Category: About a Dating Sim Where Dating Is Impossible

To protect one thing, you must abandon another.

This cruel yet simple contradiction is not easily carried out. But once you take that first step, you cannot stop. The moment you forsake a single thing, you are bound to keep discarding more—because you wish not for a beautiful ending, but to survive, however wretchedly. You must never grow accustomed to it. The instant you do, all the sacrifices made until now will be defiled.

Those who abandon in order to protect must suffer endlessly between justification and reality.

And now, yet again, the time had come for another painful choice.

Beyond the ridge, birds flapped their wings, taking flight from the forest.

Too late.

The veins in his hand bulged as he clenched the reins. He had marched as hard and as far as he could, yet in the end, it had not been enough. And judging by how far the pursuit had reached, Adrianos, who had held the rear…

His vision blurred. Instead of straining to see into the distance, he lifted his head toward the sky.

“I’m sorry.”

And this life you saved—I swear, I will keep it alive.

Just as he made that vow, a familiar voice rang out behind him.

“Not the best news, cousin.”

“I already know what you’re going to say. It’s the Sipahis, isn’t it?”

Francisco had lowered his visor the moment the retreat began, and even now, his face remained hidden behind it. As expected, he gave no answer. Sipahis. Though they had suffered heavy losses from an ambush before, their forces still far outmatched their own. If it was Murad, he would not hesitate to unleash his devoted cavalry to tie them down.

“…At this rate, we’ll be caught.”

“If we stop to fight the Sipahis, we’ll waste time, and the enemy’s main force will catch up. But if we ignore them, they’ll harass us until we’re forced to a halt anyway. Well, that’s checkmate, isn’t it?”

A conversation with no real back-and-forth. Yet within it, Francisco and I were facing a brutal reality.

How could I not understand the meaning behind his lighthearted tone as he spoke so matter-of-factly about their grim predicament?

Slowly, I turned my head to meet his eyes.

Behind the cold iron mask, a quiet fire burned.

Holding that fire within, my cousin spoke.

“This time, it’s my turn.”

“…Then how many must die? Adrianos held the rear to buy us this much time, and for that, thirteen hundred soldiers had to perish. Cousin, how many will you need?”

A deep sense of despair swept over me.

How powerless I was.

How pitiful.

I spoke grand words, but in truth, I was nothing more than a wretched creature, struggling in desperation to survive a single day longer—throwing those who followed me into the abyss.

Adrianos was already dead.

A man who had come to me on my father’s orders, who had trusted me, who had been prepared to lay down his life for me, had bled out.

I now understood that the depth of a bond was meaningless.

What tormented me was the fact that those who followed me knew they would have to die for my sake—
and yet, they chose death anyway.

“Four hundred.”

But my cousin, faced with such a cruel question, merely gave his answer with unwavering composure.

The moment I heard his response, I no longer wanted to think.

I knew it wasn’t the right answer.

I knew better than anyone that it was far from the best solution.

Yet I could not shake my head.

The contradiction of abandoning to protect.

I knew it was the only rope left to cling to in this situation, so I could not refuse.

The only reason I did not nod immediately—was because no matter how many sacrifices were demanded, I refused to become someone who accepted them as a given.

“I’m sorry. I won’t ask you to come back alive—that would be too shameless of me.”

“You don’t need to. I’ll come back alive regardless. Don’t make this into something dramatic, cousin.”

“Instead—”

“I said, don’t make this dramatic.”

Francisco shrugged with a playful smile.

This knight—passionate, cheerful, and fearless—had come from the Iberian Peninsula.

And now, I was giving him a cruel, tangled command.

No, calling it a command would be too much.

A plea, a request—those words suited it better.

Perhaps that made it even more shameless.

Such trivial thoughts ran through my mind as I carefully spoke, one word at a time.

“Hold out for as long as you can.”

So that as little blood as possible would be shed.

I tried to say it firmly, without hesitation, but as the words left my lips, my voice wavered.

Even asking him to return alive was a luxury in a situation like this.

And yet, knowing that—knowing he was willingly stepping into the jaws of death—I still asked him to hold out as long as possible.

How laughable.

It might even seem like mockery.

But despite hearing this, my cousin extended his hand.

When I reached out and clasped it, a firm strength travelled through his grip.

A hand tightly clenched.

My cousin, my knight—with all the brightness he could muster, answered,

“Of course.”

Time flows on, regardless of whether one is prepared.

The day of decision had finally arrived. As the royal prince had declared earlier, the Morean army abandoned the siege and began forming ranks beyond the city gates. Watching as they opened the gates and positioned themselves, Murad tightened his grip on the reins. How long had he awaited this moment? With a mixture of sentiment and determination, the young sultan gave his command.

“Commence the advance.”

The sound of horns echoed through the battlefield, followed by the steady rhythm of war drums. At the forefront, the renowned Ottoman Janissaries stepped forward in unison, leading the advance. As the entire Ottoman force moved in perfect sync, even the silent earth trembled beneath them. The distance between the two armies steadily narrowed. So far, everything was unfolding exactly as the royal prince had planned. Yet, despite this, he could not bring himself to feel relief.

“One thousand three hundred men.”

A staggering number of 1,300 lives were to be sacrificed for the retreat to Corinth. Was this truly the only way? Even now, it wasn’t too late. If there were a better plan, a superior strategy, then these men wouldn’t have to be abandoned.

For years, Adriános had served him with unwavering loyalty, and these soldiers had entrusted him with their hopes for the empire’s survival, prepared to die for it. Surely, there had to be another way—one that wouldn’t force them into certain death.

But no matter how hard he searched for an alternative, none came to mind. A turning point without sacrifice simply did not exist. Perhaps his hesitation stemmed from the sheer number of people he had already abandoned. He had burned cities, ordered the deaths of innocents, and now, he was about to cast aside even those who had followed him with trust. Was the sovereignty and freedom of his people truly worth such a price?

Even as the royal prince wrestled with these doubts, the battlefield moved forward relentlessly. The gap between the two armies shrank until a clash was imminent. Murad, unaware of the prince’s turmoil, observed the Morean formation, carefully calculating his next move.

“They’ve concentrated their forces on the left flank to an absurd degree. Are they gambling on a breakthrough at a single point?”

A new question filled Murad’s mind—one concerning the very fundamentals of strategy and tactics. Since ancient times, the most basic military formation had been the hammer and anvil. Even the division of armies into wings and a central force was designed to maximize the effectiveness of this tactic. Moreover, most formations tended to be stronger on the right flank, as the majority of soldiers were right-handed. The Ottomans were no exception.

No matter how much Dragaš reinforced his left flank, breaking through the well-fortified Ottoman right would not be easy. Would that meticulous man truly march into battle without considering such a basic principle? Murad sharpened his gaze, focusing intently on the Morean left. With knights stationed at the front, it was clear they intended a traditional Western-style lance charge.

At the same time, the extreme focus on the left had left their right flank dangerously thin. The Ottoman sipahis, who had suffered heavy losses in a previous ambush, now had an opportunity for vengeance. Even if Dragaš managed to collapse Murad’s right, it would be meaningless if his own right and central forces crumbled first.

Then I shall clip your right wing before you can take mine.

“Send the sipahis to the left. Have them annihilate the enemy’s right flank and redeem themselves for their past defeat.”

