Category: About a Dating Sim Where Dating Is Impossible

Long ago, Murad had once given an order before a kneeling man.

“Kill them all.”

A simple command, yet it carried an unyielding resolve, leaving no room for reconsideration or even the slightest delay. Perhaps it was upon hearing these words that the man felt something shift within him.

The audacity he once had—the insolence to weigh the Sultan and the Prince against each other—had vanished without a trace. His hands trembled violently. Instinctually, he must have realized the depths of the Sultan’s fury.

The man bowed his head as low as possible, nearly pressing himself to the ground, and with every ounce of resolve he could muster, he answered:

“As the Sultan commands!”

Yet, even in the face of such utter submission, the atmosphere did not ease. The Sultan’s gaze, fixed upon the man, remained cold and heavy. Perhaps taking it as a silent command to leave, the man hurriedly rose, paid his respects, and hurried out of the tent with anxious steps.

Even after the man had disappeared, the Sultan’s eyes remained fixed on the spot where he had been kneeling. Only the sound of his increasingly rough breaths filled the silence.

In that stillness, the young Sultan finally spoke.

“He said he would obey my will.”

But receiving another’s loyalty did not always bring joy. The worth of loyalty was measured by the one who offered it. The Sultan had never forgotten what had happend that night—the battle between the nearly invincible Ottomans, who had all but conquered Rumelia, and the meager forces of Morea. An event no one had foreseen, an outcome that should have never come to pass.

The image of the man who had just been kneeling replayed in Murad’s mind over and over, fueling his boiling rage.

—O deceitful Christians, do you know that I swore to avenge the three thousand lives sacrificed by your cunning schemes?

The ones who had foolishly weighed the Sultan and the Prince on their own scales, chasing after their own gain, were beyond redemption. Their loyalty was worthless.

Yet, even so, the Sultan knew what he must do. He would not forget. This throne had been inherited for the glory of the Prophet, not for mere vengeance.

But how could he possibly trust the pledges of those who had once betrayed him?

“He says he will obey my will, so I shall grant him the opportunity.”

However, it would be no easy trial.

The sentence of death had already been passed. The only thing to be determined was the fate of their families—whether they would live as slaves or as subjects of the Sultan depended entirely on the sincerity of their loyalty.

For daring to place the falling empire of the Greeks on the same scale as the mighty Ottomans, they would now face the cruelest of choices: their own lives, or the fate of their kin.

Without shifting his gaze, the Sultan called for his silent confidant standing nearby.

“Turahan.”

“Command me, my Sultan.”

“I fear that unfamiliar waters may lead to unnecessary losses of our prized warhorses. Do not deploy cavalry in this campaign.”

Turahan, who had remained silent, finally opened his mouth.

“Even in their weakened state, the forces of Dragaš have proven their strength time and time again.”

“If we send cavalry against them, we will only squander our precious riders.”

At first, it sounded like a rebuke of the Christian forces. But Turahan was no fool. A keen and perceptive general, he swiftly discerned the true meaning behind his Sultan’s words.

His face hardened at once.

“They will not last long.”

“It will not take much time.”

With those words, the Sultan slowly closed his eyes.

He understood what Turahan wanted to say. Mercy and benevolence—these were essential virtues for an empire-builder. He knew that.

But he also knew that mercy alone could not establish nor maintain order.

And he knew, deep within his soul, that his hatred still burned.

“…Do you think I go too far?”

Turahan did not respond aloud.

But silence was an answer in itself.

Murad leaned back against his chair, attempting to sort through the tangled thoughts in his mind.

But no matter how much he tried, he could not forget.

How could he?

The images of those who perished, trapped in flames, their anguished cries ringing through the night—how could he erase them? The faces of his fallen soldiers, slaughtered senselessly—how could he ever let them go?

Even now, if he listened closely, he could still hear their final screams.

And the more he heard them, the more he strengthened his resolve.

“But if I do not punish them, how am I to appease the grievances of the dead?”

“…My Sultan.”

“I had always believed that dying for faith and glory was natural. But Dragaš… he feels different. He is not fighting for faith and glory. One who fights for such things cannot wage war so desperately that he has to force harsh sacrifice upon everyone.”

“That does not mean you must walk the same path as Dragaš. I only wish for you to act as a ruler and as the one who carries out the will of the Prophet.”

“As a ruler and as a representative…”

“It is only natural for you to feel disappointment and anger toward those who swore loyalty to you, Sultan. However, that disappointment and anger must remain solely yours as a sovereign.”

“Turahan, you tell me that I do not need to walk the same path as Dragaš, yet you are telling me to do exactly that.”

But he was right.

A leader holds responsibilities far greater than personal emotions.

Oh, Allah, Guide me further.

Murad felt himself take another step forward. At the same time, he gave an order he had not yet spoken.

“Dragaš’s forces will surely attempt to make the most of their limited cavalry, knowing that we have none.”

There was no concern about the reserves. Whether Dragaš had led them himself, it did not matter. During their desperate flight to Epirus, the main force of Dragaš had been stripped of any considerable cavalry strength.

Turahan understood the Sultan’s intent.

They were bait. A sweet trap designed to keep Dragaš’s main force from holding back a cavalry reserve in case of a sudden attack from the Sipahi in the rear.

“They have endured long forced marches and suffered relentless retreat. They will seek swift resolution now more than ever.”

—But I will not allow it.

“Turahan, begin moving the Sipahi now and have them approach as close as possible to the expected battlefield. Dragaš’s main force must not detect their movements. Proceed with caution and strike when their vigilance in scouting diminishes.”

“As you command, my Sultan.”

“And before engaging in battle, send an envoy to offer their surrender.”

“…Do you truly believe they will surrender?”

“I only wish to hear their answer.”

Dragaš, I do not know what you are fighting for.

What is certain is that you stand on the battlefield with unwavering conviction.

But does everyone?

Is there not one among them who sees your struggle as a meaningless cause that brings nothing but sacrifice?

That is all Murad wished to know.

“There is no need for hesitation. Attack, regardless of their response.”

“…My Sultan.”

“I will not tolerate defiance. Have you forgotten my first command?”

—I told you to kill them all.

Only after meeting Murad’s merciless gaze did Turahan realize the futility of protest.

The Sultan’s resolve was unshakable.

And if the Sultan had made his decision, then his loyal servant had only to carry it out.

Turahan knelt, offering reverence to the grim decree.

Murad looked down at him and spoke in a steady tone.

“If you fear unforeseen complications, then stall for time.”

With those words, Murad shifted his gaze to the hilt of the sword at his waist.

A blade passed down through generations, a sword imbued with the oath of sultans who had sworn to fulfill the will of the Prophet.

Resting his hand upon it, Murad vowed—to Turahan and to himself.

“If the Sipahi are not enough, I shall strike them down myself.”

There was a time when they had once shared the same faith, waiting together.

But the remnants of that bond were not enough to prevent conflict.

One who chose to believe until the end and one who ultimately abandoned their faith—this battle was, in the end, a fight between those who had split into two factions.

At the same time, it was also a struggle against the despair that had begun to settle heavily over the Balkans.

And above all, it was a trial to determine which path would lead to a better future.

That was why Paliotes could draw his sword without hesitation.

Bearing the weight of all the pain and doubts he had endured, he watched as the approaching female knight closed the distance.

The slight swell of her chest plate, hinting at her womanhood, was almost laughable.

What could a woman possibly achieve in a battle meant to prove the convictions of each fighter?

Especially one who spewed nonsense about being unable to forgive those who turned away from Dragases? Paliotes repeated these thoughts to himself, steadying his resolve.

All the while, the wind rushing past his ears grew fiercer. The faster their horses galloped, the shorter the distance between them became.

And when it became undeniable that a clash was inevitable, Paliotes prepared to strike.

So did his opponent, Ivania.

There was no need for unnecessary cries or war shouts—they would only break their concentration.

Among the thunderous sound of pounding hooves, the two maintained an eerie silence until they finally collided.

