Category: About a Dating Sim Where Dating Is Impossible

Once, the world seemed utterly unchangeable.

Every attempt had been crushed, and all resistance that had continued until now had ended in failure. So much so that even the idea of trying again felt meaningless. When the overwhelming disparity in strength became undeniable, acceptance had already settled in.

But then, an opportunity arose.

And the world changed.

At first, I didn’t understand how such a thing had been possible.

I had only thought, vaguely and abstractly, that I too would follow the same path, convinced that I could not achieve it alone.

That was my mistake.

A tightly knotted cord cannot be severed by a mere lump of iron—it takes a blade, sharpened and honed to a fine edge.

Mere ideals are not enough.

Without a concrete plan, backed by unwavering resolve, everything is meaningless.

Only now do I realize the depth of my mistake.

And only now do I understand what my father had been trying to tell me.

I must see him.

With that resolve, I pushed open the door.

What met my eyes was the figure of an old monk, kneeling before the altar, lost in prayer.

Beneath the multicolored light filtering through the icons, he remained still, his lips moving in silent devotion.

I took a few steps toward him—then stopped.

… I didn’t want him to see me like this.

I wanted to be the son he could trust, one worthy of his expectations.

My vision blurred, and I squeezed my eyes shut.

But a cup already filled to the edge cannot hold back its contents.

Tears spilled over.

Even as my eyelids trembled, I couldn’t bring myself to open them.

At last, summoning the words from the depths of my being, I finally spoke aloud what had circled endlessly in my heart.

“Father…”

The moment the word left my lips, my body could no longer hold itself upright.

I fell to my knees, careless of the imperial robes now stained by the ground, oblivious to the dignity I was supposed to uphold as emperor.

“I… I am not fit to be emperor. Half-hearted responsibility is not enough.”

I understood that now, painfully so.

In contrast to my own failings, my younger brother had achieved miracles, driving the Turks from our lands.

What could a mere flickering firefly say in the presence of the sun?

“I return the crown to you. Please… grant more power to Constantine instead of me.”

Nothing is more unsightly than wearing clothes that do not fit.

I let go of all lingering attachments.

This was my final decision.

As soon as I spoke those words, I heard the rustling of robes.

It was over.

One unworthy of the throne must step down from it.

…Or so I thought.

“I knew you would think that way, my considerate son.”

How long had it been?

The warmth of a hand caressing my hair made my resolve crumble.

A sob broke past my lips, and I could no longer hold back.

“Father… Father…!”

“As the eldest son, I can only imagine how much you must have suffered. But I could not choose the next emperor based solely on seniority. There are too few chances left for this empire.”

“…At first, I didn’t understand. I was too blind, too foolish. Only now do I realize the truth.”

I had felt it keenly in those moments, sitting alone on the throne.

A solitary throne was utterly meaningless.

A ruler could not stand alone without the trust of his people.

I had only known in theory that a single mistake could lead to ruin, but I had never truly understood it.

“John, you were never incompetent. You simply walked a different path from Constantine.”

—And yet, my father’s words, spoken to comfort me, only deepened the pain in my heart.

“But wasn’t it a talent this empire need? Then why… why did you name me co-emperor?”

“Constantine… He is a blade, forged to perfection. But because he thought only of cutting down his enemies, he came to bare his edge at all around him. I gave you the imperial crown in the hopes that you would be his sheath.”

I was afraid to open my eyes.

But my desire not to miss my father’s face was even stronger.

With great effort, I lifted my heavy eyelids.

Ah, Father…

The moment our eyes met, my fear vanished.

He gazed down at me with eyes both firm and full of warmth.

“Constantine will be the blade that stands against the swords of Islam. John, you must be his sheath, ensuring that his edge never dulls. Let him focus entirely on fighting the Ottomans.”

“I will do so. I will be his sheath and bear all the blame meant for him.”

“…John, this will be a cruel burden for you.”

“I will gladly bear it.”

Even in this decaying capital, my brother’s devotion had spread far and wide.

Constantine was our last hope.

And I now understood—my father had entrusted me with the duty of safeguarding that hope.

There was no hesitation in my heart.

“I swear before God… I will protect Constantine, no matter what.”

---

TL : This line goes so hard “Nothing is more unsightly than wearing clothes that do not fit.” in this context.

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The battle was over.

As they watched the Ottoman army destroy camp and begin their retreat, the soldiers of Morea truly felt it.

How hopeless it had been until now.

Many among them had braced themselves for a glorious last stand, convinced that the Ottomans, radiating an aura of impending slaughter, would charge at any moment. It was only natural that tears flowed when they saw the enemy withdrawing without further conflict.

“The Turks are retreating…”

A soldier’s dazed murmur captured the sentiments of them all.

Thousands, tens of thousands of lives had been lost in this war—victims of the Prince’s ruthless decisions to save his homeland and of Murad’s unyielding resolve to bring down the Empire.

And yet, not a single soldier resented the Prince.

For he had been the one who had stood closest to death.

Now, as they watched the Ottoman forces retreat, their faith in him only deepened.

“The Holy Mother has watched over us!”

“A miracle! Praise be to the Virgin!”

A roar of cheers soon erupted. Their suffering had been long and agonizing, making their joy all the more overwhelming. Faces were filled with exhaustion, their bodies battered, yet their expressions shone with a light unseen for generations—one that had been absent for centuries in this withering empire. Even in Morea, the last flickering remnant of the Empire’s glory, that light had been faint at best.

No one had dared hope that those who had stood face to face with the might of the Ottomans could feel such joy.

Prince Thomas of Epirus, watching this scene unfold, clenched his lips tightly.

It had been unbearably close.

Had he arrived just a moment later, all would have been lost.

Was it truly divine will that had granted the Empire another chance?

The western winds had blown in their favour, but even such coincidences felt like part of a bigger plan during such a dramatic moment.

And yet, it was not mere divine favour that had turned the tide.

Had he not known the truth, he too would have been among those singing praises to the Virgin.

But Thomas knew why the Ottomans had truly chosen to retreat.

Because of the “Final Flame.”

A flame that no one could deny now—one that was slowly growing, consuming everything in its path.

Yet the man called the Final Flame stood, his expression frozen in stone.

Why?

Thomas, seeking the answer, stepped forward.

“Brother, why do you not rejoice? This is a remarkable victory. Though we have lost much, is this not the first time in a century that we have reclaimed our homeland?”

“…Thomas, forgive me. I have dragged you into this abyss.”

“Was that not already decided? If nothing else, let this be an opportunity to understand the true nature of the Sultan’s army. So do not worry too much. The battle is over now.”

“Thomas…”

Despite his brother’s reassurances, the Prince closed his eyes.

Even a fool could see it—he was still wary, still afraid.

What troubled him so deeply?

Thomas was neither experienced nor wise enough to see through his brother’s concerns. But he was not just an ally—he was family, a sworn companion.

And so, the Prince did not hesitate to speak his mind.

“The clash of steel may be over. But now begins the battle of time.”

“Time…” Thomas murmured. “I see. I think I understand your concern now.”

At last, he realized.

This was no time for mere celebration.

Time—more than anything—was what the Empire needed.

Time to rebuild its army.

Time to forge new alliances.

The Ottomans, too, had suffered losses in both war and rebellion and would need time to recover.

But would the time needed by the Empire ever align with the time provided by the Ottomans?

If the Sultan raised his sword again before they were ready—

How long could they possibly endure?

“But isn’t it possible that the rebellion in Asia Minor will drag on? Just as it was with Musa and Mehmed before, the Ottomans might even fracture entirely.”

“Musa and Mehmed were both fully grown sons. More importantly, at that time, the Ottoman Empire had just collapsed under Timur’s onslaught.”

This was not the same as the Ottomans weakened by Timur.

Back then, the conflict had erupted when Bayezid, having been taken as Timur’s prisoner, died without properly securing a successor. It had been chaos from the start.

Murad, on the other hand, had carefully solidified his rule even before ascending the throne—sealing off Edirne and systematically purging all close relatives except for Mustafa. He had already laid a firm foundation.

Unless foreign powers intervened again, there was little reason to expect further fragmentation of the Ottoman Empire.

Hoping for such an outcome would be wishful thinking.

All the Prince could do was prepare for the uncertain future.

“The only thing I can do is lay the groundwork for the next battle.”

“Brother… must we truly surrender Thessalonica to Venice?”

“Even if I dislike it, we have no choice.”

Even before the war, the Prince had taken strict measures against all merchant ships to prevent the spread of a disease suspected to be the Black Death.

And that wasn’t the only cause for Venetian displeasure—just bringing Genoa into this war had already strained relations with them.

With the next battle nearing, every alliance mattered.

So, he had to appease Venice.

And the bait he offered was none other than one of the Empire’s last remaining cities—Thessalonica.

