases… when your net finally tears, the Ottomans will rise.”

The dagger meant to pierce the heart of the Empire and Dragases alike had already been forged.

Çandarlı Halil was merely waiting—waiting to strike at just the right moment, when that dagger would bring the Empire crashing down.

Those unfamiliar with Halil might dismiss his words as empty threats.

But once he moved, the Empire’s enemies would realize—far too late—how wrong they’d been. Until then, Halil chose patience.

The unrest in the Balkans was soon reported to the Sultan in Anatolia.

Yet the Sultan, as if he had already expected it, received the news with cold indifferent expression.

And rightly so.

The Empire and the Ottomans were like two suns in the same sky—one had to fall for the other to shine.

If the Empire stirred now, it could only mean that the Ottomans gaze was elsewhere.

That Dragases had chosen the triple wall as his first step told the Sultan all he needed to know.

“So… he intends to reclaim it.”

The Sultan recalled the young man he had once faced in private.

Curly black hair, a stern and rigid expression.

Within those cold features, his obsidian eyes glimmered with grim resolve.

That was why—now reborn as the Ottomans mortal enemy—he had unfastened the sword from his own waist, laid it on the table, and declared that he would one day return to reclaim what was lost.

Even after witnessing the disparity between our powers, he still dared to say such things…

Before he realized it, the Sultan’s right hand had reached for the hilt of his sword.

The legendary blade, passed down from the first Osman, still rested in its sheath.

But its slumber had ended.

Looking down at the traitors scattering in disarray across the Anatolian front, the Sultan drew his sword.

And in that moment, mercy and tolerance vanished from the battlefield.

Even that wasn’t enough.

To leave no room for hesitation, the Sultan shouted:

“Those who would surrender have already been spared! Strike! These are the ones who have chosen to resist to the bitter end! They are not worthy of the Sultan’s mercy—hesitate not!”

Screams of terror tangled with the thunder of hooves.

Scattered and disorganized, their fractured resolve could not stand against the Ottomans united charge.

Their spears were drowned out by battle cries, and their last, desperate arrows shattered weakly against shields.

Swords were broken.

Spears snapped.

Bowstrings tore.

Those who fled were trampled beneath the Sipahi cavalry, coughing up blood from severed throats as they sang of heavenly glory.

Even those who stood their ground were torn apart by a forest of spears, proving their warrior’s honour with their bodies alone.

Now that they were scattered and being picked off meals, there was no turning the tide.

This was the Sultan’s decisive victory in Anatolia.

The clash between the Sultan’s 10,000 and the 15,000 led by Little Mustafa on the plains of Iconium had ended simply.

The Sultan lost around 2,000 troops, while Mustafa lost over 5,000 and was sent fleeing.

With this victory, the balance of power in Anatolia tilted sharply in the Sultan’s favor.

It was no wonder his generals raised their voices in celebration.

“Glorious victory, our congratulations!”

“Your unshakable command stuns us once again. Truly, you are the Sultan.”

“……”

Ishak Pasha, Turahan Bey, and the other commanders were quick to offer their congratulations, joined even by Giustiniani, the mercenary captain from Genoa.

Only one person remained silent with a conflicted expression—Thomas, Prince of Epirus.

Thomas Palaiologos, the youngest brother of the co-emperors and a young prince well aware of his imperial bloodline, clearly understood what this victory signified.

That the civil war would end this quickly…

A year and a half.

That was the time it had taken to suppress the rebellion led by Little Mustafa that had swept across Anatolia.

Murad had once again proven his abilities. But this triumph wasn’t just about the fall of Little Mustafa.

Through this campaign, Murad had come to understand who was truly loyal to him—and had discovered new allies who would pledge themselves to him in the future.

Most of all, the most critical result was that the victory now made it possible to punish the beyliks that had long threatened Ottoman control over Anatolia.

Thomas clenched his fists tightly and cast a sideward glance at the Sultan, who stood calmly watching the battlefield.

This man was the enemy of the Empire—the true nemesis who moved to sever the weakening pulse of the crumbling thousand-year-old empire once and for all.

It was only natural to feel hatred.

Anyone who had witnessed the struggles of his father and brothers to defend the Empire would be compelled to feel the same.

But more than anything else, Thomas was afraid.

“……”

In the end, after staring at the Sultan for a long moment, Thomas finally dropped his gaze and was forced to pretend to celebrate the victory.

Fortunately, the Sultan seemed to have little interest in the young boy. He was too preoccupied with planning his next campaign.

And of course, that next target was already clear.

“Your loyalty is admirable, but I have no intention of being satisfied with this victory alone. I will punish not only Mustafa, the instigator of this rebellion, but also every principality that supported him.”

“As the Sultan wills it.”

Having received his generals affirmation, the Sultan’s gaze was already fixed on the horizon—beyond the victory.

The pretext has been secured. Now is the time to unify the fractured lands of Anatolia.

Though they had always tried to exert influence, the Ottomans occupied both Europe and Asia.

The resulting two-front situation meant that, while enduring the Christian powers assaults, control over Anatolia had inevitably weakened.

Now, given the opportunity to reverse that state, the Sultan did not hesitate.

“Summon the beyliks. Inform them that a feast will be held to celebrate this victory—and that it will also serve to prepare for the next war and to build mutual trust.”

As the messenger rushed to carry out the order, the Sultan recalled his earlier conversation with Çandarlı Halil—about the plan to tear apart Dragases’ web and allow the Ottomans, dragged down by him, to soar once more.

“Through marriage alliances with the beyliks, offer them a sliver of false hope.”

“Hope, is it…”

Muttering to himself, Murad suddenly let out a quiet chuckle.

Even in the sweet moment of triumph, his thoughts drifted to his nemesis.

The protector of the Empire, standing in clear opposition, yet strangely similar in many ways.

To think that he—the Sultan—would now be the one uttering that word “hope,” a word so often cried out by Dragases’ followers.

Even as he mocked himself, the Sultan didn’t stop smiling.

“What do you think, Dragases?”

But it was not arrogance.

“Do you see it too?”

And for a single reason—

“Do you, too, see hope?”

—Because he would be the victor.

The Sultan’s confident smile reflected his belief in the strength of the Ottomans.

Power built over generations would not collapse easily, and his confidence was, indeed, justified.

The gathered commanders bowed in reverence before that commanding spirit.

All but one.

The boy who would one day raise his sword against the Ottomans hid his trembling hands as he bowed, eyes tightly shut.

Though Emperor Dragasēs devoted much of his time to overseeing military reorganization and the outcomes of the popular assemblies, that didn’t mean he neglected other matters.

Among them, the issue he pursued most fervently was the abolition of small and mid-sized monasteries.

The emperor granted a three-month grace period and warned of severe consequences for those who refused the audit.