And just as their swords were about to follow their destined curve, Paliotes abruptly changed his intent.

—Clang!

A sudden, forceful impact. He nearly fell off his horse, saved only by his firm grip on the reins.

As he barely regained his balance, his gaze fell upon the scars now etched onto his sword.

The blade bore deep scratches, and the crossguard had suffered a significant wound. Had he not swiftly recognized the threat, those marks would have been carved into his body instead of his weapon.

Only then did Paliotes realize that all his earlier confidence had been for nothing.

“A monster, that woman…!”

He should have known ever since she impaled two men with a single thrust of her spear. But now that he had faced her sword directly, the fear was undeniable.

More than just brute strength, what sent shivers down his spine was her cunning technique. No matter how physically strong a woman might be, she should still fall short of a seasoned man.

Yet, she had compensated for that gap with relentless training.

There was a reason she stood on this battlefield. Even though she was just a woman, Paliotes couldn’t help but admire her skill.

Could he block her next attack? He wasn’t sure. More likely, he would meet his death. And along with him, the soldiers who had followed him would also be doomed.

Even so, no matter how formidable his opponent was, he could not retreat.

This was the path he had chosen to survive. The men following him had done so to carve a place for themselves in the new era promised by the Sultan.

If he fell here, there would be no place for their families in that future. Knowing this better than anyone, Paliotes turned his horse back toward Ivania.

At the same time, she was also turning her steed around.

Paliotes was not so foolish as to wonder why he was being targeted. He was the leader of this mixed army. If he fell, the battle would end in an instant. That was what she believed.

But such thinking was naive.

They were not merely facing him.

Spurring his horse forward once more, Paliotes repeated the Sultan’s command in his mind.

—Kill them all.

At first, he had assumed it meant to annihilate Dragases army. But when he clashed with them on the battlefield, it became clear that the one-sided slaughter was, in truth, a call for their own deaths.

However, it was only in the face of true death—just now—that Paliotes finally realized something he had been too tense to notice before.

“You dare—!”

Was it regret at failing to kill him in a single strike? Ivania’s voice roared as she charged again, her presence even more overwhelming.

Yet, rather than tremble in fear, Paliotes found himself smiling.

There had been countless moments when he had to make a choice.

And each time, he had chosen to protect his family and people. Even in situations where a single wrong decision could have led to complete destruction, he had chosen correctly.

So, how could he not smile?

—For he was a man who knew his choices had been right.

“Foolish Dragases!”

Even as the entire front line collapsed and defeat became an undeniable certainty, Paliotes could not help but mock at Dragases.

No, he had to mock not just him but everyone on this battlefield who had thrust their spears and swords at each other.

Every single one of them had been nothing more than mere chess pieces. The fact that he had only now come to understand the true meaning behind the Sultan’s command was laughable in itself.

Amidst these thoughts, the narrowing distance once again forced their blades to clash.

—Clang!

This time, his sword was sent flying.

Yet, Paliotes was still alive. Even though he had lost his weapon, even though he now bore the disgrace of defeat at the hands of a mere woman.

He no longer laughed.

What lingered on his face was not rage but empty eyes filled with bitter resignation. The female knight, fuming as she pursued him from behind, no longer concerned him.

For the last time, Paliotes lifted his head and looked toward the enemy’s camp.

A banner bearing the twin-headed eagle—the imperial crest and the symbol of the royal house. Beneath it, Dragases was surely leading his troops.

But now that he understood the Sultan’s true command, a final showdown with Dragases no longer mattered.

—Because the order to “kill them all” had never been meant for him in the first place.

Paliotes recalled the man who had stood by the Sultan’s side, gazing down at him with cold, detached eyes.

Turahan, was it? The leader of the Sipahis, a man armed with absolute logic, unwavering loyalty, and meticulous caution.

It had not been Paliotes whom the Sultan had entrusted with that merciless command—it had been him.

“Now that you’ve finally arrived, I curse you in my name.”

Paliotes spat a curse toward Dragases.

How could he not?

And yet, somewhere in the depths of his mind, the shadow of his father lingered.

Even in his final years, drowned in drink, the old man had always swallowed the words ‘one day’ without ever speaking them aloud.

That image consumed Paliotes’ thoughts.

The storm of emotions raging within him was so overwhelming that even the resentment of Wasn’t this too late? was swallowed whole.

For someone who had already abandoned the empire, to pray for Dragases would be absurd.

But for his father—for the man who had never let go of his faith—it was different.

Before turning his horse once more, Paliotes whispered a final prayer.

“…And in my father’s name, I pray, O Lord of Heaven, watch over him.”

The Scales Had Tipped

The long, search for a way out was finally coming to an end.

Everyone in the Morean army believed it, and the prince was no exception.

After countless defeats, they had always been forced to fight while considering the worst possible outcome. But at this moment, for once, they could be confident in victory.

A devastating onslaught.

The Ottoman forces, unable to withstand the relentless and surging momentum of the Morean assault, were beginning to crumble.

Watching this, the prince clenched both fists tightly.

“There was a time… when I vowed to myself that one day, I would become an undeniable beacon of hope for you all.”

The silver-tipped lances, gleaming brilliantly under the sunlight, pierced through vital points.

Even the splattered blood could not hide their radiance. But this blood was different from all that had been spilled before. It was not the blood of those who followed him but of those who had stood against them. Their blood pooled on the battlefield, leaving behind a lingering scent.

The sickening stench of iron, the very proof of war’s horrors. And so, the prince had to be even more ruthless.

Just as someone had once said—

The crueler and bloodier a war, the faster it ends.

Victory or execution—these were the only ways to bring this battle to a close.

The prince’s confidence in his judgment came from Ivania’s performance.

Though she had not been given specific orders, she had assessed the situation and, instead of charging the enemy’s left flank, she had maneuvered to strike their rear.

It was more than expected.

Thanks to her, not only was the enemy’s left flank in disarray, but even their reserves were now tied down.

There was no reason to hesitate—these were enemies.

And yet, a lingering regret clung to the prince.

They were the ones he should have protected. The ones he had needed to earn the trust of. The ones who should have marched forward hand in hand. But they had been divided instead, and, unable to reconcile, they had chosen the Ottomans’ side.

He had once declared that he would become an undeniable beacon of hope.

And yet, it had come to this.

But that did not mean he could afford mercy. He had made his decision long ago when he first faced those he had failed to protect.

The prince recalled the resolution he had made:

From now on, I will fight for the sovereignty and freedom of those who follow me.

“The heavy infantry in position will strike the enemy’s left flank. The center will continue pressing the main force and isolate their right wing. We must make it easier for Ivania to strike.”

Rather than deploying the heavy infantry to support Ivania’s charge as originally planned, it was better to use them differently.

The prince made his judgment, and the unfolding battle confirmed that he had been right.

The Ottoman formation, already halfway cut off from its main force, was now being surrounded and consumed piece by piece.

Even a soldier armed with long spears was useless without the will to fight.

Step by step, shielded soldiers advanced, their honed killing intent cutting through the Ottomans.

There were casualties, of course.

But the numbers were far better than anticipated.

The Morean pikemen had also done their part.

The advantage of long spears diminished as morale faded and the tide of battle turned against them. With the Ottoman lines collapsing, it was now meaningless to even question the battle’s outcome.

Yet the Moreans did not lower their guard, continually blocking the enemy’s right-wing reinforcements as they attempted to aid their main force.

If Ivania’s knights could now land a decisive blow on the enemy’s right flank, the battle would be won.

The prince had no doubt.

That was until—

Ivania’s knights suddenly charged straight toward the enemy’s main force.

The prince was momentarily thrown into confusion.

Ivania had followed his expectations perfectly until now.

Why?

Why abandon the isolated right wing which was nearing its destruction, and instead charge headlong into the main force?

The answer only became clear when he belatedly noticed a flag.

Amidst the crescent-marked Ottoman banners, another emblem stood out—the crest of a Christian noble house.