As compensation for Genoese involvement and the earlier trade restrictions, the Prince had promised Thessalonica to Venice.

As a result, Venice now had a pressing reason to secure Thessalonica quickly, not only to protect their new colony but also because, from a strategic standpoint, it was the perfect location to block the retreating Ottoman fleet.

This was Venice’s true intent—one the Ottomans had failed to perceive.

But there was another hidden intent—one neither Venice nor the Ottomans had noticed.

“The Ottomans covet Thessalonica just as much. Having lost Larissa, Murad will be seething with rage and will never accept Venice’s bloodless takeover. He will do whatever it takes to exert pressure on Thessalonica. And as the cost of defense rises, Venice will inevitably seek support from the nearest power to ease their burden.”

And in the Balkans, there was only one force that had proven its worth by standing against the Ottomans.

Morea was the only viable choice for Venice.

The Prince had already set the stage for the next war.

“As long as Venice cannot afford to abandon Thessalonica, they will remain our allies against the Ottomans.”

The blade aimed at the Ottomans’ throat had already been sharpened.

The prince had once given instructions to the retainers who followed him.

Naturally, each of them was assigned an important role in orchestrating the plan. Even Sophia, who had long been viewed with suspicion by the prince, was readily employed as an informant. That was how dire the prince’s shortage of capable hands was—and above all, how desperate he had become.

But among all the roles assigned, there were some of particular importance. The prince entrusted what he considered to be the most crucial mission to two individuals.

“Gemistos, I want you to cross over to Epirus and explain the foundation of my plan to Thomas.”

“Rest assured, Your Highness. Though my body has aged, my silver tongue remains as sharp as ever.”

One of them was Thomas, another prince who resided in Epirus. The thousand soldiers Epirus possessed were essential to joining forces with the western powers. They had to be deployed at the right moment to maximize their effectiveness.

Believing this, the prince wanted none other than Gemistos Plethon—renowned for his exceptional knowledge and prestige—to support Thomas. After all, Thomas was still young and might face ridicule from those around him. But with a figure of great fame at his side, he would be able to establish at least some authority.

However, the truly critical matter lay elsewhere.

The most decisive players in this war would be Genoa and Venice. In order to maneuver these two forces according to his designs, the prince needed someone he could trust completely. And unfortunately, he had few choices.

Sophia, who had nearly plunged Morea into crisis for the sake of her homeland, was out of the question. It was regrettable, but so was Ivania, who had once been deceived by Sophia’s smooth words. As for Bishop Nikephoros, while his devotion was unquestionable, he was entirely too naive when it came to intrigue others.

Eliminating all these options left only one person.

“Demicleos.”

“At your command, Your Highness.”

“The movements of Genoa and Venice will be the greatest variable in this war. That is why I am willing to offer something significant in order to move them.”

At the same time, he would ensure that Genoa and Venice became even more deeply entangled in this murky conflict. The prince resolved to see it through as he issued his final instructions to Demicleos, who gazed up at him.

And it was precisely this arrangement that allowed the prince to exert some measure of control over Venice’s actions.

Murad, who had failed to see through the deception of the false Crusade, had no hope of discerning the true intentions of the prince, Genoa, or Venice. But this was not a reflection of Murad’s incompetence—rather, it spoke to the prince’s meticulous preparation and patience.

From the very moment he chose to wage war, he had carefully set the board against the Ottomans, waiting with unwavering resolve for the perfect moment to spring the trap.

Even the Ottoman sultan, favoured by history, could not easily penetrate the truth buried beneath the rivers of blood already spilled.

The cross had finally been stained red with blood.

The scales, which had seemed motionless until now, were shifting steadily. And at last, they tipped in the prince’s favor—enough to drive Murad into a corner with no escape.

The prince clenched his trembling fists tightly to steady his hands.

He had finally arrived at this point.

Perhaps a point he would never reach again.

He would not retreat any further.

Just as Murad gritted his teeth in frustration, so too did the prince steel his resolve. Neither of them could afford to yield so easily. After all, the Ottoman Empire and the Roman Empire were fated to be eternal enemies under the same sky.

The battle between the prince and the sultan continued, with the very survival of the empire at stake. A cold silence hung between them, as if they might draw their swords at any moment. And in the end, it was Murad who finally spoke.

“You have made quite thorough preparations, Dragases.”

His tone, which should have been filled with anger, instead carried an unsettling calmness. Yet the prince, having observed Murad intently, understood that the sultan had not regained his composure.

But nor was he simply seething with rage.

Within the fierce pounding of his heart, Murad felt something other than anger.

And the prince had a vague idea of what it was.

“I acknowledge it. You truly are the last defender of the thousand-year empire—an adversary who can threaten the Ottomans. As many have called you before, I too shall name you the last flame.”

Murad.

The ruler who would rise to new heights—The eternal nemesis of the Byzantine Empire, who denied everything it stood for—

“That is why, here and now, I swear before the mighty Allah.”

He was exulting in the emergence of a worthy foe.

“A fire that refuses to extinguish will only burn all in its path… Dragases, I swear upon Allah: before you consume everything, I shall trample you beneath my feet. And once you are crushed, neither the empty name of the thousand-year empire nor the empty cause of hope shall be able to demand any more meaningless sacrifices.”

Though the prince’s cunning and strategy had forced Murad to sheathe his sword for now, the sultan would only continue sharpening its edge.

Murad’s determination remained unshaken.

He would bring the prophecy of the Prophet Muhammad to life with his own hands.

Resolving himself to this, Murad wiped away all lingering emotions.

“Use this time of rest well. Until the destined day arrives, prepare yourself. For you are the final trial that Allah has set before me.”

The prince felt a chill as he met Murad’s gaze.

Was this what it meant to be chosen by history?

The fire of passion that had burned within Murad mere moments ago had vanished without a trace, leaving only his cold, calculating resolve.

Fearing he might waver in the face of Murad’s presence, the prince forced himself to widen his eyes, refusing to be overpowered.

Murad, staring coldly at him, made his declaration.

“But know this—every trial shall be overcome.”

With those final words, Murad gave a small nod.

“Very well. Take it. As an act of the sultan’s mercy, I grant you the right to govern Larissa.”

“…What’s caused this sudden change of heart

“I had to do at least this much for you to truly support me as your sultan. And the more I grant, the more genuine loyalty I can expect, can I not? So that even in my absence from Edirne, you will not entertain any other thoughts.”

“…I am deeply moved by the Sultan’s generosity.”

“With this, the negotiations are over. The pact is sealed. Dragases, return now to your domain and serve me well. I must go and subdue the other rebels.”

So that was it. The Sultan feared Morea’s movements while he marched to pacify Anatolia. Even if Dragases refused the concession of Larissa, should Venice lead its forces to ravage Macedonia, the conquest of Anatolia would become a distant dream. Murad was offering Larissa in exchange for a promise of peace.

And this—this was precisely the answer Dragases had so desperately longed for.

Yet why did unease still gnaw at him?

The Sultan’s composure stripped Dragases of his own. As soon as the negotiations concluded, Murad turned back without hesitation, as if eager to depart. But Dragases was not one to withdraw so timidly. As the Sultan walked away, Dragases reaffirmed his own resolve.

“…Your Majesty, I shall come to see you again someday.”

That made Murad pause. He remained with his back turned, his expression unreadable. Yet the silence that stretched between them spoke volumes.

“……If my vassal wishes to visit, I suppose I cannot refuse.”

“Then remember this.”

The moment he heard the Sultan’s response, Dragases slowly rose from his seat. The negotiations were concluded; there was nothing more to be done on either side. Yet unlike Murad, Dragases did not immediately turn away. Instead, he unfastened the sword at his waist and placed it atop the table.

“Though I have come today to protect what is mine—”

That sword, which had cut down countless foes throughout this war, was more than just a weapon; it was a symbol of himself. But at this moment, it no longer represented only him. With his sword resting on the table, Dragases slowly bowed his head toward the Sultan.

In any other circumstance, this would have been the moment for words of praise.

But what left Dragases’ lips was not praise.

“—Next time, I will come to reclaim what is mine.”

Both Murad and Dragases must have understood the conviction in each other’s words.

The Ottomans would soon subdue their internal unrest and strengthen their hold. Meanwhile, the Empire would bide its time, replenishing its strength and gathering its allies. Whether in the distant future or sooner than expected, their forces were destined to clash again.

And when that time came, no trick or negotiation would suffice.

The true decisive battle would determine the Empire’s survival.

“May you emerge victorious, Your Majesty.”

Leaving behind only that brief grace—if it could be called that—Dragases turned his back and departed, his sword still lying untouched upon the table.

And in the silence left in his path, Murad stood still for a long while.

His hand clenched tightly around the hilt of his sword.

A Millennium for Pride, an Empire for Those Who Follow Him.