Messengers hurried to relay Murad’s orders. Soon, the sipahis, eager for retribution, turned their horses toward the enemy right with triumphant shouts. At the same time, the Janissaries were held in reserve to counter the inevitable lance charge. Even if the enemy’s cavalry broke through, they would not easily fall. In the end, this battle would be decided the moment the sipahis crushed Dragases right and center. All they needed to do was hold their ground until then.

“This will be our final battle, Dragaš.”

The sipahis surged forward, kicking up a cloud of dust, while the Ottoman infantry advanced in tight formation. Murad took in the sight, falling into silent contemplation. Against the unwavering faith and loyalty of his troops—the true warriors of belief—how much resistance could the remnants of a fallen thousand-year-old empire muster?

The sipahis moved in perfect coordination under the sultan’s command. Despite suffering heavy losses in the past, their spirit remained unbroken. Yet, Murad could not begin to imagine what the royal prince must have felt upon seeing them.

The prince bit his lower lip. A force of just three hundred men was far too little to halt the incoming charge. From the moment the sipahis began their charge, he knew—

Without reinforcements, the right flank would be annihilated.

Clenching his fists, the prince agonized over his decision one last time. This was the final crossroads. Would he save them and stake everything on this battle, or abandon them without hesitation?

The fate of Adriano and 1,300 soldiers hung in the balance. Standing at this final moment, how could he not long for the kind of sweet, hopeful resolution found in fairy tales and heroic epics? The kind where everyone, against all odds, survives and finds happiness in the end.

Then, the prince felt it—countless gazes upon him. At some point, they had turned their eyes to him, watching in silence. Even with weary faces, they gripped their spears firmly, their eyes burning with determination.

How could he not understand their desire for a happy ending? They all wished for it. The prince himself, and even the soldiers who would soon be forced to flee, leaving their comrades behind.

But he had committed too many sins to believe that such a story could happen to him. Miracles did not come to those who merely wished for them. Heaven would not aid those who relied on faith alone.

And the moment he steeled himself with that conviction—The prince cast away all hesitation.

“There will be no reinforcements for the right wing. We proceed as planned.”

No one objected to the prince’s decision. No one expressed anger. Those who followed him merely accepted it with quiet resignation.

Among the soldiers turning their eyes back to the battlefield, none shed tears. They only gripped their spears so tightly that their veins bulged. And so, Morea’s right wing clashed with the Sipahis, receiving no aid.

In step with them, the Ottoman center advanced swiftly. The forces led by Adrianos began their clash with the numerically superior Ottoman army. How terrifying it must be—to hurl oneself toward certain death. Even the prince, as a man, could not help but feel such sentiments. Yet as he observed the unfolding battle, his right hand instinctively reached for the horn trumpet hanging beneath his saddle.

It was a precaution, in case Adrianos’ banner fell too late in the chaos. But such concerns proved unfounded. The moment the spears of both armies met, the banner snapped without hesitation. The prince let out a silent cry, unable to voice it aloud.

—I’m sorry.

—Buuuuuuuuuu…

The deep, steady sound of the horn trumpet echoed across the battlefield. Before the battle, all Morean troops had been briefed on the signal. The moment they had hoped would never come had finally arrived. Standing at the forefront against the Ottoman right wing, Francisco lowered his helmet as soon as he heard the sound, concealing his face.

“This is truly disgraceful.”

A knight who abandons his comrades to avoid battle—such an act is neither honourable nor noble. And yet, as the Morean forces began their retreat in response to the signal, their movements carried a solemn weight.

If they were fleeing in terror, they would have turned and bolted. But instead, they withdrew with unwavering discipline, their motion slow and deliberate—like the stillness that falls before death. The cruelty of the decision weighed upon them all.

“I can’t afford to be the only one whining… Retreat.”

When even Francisco turned his horse around, Morea’s center and right wing were engulfed by the surging tide of the Ottoman army. Only the broken banner remained, barely upright, the last proof that Morean troops still stood.

The one most stunned by this unexpected maneuver was none other than Murad. Even he, who had always maintained his composure in his battles against the prince, Dragases, could not hide his shock. But only for a moment. Murad’s initial confusion quickly turned into searing rage.

“Abandoning them again? The people who followed you, the ones you swore to protect—are you discarding them once more, just to run away alone?!”

What is a thousand-year empire worth? Who is it meant to serve?

A thousand years of glory? A ruler of all the world?

No—he is nothing more than a lizard, cutting off its own tail in a desperate bid to survive.

“I allowed him one stroke of fortune, but not this time! Deliver terms of surrender to the enemy before us! If they refuse, turn all our cannons away from the walls and obliterate them instead!”

“Your anger is justified, my sultan! But the battle is already in chaos! The remaining enemy forces are clinging to us, refusing to retreat, making bombardment impossible!”

They were stalling for time. Even after being abandoned by their lord, they refused to forsake their loyalty. Murad could no longer contain his fury.

“DRAGASES!!!”

But by the time his rage reached its peak, the battle had already turned. Morea’s right wing, deprived of any reinforcements, had finally collapsed, and the Sipahis had struck the flank. The fact that they had withstood the onslaught this long was proof of their exceptional courage. Pressing the advantage, they could continue hammering the flank and quickly annihilate the remnants.

Yet Murad chose a different path.

“The right wing is finished—that is enough. Recall the Sipahis and send them after Dragases! Delay him—make sure he cannot escape!”

Even as he issued the order, his breath was heavy with lingering rage. His gaze then shifted to the battlefield, where the encircled Morean forces were falling apart. And at that moment, a phrase he had once heard resurfaced in his mind.

“Those who follow Prince Constantine have chosen to die in hope rather than live in despair.”

“…Hope. What a cruel sound it is.”

A single life snuffed out by a dozen spear tips. Men thrashing in agony before death. Among them, one stood out—a commander, no doubt, a man of rank. If he had the conviction to embrace death, he must have been one of Dragases’ lieutenants.

Did he resent his prince in his final moments? Or did he still believe?

As his body was dragged from his horse and impaled upon an upturned spear, the only remnant he left in this world was the face within his fallen helmet. Murad turned away from the battlefield, his expression growing cold.

A spark will one day become a flame, and a flame will one day turn into an inferno.

But in the end, all that remains after the fire has passed is cold ash.

“O Allah, now I understand why You have given me Dragases as my trial.”

---

TL : Wow, I stood up and applauded. What a great chapter it was. Rest in peace, my boy Adriános.

“There is no longer any meaning in holding the fortress.”

It was the first thing the prince said as soon as he gathered his ministers after barely regaining his composure. Even if they did not fully grasp his intentions, the fact remained—so long as the enemy had cannons, his words carried weight. The ministers nodded in agreement. The nature of warfare had changed, and fortress walls were no longer a reliable defense. Knowing this, a retreat to Corinth had to be executed.

But before continuing, the prince turned his gaze toward a man standing in the corner.

Adrianos.

The longest-serving minister, who had followed him under the orders of Emperor Manuel II and handled countless affairs. If they were to retreat to Corinth, Adrianos had to die. And he surely knew that as well. Yet, Adrianos merely stared at the prince with a calm, unwavering gaze.

In the end, the prince whispered, too softly for anyone else to hear—

“I’m sorry.”