The enemy commander was there.

Ivania must have realized it as well.

Seeking to end the battle as swiftly as possible, she had chosen to go straight for the enemy leader.

Ideally, it would have been better to reduce the enemy numbers rather than pursue the commander’s head, but field decisions had to be respected.

The prince carefully observed as the two forces collided.

Perhaps his gaze had been particularly sharp.

As Ivania spurred her horse forward, her eyes shimmered with excitement.

A confident smile formed at her lips.

“—Your Highness is watching.”

Before her triumphant cry had even finished, a spear thrust forward, piercing the chest of an enemy soldier who had made a desperate, foolish attempt to resist. The soldier, impaled straight through the center like meat on a spit, was so stunned by the impact that he could not even utter a proper groan.

It was at that moment that Ivania’s soaring excitement started to wane slightly.

“…How cumbersome!”

Even as she muttered in frustration, she refused to release the spear, ultimately piercing yet another enemy who had stepped in her path.

It was an intricate lance technique that even seasoned knights would hesitate to attempt—a single thrust piercing through two men, their chests and abdomens aligned perfectly.

But was three simply too much?

Ivania discarded the spear and drew her sword.

It did not matter if she could not cut down every enemy herself.

Behind her were the four hundred knights personally entrusted to her by the prince.

The Ottoman forces, already struggling to hold their ground against the frontal assault, could not withstand the knights’ overwhelming charge.

They scattered.

And were slaughtered.

A force that lacked the hope of victory, nor even the resolve to stand their ground and die, could do nothing else.

The tide of battle shifted just as Ivania’s charge was concluding in success.

It was then that the banner she had been keeping an eye on finally drew close.

A man, clad in clean yet plain scale armor, raised his sword toward her.

The long years of conflict had led to countless cultural exchanges between the Turks and the Greeks, but even Ivania, who had fought beside the prince for so long, would never mistake one for the other.

Besides, his armor was unmistakably Greek, not Turkish.

In that moment, Ivania’s mind reeled back to the prince’s journey.

From a young age, he had sacrificed everything for his homeland’s salvation.

Through endless storms, he had never once abandoned his resolve, willing to shed his own blood for the cause.

How could they not see it?

Did they truly not understand why the prince had to don red armor?

Did they really not know?

Blood rushed to Ivania’s head, and she welcomed the fury that came with it.

“There is no forgiveness for those who abandoned the prince!”

If she cut him down and presented his head to the prince, surely he would be pleased.

A sharp intent to kill, mingled with the faint hope of offering victory, filled her heart as she prepared to strike.

At that moment, a voice filled with agony tore through the battlefield.

“Forgiveness?”

Paliotes, staring at the golden-haired female knight charging at him with unwavering fury, echoed her words.

Even if she had not shouted, the sheer weight of her emotions in that single word was enough for those around him to hear.

The shock of being cast aside by the Sultan had left his eyes empty.

Now, they were sharpened with hatred.

---

In 1204, after the cursed catastrophe of the Fourth Crusade, the empire had been torn apart.

Every time there was a glimmer of revival, disasters struck, making them question whether even the heavens had abandoned them.

And whenever they barely managed to survive, civil wars broke out, crushing any remaining hope.

Paliotes knew all too well that there were those who still clung to hope despite it all.

His great-grandfather.

His grandfather.

His father.

They had never lost their pride in their homeland, never stopped to believe.

And yet, the father who had once vowed daily that he would rise for his nation had, at some point, drowned himself in drink until his miserable life came to an end.

And it wasn’t just his father.

Too much time had passed.

Too many chances had been squandered.

And yet, that lowly woman dared to say such a thing?

Abandoned?

No forgiveness?

“Two hundred years.”

Paliotes’ trembling hands clenched tightly around the hilt of his sword.

He wanted to scream, to lash out, but the words caught in his throat.

Still, he forced out the cry that had been buried for generations.

“Was even that… was even that too short for you?!”

His grandfather.

His great-grandfather.

And all his ancestors before them—

How many times had they sworn that ‘one day’ their nation would rise again?

How many thousands, tens of thousands of times had they dreamed of hope beyond ruin?

He, too, had dreamed of it countless times because his father had dreamed the same dream..

The Wind Begins to Die Down

As he stroked the neck of his warhorse, roughened by the long march and the sea breeze, the prince gazed up at the sky.

Was it to shield his weary soldiers from the relentless sun?

Or was it to mourn the lives that would soon be lost on this battlefield?

His thoughts drifted as the clouds slowly swallowed the sun.

Yet the more time they wasted, the worse it became for Morea’s army.

Snapping out of his momentary daze, the prince lowered his gaze back to the battlefield and gave the command.

“Advance!”

-Advance!

The prince’s order echoed through the ranks as soldiers repeated the command, carrying it to every corner of the army.

A moment that had felt long—agonizingly so—had finally ended.

With hardened expressions, the soldiers stepped forward.

Some of them, no doubt, had realized the truth.

The enemy they were about to face was not the hated, feared Ottomans.

It was their fellow Romans.

Their fellow Greeks.

It was only natural that the hands gripping their spears tightened.

Yet none openly revealed their emotions.

There was no hesitation because they all understood what this battle meant.

If they failed to break through to Corinth, everything would end here.

Any hesitation now would render all their past struggles meaningless.

With this grim reality weighing on them, the Morean army pressed forward without pause.

But the prince’s order to advance was not the only movement on the battlefield.

Ivania’s cavalry on the right wing had begun their charge.

The Ottoman forces were also mobilizing.

The only difference was in speed.

While the Morean army swiftly closed the distance, the Ottomans moved sluggishly, their formation stiff.

The prince immediately grasped why.

It was the presence—or rather, the absence—of cavalry.

Fearing an attack from Ivania’s knights, the Ottomans had detached part of their forces to secure their left flank, forming a defensive square from the start.

They could have advanced first and then formed their defensive stance, yet they had chosen to move in formation from the outset.

That decision alone told the prince all he needed to know.

This was not an elite Ottoman force.

They were too afraid.

Too cautious.

Such movements were characteristic of armies lacking confidence.

The true Ottoman elite would never behave this way.

“They’re even deliberately slowing their advance to keep pace with their left wing’s defensive square.”

This maneuver certainly maximized their defensive advantage.

However, the lack of mobility meant that both their flanks could be isolated and forced into close combat.

It was a weakness caused by their lack of cavalry.

Even if the Morean knights numbered only a few hundred, the enemy clearly understood their destructive power and could not ignore them.

As a result, they had sacrificed maneuverability, creating a critical vulnerability.

More than that, the determination in their formation, built around their defensive stance, gave the prince another certainty—

The armies may have been similar in size, but their resolve was entirely different.

As the two sides neared the moment of impact, the prince finally voiced his conviction.

“Lower your spears toward the enemy!

They are slaves!

Cowards, already drowning in fear!

Show them that all our struggles have not been in vain!”

One by one, spearheads leveled toward the enemy.

The Ottoman spearmen, too, set their weapons in response.

Yet from the very beginning, the battle tilted in Morea’s favor.

The core of Morea’s army consisted of pike formations, personally trained by the prince to serve as an unbreakable anvil.

The skill of pikemen was measured by the length of the spears they could wield effectively.

And there was a huge difference in the length of Morean pikes compared to Ottoman spears.

As the spearheads clashed, wood struck against wood with sharp, splintering sounds.

Yet the shorter Ottoman spears needed to pierce through the dense forest of Morean pikes just to reach their targets.

Meanwhile, the Morean soldiers had only to thrust forward and keep the enemy at bay.

They were exhausted from their endless retreat, battered by defeat after defeat, But their pikes remained sharp.

And that sharpness was all they needed.

Contrary to initial expectations, the tide of battle was turning in favor of the Morean army.

The overwhelming difference in experience was evident from the level of proficiency displayed by the spearmen. At this point, the only option left for the Ottoman forces was to utilize their unarmed infantry to strike at the Morean army’s flank. However, the man leading the Ottomans—Paliotes—was unable to do so.