Some, intimidated by the threat, submitted to the process.

But not all.

A significant number of monasteries responded to the emperor’s threatening policies not with words, but with silence.

In return for that silence, the emperor launched an unprecedentedly harsh civilian policy: he confiscated all monastic property and forcibly relocated those who returned to secular life.

Naturally, this provoked fierce backlash.

Monks from monasteries on the verge of dissolution organized and made their way to Mistra to express their protest.

Even clergy who were usually friendly toward the emperor found themselves unable to remain silent this time.

Only Bishop Nikephoros busied himself trying to quell direct resistance from the Church.

Amid these tensions, the monks requested an audience—and the emperor granted it.

And the very first words spoken to him were words of condemnation.

“Your Majesty, we fear that your recent victory has blinded you. You swore to be the protector of the Church and the faith—how can you persecute monasteries so harshly simply because they are small? Since when did worship require size or scale? Do you intend to violate the principle of ‘Render unto God what is God’s, and to Caesar what is Caesar’s’?”

The emperor, too, knew that persecuting the small simply for being small was not just.

Their words were not without reason.

But he couldn’t back down.

Morea had to be run with maximum efficiency, and the overabundance of monasteries had become a burden, a source of inefficiency.

If they wished to remain, some new condition would be required.

And so, the emperor presented the idea he had already prepared.

“Then perhaps you might consider serving God in a different way. The Knights Hospitaller, who stole the island of Rhodes from us—they are a monastic order too, are they not? Would you be willing to form a knightly monastic order like those Latins, for the glory of God?”

“That would go against our doctrine. We live only to pray in silence.”

“There are already enough who pray. All who follow me pray to God every single day without fail. What I need now are those who will take up sword and spear.”

“Your Majesty, we ask you not to drag us, who hold no interest in worldly affairs, into a blood-stained swamp. We wish only to reach the Kingdom of Heaven after death.”

“If you speak of what comes after death, then I will speak of your lives. While you live, I am your emperor. You will comply with taxation. You will respond to labor conscription. You will take up arms against the infidels.”

The eyes of monk and emperor locked.

But in the face of the emperor’s resolved gaze, the monk’s resistance held no weight.

Especially now, when Emperor Dragases had restored control as far as Larissa, his support among the people was strong.

Public opinion clearly leaned in his favour.

Even the Church, which might once have stepped in to defend the monasteries, now stood by, merely watching.

From the beginning, it had been clear which side would kneel.

“…Your Majesty, the day will come when your interference in the affairs of faith and the Church will come back to haunt you.”

“What I said still stands. Those unwilling to dissolve may gather and form a knightly order. To those alone, I shall grant the same privileges as before.”

The monk lowered his head quietly and withdrew.

He had no choice but to comply with the forced relocations the emperor had ordered.

There was further resistance, but far weaker than before.

Still, the knightly order the emperor had quietly hoped for never came to be.

Regretting the loss of what could have been a new pool of manpower, the emperor sat once more in his office, sighing heavily.

“At least the immediate finances are secured.”

The emperor had enforced harsh policies of confiscation and forced relocation on small monasteries for two reasons.

First was to bolster the treasury.

With the cost of entrenching the new regime and training soldiers still uncertain, every coin mattered.

Second was to hasten the post-war restoration of occupied regions.

Even places untouched by fire bore the mark of war.

Fearing the spread of conflict, many had already fled ahead of time.

While it would be fine if they returned later, many refugees who had come to the relatively safe Morea had no intention of leaving.

Naturally so—it was the one region largely spared from the horrors of war.

Seizing the land of dissolved monasteries under the state’s name and leasing or selling it to nearby landowners or farming communities could yield profit.

The forced relocations from the monasteries also involved a significant number—an estimated thousand people had been moved.

This alone testified to how many monasteries had been crowding the land.

Of course, some monasteries passed inspection and were allowed to remain.

And it was precisely this inspection process that helped quell what could’ve been a full-blown outcry from the Church.

“That’s not all. Thanks to Your Majesty’s foresight, it seems many have found their complaints soothed—at least somewhat. Whether it leads to positive change or to chaos… we’ll have to wait and see.”

Bishop Nikephoros, who had offered the emperor unwavering support since boyhood, grinned with cheerful confidence.

The emperor smiled back, lightened by his presence.

The reason the Church ultimately restrained its anger was simple.

The emperor had arranged things so that the Church would gain influence over donations.

He designated the Church as the authority to determine which monasteries were in most urgent need of financial aid or merited recognition for their accomplishments.

In other words, any donation to a monastery would first pass through the Church, rather than going directly.

If a donation was deemed inappropriate, half of it would be claimed by the Church, and the remaining half returned to the goverment.

In simpler terms, the emperor had provided a convenient justification for himself and the Church to divide up donated wealth.

Naturally, this was ripe for abuse.

It was all but certain that some clergy were already scheming how to exploit it.

And that, too, was part of the emperor’s plan.

Once people realized that their donations weren’t being properly delivered, they would lose faith in the Church.

Except the devout few, most would no longer entrust their land or property to it.

As a result, donations to monasteries and the Church would inevitably decline.

The Church’s influence would gradually wither away.

The Church had chosen silence now, chasing after immediate gains—but once they saw the deeper game at play, would they remain silent still?

With these thoughts in mind, the emperor conversed casually with Bishop Nikephoros.

“You’ve been smiling more often these days.”

“It’s thanks to the belief that we’re moving toward a better future—one Your Majesty has granted us.”

“Even after seeing how I handled the monasteries, you still think so?”

“Of course. Too many were hiding behind the veil of faith. Though… that doesn’t mean I don’t understand them.”

“Oh? You understand?”

“Yes. This land has been crumbling for far too long. Faced with such a grim reality, it’s not strange that many chose to look away.”

“…Indeed.”

The emperor let out a quiet sigh without realizing it.

Regaining lost trust is no easy feat.

And if those who’ve turned their backs on the world did so because they lost trust in it—what could one even offer them?

They likely resented him already.

But such excuses would only hold for so long.

When the time came to act, those who continued to look away would only cause others to suffer.

Recalling his old vow to raise even the unwilling to their feet, the emperor answered firmly.

“Even so, I couldn’t just leave them be. This nation needs every last person it can get.”

“Just as Your Majesty says. We need even one more drop of faith. All we can do is wait—until even they can hold onto hope again.”

“They told me they wait only for the Kingdom of Heaven after death. Isn’t that already living with hope?”

Bishop Nikephoros gave a gentle smile at the emperor’s question.

His eyes were warm, like those of a guardian watching over a cherished child.

“Of course, our scriptures tell us to prepare for what lies beyond death. But, Your Majesty—can we truly call it hope if one lives only for death, without gratitude for the life they’ve been given?”