Clenching his fists tightly, he turned back to the gathered ministers and continued.

“Even as Murad bombards the walls with his cannons, he has yet to launch a full-scale assault for one reason alone.”

“He’s trying to force a field battle.”

Francisco had guessed correctly. Murad had an extreme distaste to prolonged sieges and attritional warfare. A more conventional commander would have reluctantly continued the blockade, but Murad was different. He would do whatever it took to draw the defenders out. Given the way he had been led by Murad’s strategy thus far, the prince had naturally recognized the enemy’s intent.

“Once we step outside the walls, he will leave no room for retreat. He may have planted sympathizers inside Athens, or perhaps he plans to use his Sipahis to disrupt our rear.”

“Which direction do you plan to retreat?”

“The north.”

“Why?”

Francisco was not the only one seeking an explanation. Adrianos and Ivania remained silent, but their eyes were fixed on the prince, awaiting his answer. The prince slowly closed his eyes, envisioning Murad’s encirclement of Athens.

Apart from the heavily fortified northern gate, the surrounding siege lines were alarmingly thin. Why had Murad formed such an unbalanced encirclement?

A memory surfaced—the sight of Murad during a previous skirmish. The way he had met the sudden assault without a trace of panic, his cold, calculating resolve amidst the chaos. Many would have simply deemed him ruthless, but the prince had seen deeper—the restrained fury concealed within those eyes.

That, at last, revealed the answer.

What was there to hesitate over?

The prince responded.

“I must avoid Murad’s suspicion.”

“What suspicion?”

“Your Highness, why do you continue to keep your intentions hidden from us? Have our years of service still not earned your trust?”

Ivania’s voice carried an unmistakable note of hurt, but the prince’s resolve did not waver.

Who knew where Murad’s spies lurked? The Sultan had already detected Venetian intelligence efforts. If given even the slightest pretext, what was the worst that could happen?

Caution was unavoidable.

Yet deceiving those who had followed him loyally was not easy. After much deliberation, the prince chose to reveal only a fragment of the truth.

“I need to reinforce Murad’s belief that Epirus will not intervene in this war.”

“What do you mean…?”

“I don’t know exactly what Epirus’s inaction will mean or how Murad will interpret it. But what matters is that Murad’s primary target must be us, not Epirus. To ensure that, he must be convinced that Epirus will remain uninvolved. If he saw them as a threat, he would have gone after them first.”

Epirus had to serve as a bridgehead for an alliance with the West. If Murad’s invasion had become imminent before that, would Genoa have so readily formed an alliance? Perhaps, upon seeing Epirus in the midst of war preparations, they might have instead sought to eliminate the Empire’s influence there entirely. To counter such a move, a two-front strategy was essential. In the end, even if Morea was reluctant, it would have to march north to hold back Murad’s forces.

At first glance, it seemed as though this strategy favoured the Empire. But there was a fatal flaw.

To inflict real damage on Murad, Epirus would have to be sacrificed. They had to wait and observe until Murad advanced deep enough, as he might decide to turn back at any moment. However, if they rushed north too soon out of concern for Epirus, Murad would indeed retreat—just as he wanted.

“What does that have to do with heading north?”

“It will give Murad the impression that we are cornered and preparing for a final showdown.”

“…Your Highness? You’re not planning to take the battlefield yourself again, are you?”

“No.”

The prince bit his lower lip hard. A little more pressure, and the fragile flesh would burst.

Before stepping onto the battlefield in the past, he had reminded himself over and over—endure. He had even laughed. Smile while you can, because you won’t have the chance to later. It had been the right decision.

“…Only by making it seem like we are preparing for a decisive battle will Murad refrain from attacking before we can form our lines. What Murad must achieve in this war is a victory that demonstrates an overwhelming difference in martial prowess. His authority has already been shaken considerably—his only way to restore it is through an absolute triumph in open battle.”

Then, once more, the prince murmured to himself—

I’m sorry.

“—I will now explain the battle formation. Adrianos will command the center and the right flank. The rest will be positioned on the left flank. The right flank and center will each have 300 and 1,000 men, respectively. The left flank will place its cavalry forces at the forefront, forcing Murad to station infantry in anticipation of an assault on his right.”

Endure.

“The right flank has only one purpose—to hold back the Sipahis attempting to flank us. Their task is to tie down the charge that will inevitably target the center, even if only once.”

I must endure.

“In the meantime, the left flank will be divided into two units—one primarily infantry, the other cavalry. My cousin will lead the cavalry and attempt to maneuver around the enemy’s flank. Ivania, you will command the infantry. Pull back and maintain formation in the rear, making the enemy believe you are functioning as a reserve force while the cavalry, center, and right flank draw their attention.”

I must endure.

“And finally, when the center engages the enemy, Adrianos’ banner will fall. In case it is not clearly seen, a horn will also be sounded as a signal…”

To protect, one must abandon.

Feeling the weight of those words once again, the prince was forced to give the order he never wanted to utter.

“…All forces except the center and right flank will commence retreat.”

To Protect, One Must Abandon.

This simple yet brutal truth is all the more unforgiving for the weak. Resources are always limited, while the things that must be protected are endless.

The are only two choices available: attempt to protect everything, knowing it is beyond one’s means, or discard all but the few things that truly matter. Could there be a heavier question for a leader who has followers depending on them?

Ideals and reality.

If one were to choose between the two, they would naturally wish for the ideal. Yet what awaits at the end of that path is nothing but a beautiful tale—or at best, a tragic end. The undeniable truth is that no one wants their struggles, their very lives, to be reduced to mere stories of triumph or grief.

Everyone desires a happy ending. They want to enjoy in a life of abundance, to scream in joy and exhilaration. They all crave it—even if their happiness comes at the cost of someone else’s subjugation and tears.

And so, the second choice was made.

Once the decision to abandon was made, hesitation was no longer an option. One by one, sacrifices were made. And where did that lead? Burning cities, forcing innocent sacrifices, and now, demanding even the lives of loyal subjects. How many more must die? Is it truly the right path to try and revive an empire on the brink of destruction against the Ottomans?

Sovereignty and freedom upon a land laid to waste, or prosperity promised through chains and subjugation.

Which of the two do people truly desire? And are they worth the sacrifices being made?

At first, there was no understanding of those who fought for values like honour and glory. But upon realizing the worth of sovereignty and freedom, those ideals were taken upon these shoulders. And yet, now comes the creeping doubt—what if all this is merely leading to even more bloodshed?

Could it be that, under the noble cause of sovereignty and freedom, the path taken is the wrong one?

No answer comes from personal contemplation alone, nor from looking around for guidance. Even turning to the Red Cross, laden with expectations, yields no promise of peace. Is even more sacrifice still needed? Sighing changes nothing. Blood must flow—whether it is that of those who follow or those who stand in opposition.

And if blood must be shed, then let it be that of the enemy.

Even with such resolve, reality awaited. The Morea army was on the verge of collapse. To retreat to Corinth, a rear guard was necessary to draw Murad’s attention and attacks. There was no way for all to survive. Against overwhelming force and cold steel, the only way to tip the scales of war was to place a weight upon them.