That was because the cavalry, led by Ivánia, had already begun maneuvering around the left wing, slowly closing in on their rear. If Paliotes withdrew the infantry guarding the main force’s flank, the entire army could collapse in an instant.

If victory was impossible, his only duty was to hold out until the Sultan’s reinforcements arrived. For him, making such a move was an unforgivable blunder.

In the end, Paliotes found himself both flustered by the completely unexpected turn of events and seething with rage toward the prince.

“So you truly… you truly intend to get us all killed!”

The left-wing formations, which had been positioned in anticipation of a flanking attack, were rendered useless as the main force was not only failing to gain the upper hand but was being utterly overwhelmed.

According to the original plan, the cavalry should have struck as quickly as possible to ease the burden on the main force.

Instead, they had been able to maneuver all the way to the rear. Even so, withdrawing the formations was not an easy decision. What if the enemy seized the moment they broke formation to launch an attack?

Burdened by such concerns, Paliotes could do nothing but watch the battle unfold unfavorably before him.

He had thought the enemy would be an easy match, assuming they had done nothing but suffer defeats against the Ottomans. He had only admired their resilience against a powerful foe, never understanding how they actually fought against the Sultan’s forces. He had believed they merely sacrificed innocent people as bait.

But what was this outcome before him?

At that moment, Paliotes recalled the Sultan’s stern command.

—Kill them all.

“S-Sultan…”

His voice trembled with fear as he was forced to ask himself the one question he dreaded most.

What if the Sultan’s true intention was not the annihilation of the Morean army under Dragases… but their own?

What Is Advantageous, and What Is Disadvantageous?

Before heading into battle, this was a question that had to be carefully considered.

The numbers—either roughly equal or, more likely, in the Ottomans’ favour.

It did not take long to reach this conclusion. Having fought in numerous battles, they had developed an eye for estimating enemy strength.

But even if their numbers were similar, the Morean side was at a disadvantage.

They were exhausted from continuous retreat, and their morale was far from high.

Beyond that, the presence of reinforcements could not be ignored.

While Morea’s reinforcements were uncertain, the enemy had twice as many fresh troops approaching.

Murad’s absence here was clear—his banners and the Janissaries were nowhere in sight.

It was unlikely that he would attempt another scheme. Having used one before, he would know its effectiveness would be diminished.

That meant he was personally leading the main force, preparing to crush them in a single, decisive strike.

In the end, there was a pressing time limit to break through.

With numerical superiority and the passage of time both favouring the Ottomans, Morea’s only hope lay in a single factor—the presence of cavalry.

The knights who had held Morea through countless battles.

Even in small numbers, the difference between having cavalry and lacking it was immense.

Why did the Ottomans have none?

Was it concern over the loss of horses during naval transport?

Whatever the reason, this was the only viable path toward Morea and Corinth.

Yet, a hasty decision could not be made.

Only about three hundred knights remained.

To ensure their charge could break through, they needed a leader with both the courage to command knights and the composure to coordinate the infantry.

In the past, either he or Francisco would have taken on this crucial task without hesitation.

But as thoughts wandered to those who had once fought beside him only to depart, he could not help but clench his fists tightly.

Adrianos, and Francisco.

Men who had jumped into the jaws of death with faith alone, believing in their cause.

And they were not the only ones.

How many had perished just to bring them this far?

This battle had to be won.

A choice had to be made.

“Ivania, lead the knights and strike the enemy’s left flank.”

She had distinguished herself in the last battle against the Janissaries, leading the knights to victory.

If there were no flaws in her command, she had to be entrusted with this task.

More importantly, she was the only option left.

Among those still possessing both skill in combat and cavalry tactics, as well as command experience, only Ivania remained.

Perhaps she, too, sensed this reality, as she made no suspicious movements—only gazed at him with worry.

“Your Highness, please be careful. Do not forget how much you have already endured.”

“This rests entirely on you. Do not fail me.”

She hesitated, as if there was more she wished to say.

But there was no time for conversation.

In the end, Ivania closed her eyes briefly before departing, leaving behind only a short bow as she made her way toward the gathered knights.

Now, as he watched her retreating figure, it was time to consider his next move.

Of course, his options were extremely limited.

“Among the remaining soldiers, those wielding swords will follow my orders separately. Sword wielders will advance behind the knights’ charge and attack the enemy. Spearmen will remain with me to hold the frontline.”

The outcome of this battle depended on how much success the knights could achieve with their charge.

Only two thousand soldiers remained after consecutive defeats.

Deploying four hundred of them required significant resolve.

And yet, lingering doubts crept in.

What if their numbers were insufficient, and they failed to expand their gains?

Even so, diverting more forces was too dangerous.

If the frontlines collapsed, everything would crumble beyond salvation.

Once Again at a Crossroads

Should they focus on the offensive, or on holding their ground?

A risky balancing act continued—between annihilation and survival, a decisive choice to forge a path forward.

The answer came quickly.

The soldiers were already at their limit.

The longer the battle dragged on, the greater the chance for a fatal mistake from their side, burdened by accumulating fatigue.

And time was on the enemy’s side.

“…However, as an exception, the three hundred stationed at the center will wield swords instead of spears and charge alongside the knights.”

A choice made possible only because the enemy lacked cavalry.

Had the Ottomans even two hundred horsemen, a reserve force would have been necessary to counter their flanking maneuvers.

Ordinarily, leaving reserves would have been the safer option.

But now, things were different.

They had to crush the enemy as quickly as possible.

This was an all-out battle—they had to break through before Ottoman reinforcements arrived.

It was evident—the knights’ performance would determine the outcome of this battle.

Their charge would decide victory or defeat.

If he could, he would have personally led them into the battle.

But a commander’s role was not to stand at the vanguard and cut down foes—it was to organize the battlefield and steer it toward victory.

A commander must trust those who follow him.

With that belief, he silently observed the enemy’s movements.

They, too, must have realized that the knights were the key to this battle.

Any commander failing to grasp that had no right to lead an army.

As expected, when Ivania led the knights forward, changes rippled through the Ottoman formation.

But it was not the response he had anticipated.

Instead, an unsettling maneuver unfolded before his eyes.

Several detachments began breaking off from the main force.

They varied in size—some in the dozens, others in the hundreds—all grouping together on the enemy’s left flank at regular intervals.

It was almost like a type of square formation, but vastly different from any tactics Murad or the Ottomans had displayed before.

Something about it was unnatural.

And then, he understood.

He understood exactly who the Morean army—and he himself—was truly facing.

“…So it has come to this.”

For every man who resisted the tide of change, there were others who embraced it.

For those who believed in revival, there were others who deemed it too late.

Some had chosen the chains that promised prosperity over Rome’s fading name and the remnants of a thousand-year legacy.

And now, those who had abandoned their past and resigned themselves to fate were pointing their spears at him.

Bitter.

Frustrating.

But that was all.

If they threatened the sovereignty and freedom of those who followed him, he would strike them down without hesitation.

He had vowed as much the day he cut down the Janissaries, the day his armor was first stained red.

---

Their intent was clear.

By using multiple defensive squares, they sought to obstruct the knights’ charge as much as possible.

But to what end?

The answer became obvious the moment he looked beyond them—at the enemy’s main force, standing in perfect battle formation.

A total war. Both sides would stake their beliefs on this clash.

They would throw everything into the battle to prove the worth of their convictions.

Would his main force collapse first?

Or would their left flank crumble before that happened?

Isthmus of Corinth.

At this strategic natural chokepoint connecting mainland Greece and the Peloponnesian Peninsula, two forces clashed. But to any observer, the situation was unmistakably in favour of one side. The exhausted Morean army, worn down by a long retreat, now found itself trapped—its escape route already cut off by the Ottoman forces.

One more irony stood out: though they fought under different banners, it was a battle of kin against kin, wielding swords against their own people.