“…Indeed…”

Whether Bishop Nikephoros was right remained uncertain.

But it was clear the words had stirred something in the emperor’s heart.

Hope.

A word he had spoken countless times—yet for the first time, it felt unfamiliar.

Unfamiliar, yes.

Bathed in the sunlight filtering through the glass, the emperor leaned back.

In that warm, gentle light, he slowly closed his eyes.

A ticklish sensation—one he had never truly noticed before—began to rise in his chest.

“Perhaps…”

Perhaps the reason the word ‘hope’ felt so foreign… was because this was the first time he was truly feeling it.

The only one who could answer that question had already drifted off without knowing.

And as he watched the emperor surrender himself to the peace brought by sunlight, Bishop Nikephoros traced the sign of the cross with a soft smile—then quietly left the office.

They were days of deep contemplation for Dragases, newly reborn as emperor, caught between the reforms he was implementing and Sophia’s subtle provocations.

For once, the emperor had stepped out of his office and into the open air.

Of course, it wasn’t just for a moment of leisure.

As he watched the soldiers rolling across the training yard in their drills, sharpening their endurance, the emperor found himself swept up in a peculiar train of thought.

Beside him stood a rather loud and overly talkative knight.

“What’s got you thinking so hard, cousin?”

Don Francisco—the crusader knight from Aragon.

He had recently been appointed as the commander of the Latin knights, but their structure remained fairly feudal in nature.

This made organizing training difficult, and so Francisco found himself with a fair bit of idle time.

When he heard that Emperor Dragases had come out to inspect the training yard, he tagged along.

Naturally, conversation was the best remedy for boredom, and Francisco was the first to speak.

The emperor responded without hesitation.

“Jan Žižka is dead.”

“Jan Žižka? The one who drove off the Crusaders?”

“Yes. He defeated knights, but not disease.”

The emperor had once hoped to meet Žižka and exchange a few words of counsel.

Unfortunately, Žižka had been branded a heretic.

If he wished to recruit the one-eyed general, he would’ve had to abandon the Crusaders.

In the end, the emperor gave up on any dealings with the Hussites.

Knowing how essential the Crusaders’ support was, he had no choice. Still, the news, relayed by a Venetian, left him with a bitter smile.

“It would’ve been reassuring to have someone like Žižka on our side.”

“Well, neither I nor that woman really feel like commanders. We’re more like individual warriors.”

Though the comment could’ve been taken as insulting, Francisco nodded in agreement.

It was only natural—any comparison to Jan Žižka would fall short.

Just as El Cid had become a legendary figure in Iberia, so too had Žižka in Bohemia.

Whether or not he was a heretic, turning pitchfork-wielding peasants into soldiers who repelled Crusader knights was nothing short of miraculous.

And it was precisely such feats that made the emperor desire Žižka’s strength.

Francisco shrugged as he watched the emperor wrestle with regret.

He’d finally achieved what so many longed for—he had become the Emperor of Rome—yet he remained unchanged.

Noticing the deep shadow on the emperor’s face, Francisco grinned mischievously and spoke again.

“So? Did you come all the way to the training yard just to scold someone?”

“No, I was hoping to speak with you or Ivánia.”

“Conversations are fine. But when you say ‘conversation,’ it always means business.”

“Then what kind of conversation are you hoping for, cousin?”

“How about… something on marriage?”

“You seem quite interested in my wife. Shall I suggest you join her followers as a knight?”

“Ugh! Alright, alright, I get it. I’m sorry, truly sorry. I’ve committed a grave sin, Your Majesty!”

The emperor’s eyebrow twitched at the unexpectedly strong reaction.

He hadn’t expected such a response to a half-serious remark.

Given how much he had been worrying over things lately, it was only natural he’d become curious at Francisco’s outburst.

“You don’t like her?”

“I’ve met her type before, so I know them well. Whether they’re good or evil, they’re always hard to deal with. And men who fall for those kinds of women always end up one of two ways.”

“Two ways?”

“Either they’re ruined… or they end up completely under her thumb.”

“That’s one more reason to throw her out.”

“Well… you’re kind of different. You two go back and forth, but in the end, you still hold the reins.”

Wondering what Francisco was getting at, the emperor scrutinized his face—but to his surprise, there wasn’t a hint of sarcasm in those clear, earnest eyes.

His pride stirred. He couldn’t show weakness in the face of such pure faith. So the emperor chose silence, which Francisco took as confirmation of his beliefs.

Of course, whatever Francisco was thinking, it wasn’t a particularly helpful topic for the emperor.

It was time to change the subject.

“I’d rather not discuss her any further. There are more pressing matters. I want to know the Latins response.”

“Well, most of them being from the Duchy of Athens, they came reluctantly. Still, things have gotten better. Those who already have estates grumble about the restrictions on inheritance, but those without them seem pleased. All in all, I’d say they’re reasonably satisfied.”

“Where do they want their estates?”

“Some are hoping to be granted lands near Larissa, but many prefer somewhere safer. I noticed quite a few of them aiming for regions like Mistra or Leontarion—places that were mostly untouched by the war.”

So they’d realized inherited rights would be difficult and were instead hoping to become a new class of influence near the center.

Even if they gained land near Mistra or Leontarion, the poor soil there would limit how much farmland they could work. Besides, what was the point of awarding Latin knights even limited lands?

If they wanted peace, they could farm. The most he was willing to give them was land around Athens.

Still, their reaction had been far more calmer than expected, and the emperor couldn’t help but breathe a small sigh of relief.

“So the Latin issue is more or less resolved…”

“What really matters now is the supply of cavalry horses, cousin.”

Just as he was about to finally find a moment of peace, Francisco—like a ghost—pointed out another issue. The problem was that he was right.

What makes a knight a knight? Their powerful charges and ability to break enemy formations. And the key strategic resource that made that possible was none other than cavalry horses.

“Didn’t you say you were planning to organize a new cavalry unit, not just knights? Something about Larissa being suited for breeding warhorses? Even if that’s true, you can’t form a cavalry corps overnight. Besides, you’re not going to have your messengers running barefoot. You’ll need a good number of post horses too, not just warhorses.”

“…That’s going to require a tremendous amount of funding.”

“You might not get enough even if you throw a fortune at it.”

“Looks like we’ll have to take control of the horse markets near Larissa. Might as well use this chance to systematize things.”

Establishing a policy where households, villages, or even cities could receive tax exemptions or reductions in exchange for offering a set number of warhorses would be an effective solution.

The emperor decided to entrust this task to Demicleos, who was currently touring various cities and helping to adjust the people’s assemblies.

In one careless statement, he had dumped an enormous workload on his subordinate. The more despairing truth? That workload wasn’t the end of it—there were still more tasks to be handed out.