For the retreat to Corinth to succeed, someone had to die—someone other than oneself. And Murad could never be allowed to see through this intention. In the end, those who volunteered for the rear guard would die in the cruelest, most wretched manner. The moment they believed they would not be abandoned was precisely when they would be cast aside.

Perhaps it would be better to hope for a miracle and fight to the last man. That way, regardless of victory or defeat, all would meet a death of meaning. If successful, it would be the best possible outcome. But had this truth not been repeated time and time again?

One must not pursue the best possibility at the risk of losing all possibilities.

A last stand is only an option when no other means remain. And Murad is not the only one seeking to encircle the enemy. The fate of this war will be decided in Corinth. If Murad is pinned down there, the empire will claim victory; if not, the triumph will be his.

The moment eyes fell upon the ragged gypsy, kneeling and presenting a sealed letter with both hands, intuition struck.

“Genoa is making its move.”

Venice, wary of Genoa’s fleet gathering near Patras, would soon respond. Whether they protested diplomatically or moved their own fleet, either outcome was favourable. The cautious Venetian Senate would likely prefer military preparations to avoid any unintended clashes. But their true intentions in the Aegean, and those of Genoa, were irrelevant.

What mattered was how Murad would perceive the sudden movement of two maritime powers.

Since their crushing defeat at sea during the reign of Sultan Mehmed, the Ottoman fleet had never fully recovered. Now, between the two storms that were Genoa and Venice, they would inevitably be pressured. And this was only the beginning.

“Cannons… A formidable weapon indeed. I had thought the true age of gunpowder had yet to arrive.”

The fifteenth century was an era of chaos—not merely because old powers fell and new conquerors rose, but because the very nature of war was shifting. No longer was warfare dominated by knights and cavalry; the slow transition to infantry and artillery had begun.

This was the fifteenth century.

From now on, cannons must be factored into the calculus of war. Especially when dealing with the Ottomans, who had the capability to transport them discreetly.

A countermeasure would be essential.

Though an enemy, admiration was inevitable.

Indeed, cannons were Murad’s best and most effective means of countering a delaying strategy. A new pattern had emerged—one that shattered the old premise of relying on fortress walls. But Murad was not the only one doing his utmost. Hidden beneath seemingly meaningless sacrifices and deception lay the true intention.

—Murad had to believe that this war was solely between Morea and himself.

It was crucial to hold his attention firmly in place, preventing him from easily detecting foreign intervention. To achieve this, there had to be room for Murad to misinterpret the intended strategy. That was why the intervention of Epirus had been deliberately delayed—to conceal the planned involvement of the two maritime powers before Murad’s descent into central Greece.

Preserving Epirus’s strength was a factor, but ultimately, the true purpose was to keep it in the background—allowing it to serve as a bridge for negotiations with Genoa while Murad still believed it was uninvolved. And if Genoa attempted to intervene in the Aegean, Venice was certain to respond immediately.

It was exceedingly rare for both Venice and Genoa to act at the same time.

Either they were on the brink of clashing with each other, or…

…a Crusade had been declared.

Of course, no such Crusade was coming. The key was to make Murad misinterpret the intentions of the Western powers. The timing of these movements would seem far too coincidental for mere posturing. He might be able to guess who had set things in motion, but not what would come of it. The only certainty was that he would soon deem further delays to be dangerous. In his desperation to crush Morea, he would push forward even deeper.

Meanwhile, Morea’s territory had to be preserved as much as possible. And it could not be allowed to collapse instantly due to its numerical inferiority. That was why Corinth had been chosen as the final battleground. The Isthmus, with its natural constraints on maneuvering, would prevent the Ottomans from fully leveraging their numerical advantage.

But no decisive battle would take place there.

That location had never been meant for a final confrontation.

Now, the fate of the empire—whether it would endure or meet its end after centuries—was no longer in these hands. Instead, it rested in the capital, where a single answer awaited. Everything depended on one person.

The one who had once thwarted the former Sultan Mehmed’s southern Greek campaign.

The one who held that answer.

“Father, this unworthy son has done all that he could.”

A vague sense of what that solution might be began to take shape. If his father possessed something that could stir the Anatolian beyliks into action…

He bit down hard on his lower lip, suppressing his frustration. The encirclement was nearly complete.

“He must think he is the one laying the trap.”

But Murad would soon realize his mistake.

The knot he believed he was tightening around his enemy had been set around his own neck as well. The rope had been cast over them both.

—And so, the path led to Corinth.

Even if it meant sacrificing thousands of lives.

Even if it meant killing Adrianos, who had trusted and followed him to the very end.

From the moment the campaign began, there had been lingering questions.

Why does His Highness act this way?

Why does he refuse to reach out to Epirus, even in this moment of desperate need?

Doubts that even unwavering faith could not erase.

Now that Adrianos had received answers to all his uncertainties, he could stand before the people without the fog of hesitation clouding his mind.

Konstantinos Dragases—the final beacon of light in a dying empire—had dispelled the thick mist that had obstructed his path.

But not everyone knew His Highness’s true intentions.

For the salvation of the empire, his designs had to remain hidden.

Thus, he had to persuade them.

The thousand soldiers standing in formation before him, filling the training grounds—each one had been shaken by the thunderous roar that could bring down even the strongest walls.

Yet still, they had not lost faith in their prince.

Adrianos gazed at them for a moment, then clenched his fists tightly.

Holding the rear to buy time for His Highness to escape—no matter how it was dressed in grand words, its essence remained the same.

It meant death.

He understood this and had already resigned himself to it.

His Highness, in return for my loyalty—a devotion so strong that I resolved even to die—has granted me the reason why I must die.

Then it was only right for him to offer his soldiers the same choice.

Believing so, Adrianos slowly pulled out the red bandage he had hidden within his cloak.

The soldiers, bound by strict military discipline and unable to voice their confusion, instead sent questioning gazes.

Standing before them, Adrianos finally spoke.

“We will die.”

A ripple of unease swept through the soldiers—it was only natural.

But the countless brushes with death they had endured kept them steady.

This was the change that had taken root over the past few months.

War did not only shift the balance of power.

It changed lives, reshaped beliefs, and wielded the greatest force capable of altering even the fate of life and death.

At that moment, the last audience he had with His Highness resurfaced in Adrianos’s mind.

“And the reason we must die is here, in my hands.”

He raised the blood-soaked bandage high into the air.

Whose blood was it?

Adrianos knew.

He knew who had shed it, why it had to be spilled, and why they had to avoid a final confrontation with the Ottomans until now.

“Do you see this bandage, stained with blood? Can you tell whose blood it is?”

While all eyes had been fixed on central Greece, struggling even to keep track of the enemy before them, there was one who saw beyond.

One who, while others clung to false hope or braced themselves for an ever-looming defeat, had pursued true victory alone.

He must be saved, no matter the cost, even if thousands of lives had to be sacrificed.

“We all remember that His Highness once declared he would stand with us on the battlefield. Some doubted. Some believed he would never truly spill his own blood.”

Centuries of decline had stolen something precious from the people—faith.

Among those who had lost it, no amount of words could reach them; only wounded skepticism remained in their eyes.

That was why His Highness had to show them.

He understood it better than anyone.

So, he did not try to win their trust with words.

He proved it with blood—not the blood of another, but his own.