The prince’s answer seemed to be an idealistic pursuit at first glance. Pride—perhaps an important virtue for those who value honour.

But for the majority of people who simply wished for a peaceful life, it was nothing more than an empty notion. And an empire only for those who followed him? Compared to the grand cause embraced by the Ottomans, it was pitifully insignificant.

It was only natural for Murad to mock.

“What a narrow-minded and petty empire.”

What is an empire? If it were merely about ruling over vast lands, then no one would have coveted such a position. No one would have struggled so desperately to claim the title of emperor. An empire was a nation where all kinds of people gathered under a single banner.

Even with different appearances, customs, and languages, they could be united under one flag. That was what truly defined an empire. And yet, a nation that lacked even the tolerance to embrace such diverse peoples—could it truly call itself an empire?

This was precisely why the Ottoman Empire was the eternal adversary of the Thousand-Year Empire.

Murad rejected the very foundation of the millennial empire. And his conviction had been shaped by past events. If the prince had seen a millennium of “hope” built upon that time, then Murad had seen a millennium of “failure” repeating itself.

“Blinded by the throne, strangling yourselves with your own foolishness. You speak of those who trust and follow you? Who would place their faith in a nation that cannot even protect them from invaders or usurpers?”

“You should know by now that such thoughts were too shallow.”

“That is why I regret, Dragases—the one they call the last flame.”

At this point, few in Greece could ignore the light that had appeared like a morning star in their darkest hour. The final hope before annihilation.

How many would be captivated by such a false hope, drawn toward it like moths to a flame? Before long, the Christians would rally around Dragases, once again raising the banner of the Crusades.

Was there anything more foolish?

The flow of history had already been set according to the will of God, yet human arrogance sought to defy it. This defiance would only spill more blood upon the land.

Dragases could not possibly be ignorant of this. And yet—was he truly willing to turn away from the coming tide of slaughter? Murad bit his lower lip, recalling all the deaths he had witnessed.

Those who were burned alive, those who accepted their fates, those who fought to the bitter end despite being abandoned.

Could there truly be meaning in their deaths if they only led to further conflict instead of peace? Murad’s doubts grew deeper. Dragases’ struggle was undeniably fierce, even worthy of admiration—but it was also utterly futile.

And a leader who could not give meaning to sacrifice was the worst kind of ruler. Even if this was the final trial ordained by God, there were no exceptions.

“Do you still not see that your flame is not leading your people, but consuming them?”

The harder he fought to save his dying homeland, the more sacrifices he would create. Ignorant of the innocent lives he was extinguishing, he would burn brightly—only to turn everything into ashes in the end.

Murad felt both anger and pity for Dragases’ desperate struggle. Had their positions been reversed, would he also have been able to accept the fate before him?

Caught in the contradiction of these emotions, Murad listened as Dragases gave his answer.

“…Is that—”

Unwavering black eyes. A steadfast, determined gaze that burned like a flame. Eyes that had found a way forward despite endless adversity and crisis. Eyes that locked onto Murad’s, turning the question back on him.

“—a reason to surrender?”

Dragases’ question was meant for both of them. The man who set fire to his city for his country, and the man who killed his own father for his beliefs. They both knew what their sacrifices had been for, and so, as they stared each other down, neither spoke.

As leaders, there was only one answer.

Under Dragases’ unyielding gaze, Murad clenched his fists.

They glared at each other in silence for a long time.

Then, Murad spoke—not only to warn Dragases but also to reaffirm his own resolve.

“Then remember this well, Dragases.”

If he insisted on deceiving people with the illusion of hope and bringing war to this land, Murad would stand against him. As the most faithful servant of the Prophet’s will, he would ensure that no false salvation misled the innocent.

He reminded himself, again and again, that his determination was forged by true faith, that his sword was the sword of Islam. Murad understood, more than anyone, what kind of man his adversary was.

And that only made his resolve even stronger.

“Ottomans do not fall to those who wield false hope to mislead the innocent.”

“…I will take the Sultan’s warning to heart.”

Even as Murad burned with righteous fury, Dragases responded with polite composure. But only for a moment. Instead of offering a respectful bow, the prince lifted the corner of his lips into a faint smirk, looking up at the Sultan.

“Then… shall we finalize our agreement and proceed with the oath of fealty?”

( TL : fealty is acknowledging loyalty or allegiance from a vassal to a lord )

“Fine. It’s time for me to become your lord once again.”

Though their words carried a lighthearted tone, the tension in the air did not waver. How could it? In this negotiation, Dragases—the vassal-to-be—had the upper hand.

Meanwhile, Murad—the would-be lord—was the one forced to make compromises. The empire could choose to reject Ottoman authority and declare full independence, but neither side desired that outcome.

Both rulers understood why.

For the Ottomans, withdrawing without subduing Morea would mean not only failing to prevent central Greece’s independence but also facing backlash for a fruitless campaign.

If, after all their sacrifices, they retreated without achieving their goal, it would only create further chaos. The Ottomans had no choice but to either crush or subjugate Morea at any cost.

But Morea’s situation was hardly better.

Even with reinforcements arriving, their main force had suffered devastating losses—practically annihilation. Launching a counterattack in such a state was impossible.

If the Ottomans stubbornly continued their campaign, Morea would inevitably fall. With their most urgent goal achieved, Morea needed to drive the Ottomans out as quickly as possible and focus on recovery.

Thus, for now, the interests of both the prince and the sultan were aligned.

The only difference was that the prince used his vassalage oath as leverage to make a few demands.

“Sultan, I request that you grant me as my fief the central Greek territories that I have stabilized.”

( TL : Fief is a land granted by a lord to its vassal )

The prince’s first demand was, unsurprisingly, central Greece. It was land he had struggled to reclaim, and therefore, he had to secure it. Central Greece would serve as the foothold for recovering the mainland. Unlike the still-underdeveloped Morea region, it was home to many cities with long-standing traditions, making it easier to secure tax revenue and manpower.

The sultan was reluctant to give it up, but if he withdrew his army now, it would inevitably be fall to the prince. Grinding his teeth in frustration, he had no choice but to nod.

“Very well. State your next condition.”

“Regrettably, the war, which was born from our misunderstandings, has devastated central Greece. Restoring its ravaged farmlands will require significant funds. The costs involved are beyond imagination. Sultan, I plead you to show your generosity.”

The words were roundabout, but the meaning was clear—he was asking for an exemption from paying tribute to the Ottomans. Tribute in large quantities would undoubtedly strengthen the empire, but the more fundamental issue was that it would make it difficult for him to secure the funds needed to raise an army.

Naturally, the sultan was displeased.

Even so, he spoke.

“Fine. How many years do you require?”

“Eight years… That should be sufficient.”

“I grant your request. But in return, I have a demand of my own.”

Of course, the sultan would not simply agree. With eyes blazing, he glared at the prince and spoke through clenched teeth.

“Prove your loyalty by joining the campaign to suppress the rebellion in Anatolia.”

“……”

For a sovereign ruler to march as a mere general—its meaning was clear. It was meant to publicly affirm his subjugation as a vassal.

However, this much was expected.

The prince had already prepared his answer.

“Sultan, my loyalty is unwavering, but this body of mine requires treatment. Instead, I shall send my younger brother, Thomas, the Despot of Epirus, to accompany the campaign. Furthermore, as an apology for my absence, I shall arrange for Genoese mercenaries to serve under your command.”

What the sultan truly wanted was a hostage. He needed assurance that the prince would not turn against him.

For the prince, marching personally would be madness. It would be all too easy to be “killed in action”—in other words, assassinated. Even if not by the sultan himself, there were surely those loyal to him who would seize such an opportunity.

It was unfortunate, but Thomas, the Despot of Epirus, would serve the sultan’s purpose well enough.

The sultan knew that Epirus and Morea were allied because of Thomas’ presence.

Still, a safeguard was necessary.

Before the sultan could reply, the prince took the initiative.

“However, Thomas is still young and without an heir. If he were to meet an untimely demise, his closest blood relative would succeed him. I sincerely hope that no such tragedy occurs.”

“…Indeed, such thoroughness befits one called the last hope.”

It was likely meant as admiration, but the sound of grinding teeth accompanied the words.

Even so, Murad could not press the prince any further.

He knew that, cold-hearted as he was, the prince cherished Thomas above all else.

Even a man like him would not abandon an ally who had come to his aid—not out of familial affection, but for political reasons.

Murad, once again, had no choice but to nod.

“Very well. Since you have demonstrated your loyalty, you may state your next condition.”

“…I can only be grateful for the sultan’s grace. Then…”

The prince’s eyes narrowed.

They gleamed with an eerie sharpness, like a dagger ready to strike at a vital point.

Not to be outdone, Murad exuded an equally imposing presence.

And sure enough, the prince’s next words came as a shock.