“By the way, Francisco, what’s the status of the Mourtatoi?”        *Mourtatoi is a special unit in byzantine empire composed of archers 

“…Cousin, I’m barely a cavalry commander, even being generous.”

“Then I’ll grant you temporary authority over the Mourtatoi. Find a suitable successor from among them.”

“God have mercy…”

“It’s important work. Don’t take it lightly.”

“Wasn’t being bored supposed to be a good thing…?”

With a groan of despair, Francisco dragged a hand down his face, grumbling over his ill fortune. But it couldn’t be helped.

The emperor had founded an academy and even embraced a fair number of scholars who opposed the Church, but rapid expansion had led to an equally rapid rise in demand for bureaucrats.

And with Adriano—the only other person with significant military experience—having fallen in battle, there were few left who could handle true command.

From that perspective, Francisco was a critical talent who couldn’t afford to rest for even a moment.

And despite a few flaws, there was one more person who needed to stand alongside Francisco as a pillar of the empire.

“How’s the non-commissioned officer training going under Ivania?”

“Non-commissioned officers… Oh, the mercs? Why don’t you ask her yourself?”

Francisco, who had just been sulking in gloom, suddenly brightened and pointed with his thumb.

Right on time, Ivania and her squad of NCOs were returning from a march.

Some were sighing, covered in dust and grime, while others—like Ivania—had bright smiles and wide blue eyes, unbothered by the dirt. Naturally, she belonged to the latter group.

“Your Majesty!”

Though she looked relatively intact, training had still left her looking more messy than usual.

And yet, she ran up without a second thought to her appearance—testament to the sheer joy and excitement she felt.

Only Francisco clucked his tongue in mild pity, but the emperor didn’t flinch at the sight of her messy state.

“Your Majesty, what brings you to the training yard first today? If you’re looking into anything suspicious, I’d be glad to assist you personally!”

“I couldn’t help but wonder how many had volunteered. Ivania, can you give me the numbers?”

“O-of course! At present, we have enough to form a full allagia, Your Majesty!”

“Roughly a thousand, then…”

To have gathered a thousand in Mistra alone, in less than a month—that was incredible, even accounting for lingering wartime excitement.

At this pace, it might not take long to restore the army’s former strength. But when it came to trained soldiers, that would be another matter entirely.

All the emperor could do was hope the transition of injured veterans into recruitment officers or NCOs would proceed smoothly.

But Ivania’s hopes seemed to be elsewhere.

The golden-haired knightess, her cheeks flushed, stood proudly and looked up at the emperor—now nearly matching her in height.

“Y-Your Majesty! Though the training period was brief, I’ve done everything I could to instill military discipline. P-perhaps you’d consider reviewing the soldiers as they form up? Just to offer your judgment?!”

“Oh, Lord above…”

Francisco sighed beside them, wearing a thoroughly dry expression, but the Aragonese crusader was already out of Ivania’s line of sight.

After all, the only one whose opinion mattered was the emperor himself.

Caught in that pleading, almost desperate gaze, the emperor couldn’t bring himself to turn away.

“Very well. Let’s see just how dedicated you’ve been.”

“Thank you! Everyone—quit rolling in the dirt and stand up! His Majesty will be inspecting you personally!”

Ivania marched forward with confidence.

The emperor followed slowly behind her, his eyes fixed for a long moment on the bright red flush of her ears beneath her swaying golden hair.

The new co-emperor became known by the name he had intended—Dragases.

Since his time as Despot of Morea, he had used his mother’s surname, and that was the name by which foreigners had come to know him.

He himself used Dragases more often than Konstantinos, his given name, even in official documents, so it was inevitable. Yet, to most people, what name he bore hardly mattered.

With the rise of Emperor Dragases, Morea’s growth, Epirus’s subjugation, and the reclamation of the Larissa region overturned what had long seemed like a hopeless situation for Greece.

The Ottomans remained powerful, but that only made the emperor who had managed to gather such forces in opposition stand out all the more.

Under Emperor Dragases’ name, the state was reorganized, and for the first time, the word reconstruction seemed to carry real weight.

Meanwhile, the West was undergoing a string of changes of its own.

The most important among them was the collapse of the Crusade against the Hussites in Bohemia—a development that left the emperor speechless when he heard the news from Sophia.

After all, it had been the Pope himself who had suggested him to come, even alone if he had to.

The current pope, no less, had deep ties with Sigismund, who ground his teeth at the very mention of the Hussites.

When the emperor voiced his doubt, Sophia explained with a confident smile what she had discovered.

“It seems that very few rulers actually responded to the pope’s call. After all, it’s a war that’s already ended in failure several times. No one saw the need to overextend. The pope tried to stir the pot by bringing you—pardon me, Your Majesty—into it, but by then, it was already too late.”

“I suppose there really wasn’t anyone left to answer the call…”

The emperor could only nod in response to Sophia’s words.

The Hundred Years’ War was still decades from ending, giving neither England nor France any reason to intervene.

The Holy Roman Empire was still in political disarray, so the electors and minor lords in Germany wouldn’t move either.

And as for the Christian nations of Eastern Europe, who bore the brunt of the Ottoman threat—needless to say, they had other priorities.

It seemed the papacy had hoped to turn the tide by crowning the young emperor who had earned glory fighting infidels and using his coronation to draw support for a new crusade—but in the end, that effort had failed.

John had named Dragases as co-emperor, and the capital had accepted itself to a harsh, patient wait.

“For the time being, I doubt we’ll have the luxury of paying attention to Western affairs.”

Even if the Pope took offense at Emperor Dragases, there was little to be done.

A crusade was important, yes—but mending the empire’s internal divisions came first.

Besides, there were too many pressing matters to deal with. It was time to evaluate whether the reforms he had enacted were moving in the right direction.

At the same time, he had to ensure that the newly reclaimed territories were being properly stabilized. Most importantly of all, this coronation had proceeded in a highly unusual fashion.

“Still,” Sophia added, “I must say that diplomatically, this leaves Your Majesty in a rather awkward position. I understand that for the empire, speed was essential—but not a single foreign envoy attended your coronation. And since many of the ceremonial rites were skipped, questions may arise later about your legitimacy.”

Owing to the urgency, the only foreigners present at the ceremony were resident merchants from Venice and Genoa.

Moreover, even before his ascension, the emperor had taken a firm stance regarding the coronation: the budget allocated to the event was to be cut to the bare minimum.

Even for a declining empire, such decisions were not taken lightly, especially when coronations were symbolic affirmations of national identity.

Yet the emperor merely shook his head.

“What this nation needs now is not hollow glory, madam. While the Ottomans are momentarily distracted, the wisest course is to repair what we can of the fallen Theodosian Walls.”

The prince’s decision repurposed what was originally intended for the coronation.