At this moment, Adrianos felt profoundly fortunate to have sworn his allegiance to Konstantinos, the prince.

“Look well—this is the proof of His Highness’s devotion. To prove his dedication, he bled until he could stand no more. The only reason I have gathered you here is to convey this truth.”

Having said this, Adrianos turned away from the podium.

He took several steps forward without a shred of hesitation.

Yet a small wave of regret struck him belatedly.

How many would truly grasp the gravity of their fate?

And how many would be willing to face death alongside him?

Would it have been better to command them instead of giving them a choice?

But even if he thought so, he could not reveal His Highness’s true plan.

There was no guarantee that no traitor lurked among them.

In truth, he himself should never have known.

It was only through his self-sacrificing loyalty that he had been granted the certainty of their future.

His Highness had blamed himself for his own powerlessness and had begged Adrianos to forgive him for not being able to do more.

But it was enough.

For those who follow a leader, the greatest promise that leader can offer them—above all else—is a future.

What was this battle for?

[The purpose of this war is not merely to stop Murad.]

Victory in war is determined by the achievement of strategic objectives.

[The Ottoman blade is sharp and keen. Then what is the best course of action? Everyone would answer simply—prevent it from being drawn from its sheath in the first place.]

Why is it that such a young man is called the last hope of the empire?

[…That is why we set the knot. A trap to bind the blade within its sheath before it can be drawn. If the sword cannot be unsheathed, then the keen edge that crowned Murad as sultan will slowly tighten around his own throat.]

Because he does not chase the glory of victory.

[Our defeat will instill fear and urgency in those who watch the Ottomans. There are many who do not wish to see the balance of power collapse into a one-sided dominion. In the end, they will seek an opportunity to intervene before the tipping point is reached—especially Venice, desperate to maintain control over the Aegean, and Genoa, ever eager to project its influence.]

[Once more, we must send a warning to the West—through the victory of the Ottomans and through our own defeat. At the same time, we must also foster the expectation that, if they unite, they can triumph over the Ottomans. That is why this cannot end in a crushing defeat. This is why we avoid a decisive battle. We may not be able to overturn our disadvantage, but we must not allow ourselves to be utterly broken.]

[And the enemy must never realize this intention. So we deceived them, over and over again. Knowing they would not be easily fooled, we crafted countless layers of deception. We had to obscure our true goal of prolonging the war. That is also why Epirus remains uninvolved—Murad must not know when they will enter the fight.]

[This war hinges on how well we can control the timing of foreign intervention. At the same time, how deeply we can draw Murad in is just as critical. That is why we had to keep this from everyone.]

[Adrianos, do you now understand the true purpose of this war?]

Because he is a man who pursues victory in a single stroke.

People fear the night because of its darkness.

Throughout their brief lives, whenever they lifted their heads to gaze at the night sky, the shadows stretching in all directions evoked a primal fear.

Perhaps sleepiness itself was a learned response—a helplessness ingrained by the knowledge that one could not fend off predators in the dark.

In his younger years, when his mind was cluttered with restless thoughts, Adrianos would reach not for books and ink, but for a drink.

But tonight, the night sky looked different.

The Milky Way flowed like a great river, stars scattered densely across the heavens, and the moon stood at the center, casting a quiet, gentle glow over the world.

Had there always been so much he had failed to see?

The night he had thought to be nothing but darkness was, in fact, filled with countless lights—lights that no shadow, no matter how deep, could entirely conceal.

To say he simply hadn’t noticed them before would be an understatement.

They had always been there.

And so, Adrianos slowly nodded, unable to deny the truth any longer.

He had been so caught up in excuses—so consumed by the belief that failure was inevitable—that he had failed to see what was truly important.

Even as ruin loomed ever closer, there were still those who refused to abandon hope, those who held on to the possibility of salvation.

Those who had waited, yearning for someone to rise again.

Their light, though faint, was steadfast enough to illuminate even the night sky.

And yet, time and time again, those who had suffered countless defeats lost faith in their own light.

That was why this was the darkest of times.

A nation that had lost trust in itself after centuries of decline.

Disasters that struck in succession, as if to signal divine abandonment.

As if that were not enough, civil wars raged endlessly, each faction turning its blade against the other for the sake of a throne atop barren land.

It was no wonder people could no longer believe.

For centuries, the empire had been crumbling, and in that time, it had failed to protect those it should have.

The will to preserve it had shattered, worn down by repeated invasions and internal fights.

The empire was sinking.

Until the prince appeared.

While everyone else claimed this was divine judgment, he alone called it a trial.

A burden heavier than anything else—the duty to preserve an empire—had been placed upon his young shoulders.

The final light, left to burn by the heavens themselves.

A solitary beacon in the darkness, standing alone in the darkest hour.

Even if one could not see it with their own eyes, such a brilliant radiance could never truly be hidden.

That was why, before the sound of approaching footsteps even reached him, Adrianos already knew who it was.

“I’m relieved to see that you seem well, Your Highness.”

“Adrianos…”

The same frozen expression as always.

The prince had always carried himself as if he felt nothing at all.

But Adrianos, who had devoted himself to his liege for so long, held a quiet certainty.

Right now, those unshakable eyes must be trembling, if only slightly.

And as he turned, there it was—

The steadfast prince, wavering for the first time.

Perhaps unwilling to reveal even that moment of weakness, the prince slowly closed his eyes.

“I’ve done nothing but demand sacrifice. Last time, this time… and the next time, too, I suppose.”

It wasn’t just this war.

How many had died by his unspoken orders?

How many had been sacrificed, despite their innocence, under the banner of preserving the empire?

Yet at the same time, he had longed for a world where people would break free from the empire’s grasp and embrace the prosperity of the changing era.

“When will this end?

Even I am beginning to waver, and now, you too are leaving me.”

“My sacrifice was inevitable the moment I swore my loyalty to Your Highness.”

“Even so, I refuse to become the kind of fool who accepts sacrifice as a matter of course.”

He had wrestled with this countless times.

To speak or to remain silent.

But if he could not even be honest with someone willing to die for him, then who could he ever confide in?

The prince opened his eyes, taking in Adrianos’ determined figure.

The kind of unwavering resolve found only in those who had made peace with death.

Then, as if offering a response to such conviction, the prince made his decision.

“Adrianos, as a response to your devotion, I will now reveal to you what I have kept silent until now.”

That single sentence was the beginning.

The prince, who had never confided in anyone, no matter how close, began to speak—one truth after another.

Why he had refused to let Thomas of Epirus join the battle.

Why he had not forced a decisive confrontation against Murad.

Why he had stalled for time, and for what purpose.

Everything.

Not a single detail was withheld.

Hearing the full extent of these plans, Adrianos could not hide the tremors that overtook his body.

Tears welled in his eyes as the certainty he had clung to was finally proven right.

Yet at the same time, he couldn’t help but wonder—why had the prince chosen to reveal all this to him now, when no one else had known?

“Your Highness, why are you telling me this?

If it is so important, should you not guard it even more closely?”

“Haven’t I already told you?

This is my answer to the devotion you have shown me.”

At Adrianos’ question, the prince clenched his jaw.

If only he had wielded more power, perhaps such bitter sacrifices would not have been necessary.

If only he had uncovered the truth sooner, perhaps so many lives would not have been lost.