“Grant me Larissa.”

—That was the spark that ignited the storm.

“Do you think you have won, Dragases?! You act like the victor simply because you’ve taken advantage of a favorable turn of events!”

Murad could no longer contain his fury.

To hand over Larissa?

He had acknowledged the prince’s control over central Greece only because of Larissa’s presence.

Though it was technically part of central Greece, Larissa was a fertile land of vast plains—a breadbasket and a vital source of warhorses.

It was a strategic stronghold, a jewel within the Ottoman Empire.

That the prince would dare to demand it with nothing more than a few threats—such audacity was absurd.

Murad’s anger was justified.

However, the weight of the prince’s bargaining chip outweighed even Murad’s rage.

“Murad, do you think I merely stood idly by while we negotiated?”

“…Dragases.”

“I shall tell you the final destination of the Venetian fleet that has appeared in the western Aegean. Sultan, do you know where they are headed?”

In that instant, Murad’s instincts led him to a single location.

The one place that had remained silent despite the flurry of urgent reports.

A crucial strategic point for controlling the Aegean.

A city that the Ottomans had long coveted.

Murad’s intuition was confirmed by the prince’s piercing gaze.

“Thessalonica.”

“…And thanks to an ally of mine, a great stockpile of supplies awaits there—enough to sustain thousands of troops for months.”

Murad felt a chill creep through the air.

So that’s how it is.

“Make your choice, Murad.”

The man before him—this was the final trial that God had set before him.

“Will you abandon Larissa, or…”

The last hope of a dying empire.

“…will you lose all of Anatolia?”

—He was the spark that would reignite the empire’s restoration.

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TL : This chapter is straight up peakkk.

At the beginning, no one could have predicted such an outcome.

It had been a full week since the Morean and Ottoman armies had begun their standoff. In that time, the Morean forces had displayed tactics that tested Murad’s patience.

When the Ottomans advanced, they retreated, but when the Ottomans pulled back, they closed the distance.

At night, instead of launching direct attacks, they sent small detachments to create a ruckus with loud instruments before fleeing, occasionally firing arrows to disrupt the camp.

Whenever the Ottomans attempted a decisive counterattack, the Moreans formed aggressive battle lines, threatening to seize any opening before gradually pulling back.

Even when Murad sent his own detachments, the narrow terrain restricted their movement, making meaningful ambushes difficult.

The only way to inflict real damage would be to mobilize the entire army, but doing so would risk engaging in a full-scale battle against the Moreans—one that could result in heavy casualties.

Morea could certainly be crushed, but Murad had another battlefield waiting for him. If he lost too many soldiers here, he risked losing Anatolia as well.

Preserving his forces was not just Dragases’ concern; it was Murad’s as well. With each passing moment, the Anatolian rebels would only grow stronger.

To remain locked in a standoff without a clear solution was the worst possible strategy. And Dragases undoubtedly knew this.

That was why Murad, despite the urgency of the situation, had repeatedly attempted to force a decisive battle rather than retreat.

Yet every time the fighting intensified, the Moreans showed signs of withdrawing toward Corinth, forcing Murad to abandon his efforts. In the end, pride was the only thing keeping this conflict dragging on.

“Any further is meaningless.”

Letting out a sigh heavy with frustration, Murad made his decision. The war had ended exactly as his enemy had intended. Clinging to it any longer would be disgraceful, not a practical choice.

At the very least, he would uncover Dragases’ true intentions. Murad resolved himself to that, running his fingers over the hilt of his sword—ready as if to draw it at any moment.

But in the end, his blade remained sheathed.

“Send an envoy. I must speak with Dragases.”

The negotiations began at dawn the following day.

The urgency of the situation meant that the meeting place was nothing more than a simple tent—just enough to shield them from the wind. There, the pillar of the Empire and the blade of the Ottomans would meet.

Of course, this was not the first time the Sultan and the Imperial Prince had faced one another. Their eyes had already met on the battlefield. Yet neither had been certain they would come to meet to talk face to face, even if they weren’t certain such a moment was inevitable.

Even if they shared the same awareness, their thoughts remained their own.

Standing at the heart of the battlefield, where their armies still stood at a standoff, the Prince arrived at the meeting tent first, carefully organizing his thoughts.

The fact that Murad had initiated the negotiations meant the situation was dire. He was even impressed at how quickly the timing had advanced compared to his expectations.

Despite having the strength to annihilate the meager Morean force, Murad had immediately found out what truly mattered and decided accordingly. Even for a ruler of reason, such a decision would be difficult to act upon due to pride.

As expected of the Ottomans.

But how far could he push Murad?

The question lingered, but before he could dwell on it further, a new presence arrived, causing it to fade naturally from his mind. A familiar face, as expected.

For a moment, the tent was filled with cold silence.

Murad and Dragases—two figures representing the Ottoman Empire and Byzantine Empire—locked eyes. Neither showed a hint of surrender. They remained like that for a long moment before the Prince finally lowered his head.

“I greet the Sultan.”

His courtesy was minimal, far from the proper formality expected of a vassal addressing his sovereign. Anyone witnessing this exchange would see a foreign envoy, not a subordinate.

Murad’s eyes narrowed briefly but soon regained their usual sharpness. Such displays of pride were still within acceptable limits. After all, the man before him had successfully repelled his forces multiple times.

Though Murad found it displeasing, it was only natural between enemies.

With a nod, the Sultan spoke.

“Formalities are unnecessary. We are here to speak, so let us proceed swiftly.”

“The Sultan is well-versed in Greek, I see.”

“It is the language of my lands.”

Murad’s sharp retort drew a wry smile from the Prince. At a glance, it seemed as though he brushed it off lightly, but Murad did not miss the slight tremor in his opponent’s arm. He had clearly felt something at that remark.

Not enough to exploit, unfortunately.

But for now, Murad was satisfied with asserting dominance.

And with that, he spoke.

“They are the people who live under my rule in the lands I govern. And not just them—every Christian ruler across Rumelia has sworn loyalty to me as vassals. I am the sovereign who has taken their oaths of loyalty.”

It was almost laughable—this desperate attempt to unite their pitiful forces after so many failures. Up until recently, Murad himself had thought so.

He had embarked on this campaign with the firm belief that he could succeed, had found proof of his own capabilities throughout the expedition, and yet, he could not ignore the reality that he had been pushed into a disadvantage.

Looking back, the source of the Ottoman Empire’s instability was clear.

An uncertain line of succession. The powerful officials who opposed the growing authority of the Sultan.

And finally, the Christian rebellions that refused to cease.

“Has the Ottoman Empire not already shown you enough? Your misjudgment and misguided stubbornness have cost countless lives. What were those deaths for? Why do you continue to resist, even as you witness the blood spilled before you?”

“Then tell me—what exactly were we supposed to accept?”

“Fate.”

To submit to the divine will of Allah—that was the duty of mankind. The Empire had to fall so that the people could be led to true faith.

The long-prophesied fall of Constantinople, foretold for a thousand years, was finally within sight. Against that inevitability, the prince’s resistance was nothing but a empty cry.

“The Empire has already disappointed its people more times than one can count. Your so-called thousand years of glory, your vaunted triple walls—none of them could protect those who needed them most. And yet, Dragases, in your effort to defend your homeland, you chose to set fire to your own city, to turn the innocent into sacrificial lambs.”

“……”

“Tell me, then—what was their sacrifice for?”

“The survival of the Empire.”

“Then let me ask you one more thing. This thousand-year legacy you carry—who is it for? This Empire you claim as your burden—who does it truly belong to?”

The prince bit down hard on his lower lip.

This was the crucial moment—the most dangerous question Murad could have asked.

What was that thousand-year legacy for? Who was the Empire for? Why had they demanded so many sacrifices?

Fragments of those questions whirled through his mind, and for a brief moment, his gaze wavered.

But only for a moment.

He had long since found his answer.

“The thousand years I carry is the pride of my people.”

At the same time, it was the sum of countless emotions—schemes, betrayals, honour, faith, and hope, all woven into history. A thousand years was proof that their hopes had been realized.

But a thousand years was not enough.

That was why—

“The Empire I bear belongs to those who have chosen to believe in me and follow me.”

All power originates from the people. The Emperor’s authority, too, had always been a power granted by the people.

It was the ideology that once ruled the world. An ideal that must never be forgotten.

For it was the last foundation keeping the Empire as an Empire.

Too much had happened in too short a time.

Amid the flurry of urgent reports, Murad felt a chill run down his spine. This was the price of fixating solely on the nearing Crusade from the West and his nemesis, Dragases.

Yet, the truth was that he simply did not have the luxury of dividing his attention between both Greece and Anatolia. Dragases was surely no different. He must have had a reliable ally to make this possible.

—The rebellion in Anatolia.