The gems meant to adorn his imperial crown became stones for the walls. The silks and gold thread that would have embroidered his robes were transformed into glue, binding stone to stone in the reconstruction effort.

It was nowhere near enough to restore the full majesty of the ancient triple walls—but the mere fact that even a single stone had gone toward their rebuilding carried weight.

Of course, the outside world would interpret such a humble coronation exactly as expected.

A coronation is not just ritual—it is a display of a monarch’s authority and power. Sophia’s concerns were not wrong. Even so, the emperor had chosen walls over ceremony.

That choice conveyed only one message.

“…Was it for the people of the capital, who waited for you?”

“…And it was also my way of expressing enmity toward the Ottomans. Even if we remain a vassal for now, this was the most effective way to prove we haven’t abandoned the struggle.”

As the emperor said, the repair of the Theodosian Walls carried many layers of meaning.

Many challengers throughout history had given up when faced with their towering might. Even the Ottomans—history’s chosen victors—were no exception. They had only broken through after multiple attempts.

For that reason, they had exerted immense pressure to ensure the Empire would never restore them.

And now, Emperor Dragases had made his stance clear the moment he took the throne—by beginning repairs on those very walls.

The importance of the Crusade had not changed.

Without foreign assistance, the Empire could not survive.

But if it relied solely on that aid—clinging to it and nothing else—it would collapse long before that help ever arrived.

The people needed to be united, not by the faded glory of the past, but by belief in a future.

Even so, Sophia could not feel at ease.

In all of Greece, among the Christian powers bordering the Ottomans, only Emperor Dragases held any real strength to oppose them.

After two grueling wars, Serbia had barely managed to preserve its territory thanks to Hungary’s aid, and was now in dire need of the emperor’s support.

It was only natural that she posed the question:

“Is there a place for the Serbians as well, among those who will stand with you in this ‘struggle’?”

And the emperor’s reply was clear.

“Of course, madam.”

“Well, that’s at least a relief.”

Given his past conduct, she couldn’t fully trust him, but the emperor was not one to make false promises—even if he chose silence instead.

Sophia couldn’t help but trust his words, despite her doubts.

Still, she had no intention of clinging to a single promise that time might soon erase.

She acted swiftly once her mind was made up.

Placing both arms on the table between them, Sophia smiled.

“Then when will you have a proper wedding?”

“Is being Empress not enough?”

“I’ve changed my mind.”

Sophia advanced without hesitation, unfazed by the emperor’s cold dismissal.

To him, her interest was only uncomfortable.

From the start, their betrothal had been a purely strategic alliance—one he endured for the sake of diplomacy, despite her brazen declaration in their first meeting that she would take lovers openly.

He had even accepted the humiliating terms so he could one day use them as grounds to cast her aside.

Given the time they had spent together, his eyes had changed—now wary, like someone preparing for nightfall.

But even that vigilance wasn’t enough to fend her off.

Sophia met his gaze with a smile that was hard to read—half mockery, half amusement.

“Sitting beside you is bound to be far more interesting than just being Empress.”

“I may allow you to be Empress, madam, but I’ve made it clear: you will never be Empress Dowager.”

“Oh, I’m not aiming for that. I simply want to know where Serbia will stand, at the end of your struggle.”

She had noticed something.

The emperor went silent at once, aware that she had sensed the truth.

But Sophia didn’t back down—she was already fairly certain.

Especially after witnessing the new order that had begun to take shape following the war.

The Aegean had undergone massive upheaval after the conflict with the Ottomans.

And as that transformation unfolded, the interests of the various powers collided violently—even as they became ever more entangled.

Like threads twisted together to form a tangled net.

“Hehehe…”

“That’s not a very reassuring laugh.”

“I’m just proud of my own instincts, that is all. Don’t be too bothered, Your Majesty. I merely…”

A dark impulse stirred in Sophia.

The keen sense of a woman drawn to power had risen to the surface.

But it wasn’t only ambition that moved her—so she could speak in a cheerful tone.

“I just want to be the one closest to you, to see where you’ll end up at the end of this fight.”

“…You’re getting stranger by the day.”

At last, the emperor lost his patience and abandoned formalities entirely. Even so, Sophia remained as composed and satisfied as ever.

---

( TL : The wall around Constantinople, Theodosian Walls was so resilience that it withstood 53 days of continuous bombardment before finally being breached and the Ottomans didn’t even breached from the walls. One of the generals had forgot to lock one of the gates which the Ottomans noticed and came through the gate. That’s just wow )

The 12,000-strong army of Murad successfully completed its crossing into Anatolia.

This was thanks in part to the Genoese ships participating in the expedition, and also due to the fact that Little Mustafa’s influence had yet to reach the vicinity of the Dardanelles.

Had any of the rebel beyliks or Little Mustafa possessed proper insight, they would have prioritized blockading the Dardanelles.

However, more than a lack of insight, the fact that Little Mustafa’s power was centered inland in the Karamanid Principality proved a hindrance this time.          *Karamanid Principality is a place that is now known as Karaman Province in turkey

It wasn’t just a matter of distance. Though many beyliks had turned their backs on Murad, the presence of a few still-loyal lords played a role.

Amid this strategic situation, the swift action of Ishak Pasha, then governor of Manisa, shone brightly.

Believing that securing the entry route for the Sultan’s forces was of utmost importance, Ishak Pasha chose to abandon his own domain to defend the Dardanelles.

Little Mustafa’s plan to swiftly crush Ishak Pasha’s troops and take complete control of Anatolia failed from the start.

Though attacks from beyliks along the Anatolian coast soon followed, Ishak Pasha’s force of 3,000 had already fortified their position well, making them hard to move.

He held the defensive line without retreat until the Sultan’s crossing was complete—allowing Murad to step safely onto Anatolian soil.

Once he arrived, the Sultan fully reorganized his forces and then headed to meet the awaiting Ishak Pasha.

But it wasn’t just the familiar face of Ishak Pasha that awaited the Sultan there.

“So Dragases has finally become Emperor.”

Facing a wind mixed with sand, Murad let out a sigh that bordered on admiration after reading a letter detailing the Empire’s current affairs.

He had been watching this man closely since ascending to the sultanate—early on sensing he might become a rival, which he indeed had.

Now that the man had finally become emperor, it reignited a fire within Murad. Yet he didn’t let the flame show easily. Instead, Murad chuckled quietly and welcomed the familiar face that approached.

“You’ve managed to hold the line well, given your abilities.”

“I am at your service, my Sultan.”

Whether praise or jest, the Sultan’s teasing tone made the man dismount swiftly and kneel in respect. But Murad only laughed louder at the gesture.

“Isn’t it painful to suddenly act so proper, Ishak?”

“…I intend to get used to it.”

“That won’t be necessary. Right now, I speak to you as a friend.”