He loathed his own helplessness.

And yet, for someone like him, this was the only form of compensation he could offer Adrianos.

“I have driven you into the jaws of death because of my own powerlessness.

But I will not let you die in despair, in resignation, or in fear.”

“Your Highness…”

“For now, take this.

It is all I have to give you.”

Adrianos opened his mouth to speak but soon fell silent.

The warmth trailing down his cheeks—whose tears were they?

Instead of saying what he had intended, he spoke different words.

“In that case, Your Highness, I ask you to grant me one final request.”

“Anything.”

“May I call you Your Majesty?”

A reverent silence followed.

And then—

“…I am still but a prince, not yet crowned. But I swear this—one day, I will become emperor, for you and for those who follow us.”

“That was all I wished to hear.”

There were no soldiers to cheer—only the rustling of leaves, stirred by the wind.

The heavens, adorned with countless stained-glass stars, and the silver flames of the sacred torches offered their silent blessing.

Like blessed oil, more radiant than any luxurious coronation, light spilled over the prince’s head.

The humblest coronation in history.

And yet, the most sacred.

Without a moment’s hesitation, Adrianos called out to his emperor.

“Your Majesty.”

---

TL : Hey everyone, thank you for reading this far. I hope you’ve enjoyed the journey so far. We have completed 25 percent of the story with 100 chapters, meaning there are still 300 more chapters to come. I will be taking a break from this novel for a week. In the meantime, I hope you review this novel on Novel Updates.

The ground trembles.

The fortress walls, which had withstood the test of time for countless years, were now crumbling in vain. No matter how often they were hastily patched with wooden reinforcements, such measures were only temporary. Before the relentless roar of cannons, everything was rendered meaningless. There was no need for words—everyone understood.

The seeds of change, long writhing beneath the depths of time, had finally sprouted.

The era was shifting.

Watching the fortress walls shatter and collapse, Francisco could only mutter:

“This is the limit.”

The walls of Athens, the morale of the soldiers—everything. The battle had become entirely one-sided. Regular arrows could not even reach the enemy cannons, while the cannons, with their vastly superior range, continued to dismantle the fortress. As long as Morea’s forces remained under siege in Athens, the casualties would only mount.

The walls were no longer a reliable shield—if anything, they had become obstacles hindering their movements. This place had long turned into a death trap; if they wished to survive, they had to flee.

Not to central Greece, which had already fallen into enemy hands, but to the prince’s stronghold.

Yet, the prince remained unconscious. Having pushed himself to the brink, losing so much blood that he had nearly succumbed to death from bleeding, it was no surprise that he had yet to recover. His loyal retainers had devised an escape plan, but executing it was another matter entirely. Of course, if the situation became any more dire, they were prepared to carry it out by force.

Still, the hope that the prince might wake soon, that he might regain his senses and take command once more, kept them hesitating.

It was time to abandon that hope.

Just as Francisco reached this conclusion, a messenger came running toward him, breathless. What could have happened to warrant such urgency? Francisco had barely turned a questioning gaze upon him when the long-awaited words fell upon his ears.

“Sir Francisco, His Highness has summoned an audience.”

For a brief moment, he was too stunned to react. He simply stared, dumbfounded. The prince had summoned an audience? Francisco blinked in disbelief. But as the meaning of the words sank in, a bright smile spread across his face.

“What perfect timing.”

“…Pardon?”

“No, it’s just… I thought he might take longer, but this is almost eerily precise.”

“…?”

The messenger gave him a bewildered look, as if he were staring at a madman. Francisco let out a chuckle. He was tempted to tease the poor man further, but now was not the time. There were matters of greater importance at hand.

“I shall go see His Highness.”

It had been nearly a full week since they had discovered the extent of the prince’s injuries.

//

The meaning of the prince’s summons was clear.

It meant he had emerged from his long unconscious state—that he was now well enough to move, or at least lucid enough to hold a conversation. And indeed, the hopes of Ivania and Francisco, who rushed to his side, were not in vain. Though he looked utterly exhausted, the prince was steadily bringing a spoonful of thin soup to his lips.

The physician tending to him, recognizing that his presence was no longer required, gave a silent bow before quietly departing.

At that moment, Ivania’s composure crumbled.

“Y-Your Highness…”

The prince, who continued to eat as if completely oblivious to Ivania’s tear-filled eyes, was not as indifferent as he appeared. A seasoned warrior’s sharp gaze was not so easily deceived. Each time he blinked, weary from exhaustion, his eyes briefly flickered toward her—only to quickly glance away, pretending not to notice.

The sight was so comically transparent that Francisco nearly burst out laughing. To suppress his amusement, he furrowed his brows instead. The prince, in turn, cleared his throat awkwardly.

“Hm. It seems I caused undue concern while I was unconscious. I regret troubling you all at such a crucial time before battle.”

“But Your Highness has recovered—that alone is truly a relief, truly…”

“Ivania, I appreciate your concern. However, as a grown woman—and one who already has a spouse—you should compose yourself. I fear for the rumors this might spark.”

“I don’t care. What does it matter when we haven’t even slept together? In fact, why don’t I just bear your child instead? If you are to rebuild the empire, it should be a multi-generational effort. I am ready to serve you both on the battlefield and in the bedchamber!”

“Y-you were fine for a while, and now this again?!”

“Now that we’re on the subject—does Sophia even contribute anything?! She’s a complete failure as a wife! Meanwhile, I am right by your side on the battlefield, doing far more to support you! Don’t you think my service is infinitely more valuable?!”

“Ivania, allow me to correct your misunderstanding. First, what you are doing is not ‘supporting from behind’ but rather ‘fighting alongside me.’ Second, Sophia is utilizing every resource at her disposal to aid us in this war. Therefore—”

But Ivania was no longer listening. Her breath came in excited gasps as she fixated on something with an intense, melting gaze.

Following her line of sight, the prince turned his head—only for his expression to twist in horror.

“Demon! A lecherous demon!”

“Your Highness! Even if it’s illegitimate, as long as it’s your child, I don’t care!”

“What nonsense are you spewing?! Damn it, Franciscoooo! Do something about her!”

“Uh… Well, I’ve never met a woman this shameless before, so honestly, I have no idea how to handle this.”

“Remember this! A cousin is still my people, damn it!”

“Lady Ivania, I believe you should cease your disrespect at once.”

Francisco’s voice took on an uncharacteristic sharpness. He knew full well that this was an absurd argument—but he also recognized that, if things took a turn for the worse, even he might not be able to handle Ivania.

And so, the commotion ended in anticlimactic silence.

Ivania pouted, grumbling. Francisco feigned indifference, pretending not to notice. The prince, now glaring at them both, could only clutch his throbbing head and let out a weary sigh.

However, knowing this was an intentional attempt to ease the tension, the prince quickly regained his composure.

Yeah, this had to be a joke.

But for now, what mattered was what had happened in the meantime.

Maintaining a calm demeanor, the prince shifted his gaze between the two.

“Enough. Now, tell me. What’s happened so far, and why isn’t Adrianos here?”

“…That’s…”

“The situation’s bad, so I’ll keep it short. The sultan brought cannons.”

Francisco ignored Ivania’s sharp glare at being interrupted, and the prince didn’t have the luxury to dwell on it either.

“Cannons…?”