It did not take long to figure out who was behind it. Who else but his runaway younger brother, Mustafa, would have dared to raise his sword as a claimant to the throne? Murad could not help but recall the tattered corpse of his father.

“You swore that I would never be able to strike down Mustafa.”

That belief has now been shattered. What do you think of that?

In the end, Mehmed, in his weak time chose his beloved son’s safety over the empire’s stability.

He must have begged a foreign emperor to protect his child. But to a ruler, such pledges were mere words. If it served their nation’s interests, personal oaths meant nothing.

How could you, of all people, not understand that?

Murad blamed Mehmed’s foolishness, but alongside that frustration, he felt an inexplicable sorrow.

“Mehmed, in the end, the only thing you accomplished in this world was leaving behind the title of Sultan.”

—I cannot stop here.

Shaking off his regret and resentment, Murad refocused on the crisis at hand. The rebellion in Anatolia was more than enough to shake his position.

If he lost influence over Asia Minor while his campaign in Morea remained incomplete, it would not only deal a critical blow to the Ottomans’ vast manpower and finances but could also endanger his very rule.

It was a threat dire enough to warrant an immediate retreat.

Yet, Murad could not afford to do so.

Too many lives had already been sacrificed. To withdraw now would be to render their deaths meaningless. A leader must be able to give meaning to sacrifice. And for that, he needed a decisive battle.

Thus, he chose to personally lead the main army and join the vanguard Sipahis he had sent ahead.

By the time he reached the Isthmus, Murad was met with resentful gazes filled with confusion.

How could he not understand their feelings?

What could be more agonizing than being forced to watch helplessly, suppressed like a beast, when one charge could have crushed their foe?

Only one man among them seemed to understood the gravity of the situation greeted the Sultan with a dull expression.

“A son of Yiğit pays his respects to the Sultan.”

“You held back well. You did well, Turahan.”

“I was only worried for the homeland, my Sultan.”

“…Yes, of course you were. I suppose I must tell you first.”

At last, the Sultan voiced the thoughts that had been burdening him. Upon hearing them, Turahan’s face twisted in despair, a heavy silence falling between them.

Seeing his expression, Murad let out a bitter smile. His voice, unusually gentle, carried an unspoken weight.

“Turahan, we need to talk.”

“I will gladly accompany you.”

Sultan Murad’s invitation made it clear that he did not want anyone else overhearing their conversation. Understanding this, Turahan readily accepted.

Seeing his response, the Sultan looked around him with a serious look, prompting the guards to step back and give them space. Now, only Turahan remained to speak with him.

At last, the Sultan began in a calm, even tone.

“A rebellion has broken out in Anatolia. The missing Mustafa has been proclaimed Sultan by a faction supporting him. The Karamanid Emirate, Candar, and many Anatolian beys who once pledged loyalty to the Ottomans have joined the cause.”

“…A force too large to claim an easy victory.”

“Regrettably so.”

Murad’s gaze drifted past Turahan’s shoulder, locking onto the tattered banner of the Palaiologos dynasty, fluttering in the wind. The sight made him want to charge forward at once. Just one more decisive blow—one final collapse—would secure his victory.

( TL : Constantine’s surname is also Palaiologos but he later changed it to Dragaš after his mothers surname which he is now known as )

“As you can see, Dragases has succeeded in rallying the West, gaining the strength to keep fighting. Even if these Christians falter sooner than he expects, we cannot escape the battle of attrition we will suffer while fighting in Morea.”

And that was not all. Was it not too much of a coincidence that the news of the rebellion had reached him at such a crucial moment?

Murad’s sharp instincts told him there was a spy embedded deep within his ranks. Reports of unrest in the Ottoman Empire had been suppressed with cunning precision—only to be suddenly and swiftly revealed once the rebellion erupted, as if waiting for the perfect moment.

It was undoubtedly the work of the Empire, or more precisely, Dragases. But he could not have accomplished this alone.

There were forces in the shadows—those who did not wish to see the Ottomans expand any further.

Murad bit his lower lip lightly. He had already begun to grasp the truth. The war was over. But the struggle between the Ottomans and the Empire—between himself and Dragases—was far from finished.

“It does not matter whether they are his underlings, traitors in my court, or cowards who fear the Prophet’s army. I will use this opportunity to purge them all.”

“As the Sultan wills.”

“Turahan, I have lost much in this war, and I may lose more still.”

Thousands of soldiers, his carefully built reputation—these were mere secondary concerns. The greatest loss was allowing his true enemy to remain standing. If anything, this war had strengthened his foe rather than weakening him.

A final battle was inevitable, yet Murad no longer held any illusions.

He now understood the weight of the noose tightening around his neck and how firmly it was drawn.

And yet, there was no despair in the Sultan’s gaze. His eyes burned fiercer than before—sharper, more resolute—as he looked directly at Turahan.

“But the wind blows fiercely, and it is only natural for weak branches to break. I will not waver. Instead, I shall take this chance to cut down whatever rots at the root.”

“Sultan, your resolve is the true sword of Islam.”

“Then I must sharpen it further.”

Even as Turahan expressed his heartfelt admiration, Murad showed not a hint of satisfaction. His gaze had already shifted—fixed beyond Turahan, toward the Morean camp.

I stood there for a long moment, glaring at the Sipahis, trying to calm my pounding heart.

The moment I was certain they wouldn’t advance, I felt the urgent need to reposition.

If the Sipahis launched a sudden attack, whether on our main force or the reinforcements Thomas had brought, it could shatter the fragile balance we had maintained.

To ensure a solid link-up with our allies, we had to adjust our formation.

Thankfully, we weren’t attacked while making our move.

The Sipahis were acting with clear restraint, prioritizing the preservation of their forces.

That only strengthened my conviction—

The rebellion in Anatolia had succeeded.

And when the fleet finally arrived, I was greeted by a long-awaited, familiar face.

The soldiers disembarked in a flurry of movement, and amidst them, one figure made his way toward me—

Thomas.

A steadfast ally that brought unexpected but welcomed news.

My young friend approached with a relieved smile.

“I’m truly glad you’re safe.”

“Thomas.”

We reached for each other without hesitation, clasping hands firmly.

No words could fully express the flood of emotions and unspoken thoughts exchanged in that grip.

His timing had been perfect.

Had he not arrived at this precise moment—had I sprung the trap only to be crushed before it could tighten—the enemy would have obliterated us before we had a chance to turn the tables.

“You figured it out and came just in time.”

“Not quite. If not for the Jewish contacts your wife sent, I wouldn’t have known what was happening at all.”

“…She was that cooperative?”

That was surprising.

Almost suspiciously so.

Considering how she had once tried to entangle Morea in Serbia’s struggle, fearing the collapse of the regional balance, her sudden helpfulness made me wary.

But Thomas wasn’t merely doubtful—his expression carried something else.

“Whether you like it or not, she’s just secured herself a position that can’t be ignored. Sooner or later, we’ll have to decide how to handle it—whether to accept it or…”

“Don’t worry. Given her motives, I’ll have no trouble justifying whatever needs to be done.”

That wasn’t an issue for today.

Serbia had suffered two devastating defeats, but with a Crusade appearing in the future, keeping potential allies close was essential.

Cutting Sophia off now would be premature—and unnecessary.

What intrigued me more was why, knowing how dire our situation was, she had still chosen to support Morea.

But for now, there were more pressing matters than Sophia.

I turned to Thomas.

“That’s enough about her. This fleet—it’s from Genoa, isn’t it?”

“Of course, brother. One thousand of our own troops, three thousand Genoese mercenaries—four thousand in total.”

“So Genoa sees this war as an opportunity.”

Unlike Venice, which had already established a powerful presence in the Aegean with colonies from Crete to various island outposts, Genoa’s influence in the region was weak.

(TL : Crete is the largest and a island filled with riches in Greek)

Aside from Chios and Galata, the free city north of Constantinople, they had little territorial foothold.

Perhaps they had been watching, waiting, hoping that the Ottomans would drive out Venice.

Regardless, the size of the force they had sent meant they were making their move.

Three thousand mercenaries.

It wasn’t an all-in gamble, it was a serious commitment.

In fact, they had sent more men than we had.

If things turned sour, they were in a position to turn their weapons against us and still stand a chance.

Maybe they had sent such a large force precisely to ensure I honored our agreement.

I needed to speak with them before tensions arose.

“Thomas, take me to the man leading the Genoese.”

“He’ll come to you first.”

Thomas gestured toward a group approaching in full plate armor.

Their gear never failed to stir a sense of envy.

I wondered if the Empire would ever reach a point where we could deploy soldiers as heavily armed as these.

As I pondered, Thomas spoke again.

“The man in the center—that’s the mercenary captain leading this expedition. Justinian.”

I smirked.

“Not a woman, I assume?”

Thomas chuckled.

“No, brother. That knight by your side is the odd one.”