“Then may I speak more freely?”

“Alas, I just stopped speaking as a friend. Ishak Pasha, report the state of the war.”

“As you command, my Sultan.”

Slowly rising, Ishak Pasha began to share everything he knew with the Sultan.

Despite the complexity of the situation, his calm and measured tone had a settling effect on those listening.

“This current ‘Little Mustafa,’ who claims the throne, has drawn his sword with the backing of the Karamanid Principality. As a result, we could not avoid losing the region around Iconium. Furthermore, the northern principality of Candar has joined the fight, and we now face a multi-front pressure. Admittedly, in terms of sheer numbers, we hold the advantage… however, most of the coastal beyliks—like the one in Izmir—seem content to watch from the sidelines. They’ve responded coldly to our requests for reinforcements and shown no signs of action.”

It seemed Çandarlı Halil’s concerns were justified.

The beyliks likely conspired, fearing the loss of their influence at court.

Murad or Mustafa—who won no longer mattered to them. So long as they could preserve their power, either outcome was acceptable.

“That is actually good.”

“…In what way, my lord?”

“If they want something, they can be made to move. How could that not be a hopeful sign?”

“You already have a way to sway the beyliks?!”

“It was so simple I felt foolish for not realizing it sooner.”

As Ishak Pasha reacted with surprise, a tremor shook the ground from behind Murad. Identifying the cause was not difficult. It was the Sultan’s army.

Seeing Murad’s full force for the first time, Ishak Pasha swallowed dryly.

Among them were poorly equipped men, and others whose discipline was razor-sharp.

But it wasn’t just Turks. Christians clad in full armor and armed with strange, intimidating weapons marched among them.

Each had their own reasons for being here. Yet none of them disrupted the unity of the army.

Their origins didn’t matter.

Their beliefs were irrelevant.

What mattered was that this terrifyingly unified force, gathered here and now, was the Sultan’s greatest weapon.

They were Murad’s blade—an overwhelming force to punish those who stood against him.

This was a glimpse of the true power that the Ottomans had cultivated over the years, now bearing down on the Anatolian Peninsula. Almost as if to mark the beginning of that descent, Murad asked another question.

“Tell me everything you know about those who oppose me, Ishak.”

Ishak Pasha had long known Murad and understood the man well.

Murad was a leader who cherished his own people and respected even the customs of those with different faiths.

He was a man who strived to embody the tolerance taught in the Quran. But the Quran did not only preach tolerance.

It demanded decisive leadership. So it took little time for Ishak to grasp the direction Murad now faced.

“You have truly refined yourself, my friend, my Sultan.”

With deep admiration, Ishak Pasha bowed his head and fulfilled the Sultan’s command.

“I cannot determine their exact size, but the core of the enemy force is made up of Karamanid troops, supported by traitorous beyliks. Because of the sudden turn of events, I haven’t been able to calculate exact numbers, but I estimate their strength to be around ten thousand.”

Ten thousand was no small number.

Especially in a situation where the beyliks could join the fight at any moment, a single loss could be catastrophic.

Yet Murad neither despaired nor hesitated. Instead, the young Sultan welcomed the challenge with a smile radiant with joy.

“That is enough.”

“Enough for what, my lord?”

It was natural for confusion to arise from the Sultan’s sudden and unprompted remark.

Another man might have been punished harshly for questioning him, but Murad valued and respected his trusted friend.

Hands trembling with excitement, he looked at Ishak Pasha and explained:

“It means their numbers are sufficient to inspire belief.”

“….!”

Only then did Ishak realize what the Sultan meant.

It was a decision some might call ruthless. Yet compared to the greater bloodshed that would follow from half-hearted leniency, it was but a tear falling into a river.

To honor that decision, Ishak Pasha respectfully stepped back.

The Sultan watched him with approval, then pointed to someone within his ranks.

“Let the brother of Dragases come forth.”

At that command, there was movement among the commanders.

A still-youthful boy, barely steady atop his horse, cautiously approached the Sultan. Whether from the nearing war or something else, his face was pale with tension. But Murad paid it no mind as he calmly spoke.

“I’ve received word that Dragases has finally been crowned Emperor.”

“…At last.”

Hearing the long-awaited good news, the boy—Thomas—let out a deep sigh of relief.

A visible shift came over his expression. Murad’s gaze as he looked at Thomas was complex, but only for a moment. The young Sultan turned his eyes back toward the battlefield and asked:

“What did you see in your homeland’s thousand-year history?”

“…What kind of answer are you expecting, my lord?”

“All I wish is to know what you think.”

Thomas narrowed his eyes warily, suspicious of any hidden intent, but he soon let down his guard.

If the sultan had planned to make a move, a threat to his life would have come long before now. The sultan was not one to gamble politically, and so long as his focus remained on threats to the rear, Thomas would be safe.

There was no need to provoke him—but even so, Thomas remained silent.

What the sultan made of that silence, he did not show.

Instead, he spoke again, accepting Thomas’s silence without comment.

“I do not know what you saw in that thousand-year span. Even if I did, I doubt I could understand.”

“Then why ask?”

“Because we looked at the same place and saw different things. That intrigued me.”

With those words, Murad recalled the Oath of Osman.

But the oath that had truly stirred his heart was not the one made by the first Osman.

Rather, it was the vow made by Orhan—who once crossed into Greece to help a friend—that had given rise to the empire of today. Orhan had not seen a thousand years of glory.

*Osman was the founder and Orhan was the second Sultan of the Ottoman Empire

What he saw were the deaths of people suffering under a thousand years of faded splendor.

People perishing pointlessly amid political turmoil.

“What we saw in your thousand years… was a thousand years of despair and defeat.”

Yes.

The Muslims, including Orhan, who came hoping for a thousand years of prosperity, found only ruin—land ravaged by war and disaster.

The deaths that unfolded in a land without the words of the Prophet moved Orhan’s heart. And when he saw the scorched ashes with his own eyes, he betrayed his friend.

That is how the Ottomans rose.

And now, the Ottoman Empire poses a question to the thousand-year-old empire:

“Wasn’t a thousand years enough?”

Thomas gave no reply.

Murad slowly closed his eyes at that silence. Then, with a voice just loud enough for himself, he recited the faith held by himself and countless other Muslims and subjects under his rule:

The old age has ended.

When Murad opened his eyes again, the enemy forces were beginning to take shape in the distance.

Thousands in number. While Murad estimated their strength, his expression hardened with chilling resolve.

“To those who cannot believe in me—I shall show the sharpest blade I possess.”

It was not the sword passed down from the first Osman.

Nor was it a peerless legendary weapon.

It was the most powerful weapon of all—tempered not by a blacksmith, but by time itself. A blade forged of will and conviction.

“If you cannot believe… then I’ll make you believe.”