A sharp headache spread through him.

His first reaction was shock and admiration.

Then came self-reproach—why hadn’t he seen this coming?—followed by the crushing weight of realization.

Until they had set out for Athens, he had assumed the enemy’s pursuit had been delayed because they were recovering from their own losses.

But Murad had been preparing cannons.

And instead of relying on siege tactics, he had flipped the situation to force them into open battle once again.

In an instant, their defensive advantage had been stripped away.

What was there to say?

Should he commend Murad for his flawless strategy?

Or blame himself, despite all his knowledge and still failing to predict the arrival of cannons?

No.

Neither.

The prince bit the inside of his cheek, forcing himself to stay focused.

“Explain everything in detail.”

“If that’s what my cousin wants, I’m happy to oblige.”

“……”

The prince listened with a serious expression, while Ivania’s brows furrowed more and more with each passing moment.

Despite the strange atmosphere, Francisco remained composed as he continued.

That gave the prince a moment to think.

Something about Murad’s actions didn’t sit right.

The biggest question was how he had brought the cannons here.

The closest Ottoman port was Larissa.

Even if Murad had waited until the Morean forces entered Athens, there simply hadn’t been enough time for the cannons to be transported from there.

Even if the timing had worked out, there was another problem.

How had he kept them hidden?

According to Francisco, there had been no sign of cannons at the start of the siege.

And then, just as Francisco began describing the enemy’s encampment, the prince’s entire body tensed with rage.

He clenched his fists, trembling.

Francisco blinked in surprise.

“What is it, cousin? Did you figure something out?”

“Yeah. How the cannons suddenly appeared, why we only realized their presence so late… I understand now.”

If it had been an ordinary strategy, he would have recognized it and used it himself.

But Murad’s method—he couldn’t use it.

No, he wouldn’t.

“He didn’t bring the cannons fully assembled.

He transported them in pieces and put them together here.”

“He assembled the cannons? That’s… actually possible. Damn it!”

Francisco swore under his breath.

Bringing the cannons in separate parts would have made transport far easier and, more importantly, much easier to conceal.

Now that they knew, it made perfect sense.

But it wasn’t something anyone would have thought of before—it was a method no one had ever used.

“And the wooden wall… they weren’t actually meant for defense, were they?”

“What are you saying now?”

“…I don’t understand either, Your Highness. Then what were they for?”

“They were a cover. A way to hide the fact that they were assembling the cannons.

They might have pretended to be setting up camp, using the tents as cover while they put everything together.”

Francisco and Ivania’s eyes widened in realization.

Had the young sultan really gone to such lengths to keep his cannons hidden?

And if the prince had managed to figure it out now, what did that say about his own insight?

Yet, despite the awed looks they gave him, the prince only clenched his teeth and swallowed his frustration.

Murad’s strategy required overwhelming administrative power—

Absolute control over his territories.

Unshakable internal order.

A supply convoy became riskier the longer it was on the move.

Transporting heavy cannon parts would slow it down even more.

It would require more manpower.

More resources.

This wasn’t something a single commander could pull off.

It was a testament to the power of the state itself.

National strength.

“…We need to start preparing for a retreat to Corinth.”

“If that’s the case—”

“Don’t worry, Your Highness. Everything has already been arranged.

We were just waiting for you to wake up.”

Ivania cut Francisco off smoothly, as if she had been waiting for this moment.

Somehow, the way she said it almost sounded smug—but perhaps that was just his imagination.

Even so, the prince’s expression remained tense.

Because he hadn’t asked just one question.

“Then all that’s left is to figure out where Adrianos is.

Where is he?

Why hasn’t he come, despite being summoned?”

“Ah… Sir Adrianos…”

“….”

Silence.

A deliberate silence.

Why weren’t they answering?

As the prince considered the implications—

His expression went cold.

If you asked whether they had relied on the prince until now, everyone would answer, “Yes.”

From the very beginning, Morea was a nation sustained solely by the prince’s authority. Because of this, they had no choice but to trust and follow their sovereign. It was only natural, given that the authority of an individual still outweighed that of the state. Even those who were regarded as high-ranking officials were no exception.

Everyone followed the prince because they believed in him, and they acted according to his word because they acknowledged his capability. Morea had achieved centralization under the prince’s leadership, making this tendency even more pronounced.

However, every strength comes with its weakness. The high dependency on the prince also meant that there was a lack of talented individuals whom he could entrust with heavy responsibilities.

That was why the prince never hesitated to stand on the battlefield himself.

To prevent a catastrophe that a single mistake could bring, he had shown through his actions that he was willing to sacrifice his own life. And the result of that was now laid bare before Francisco and the other officials. As if struck by chills, his lips and fingers trembled faintly from time to time. His blood-drained face remained rigid and cold.

“He has lost too much blood.”

Only the physician’s voice, thick with sweat and regret, filled the air as he rewrapped the bandages. Though the bleeding had finally stopped, spilled blood could not be put back into his veins. In the end, the prince, his face pale as death, could do nothing but struggle for breath—unable even to let out a groan.

Aware of his own condition, he had deliberately announced his seclusion to hide the severity of his injuries. Who would have imagined that the prince, who had always seemed unshakable, would collapse like this? Among those present, only Ivania, who had been informed in advance as a trusted aide, remained relatively composed.

But now, the others finally understood.

Adrianos, unable to utter a word, stepped forward only to drop to his knees and bow his head. Francisco closed his eyes tightly before barely mustering the courage to face reality. He had always called the prince “cousin,” flaunting their closeness. The passionate knight who had traveled from Iberia to Greece now bit his lower lip as he gazed at the unconscious prince, lying motionless with his eyes closed.

“Even in this state, he was worried about unsettling the soldiers…”

What ruler could be this devoted? What sovereign would willingly offer their life for their people? Many speak of honor and noble sacrifice. But instead of preaching, the prince had chosen to demonstrate it through his actions. He was far too young to take on the burden of saving a nation on the brink of ruin. Yet he fought to fulfill the heavy duty placed upon him. And in doing so, he reaffirmed Francisco’s conviction.

Just as some others had realized before him, Francisco was now certain.

Constantine Dragases. He alone could serve as the unifying force to bring together the fragmented Christian factions. Even after multiple Crusades had ended in failure, only the prince could drive out the mighty Turks who had invaded Greece.

He had to be saved.

Even if it cost Francisco his life.

To accomplish this seemingly simple yet dangerous mission, they first had to accept reality.

“This means Athens’ fall is inevitable.”

As Francisco spoke, the entire room may not have turned to face him, but he could feel their attention shift. Emboldened by this, he declared their new objective.

“Athens cannot be defended. That means our priority now must be to safely escort my cousin—His Highness Constantine—to Corinth. Does anyone have any objections?”

He was certain that no one would… until he noticed a pair of piercing eyes glaring at him.

“But look at His Highness. He hasn’t even regained consciousness. If we force him to move in this condition, he might truly…”

“Might truly what?”

“…pass away.”

Francisco shrugged at Ivania’s increasingly sharp gaze, which seemed to ask whether he really had to make her say it. There was no need to press her further. Even if she hesitated to say the words outright, everyone knew what she meant. But they were already in a situation where they had to assume the worst. Francisco pointed this out.