---

“So, it has come to this.”

Paliotes recalled the young sovereign he had once met in private. A man who had set an entire city ablaze to save his crumbling homeland.

Perhaps it was because he understood that ruthless decision, that unwavering devotion to his country, that the fury he had once felt upon hearing of Nemeapatre’s devastation had long since cooled.

How could he not feel sorrow?

The prince had fought all this way, refusing to surrender his resolve against the might of the Turks.

A struggle like that… could never have been driven by mere greed for the throne.

If only.

If only Dragases had appeared even a little sooner…

At that thought, Paliotes shut his eyes tightly.

He could not allow himself to waver.

To survive, he and his comrades had sworn loyalty to the Sultan. Abandoned by a homeland unable to protect them, they had chosen to obey the one who promised order and prosperity in the chaos of war and invasion.

The moment he had witnessed Murad’s cannons shattering the towering walls of Athens, his conviction had solidified.

This was the end of the era.

A disciplined army, a prepared leader, swords honed to razor-sharp precision—they were the new rulers of the world. Conquerors who would put an end to endless wars and usher in a brilliant age of prosperity.

A crumbling empire, already reduced to ruins, could not stand against such overwhelming might.

And yet… there were those who had chosen a different path.

Fools who still believed there was hope left in an empire that had been decaying for centuries.

Those who had been betrayed time and again, disappointed beyond measure, yet still decided to believe in it to the very end.

Paliotes and his comrades, seeing the promise of a new era in the conquerors, had taken up the Ottoman banner.

But the others, seeing the remnants of their old pride in their protector, had rallied under Dragases.

Two sides, living through the same age, sharing the same faith—yet now, they stood against each other, spears raised.

There was no room for hesitation.

This was the Sultan’s final mercy, his last act of tolerance.

Paliotes repeated the Sultan’s solemn command in his mind, over and over again. The cold, unyielding words spoken after he had been brought to his knees.

“Kill them all.”

—How could he not tremble?

—How could he not feel fear?

His once-bold resolve had shattered the moment he met the Sultan’s chilling gaze.

There was no room left for doubt.

To hesitate any longer would mean losing everything he had sworn to protect.

And so, he had pledged himself as the Sultan’s loyal servant.

Mercy would only be granted to those who submitted to the Sultan’s will.

To act otherwise would be foolishness.

There was but one way to survive the Sultan’s ruthless decree—To utterly annihilate the Morean army and prove his loyalty.

With his right hand trembling, Paliotes clenched his fist tightly and watched as the Morean army slowly formed its ranks.

So, they truly meant to fight.

Even though they knew they could not win, they were willing to lead every last one of their men into the jaws of death.

Between the two armies, now facing each other with only a short distance between them, the banners fluttered and swayed in the wind.

Which one would remain unbroken until the very end?

It did not matter.

This was fate, a story that would end here.

At last, after his long contemplation, Paliotes drew his sword.

To share in the prosperity of the new era brought by the conquerors, one must pledge loyalty to them.

The Sultan, who would bring order to those tired of war, desired only one thing from them—the chains of obedience.

---

“So, Dragases… If you truly care for those who follow you and the people of this land—”

Paliotes shut his mouth.

He had seen enough of the prince’s resolve to save his doomed homeland.

He had felt firsthand the depth of his devotion, strong enough to offer even his own life.

But what did he intend to do now?

What could he possibly achieve at this point, when everything was already over?

The country was already lost.

A homeland that everyone had abandoned.

The old pride, the past glories—those had long since vanished.

Paliotes let out a quiet breath, his voice mixed with tangled emotions.

“…Then fall here. So that we may carve out a place for ourselves in the new nation that will rise upon this land.”

Paliotes had made his decision.

But he was not the only one.

The thoughts held by countless others—

The last beacon, their final hope—

Had come far too late.

It had been nearly a week since they had barely managed to retreat.

The sound of irregular footsteps and weary breathing could be heard from everyone. The soldiers were so exhausted that even lifting their heavy eyelids felt like a struggle.

It was only natural—they hadn’t had a proper rest since leaving Nemeapatre. Seeing their dangerous, faltering steps, the prince felt the same weariness weighing on his heart.

“…Everyone looks exhausted.”

They had fought while fleeing, abandoned their comrades when defeat seemed inevitable, and carried the guilt of those choices. It was no surprise that the prince muttered a bitter remark to himself as he looked at them. Yet, despite everything, he continued the forced march for two reasons: the Ottomans, who were surely in pursuit at this very moment, and the fact that Corinth was finally within reach. It was the latter that had kept both the prince and his soldiers moving.

No one had ever spoken the words aloud, but at some point, they had all come to believe it.

Corinth.

There, the battle would be decided. There, it would be determined whose will would prevail and who would claim victory. If they could just reach it, this grueling war would finally come to an end. That single belief had allowed them to accomplish the near-miracle of losing fewer than ten drifters.

And then, at last, as the faint outline of the city walls came into view on the horizon, the long-awaited cheers that should have erupted never came. Instead, only a thick, suffocating despair awaited them.

The soldiers at the front of the line, stunned by the sight before them, slowly lowered their heads one by one. No one could even muster a proper sigh of grief. They all refused to acknowledge the reality before them.

The prince wanted to do the same.

But instead of averting his gaze, he forced himself to take in the situation before him—because he had to. If they were to carve a path through the Ottoman forces numbering in the thousands, he had to fully grasp their predicament.

Still, even he couldn’t completely suppress his true feelings from slipping through. As he stared at the Ottomans forming their battle lines, he let out a low, strained groan.

“Murad…”

Crunch.

His teeth ground together as he swallowed the words he could not bring himself to say. Even so, he endured. The first thing he had to do was figure out how the Ottomans had managed to cross the Isthmus of Corinth before them.

Fortunately, the answer came quickly.

The Ottoman camp was not far from a fleet of anchored ships along the coast.

The real problem, however, was that such a large fleet had made it this far south completely unhindered. Whether numbering as many as forty or as few as twenty-five, the sheer scale of the fleet suggested an unhindered voyage. At that moment, the worst possibility flashed through the prince’s mind.

Had they allied with Venice?

Perhaps, believing that Ottoman naval power had been sufficiently depleted, the Venetians had chosen to impose sanctions on Morea, with whom they had previously clashed over trade disputes. Or perhaps they had decided that they no longer had the means to check Ottoman expansion and were now seeking to win their trust. Considering their history of pursuing only national interest, it wasn’t an impossible notion.

That is—if not for what the prince himself had done.

But he had far too many clues to overlook the real answer.

“They took advantage of an opening.”

Long ago, Murad had orchestrated a ploy to make it seem as if a Crusader army was forming, drawing in the Genoese fleet and indirectly setting the Venetian fleet in motion as well. That maneuver had led to unexpected consequences. Murad, who had used fleet movements to infer the Crusaders’ mobilization, would not have overlooked the resulting power vacuum at sea. This latest maneuver was just another example of him exploiting Morea and the empire’s naval inferiority.

In fact, it was possible that Murad had deliberately loosened his pursuit, allowing the prince’s forces to reach this point.

The Isthmus of Corinth was a natural strategic chokepoint, linking the Peloponnesian Peninsula to the Greek mainland by land. In a geopolitical landscape where Venice and Genoa dominated the seas, it was the Ottomans’ only viable route into southern Greece. That was why Emperor Manuel had once sought to fortify it.

However, in an extraordinary turn of events, the Isthmus had become a death trap instead.

If the Ottomans blocked both ends—sealing off the routes to both the Peloponnesus and the Greek mainland—there would be nowhere left to run.

Murad’s intent was now unmistakable.

Encirclement. Annihilation.

This was where the long series of clashes would finally be decided.

It had been a relentless battle of wits—Murad, seeking to bind and crush him completely, and the prince, striving to slip through the net and turn the trap against him. But Murad was far more tenacious and cunning than he had anticipated.

And now, after all the desperate struggles to evade capture, this was how it would end.