Hearing Thomas’s chuckle, I turned my gaze to the man in question. Noticing that he had been pointed out, Justinian removed his helmet. Just as Thomas had said, he was an open-faced young man, looking bold and confident. Well, as strange as this world could be, it wasn’t quite absurd enough for something else.

Aside from appearing a little younger than expected, he had the seasoned look of a veteran mercenary commander.

A mercenary captain… That thought suddenly brought to mind someone else who had yet to arrive. I had grown accustomed to him over time, but judging by first impressions alone, this one was far superior.

As I mused over that, Justinian had already reached me.

“It’s an honor to meet you, Your Highness Dragases.”

“You’re Justinian, then. I want to thank the Genoese for coming all this way.”

“How could we turn a blind eye when a brother in faith is in danger?”

“A truly reassuring answer.”

Though his true intentions lay elsewhere, such polite formalities helped smooth our relationship, so I played along. No matter his motives, the Genoese reinforcements were a welcome addition.

However, their involvement alone wasn’t enough to achieve the outcome I desired. There was still Venice. Whether they meant to or not, every move they made would end up aiding our cause. I needed to understand their position, and having encountered them firsthand, Justinian was one of the best sources of information.

“What of the Venetians? How are they moving?”

“The Venetians turned their ships around as soon as they heard of the Ottoman fleet advancing south. We encountered them near the waters of Glarentza, so by now, they should have reached the western coast of the Aegean.”

I had yet to hear of any Venetian sightings near Leontarion or Nauplion. Perhaps others at court had received reports, or maybe the Venetians had deliberately avoided making port to prevent information leaks.

At first, their movements were likely just an effort to gauge Ottoman intentions and prepare for any surprise attacks. But soon, they would realize the truth.

This was the perfect opportunity—perhaps their best chance—to either annihilate the Ottoman fleet or extract riches from them.

Persuading Venice, a state driven purely by rational self-interest, was simple. All I had to do was ensure they saw a way to maximize their gains with minimal losses. Whatever they chose, it would inevitably work against the Ottomans.

Meanwhile, the Empire had to use this opportunity to force Murad to the negotiating table and lay the groundwork for the next war.

“Thank you, Justinian. Thanks to you, I now know what must be done. Now, Thomas, I have a question for you—what of Thessalonica?”

“As you instructed, we’re securing supplies to accommodate the army at any moment. But given how long the war has dragged on, we’ve had to pay a steep price.”

“Make sure it’s well-stocked. We wouldn’t want our guests to complain about not getting their money’s worth.”

And with that, the noose around the Ottomans tightened even further.

The Venetian fleet’s return to the Aegean meant the Ottoman ships that had sailed south to cut off our retreat were doomed. Without Venetian approval, the sea route would be sealed.

Their only alternative was land travel, but that meant retreating as far as Edirne or Gallipoli—a costly delay.

And that was only if I allowed them to leave.

In raw numbers, the Ottomans still held the advantage. But in terms of positioning, we had the upper hand.

If they withdrew, they would have to surrender their hard-won gains in central Greece. And if the Ottomans retreated, Morea would rise.

That was inevitable.

Yes, Genoa’s influence might grow in the process, but that was still preferable—especially if one anticipated an eventual clash between Genoa and Venice.

Not that I necessarily wanted Murad to retreat either.

The longer he was forced to fight the minor Mustafa in Anatolia, the longer our peace would last.

Murad… His blade was sharp. Sharper than most could endure.

Even the most disciplined army would break under the sheer ferocity of his campaigns.

He was not only a man wielding a deadly sword—he knew exactly how to use it.

Then, I shall ensure that sword is never drawn.

No matter how sharp the edge, a blade that cannot be swung will cut nothing.

This was the logic I would follow.

Of course, I could not keep his sword sheathed forever.

But the next time Murad drew his blade—

We would have honed ours as well.

---

TL : The sea between Duchy of Athens and Ottoman Empire is the Aegean Sea. As you can see the capital of Byzantine empire is very far from its other territory. Constantine as you know resides in Morea near Athens. And Thomas who just arrived in this chapter is the ruler of Epirus.

This time, it was truly the last.

That thought came involuntary as he stood against the sipahis, his back to the remnants of a shattered enemy—still dangerous despite their collapse.

Reinforcements were on their way, an unexpected blessing, but what use were they if the battle ended before they arrived?

Thus, he had no choice but to entrust the rear to Ivania and a select few, while hastily forming an imperfect battle line against the sipahis.

Yet even if he managed to establish one, his exhausted soldiers would crumble under a single charge.

There was no room for arrogance—only grim realism.

The one sliver of hope lay in the caution the sipahi leader had displayed the previous day.

Even in this desperate moment, they had to make their foes hesitate for even a second, forcing them to question their attack.

Fortunately, the plan worked.

Rather than launching an immediate assault, the sipahis opted to wait, seeking an opening.

But there was no time for relief.

The Sultan’s elite forces would charge the moment their guard dropped.

This standoff only held because the sipahis anticipated greater resistance than expected.

He knew they were not hesitating out of weakness.

To test their defenses, the enemy sent out small detachments, looking for weaknesses.

The moment they found one, they would strike like wolves.

Then, at last, came a piece of good news.

For what felt like an eternity, he had watched the sipahis, waiting for their move.

And then, one of his greatest concerns was lifted.

He had entrusted the rear battle entirely to others, unable to check its progress, but now, the outcome became clear through the voice of a messenger.

“Your Highness, the enemy has been subdued. Sir Ivania is expected to join us soon.”

Still watching the sipahis, he questioned the situation in his mind.

Why?

Even though they had assumed a defensive posture, they had not even finished securing the rear.

If the sipahis had charged, they would have collapsed.

Moreover, by now, the reinforcements from the west should have been noticed.

Even if the enemy had somehow failed to see them, this moment had been their best chance to break through.

And yet, the sipahis had held their position.

What was holding them back?

A thought he had dismissed as mere wishful thinking was beginning to feel more plausible.

And soon, he was certain.

The Ottoman army was not incompetent.

They had crushed the Crusaders time and time again, proving their might.

They were the rulers of a new era, a force not easily swayed.

For such a formidable enemy to hesitate, there could be only one reason.

His heart pounded wildly.

It was almost too incredible to believe… but there was no turning back now.

Yet he could not afford to let his excitement show—his men might waver.

Even if he was certain, for them, it was still an uncertain hope.

They had to stay focused.

So, to those who had followed him through this desperate struggle, he offered only a single word.

“You’ve done well.”

All this sacrifice had been made in faith—faith that they could break the might of the Ottomans.

How much blood had been shed for this?

They had burned cities and abandoned soldiers, all to tighten a noose around Murad’s neck—to break the Ottomans’ momentum.

—And that noose had a name.

Murad’s brother, Mustafa.

The plan was simple: to enthrone the young Mustafa as the next Sultan, under the guardianship of his father, Manuel.

It was the very same strategy the co-emperor, John, had once devised.

And so, the question naturally followed—

Would they make the same mistake again?

This time, however, the approach had been different from the previous one.

Johns plan had been flawed from the start.

A rebellion in Greece—practically the Sultan’s personal domain—would always struggle to find supporters.

In the end, the rebellion had relied on foreign armies, but without internal backing, it had crumbled.

Anatolia, however, was a different story.

Murad’s meticulously planned coup had completely excluded the Anatolian beys from the Sultan’s succession.

And that had been his intention all along.

The Ottoman realm was divided—between those loyal to the Sultan and the unshakeable noble families.

From a Sultan’s perspective, the latter were a constant threat to central authority.

Thus, while eliminating his rivals, Murad had also severed most of Anatolia’s means to interfere.

Naturally, people aiming to gain power within the court saw no benefit in extending their friendship to Murad.

But they had remained passive for two key reasons.

Legitimacy and authority.

Possessing only one without the other amounted to nothing more than an empty cry.

In fact, it was nearly impossible for one to exist without the other.

Murad had understood this all too well.

Through his coup, he had focused on eliminating his rivals—those who could serve as legitimate alternatives to his rule.

Then, by securing a decisive victory in battle, he had cemented his authority.

This was why he sought overwhelming victories in the field rather than prolonged sieges.

Murad knew exactly what was needed to keep Anatolia in check.

And that was why orchestrating this rebellion had been so difficult.

No matter how much his father worked behind the scenes to rally support, there were limits to what he could do while in confinement.

In the end, everything depended on the Anatolian lords—how many of them would be willing to join?

If they failed to dismantle the Sultan’s authority, any rebellion was doomed from the start.

But who would dare challenge the Sultan’s might?

Who would risk standing against the Ottoman Empire itself, against the army that had crushed European forces time and time again?

…Yet, knowing that this was their last chance, someone had to bear this heavy burden.