With those words, Murad’s hand rested on the hilt of his sword, ready to draw.

The blade, honed to a razor’s edge, waited patiently for its moment to cut down the enemies of the Sultan. As his fingers curled around the hilt, he calmly swept his gaze across the battlefield.

—Now, a new era approaches.

“Send word to Turahan: he is to lead the sipahis and draw their attention. Meanwhile, the Genoese and Epirote troops will form the left flank. Those assigned to the center will drive in the stakes we’ve prepared to hinder their cavalry. The right wing will use archers to prevent their advance.”

At the sultan’s command, the army began to move. Though young and inexperienced, Thomas was still part of this force—and could not defy the order. And yet, the fact that he had been unable to answer the sultan’s question gnawed at him. He bit his lip in frustration.

Just before parting from the sultan’s side, Thomas—his voice still that of a boy—finally replied.

“I do not know all that the sultan has seen. But whatever it is you’ve seen… from now on, the Empire will change. That is my answer.”

With those words, Thomas returned to his unit.

Murad did not stop him.

Change, he says.

Hearing Thomas’s answer, the young sultan stared at the battlefield and muttered softly:

“No… you will not change.”

His troops and the enemy forces gradually fell into formation.

Watching the two armies prepare for battle, Murad could only let out a hollow laugh.

Change, now?

After squandering centuries of chances and time?

Isn’t it far too late for that?

The thousand-year empire was given more than enough time. But now, the just Allah has granted another people their opportunity.

The time has come to fulfill the Prophet’s prophecy, as reflected in the tide of history.

It is far too late to speak of change now.

“You cannot change.”

The Ottomans have already risen.

Now that a new order stands to replace the crumbling thousand-year empire, what reason is there for that empire to continue? If someone were to ask that question, how many could answer with pride?

“It is the Ottomans who will open the doors to the new age.”

The old age has ended.

Now, only its remnants remain, weathering the winds of time.

The Ottomans will bring that age to a complete close.

By the Ottomans, the old era ends. By the Ottomans, the new begins.

That is Allah’s will, the prophecy of the Prophet—

—And the resolve of the Sultan.

The empire that had been crumbling for centuries had begun to change.

The first step in that change was the retirement of the old emperor, who had held the empire together for decades.

He took responsibility for the succession dispute that had arisen over the shared imperial seat in his later years.

It was also an admission that he no longer had the energy to keep up with the rapidly shifting political tides.

When Manuel declared he would retire to a monastery, the citizens could not dissuade him.

Laying down the ceremonial robes and crown that signified him as emperor, the aged monarch wore a simple black monastic habit, the attire of one who had taken religious vows.

Before completely abandoning his worldly identity, he looked to the empress who had long stood by his side and embraced her tightly.

“I will go ahead and wait for you.”

“This time, I shall visit you as a friend, Your Majesty.”

With that brief exchange, Manuel finally cast off all remaining duties.

The old man, having completed his obligations, no longer held onto any lingering attachments.

He merely looked over those who would carry on the gruelling battle in his place—the new protagonists of the era. Among them, his gaze naturally lingered on those who shared his blood.

John, who had chosen to become the scabbard.

Andronikos, who pledged undying loyalty to the emperor.

And Constantine, who swore never to give up the desperate struggle.

Knowing just how brutal that fight would be, Manuel’s gaze lingered longest on Constantine.

Noticing the old emperor’s attention, the prince respectfully bowed. But it was more than that.

It was a gesture of respect for the lonely struggle Manuel had fought in pursuit of a hope long thought severed.

The other sons who understood their father’s battle responded in kind.

John and Andronikos also bowed deeply to their father. Seeing this, Manuel felt a deep pride—though he couldn’t hide his worry for one son who wasn’t present.

‘Demetrios didn’t come…’

Manuel had once planned to divide Morea into three, giving parts to Constantine, Demetrios, and Thomas.

He had even personally persuaded a young Demetrios for that purpose.

But after witnessing Constantine’s capabilities, Manuel abandoned the original plan and reshaped Morea accordingly.

Demetrios would have every reason to feel betrayed. Nothing wounds a child more deeply than having trust given—and then taken away.

Even so, it was enough that he was still alive.

When thinking of his second son, Theodoros, whose fate was still unknown, Manuel felt that perhaps Demetrios was the more fortunate.

It had been quite some time, yet there was still no news of Theodoros. Every time Manuel thought of him, it squeezed his heart so tightly he could hardly breathe.

So he had avoided the topic all these years. But now, the time had come. Slowly turning his gaze from his children, Manuel looked away.

‘I’m sorry I couldn’t keep believing in you.’

As a father, it should have been natural to always believe in his children.

But Manuel had lived first and foremost as an emperor—he had spent his life as one, and until this very moment, he was still that man.

Faith in one’s child alone would not protect a nation. Though he had been a caring father, he had not let go of his imperial judgment. So with every step away from the palace, he mulled over his regrets.

‘And I’m sorry I couldn’t answer your faith in me.’

He was filled with guilt toward the sultan, who had entrusted his beloved son to Manuel based on a fragile bond between rival nations.

That child had been taken in during a fleeting moment of peace, only to become a piece on the board to save the empire. While a miracle might still occur, it was almost impossible. Murad II, now sultan, was no easy foe.

Whichever side emerged victorious, the inevitable clash between the sons of Manuel and the sultan—each beloved by their respective fathers—would end in death.

Manuel knew this was not the ending the sultan had wanted. And yet, he had chosen to act not as a father, but as an emperor.

That may have been his imperial duty, but it wasn’t the only reason. Manuel could never forget what he had seen with his own eyes.

The city that had once looked to him for salvation.

The city he had personally brought to ruin.

The moment he realized what it meant to “cut away in order to protect,” he had lived ever since with a cry of near-anguish in his heart.

He had sacrificed endlessly, called for aid relentlessly, endured humiliation after humiliation.

But in the end, Manuel’s wish had been answered. That alone brought comfort—relief for the betrayal and cold-heartedness he had committed in the name of survival.

Finally, stepping beyond the palace gates, the faded sky of the capital came into view.

Beneath it, the people watched his departure. No cheers, no sobbing farewells. Just a quiet crowd observing the final steps of a man who had once been their emperor.

Only then did Manuel turn back. The palace, where he had resided for decades. The place that had embraced him as emperor during an age of decay. And the place he would never return to.

As he turned away for the last time, true freedom settled over Manuel.

‘I shall spend what little life remains in penance and prayer. You granted my final wish, O Lord—I welcome punishment with a joyful heart.’

The aged man, reborn as a humble seeker of truth, left behind all worldly attachments.

The people silently stepped aside, letting the monk pass between them. Some bowed reverently, others quietly wept behind cupped hands. Seeing that he walked alone, a few volunteered to accompany him. The procession grew quickly. Without a word, Manuel accepted their presence.