In this moment, the prince understood with absolute clarity.

The thousand-year empire he sought to protect, the sovereignty and freedom of countless people—all of it was threatened by one undeniable truth.

His enemy was history’s chosen victor.

A conqueror who had already been recognized—by heaven, by the world, and by history itself—for his power and worth. No divine intervention had aided him. His triumph was forged through relentless determination, meticulous preparation, and an insatiable ambition.

Understanding this, the prince also knew what Murad desired.

A fierce, unwavering will to erase him completely.

—He would have declared with absolute certainty that he would not tolerate even the slightest chance of survival.

As his long, agonizing contemplation reached its end, the prince slowly extended his hand toward the hilt of his sword.

But just as his fingers were about to grasp the handle, a completely unexpected sensation—warm and soft—startled him. His eyes widened in shock, and he turned his gaze.

There, standing before him, was Ivania.

Her face was stiff with determination, as if she had made a silent vow.

“…Did you not hear me? If you push yourself any further, this truly will be your final battlefield.”

Ivania was right. The fact that the prince could even rise from his bed was nothing short of a miracle, as if divine grace had momentarily defied the ruin of his body. The prince knew this all too well, which was why he could not bring himself to respond.

Seeing him unable to utter a word, Ivania smiled.

“I am grateful for everything until now, Your Highness. But this time, it is my turn.”

The moment her words reached him, the prince looked around. Every soldier was gazing at him with the same expression as Ivania. The resignation born from constant retreat, the exhaustion carved into their features, and yet, beneath it all, an unwavering resolve that trembled with intensity.

But the prince’s eyes wavered just the same.

Abandon them again?

Must he once more drive those who had stood by his side, who had endured countless hardships with him, into the jaws of death just to save himself?

Just as he was about to be consumed by his thoughts, he felt the warmth of the hand that had been holding his slowly slipping away. That familiar heat, the touch of those he cherished, was fading.

And he—he was the one letting it go.

He was the one forcing them to release the hands of their own loved ones.

Once again, in order to save him, someone else’s body would grow cold.

At that moment, the prince instinctively tightened his grip on Ivania’s retreating hand.

“Y-Your Highness? I appreciate your enthusiasm, truly! Really! But now is not—”

“I will abandon no one anymore.”

His voice was steady, quiet, yet it resounded with unmistakable clarity.

For too long, he had carried out contradictions—sacrificing in order to protect. He had compromised time and again, knowing it was wrong, just to maintain the fragile balance of a crumbling scale.

But one day, every contradiction leads to ruin.

And now, he stood at the crossroads of a cold, ruthless choice.

Would he surrender to the contradiction? Or would he remember what he had fought for all along?

The prince knew that he could no longer delay the answer to that question.

Perhaps it was too late.

But that did not matter.

No matter when it happened, a contradiction had to be corrected.

And that time was now.

“If this is the end, then at the very least, in my final moments, I want to remember what I was fighting for.”

“But, Your Highness! Have you forgotten all the sacrifices that have been made to get here?! If you are stopping me simply because I am a woman, then I cannot accept it, not now!”

“No… No, Ivania. It is not because you are a woman.”

“Then why?!”

“Because there will be no next time.”

With those words, the prince released the hand he had been holding.

And before Ivania could react, he moved first.

The sword that had long slumbered in fear of death was drawn.

It was only natural for Ivania to be horrified at the sight.

“Your Highness! Have you already forgotten why Sir Adrianos died?!”

“If we fail here, it will not matter even if we survive.”

The blood of countless fallen.

The deaths suffered by so many.

The wishes of those who had set themselves ablaze for a single, fragile hope—if that wish had yet to reach the heavens, then further prayers would be meaningless.

How much blood had already soaked the earth?

The offering had already been made.

Now, it was time for the Crimson Cross to answer.

The cruelest scale of all—one that could only bring peace through blood—would now tip according to the weight it had borne.

And if the Crimson Cross still did not answer…

Then there would be no further plans. No reinforcements.

Only one path remained—to carve open the road to Corinth.

Tightening his grip on the reins, the prince gave his final reply to Ivania.

“If the road will not open now, then I would rather meet my end here.”

“-I’m sorry, I lost them.”

As soon as Turahan dismounted, he knelt down and bowed his head.

Despite all the warnings and the relentless pursuit of the Sipahis, the Morean army had managed to shake off these hindrances and successfully fled westward to Epirus.

If the one leading the knights was indeed the Prince, he would soon merge seamlessly with the Crusaders. Given the grim news Turahan had brought, it was only natural for Murad’s expression to distort.

He had wondered what scheme the Prince had in mind that required him to stall for time. Now, Murad had to acknowledge him. The sheer cleverness of orchestrating the unexpected arrival of a Crusader army was indeed befitting of the empire’s so-called final beacon of hope.

Just how many reinforcements had the last hope of the empire managed to summon?

One thing was certain—the arrival of the Crusaders could prove fatal to the Ottomans. They had not yet fully subdued Morea, and preparing for a clash with the overwhelming forces of the Crusaders was reckless. They were already in a dangerous situation, having failed to secure a decisive victory. As Murad considered this, he felt as if heavy chains were binding his entire body.

“So, abandoning everything until now has paid off, Dragaš.”

How many lives had he sacrificed to drive a dagger into the heart of the Ottomans?

Dragaš’ original plan—to shift the battlefield from Morea to central Greece for a decisive battle—had already failed. Though his forces had been reduced to a state where even hoping for victory seemed impossible, the damage they had inflicted upon the Ottomans was far greater than expected. This was precisely why Murad could not afford to underestimate him.

Disasters that might have slipped past him had already unfolded. If he hadn’t thought of it the moment he heard of the suspicious movements of the Genoese and Venetian fleets, he would have made a critical mistake.

Murad was deeply impressed. Even while fighting against him for over half a year, Dragaš had managed to orchestrate a Crusade. Though he had never regarded him as an honorable foe, if everything had been for this one decisive move, it all made sense.

“But I do not intend to go down without a fight.”

Although they had narrowly escaped, a weary army could not have gone far. The relentless forced marches must have significantly drained their morale. Furthermore, there was an unexpected aftermath that even Dragaš had likely not foreseen—the power vacuum at sea caused by the movement of the Genoese and Venetian fleets. Though they had suffered a devastating defeat, with much of their fleet captured or sunk, the Ottomans still had around thirty ships remaining.

Until now, these had been used only for transporting supplies. Maintaining a stable supply route was crucial, but a larger reason was the uncertain response of the Venetian fleet stationed in the southern Aegean. However, now that the fleet had withdrawn in preparation for the Crusade, Murad felt an almost instinctive realization.

—A new path had opened to pursue Dragăș.

“Tell me how long until the fleet sets sail.”

“In two days, you shall see your fleet with your own eyes, O Great Sultan.”

The decision to regroup in Athens before embarking on the Morea campaign had been the right one. Dragăș could not have anticipated that Murad would exploit the power vacuum at sea to pursue him. It would be difficult for him to even notice. After all, how could the empire or Morea—completely devoid of a fleet—possibly detect the Ottomans’ movements in advance?

Murad unfolded a map of Greece and shifted his gaze to a single point.

The Isthmus of Corinth.

A natural strategic chokepoint connecting the Peloponnesian Peninsula to the Greek mainland.

If Dragăș was truly the one leading the knights, then it was clear he had deliberately drawn the Sipahis’ attention to himself, using his own life as bait in a desperate attempt to save even a fraction of his followers. Even if that weren’t the case, it didn’t matter. If the Ottoman forces could crush Morea’s main army and seize Corinth before the Crusaders arrived, they could buy precious time to face the Christian invaders.

To achieve that…

“Turahan, I shall grant you the chance to redeem yourself. Pursue the main force Dragăș left behind. However, your priority must be to drive them into the Isthmus of Corinth, ensuring they cannot escape easily.”

“I shall obey.”