If they could not halt the Sultan’s advance—if they failed to stall the Ottoman momentum—then the Empire’s fate was sealed.

Compared to their enemy, Morea was nothing but a handful of sand.

If they could not succeed, everything would be lost.

But if my suspicions were correct, the tide had now turned.

The moment Murad realized that defending Anatolia mattered more than crushing Morea, he would be left with only two choices.

Withdraw—or force a decisive battle.

“Murad… You’ve always been relentless, forcing choice after choice to make sure no alternatives remain.”

To overcome overwhelming odds, they had shifted the scales again and again, sacrificing tens of thousands in the process.

Now, at last, the blood-soaked cross had given them their answer.

There was no way they would back down now.

“But unlike you, I will not force your hand.”

Whether Murad chose to retreat or sought a final confrontation, neither path would be made easy for him.

And yet, he would find no battle to fight either.

That was why they had lured him here.

That was why they had prepared so thoroughly.

From the very beginning, this had never been a war against Murad’s army—it was a war against his authority.

And now that they had struck at Murad’s authority itself, they held the overwhelming advantage.

No matter how much he struggled, Murad would have no choice but to come to the negotiating table.

It was inevitable.

A formal war between states was never so easily waged.

—The moment Murad stepped into the noose, the war was already over.

---

TL : This chapter was a bit hard to process so basically Dragaš is using his fathers help to get support from Anatolia which is a major region in Ottoman Empire to set a rebellion to loosen Murad’s authority and put Mustafa as another contender for the Ottoman throne.

The sight of the Morean army, reduced to nothing more than a handful of ashes, compelled Turahan to silently offer them his respect.

Not just as an adversary but as a commander himself. Most armies would crumble after a single devastating defeat, shaken beyond recovery.

Yet, despite their crushing loss and retreat, the Morean forces stood resolute, still demonstrating their will to resist.

There was a reason the concept of a decisive battle existed—because a single victory or defeat could determine an army’s survival.

Exceptions, though rare, could be found in history.

But no one would have expected them to arise among those who had long since forgotten duty and conviction. By all rights, the Sultan’s forces should have crushed them in a single charge, just as he had intended.

Yet the Moreans had defied expectations, miraculously maintaining their formation even amidst the chaos of battle. To charge recklessly against such an enemy would be nothing short of foolishness.

Turahan could sense the desperate resolve of those who had prepared to fight despite their defeat, retreat, and the relentless assaults they had endured. And if so, then breaking them would be the first duty bestowed by the victor of this new era.

He resolved to act with absolute thoroughness, leaving no room for uncertainty.

“The Morean forces are holding firm. Rather than attacking, we will maintain our position and ensure they cannot retreat so easily.”

The Sultan’s orders had never focused on outright victory but rather on preventing the enemy’s escape. Furthermore, their pursuit had prioritized mobility, leaving them without the infantry necessary to deliver a finishing blow.

If the Christians had held out longer, this might have been the perfect opportunity. But with their collapse, that hope had evaporated. In such a situation, even if they launched an assault, they might be able to damage the enemy—but they would not achieve a decisive victory.

A hollow victory would only tarnish the Sultan’s name and hinder his greater ambitions. Now was the time for caution, not recklessness.

Yet even Turahan was shaken by the report that soon followed.

“Dragases is here?”

“There is no doubt, my lord. He is leading them.”

Turahan had assumed that Dragases had fled to Epirus with his knights, seeking aid from the West to return at the head of a Crusade. Yet here he was, in the most unexpected of places. His surprise lasted only a moment before he nodded.

“…So that’s why they’ve been able to hold out.”

Had it been anyone else, he might have doubted the claim. But Dragases was different. Turahan understood the weight of that name all too well.

There, at the heart of that battered force, stood the last hope of a dying empire.

Alone, he had held up a nearly shattered army, forcing it back onto its feet.

Turahan knew it instinctively—this was his opportunity to bring an end to this long and grueling war.

A cold thrill of anticipation ran down his spine, mingling with the tension settling over him.

But in the back of his mind, the memory of the Janissaries’ blunder loomed.

Why had the Sultan’s elite guard so easily fallen for the enemy’s tactic? There could be only one answer: they had been offered the same bait. A lure so tempting that it had shaken even their absolute loyalty to the Sultan.

It could have been nothing else but Dragases’ life.

This must not happen again.

The same mistake must not be repeated against the same opponent.

This was what gave Turahan pause.

But it was not the only reason.

What unsettled him most was his own uncertainty in victory.

Undoubtedly, he held the advantage. But his opponent was a ruler who had proven himself time and time again, surviving countless near-deaths and proving his worth.

Through his ruthlessness, his devotion, his martial prowess, his courage, and his conviction, Dragases had demonstrated that he was worthy of being the nemesis of the Ottomans.

If they allowed him any more breathing room, he would become an overwhelming obstacle in the empire’s future.

Dragases would not fall so easily.

He must have some hidden plan in motion.

That thought led Turahan to survey his surroundings more carefully—

—and it turned out to be the right decision.

The moment he spotted the fleet approaching from the west, he understood what Dragases had been waiting for.

No Ottoman reinforcements would come from the west—not with Venetian influence so strong in those waters.

That left only one possibility.

Turahan’s gaze sharpened as he glared toward the Morean lines, where Dragases stood.

“…A Crusade. So, it has come to this.”

There was no more time for hesitation.

Now that he had uncovered Dragases’ true intentions—his greatest concern—there was only one thing left to do: act.

The most decisive course of action was to crush one side before the Crusaders and Dragases could unite, shattering the enemy’s resistance.

Turahan was just about to give the order when—

“Turahan! Turahan Bey, my lord! A command from the Sultan!”

Turning his head, he saw a breathless messenger pushing his way through the ranks of the assembled sipahis, urging his horse forward.

A command from the Sultan? He had already received his orders before setting out—he had heard them clearly with his own ears. The Sultan could not have been unaware of the situation.

“The Sultan?”

“Yes, my lord! Please, accept the Sultan’s command at once!”

The moment the messenger dismounted—practically rolling off his horse—he pulled a sealed letter from his coat and extended it forward.

Turahan took the letter, but an ominous feeling crept into his heart.

Why now, of all times?

Considering that the messenger had arrived so soon after he himself had reached the battlefield, something must have happened almost immediately after their departure.

If the message had not been dispatched at the very moment they set out, it would not have reached them in time.

It must have been urgent.

As he slowly unsealed and unfolded the letter, a vague realization settled over Turahan.

This war would not end the way the Sultan and the Ottomans had intended.

And his hunch turned to reality the moment he read its contents.

There was only a single line:

[Avoid battle until you rejoin the main force.]

He read it once.

Then again.

And again.

He wanted to believe it was some trick of the enemy.

But there was no denying it—this was the Sultan’s own handwriting.

The Sultan, who had once commanded the utter extermination of his foes, with no room for dissent.

For even that ironclad will to be overturned… something had happened. Something of such magnitude that he was now forced to let go of his prey, even after having it within his grasp.

Turahan did not yet know the details.

But there was no doubt that some great disruption had occurred—one that compelled them to let their sworn enemy escape.

And even though no further details had been provided, Turahan already understood the cause.

And who was behind it.

Who else could it be?

Closing his eyes, he let the name settle in his mind, repeating it over and over.

“…Dragases.”

The last beacon to appear within the ruins of a fallen thousand-year empire.

A foe more than worthy of being called the nemesis of the Ottomans.

Through countless failures and staggering sacrifices, he had honed his blade against the empire itself—an act only one of his caliber could achieve.

The final hope of a crumbling empire.

No, that was not enough.

Turahan thought otherwise.

He was fire.

The flame of reconstruction had begun to burn.

Although the enemy commander’s banner still stood, the tide of battle had already decisively shifted.

The remnants of the Ottoman forces were being crushed on all sides, their numbers dwindling to the point of being visibly scarce. The enemy had been shattered—only the task of expanding the victory remained.

The prince had been somewhat cautious, concerned about the loss of troops, but even so, the army’s spirits were high, sensing the ease with which victory was within reach. Yet, the prince’s expression remained grim.

The more certain an overwhelming victory became, the more time passed, the graver his expression grew.

Among the battlefield chaos, the prince’s attention was drawn to the enemy main force, which was supposed to be locked in combat with the knights. Despite the relentless assault that should have broken them by now, they still held firm.

Their unexpected resilience held a meaning that could not be ignored. Seeking an answer, the prince thought about Murad’s past strategies. The conclusion was immediate and clear.

—There’s more to this.

By assessing his own army’s situation, the prince was able to deduce further details. The Isthmus of Corinth was a deathtrap—if both ends were blocked, his forces would face total annihilation.