Only once Manuel entered the monastery did the people stop. The black-robed monks silently took over, guiding the new brother within. And thus, the emperor named Manuel vanished from the world. Only then did the people feel the full weight of it.

The old era had ended.

Preparations for the coronation of the new co-emperor began with unprecedented speed.

Normally, neighbouring nations would be summoned to assert legitimacy, but given the erratic situation surrounding the empire, tradition was cast aside.

It was also due to the strong insistence of the current emperor, John. With the revered Manuel retired, the empire needed a new pillar. And John had long had one man in mind—his brother.

“Constantine Dragases Palaiologos, child of the Lord and one called by Jesus Christ, step forward.”

From swinging censers, fragrant smoke billowed toward the heavens. Though dim, the golden icons still shone with divine light, and stained glass in every color cast hues throughout the church.

Under the dazzling radiance singing of celestial glory like starlight, the kneeling youth rose at the summons. For a moment, his gaze shifted sideways—to John.

His co-emperor and brother briefly seemed surprised, then smiled and nodded. Only then did the youth face forward without hesitation.

The followers with censers stepped forward, surrounding the youth in smoke.

Amid the intoxicating scent, he slowly closed his eyes. A sacred silence embraced him. And within that hush, he heard faint voices—more like echoes than sounds.

As if someone were weeping in sorrow… or holding back overwhelming emotion. Hearing this, the youth opened his eyes and walked forward—toward the throne that awaited him.

One step forward—and he saw the ruins of past glory.

Another step—and he heard the cry of those mourning a lost golden age.

With each step, flashes of stained glass flickered in the corner of his vision, their brilliant colors dulled by layers of dust. The censers swung solemnly, spilling only smoke. The church, filled with reverent silence, permitted no cheers.

Within that stillness, only the youth continued to walk forward.

Finally, as he knelt before the throne awaiting him, the patriarch opened his mouth to speak.

( Patriarch is the highest ranking bishops in Eastern Orthodoxy )

“Jesus Christ, ruler of the world and the order of the cosmos, our savior—before You, we now place the one chosen to rule the last empire permitted beneath the heavens until the day of judgment You have promised.”

After this invocation, the patriarch posed his question to the youth.

“Constantine Dragases Palaiologos, do you swear to rule this land and its people with justice and unwavering faith, in the name of Jesus Christ?”

“I so swear.”

“Do you swear to remember always that your power is granted by the support of the people and the will of God, and to serve the people and obey the Lord accordingly?”

“I so swear.”

“Do you swear, as protector of the Church and the people, to defend both the Church and the citizens, to never neglect the duties entrusted to you for any reason, and to always fulfill your responsibilities with sincerity?”

“I earnestly swear it.”

“Then may the Lord bless him.”

As the priest approached with a cup filled with holy oil, the Patriarch carefully accepted it and slowly tilted the cup.

A slender stream of oil began to flow, trickling down onto the young man’s head. Once he deemed it sufficient, the Patriarch took the cup back.

“Constantinos Dragases Palaiologos, he who has come to swear before Jesus Christ whom you serve, must also swear to the citizens whom you are bound to serve.”

There were many phrases he could have used to swear his oath. Some were already established; in a ceremony so devout, it would have made sense to emphasize faith even more.

But from the moment he stepped into this place, the young man had already decided what his vow would be.

“I am a lowly man with nothing to my name.”

He opened his mouth, feeling the sacred oil slide down the bridge of his nose.

“I once longed for a life of indulgence, and I’ve committed unforgivable sins out of weakness. All I can offer as an oath are these two words.”

Those who knew the young man’s life might have scoffed at the first reason.

But in the midst of this holy coronation, no one laughed.

In the heavy silence, the young man finally spoke the vow he had carried in his heart.

“I did not give up. And I will not give up.”

With those words, he lifted his head—though no one had called on him to do so.

Yet no one rebuked him.

The Patriarch, as if expecting this moment, had already passed the cup to another attendant.

Now, in his hands, he held a different object—one countless people had longed for, prayed for.

A symbol of everything that had been lost, the final remnant of past glory left standing in the ruins.

And in front of it, the Patriarch smiled warmly and said:

“Then this crown is for you, Your Majesty.”

Slowly, so slowly, a weight descended—not upon flesh, but upon the soul. As the coronation crown was finally placed upon his head, the immense burden settled over the new emperor, and he rose.

The new emperor did not turn to the altar. He turned to the people. They were all watching him. Their gazes were trembling with uncertainty. And yet, none could turn away from him.

And in their eyes, the emperor saw what he must do.

“O Lord, light the path I must walk!”

A great smoke passed, dimming the brilliance of the stained glass.

The light vanished—but so too did the dust that the light had revealed.

“Then I shall go forth!”

The censer, burned to ash, could no longer hold incense.

The smoke that had risen to the heavens now thinned and dispersed.

“Then your emperor shall go forth first!”

The sacred silence was broken.

The emperor’s declaration echoed through the cathedral—and those who had watched the coronation in breathless silence now shouted aloud.

The hope they had doubted but could no longer deny stood before them, unshaken. And the people cried out, over and over.

“Lead us, Your Majesty Dragases!”

“Long live Emperor Constantinos!”

“Dragases, our protector!”

Their varied cries began to converge. And at last, the voices merged into one.

—Dragases!

—Dragases! Dragases!

Amid the unending chants, some still watched the emperor.

“Andronikos, are you feeling alright?”

“It’s a rare coronation. Who knows when I’ll get another chance to come to the Hagia Sophia. A little discomfort is fine.”

Though they stood amid the thunderous cheers of the people, John and Andronikos were not swept up in the excitement. Yet even they couldn’t hide the stirrings of passion rising from deep within.

John, his cheeks now flushed with emotion, spoke with a hint of disapproval.

“Then stay and see more.”

“I already am. He’s being welcomed to the point it makes me jealous.”

“Is jealousy all you can think of? A memory came back to me after so long.”

“…Some of it came back to me too.”

Silence fell between the brothers.

But it was not awkward or uncomfortable.

Rather, it was a moment of reflection amid the roar, one that compelled someone to speak their heart.

“This country will change.”

Centuries of decline, crumbling pride, and a wretched present had finally given way to faith.

What the empire had lost for so long had finally returned.

Who could remain calm, seeing the impossible become real?

Such reflections soon gave rise to others.

“And it will move forward.”

No longer did they resign themselves to despair.

The people stood again, clinging to the last of their pride.

Even knowing the road ahead would be drenched in blood.

Only at the end would they know if that blood had meaning.

Ruin—or survival.

One or the other awaited them at the end.

And at this moment, not just those gathered here, but everyone in the empire understood:

—A new era has begun.