“Of course, I intend to block their path ahead as well, so you must press forward without rest.”

“As you command, Sultan.”

“You have inherited your father’s passion, loyalty, and valor, yet you also possess caution. Do not burden yourself too much. Those wretched Christians are only struggling to survive today, but we have a future beyond this. Even if you fail, there will be no reprimand. Simply do your utmost to bring them to justice.”

Before the Sultan’s mercy and magnanimity, Turahan remained silent, bowing his head.

But soon enough, Dragăș, too, would bow before the Sultan—forced to pay the price for his sins.

Murad recalled one of the most horrific sights he had ever witnessed: wretched souls screaming as they were swallowed by raging flames, their bodies reduced to blackened ash.

“You set a city ablaze in an attempt to kill me.”

More than anything, he would avenge the innocent lives sacrificed under the cruel and bloodstained pretense of noble cause. He would ensure that those innocents who had perished in the name of the so-called ‘hope’ Dragăș had clung to would be justified.

He would remember the cities burned to the ground in the mad pursuit of restoring a thousand-year-old empire. And there was only one way to truly console their lost souls—Dragases death.

Murad recalled the oath he had once made—to become Dragăș ultimate despair.

And so, he whispered to himself, reaffirming his vow:

“I shall kill all who follow you to truly kill you.”

Here, in the Isthmus of Corinth—the place you believed to be your path to hope.

Here, where everything you struggled to protect will come crashing down.

The already small Morean army had now split into two.

The difference in scale was striking—an unmistakable divide between the main force and the detachment of knights.

For Turahan, who was still contemplating whether to launch an offensive, this was far from a welcome development.

However, any further delay would only grant the prince more time.

Lowering his gaze coldly, Turahan spoke.

“We will strike the smaller force. Prepare to charge.”

The Sipahi, cavalry designed to counter the knights of Western Europe, were heavy lancers armed with long spears.

Like their opponents, they were capable of executing lance charges.

However, shock tactics like a lance charge lost effectiveness when facing opponents of equal mobility.

Even so, Turahan had given this order for one reason alone—to decipher the prince’s intentions.

The enemy would have no choice but to form a defensive formation, uncertain of where the cavalry’s charge would land.

If the knights who had split off were used to block this assault, then dividing their forces in the first place had been a grave mistake.

In that case, why had the prince separated his troops at all?

To uncover the answer, Turahan aimed to strike precisely at the gap between the main infantry force and the cavalry detachment, forcing the prince’s hand.

A question lingered in his mind.

Would the prince abandon his knights once again, or had he laid a trap?

If the knights turned back to aid the main force, he would simply reverse course and strike them first.

If they fled, he would shift direction and give chase.

Either way, no matter what action the prince took, it would prove he had made a fatal miscalculation.

Unless, of course, he had never considered preserving his forces in the first place.

If the rear guard had once again been left behind solely to facilitate retreat…

“Conserve your strength. Be ready to halt at any moment.”

“As you command, Bey.”

The Sipahi at his side answered firmly, but Turahan showed no emotion.

He knew the burden that came with the honor of leading the Sultan’s elite forces.

Only by maintaining an unyielding focus on victory had the Sultan entrusted him with this campaign.

There would be no repeat of the Janissaries’ mistakes.

He reaffirmed this resolve over and over as he advanced steadily.

The Sipahi followed, forming their ranks in perfect order.

There was no hesitation in their eyes—only unwavering focus on the enemy’s movements.

As Turahan turned his gaze skyward, his eyes fell upon a banner fluttering in the wind, inscribed with a crescent moon.

A prophecy, attributed to the Prophet himself, surfaced in his mind.

—Behold the Queen of Cities, surrounded on three sides by the sea. In that place, the verses of the Qur’an shall reach the heavens.

“We are not all blinded by greed, Dragases.”

We are the army of the Prophet, executing the will of Allah.

The remnants of a fading era shall be cut down here.

On the verge of the charge, Turahan honed his resolve.

It was time to show the enemy just how sharp the blade he had forged had become.

Casting aside all doubt, Turahan drew his sword and roared—

“Allahu Akbar! Charge!”

The Sipahi surged forward, lances ready for impact.

Though distance obscured the expressions of their enemies, the shifting atmosphere spoke volumes about which side held the upper hand.

The thunderous sound of hooves shook the earth, mingling with the silent screams of those paralyzed by fear.

After suffering repeated defeats, their morale was crumbling.

Could any commander truly believe the formation would hold?

Turahan’s unanswered question was also the prince’s.

As expected, the prince, surveying the battlefield, bit his lower lip.

“This isn’t a direct breakthrough… It’s a maneuver targeting a gap?”

At first, he had been relieved that the enemy commander chose caution over reckless aggression.

But now, that same caution had become an obstacle.

Had the enemy simply committed to a frontal assault to inflict greater casualties, there might have been a way to counter it.

Their charge looked like a conventional attack at first glance, but the prince recognized the subtle shifts in their formation.

They weren’t aiming for destruction.

It was a maneuver.

A precise, cutting movement that placed them between Francisco’s knights and the main army.

If they turned that position into another charge at the exposed flank of the main force, things could spiral out of control.

More than that, both the prince and Francisco were now being tested—A trial of patience and judgment.

Which was in greater danger—the main force or Francisco’s detachment?

Were the Sipahi targeting the prince, or Francisco?

There was no way to stop them.

The enemy’s cavalry superiority was undeniable.

And after already splitting the four hundred-strong force, the Morean army lacked the means to counter the Sipahi’s maneuver.

Deploying infantry would only fracture their formation further, giving the enemy an opening.

Attempting a early retreat would spell doom for himself, Francisco, and the men under their command.

If the rear was overrun and the enemy’s reinforcements swallowed them whole, it would be the end.

A complete and utter disaster.

Realizing all of this, the prince found tears slipping down his face.

“I sent four hundred men to their deaths, knowing it was our only hope…”

Even understanding that, he still hesitated.

His survival had been bought with the lives of those who trusted him.

But reality was even crueler.

He could not let the enemy sense his intent to retreat.

To do that, he had to convince them that he still commanded four hundred knights.

And there was only one way to do that.

A word heavier than any other, soaked in blood—

[Sacrifice].

Another sacrifice was needed.

And the longer he hesitated, the more lives it would cost.

“Was… four hundred not enough?”

The sheer momentum of the Sipahi cavalry alone made them seem like thousands, yet to stop them, only a few hundred lives had been sacrificed. Had that been the mistake? Was it wrong to struggle to shed less blood? Even as he wrestled with these thoughts, the prince had no choice but to give his orders. The longer he hesitated, the greater the sacrifice would be. Feeling the dampness of his helmet strap against his skin, he issued a command, bracing for the worst.

“Form a defensive line.”

The prince’s order brought a shift within the Morean army. Soldiers began to cluster tightly, forming a defensive stance, with Ivania at the forefront—not beside the prince, but in front of him, ready to shield him. It was a clear sign of their determination to fight. Now, only Francisco’s decision remained. Would he charge toward the Sipahis, fearing for the main force’s safety, or would he remain patient and observe?

Fortunately for the prince, Francisco did not make a rash move.

True to his reputation as a knight hardened by the Reconquista, Francisco and his men stood firm. One obstacle had been overcome, but one more remained.

As the Sipahis finally cut off the prince’s connection with Francisco, he found himself muttering under his breath.

Please, don’t realize it. Not yet. How desperately he repeated that silent prayer in his mind.

Then, the Sipahis—who had been thundering toward them with unwavering resolve—began to slow. They lowered their lances, reducing their speed, and eventually came to a halt. There was no sudden charge, no immediate clash. Instead, they merely stood still, staring at the Morean formation, as if allowing their winded horses a moment’s rest.

Seeing this, the prince recalled a crucial difference between the Ottomans and the Moreans.

The Ottomans had something the Moreans—and the empire—did not.

—A corps of officers rich in experience.

“…They’ve noticed.”