Murad must have intended to turn this place into such a trap, first cutting off the retreat to Corinth by pushing his own forces toward the sea. In that case, what was the final piece to complete this strategy? Timing was crucial. And to synchronize that timing, one needed mobility—enough to encircle the enemy in an instant during the heat of battle.

At last, the prince realized Murad’s true intent.

“…The Sipahi!”

He didn’t know when they would appear from the rear. Grasping the gravity of the situation, the prince could hesitate no longer. He had to withdraw the knights as soon as possible. Furthermore, this battle needed to be concluded immediately. Now was the moment to unleash a decisive offensive.

“All forces, full-scale assault! Cut them down!”

The prince’s urgent command transformed into the roar of soldiers across the battlefield. What had been a calculated engagement to minimize losses now became a ruthless slaughter, thickening the stench of blood. No one was unaware of what was happening.

The warriors gripping their spears, the ones dying on the ground—every single one of them. Even Paliotes, who had been fleeing from the assault, understood.

Compared to just moments ago, the speed at which his soldiers were being cut down was undeniable proof. Such a wretched end. Paliotes could only let out a bitter smile.

“So, you’ve finally realized.”

Perhaps the Sipahi had already revealed themselves. Either way, the chances of survival were slim. The role he had been given was nothing more than that of a sacrifice in this war to determine the era’s victor. But at the very least, he could solidify one side’s triumph.

As Paliotes pondered this, a shift came over the battlefield. The knights, who had been tearing through his men like a war chariot, now showed signs of withdrawal instead of pursuit.

When he noticed this, Paliotes stopped running. Instead, he reached out to the soldier beside him.

“Lend me your spear.”

Without a word, the soldier handed him his well-worn weapon. It was an old spear, its shaft marked by years of use—but it was enough. Gripping it tightly, Palaiotes broke into a sprint. His target was none other than that monstrous female knight.

No matter how skilled she was, she could not completely deflect a direct charge with a lance at full speed.

At last, Ivania was forced to turn her horse to meet Paliotes head-on.

“You turned your back on the prince, and now you stand in the way of even meeting him!?”

Her exasperated shout barely registered to Paliotes. His ties to his homeland had already been severed. He had prayed in his father’s name—now, it was time to act upon the oath he had sworn in his own name.

Paliotes steadied his thoughts, knowing exactly what he had to do, and gave his final order.

“Encircle the enemy knights! Hold them off for even a moment longer!”

The instant he issued the command, his collision with Ivania’s Knights was inevitable.

As their weapons clashed, Paliotes instinctively knew—this was his end.

::[Flame]::

“The banner has fallen! The enemy is breaking!”

A cry of triumph echoed across the battlefield, drawing the prince’s gaze. The enemy commander’s banner was falling, its once-proud symbol now slumping lifelessly. The prince clenched his fist tightly.

Whether by mere coincidence or because something had truly happened to the enemy leader, it did not matter. The only certainty was that the enemy forces would waver. The crumbling Ottoman troops were already throwing down their weapons and fleeing.

At this rate, their complete annihilation was only a matter of time. The prince, who had been desperate mere moments ago, now felt a fleeting sense of relief as the tide of battle turned. He thought back on the hardships endured and managed to utter a single phrase.

“…At last, a path to retreat.”

If they could clear the road to Corinth, there were plenty of ways to exhaust Murad’s forces. Even though Murad had begun shifting siege warfare through the use of gunpowder weapons, the prince knew well the flaws of this era’s gunpowder—its fragility and unreliability. Too much had already been lost, but not everything.

Such hope was abruptly shattered by the sound of a horn.

—Bwoooooo…

A chilling, eerie wail rang out across the battlefield, freezing the scene in place. It was as if time had stopped. Only the prince reacted immediately, snapping his head around to see the cause.

His pupils reflected the last sight he had wanted to see.

Cold sweat trickled down his face. It was exactly as he had feared.

The Sipahi, the Sultan’s elite cavalry, were advancing in formation.

What an impeccable moment.

Just as victory was within reach, the Sipahi had appeared at the most decisive moment. The prince was momentarily speechless.

The enemy’s numbers might have been fewer, but they were all cavalry, whereas his own forces had been engaged in intense combat. Factoring in their exhausted state, the real balance of power tilted sharply in the Ottomans’ favor.

Even those who had fought alongside him could no longer deny the truth.

The battle had never truly been won. Though some still claimed that God had chosen no side, the signs of divine favour were unmistakable. Was this fate? The murmurs of doubt spread like ripples through the ranks.

Yet the prince bit down on his lip and pressed forward.

“…End this battle swiftly. Use whatever means necessary.”

“Y-Your Highness…”

“The west wind is blowing—hurry!”

To the Ottomans, who had already foreseen the Morean army’s downfall, this sight must have seemed utterly laughable. They watched the prince’s forces struggle on, following his orders even in the face of despair.

And so, Turahan turned to fulfill his Sultan’s command.

“The Sultan’s decree has been given. Offer them the chance to surrender.”

The Sipahi from Rumelia spurred his horse forward after receiving the letter that Turahan pulled from his bosom.

Of course, sending an envoy to urge surrender did not mean the battle could be avoided. Turahan issued another order to the Sipahi who followed him.

“Whether they accept the surrender or not, our task remains unchanged. Advance! Allah is great!”

With cries praising their god, the Sipahi closed the distance. The prince was not so naive as to fail to grasp their intentions. The only question was why they had sent an envoy first.

The answer came soon enough, in the fluent Greek of the Sipahi who had ridden up to him.

“Dragaš of Morea, the Sultan grants you one last mercy. Surrender, if you truly care for those who follow and depend on you.”

How laughable.

If they were truly urging surrender, then why was the Sipahi main force already in motion? The prince laughed at the obvious deception and spoke aloud the reason he stood here.

“We have already resolved to face our fate and tribulation.”

But the Sipahi, his expression stiff and unyielding, posed another question.

“After abandoning so many, can you truly speak of ‘we,’ Your Highness Dragaš?”

“That…”

For a moment, the prince could not help but waver.

He had stood and fought alongside those who vowed to resist until the end. He had sacrificed much for this cause.

But what if those who followed him had never truly wished for it?

What had he sacrificed for, and for what cause had he driven so many into danger?

The sympathy in the Sipahi’s gaze only deepened his momentary panic.

Yet contrary to the prince’s fears, his soldiers showed not the slightest hesitation.

“Your Highness, not once have we felt abandoned.”

“And if this is our fate, we shall accept it willingly.”

The word “fate” jolted the prince as if he had been soaked in cold water.

Fate.

He despised those who used that word to justify all things, who accepted their demise without any effort. It was precisely because he could not bear to watch his nation fade away under such hopelessness that he had taken up arms.

Turning from the Sipahi to his own soldiers, the prince declared,

“It is not fate. Do not blame fate for my own shortcomings. If you must resent something, resent me, the one who led you into this.”

He should never have struggled. He should have bowed to the tides of time. Had his foolish resistance only brought needless bloodshed?

Now, faced with the doubts he had long averted his eyes from, the prince could not help but condemn himself.

His once-unshakable conviction was fragile. It wavered from a single remark.

At that moment, a voice—many voices—spoke through one.

“Your Highness, we would rather burn in the flame you have shown us than live as empty husks.”

That voice breathed new life into a flame that was on the verge of dying out.

The flickering fire stood tall once more.

As the faint glow returned to his eyes, the prince clenched his fists.

—He would not let those who had resolved themselves to perish with nothing but the word “fate” to console them.

The western winds were already stirring.

And from the western shores, a fleet had begun to emerge—one flying a banner the prince had not foreseen.

He had thought there was no aid left to seek. That belief had led him to fight alone all this time.

Now, he realized that had been one of his gravest miscalculations.

Even if he wavered, he would not be extinguished.

Feeling the fire within him reignite, the prince met the Sipahi’s gaze.

“Return and tell your commander this: we will carve our own path here.”

“What a sorrowful choice.”

With those parting words, the Sipahi turned back toward his formation.

Watching him go, the prince understood.

This was the final turning point granted to him.

For one who had chosen to fight to the bitter end, this was the single chance that the heavens had permitted.

And he was not alone.

Someone had refused to leave him to fight this last battle by himself.

A hidden ally had finally arrived for this most decisive moment.

Knowing this, he would no longer stand alone.

He had learned that his own strength was not enough.

To overcome this formidable foe, he needed allies.

And for that, he was grateful to Manuel, who had foreseen this moment and made preparations long in advance.

The prince recalled one of the few friends who had chosen to stand by him.

A friend who had pledged to follow him into this desperate struggle.

He did not know what had prompted such an unexpected movement.

What mattered was that he was not the only one waging war against Murad.

Enjoying the winds blowing from the west, the prince slowly closed his eyes.

Now, the true battle would begin.

The final chance to slip a noose around Murad’s neck.

—Dragaš’s young friend has led a fleet toward the Isthmus of Corinth.