No. Even if they hadn’t fully realized it, it wouldn’t matter. From the very beginning, victory in this battle had never been about annihilating the enemy. The Moreans had only one goal—to retreat to Corinth at any cost—while the Ottomans had to prevent it. It had been a hopelessly one-sided battle from the start.

And now, the worst-case scenario had arrived.

The Sipahis were not attacking. Instead, they were merely maintaining their position, waiting for reinforcements. And the worst part? There was nothing the prince could do about it.

—How much time had passed?

He swallowed hard. The Sipahis still hadn’t moved. If this stalemate continued, nothing would change. And yet, time was slipping away.

Then, amidst the eerie stillness of the battlefield, a faint, foreign sound reached his ears.

It was so subtle it could have been missed. But in his state of extreme tension, the prince did not.

Because he had been dreading this very moment.

Whipping his head around, he saw it. The final nail in the coffin that would seal the fate of this battle.

A flagpole raised high. A crescent moon fluttering in the wind.

The meaning was clear.

“…Reinforcements.”

The word fell from his lips in despair, and at that instant, the sounds of galloping hooves and sharp gasps rang out behind him.

Would it be better not to look?

That thought crossed his mind, but he still turned his gaze. And when he did, he regretted it.

The Sipahis, who had been standing idly, had begun to move. They were circling around, cutting off his retreat.

At that moment, the prince looked up at the sky.

Is this the end?

After struggling so desperately, does it all end here?

After sacrificing tens of thousands, was this truly all they had gained?

Then, amid his despair, a voice—one filled with near-reverent astonishment—shouted out.

“The Sipahis have turned! Look! They’re chasing the knights!”

The prince snapped his gaze back to the battlefield. It was true.

Francisco and his knights had suddenly bolted westward, and the Sipahis were now giving chase.

Why? Why now?

For a brief moment, confusion clouded the prince’s mind. Then, realization struck.

“-He will not allow even the smallest possibility.”

At the same time, he understood something else.

Murad was not indifferent to the movements in the West.

He was wary of Genoa and Venice. The fleeing knights—though a small force—were enough to trigger his caution.

Murad was acting under the assumption that a nonexistent Crusade might yet materialize.

“It wasn’t in vain.”

None of it was in vain.

The false Crusade, the scheme to lure Murad deeper into the conflict—all of it had meaning.

The tens of thousands of lives lost were not a pointless sacrifice.

The blood spilled had forged the very chains now tightening around Murad’s throat.

If that was the case—

“Retreat. I repeat, retreat!”

To Corinth.

With hope in their hearts.

When the Sipahis finally made contact with the Morean army, they fully understood—and shared—the Sultan’s fury.

A man who abandoned those he was supposed to protect and fled.

People had praised him as the last light of the thousand-year empire, but in the end, he was nothing more than a fleeting existence.

The Sipahis from Rumelia (the Balkans) were particularly scornful.

Look at him.

The moment he realized they were in pursuit, he had begun butchering his own soldiers again.

Where, in that sight, was the glory of a thousand years?

And this sentiment was not exclusive to the Sipahis.

Turahan Bey—son of Pasha Yiğit Bey, who had devoted himself to the Ottomans since their early rise, and a young man who had distinguished himself during the Bulgarian uprising—felt the same way.

“Dragases… has he become so blinded by immediate victory that he has forgotten what he is fighting for?”

As a general, such an attitude might be natural.

A vision that eliminates all distractions and evaluates the battlefield purely from a strategic standpoint.

But Dragases was not merely a general.

He was a sovereign, bound by duty to lead his people toward a prosperous future, to bring forth the peace upon this earth.

And yet, he abandoned his own subjects.

Then what, exactly, was he fighting for?

For what cause had he sacrificed so many lives?

Those who followed the Prophet’s prophecy had been promised prosperity.

They carried within them the assurance of a blessed life in paradise and the unshakable conviction that they were doing what was right.

But what of those who floundered within the remnants of a crumbling thousand-year empire?

What resolve did they hold?

It was time to discern Dragases’ true intentions.

Before issuing the order to attack, Turahan hesitated.

—Does he want us to split? Or does he want us to take the bait and bite down on one side?

One thing was clear—Turahan himself could not make a swift decision.

This was a long-awaited chance for the Sipahis to redeem themselves, after their humiliating defeat at Dragases’ hands during his surprise attack.

It was also an opportunity for Turahan to repay the Sultan for saving his life during the Bulgarian uprising.

They could not afford heavy losses against such a meager force.

That very thought restrained Turahan.

And this moment of hesitation would open a path for the enemy.

He knew that.

Yet, in the end, Turahan could not bring himself to make a rash decision.

Dragases, though he often seemed excessively cautious, would sometimes display bold recklessness.

He knew when to be brave and when to think.

Fighting such a man was troublesome.

Turahan narrowed his eyes and muttered under his breath,

“This is getting irritating.”

Ultimately, the prince’s judgment had been correct—so long as the enemy was unsure of his true objective, they would not launch an all-out attack.

By hesitating, Turahan and the Sipahis had given Dragases the time he needed.

Now, all that remained was to abandon in order to advance.

But he would not turn away so easily.

He had vowed not to become a fool who accepted sacrifice as a given.

With his lips pressed into a firm line, the prince looked upon those he would have to leave behind once more.

He did not know all their names.

But he knew their wishes.

They still wanted to fight.

They still cried out that it was not too late, that they could still succeed.

They begged for just a little more time, pleading desperately for one more chance.

The prince’s role was not to bear this burden alone.

His duty was to take their desperation—their refusal to accept the crushing weight of ruin—and raise it to the heavens so that even the sky would hear their cries.

The existence of the last light was proof that fate, no matter how predetermined it seemed, could still be rewritten by human hands.

And the soldiers who would throw themselves into death understood this well.

They also understood that for flames to burn, fuel must be fed to them.

At last, the prince’s gaze turned to his knight.

Before the silent gaze fixed upon him, the knight let out a hearty laugh.

“We’ll meet again alive. Even on battlefields worse than this.”

Battlefields worse than this.

The prince turned Francisco’s words over in his mind.

If there were worse battles than this, how much more desperate would they be?

The sheer amount of bloodshed would be too horrific to even imagine.

It was not a sight he wished to see.

Suppressing a shudder at the thought, the prince replied with a faint chuckle in his voice, as if hoping to ward off such a future.

“Is there really a battlefield worse than this?”

“Well… I suppose our cousin would know the answer to that.”

Francisco’s vague response left little room for further discussion.

From that moment on, the prince said no more.

They simply stared at each other in silence before turning their backs in unison, as if it had all been prearranged.

The sound of horses gradually faded into the distance.

Before long, Francisco closed his eyes as a voice called out to him from behind.

—Your Highness, I will stay by your side. Please, do not take unnecessary risks.

—I can ride on my own, so stay back.

—How long do you intend to keep sacrificing yourself like this?

—If a day ever comes when no more blood must be spilled, it will be long after you have learned to read the room and stopped approaching me like this.

Was he speaking with that insolent woman?

Francisco smirked, shrugging his shoulders slightly.

A steel-hearted sovereign who kept his reason even in the darkest of times, and an overly passionate female mercenary captain.

No matter how things unfolded, their story was bound to stir up gossip.

Would that impenetrable heart of his ever break?

With idle thoughts flitting through his mind, Francisco strode toward the four hundred men awaiting his command.

For the prince, self-sacrifice was a given.

He had endured countless losses, and yet there were still those waiting for him—those he had to protect.

The same was true for the four hundred soldiers Francisco would now lead.

Each had come to the battlefield carrying the weight of a reason to survive.

Francisco was no different.

“I’ll make it back alive.”

Because he knew when he was meant to die.

His words, spoken from within his helmet, echoed like a chant, yet the rest of his thoughts remained unspoken.

A blade that had claimed countless lives before would only shine brighter, the more blood it drank.

With that in mind, Francisco drew his sword.

It shined, radiating a silver-white brilliance.