“We have no choice. If we’re captured here, it’s all over. Of course, we’ll have to buy time for His Highness to escape. A great deal of it.”

It was a cruel truth. A heavy silence settled over the room. Amidst it, only Francisco and Ivania locked eyes, their gazes subtly clashing.

At last, Francisco spoke first.

“I’ll take my cousin’s place and act as a decoy to draw their attention.”

“No, you need to lead the knights. I should do it instead. If we have to hold out for a long time, a heavy infantry unit would be far more suitable.”

Both arguments made sense.

Ivania and Don Francisco—though they had joined at vastly different times—were now both indispensable to the prince. One was destined to be the pillar of the newly restructured infantry, a key commander. The other was the hammer that strengthened the knights’ forces.

It was precisely because they knew this that neither could back down.

Whoever took on this role was walking toward certain death.

Another silence fell. However, no one could lightly interrupt with words. It was a moment too difficult to make an easy decision. In this uneasy stillness, the first to speak was neither Ivania nor Francisco.

“Knight of Aragon, do you remember the moment you rebuked me for failing to realize that His Highness’ life was necessary for victory?”

“…Hey, you sure hold grudges for a long time.”

Adrianos, who had remained silent with his head bowed for a long time, slowly straightened his posture. His rigid lips, hardened from years of bureaucratic work, and his somewhat frail frame, shaped more by the grip of a pen than a sword, marked him as a man of administration.

Yet sometimes, the vessel of the human body bears far more weight than it seems capable of. Half in jest, half in earnest, Francisco responded, but soon found himself unable to continue joking. Adrianos had already made his decision.

“Until now, I have merely followed the path His Highness carved with his own life. I have done nothing but follow.”

No matter how precious the cause, true devotion is never an easy pledge.

“You two will bear significant responsibilities in the inevitable battle ahead. If, due to my lack of ability, we suffer defeat, I know I would spend the rest of my life in regret, asking why I had not stepped forward when I had the chance.”

Adrianos’ resolve stemmed from an unwavering trust—an act of the highest service. Clenching his fists tightly, he recalled the days past, from the moment he first arrived in Morea under Emperor Manuel II’s orders to every trial and triumph shared with the prince. He had rejoiced in the prince’s victories and stood firm against his tribulations.

Though lacking in skill, Adrianos had often lamented that he was of little help to the prince. Yet he took pride in serving with absolute sincerity, free from any selfish motives. Surely, there were those who would say that this alone was enough.

But sincerity and integrity alone could not win wars.

One day, men far greater and more capable than himself would gather around the prince. They would be the ones who must unite against the formidable enemy that was the Ottomans, the ones worthy of shaping the course of history. Adrianos longed to witness that moment—the moment the prince, with his banner held high, proved to the world that the empire had not yet fallen. The moment the prince, leading the charge, defied what so many had called the will of God: the omens of doom.

And if Adrianos could stand beside him in that moment, as one of those chosen few—he would do so gladly.

It would be a lie to say he did not feel regret.

It would be a lie to say he was not afraid.

But without the prince, without the one who would make this dream a reality, everything would be for naught. How could he hesitate now?

“If this is merely guilt driving you, stop. Determination alone is unstable. This is something that must be done. A sense of duty is not enough. Resolve alone cannot accomplish this,” Francisco interjected. His resolve was admirable, but the responsibility was too great to hand over so easily. A rearguard action was certain death, and yet it could not be entrusted to just anyone—it demanded a heavy sacrifice. But even as Francisco’s words dismissed him, Adrianos remained unmoved.

“You must go with His Highness. I believe it is now my duty to clear the path ahead for him.”

“I’m not questioning about your determination. I’m asking if you can do it. Can you hold out with your abilities?”

“I will endure.”

“…Even if it costs you your life?”

There was no verbal response, but Francisco and Ivania had already received their answer.

It was there, in Adrianos’ hardened expression, in the unwavering resolve reflected in his eyes.

No divine will forced him. No command had been given.

He was stepping forward of his own accord, entering the jaws of death on his own two feet.

Turning slowly, Adrianos looked down at the prince, whose eyes remained shut. He instinctively knew—this would be their last meeting.

“Your Majesty, I will await the day you don the imperial crown.”

Adrianos made his vow.

He would sacrifice himself.

Of his own volition.

By his own will.

For the sole hope of saving his homeland,

For the single light that had stood against the darkness.

The Morean army stationed in Athens remained on high alert.

They were constantly anxious, wary of any unexpected moves Murad might make, never allowing themselves even a moment of ease. The only thing that seemed out of place was the construction of fortifications. Even that, however, was deemed a futile effort when considering the time it would take to complete. The Morean army believed that striking just before completion would force the enemy into further wasted effort, so they chose to remain passive and observe.

Had the Prince been present on the walls to observe more closely, he might have noticed it sooner—the peculiarity in Murad’s movements. But the aides currently in charge lacked such keen perception. The reason was simple: ignorance.

They had sworn not to let their guard down, but that promise only applied to threats within the realm of their expectations.

What if Murad was planning to besiege them in a way they had never even considered?

Would they still be able to remain composed?

The answer would only be revealed in the crucible of battle.

And for misjudging who truly needed time, the Morean army would lose their advantage.

On the fifth day of the siege, the first to belatedly sense the danger was the most experienced among them—Don Francisco.

At dawn, the wooden barricades Murad had painstakingly erected suddenly collapsed.

Why go through the trouble of setting up fortifications only to tear them down?

That question was answered by the deafening roar that followed.

—KWAANG!

A blast so powerful that it made Francisco’s ears ring.

For a brief moment, it felt as if even the stone walls of the fortress had trembled.

Before the thunder that heralded a new era, the lessons of past wars were rendered meaningless.

The only thing that kept Francisco from panic was the bare minimum of composure his experience afforded him.

Quickly regaining his senses, he scanned his surroundings and shouted,

“Do not panic! Focus on keeping your footing—stay on the walls!”

At the same time, he moved himself, determined to see firsthand what had caused that explosion.

It did not take long to find out.

Chunks of stone tumbled from the deep crater that had been gouged into the fortress walls.

The shaking was no illusion.

A cold chill ran down Francisco’s spine.

He cursed his complacency.

He had thought Murad was simply fortifying his position.

He had assumed the enemy was following the traditional rules of siege warfare.

“Was there another way…?”

The thunder did not stop at just one strike.

The booming of cannons continued, each impact shaking the walls to their core.

The soldiers struggled just to remain standing.

We have to endure.

We must hold on.

Francisco bit down hard on his lower lip.

Then, the inevitable happened.

A section of the fortress wall, unable to withstand the bombardment, collapsed.

And with it, the soldiers standing atop it.

—Aaaaaaahhh…!

Amidst the earth-shaking bombardment, Francisco faintly heard screams, prompting him to turn his gaze.

Amidst the rising dust, soldiers struggle helplessly as they fell, crushed beneath the falling wall.

The outcome was painfully obvious, yet Francisco couldn’t look away.

No siege weapon had ever been capable of collapsing a fortress wall in such a short time. That was why walls had remained effective—why defenders had always held the upper hand in sieges.

Yet, what was happening before his eyes told a different story.

Even if one refused to acknowledge it now, the truth would soon become undeniable.

The bombardment suddenly stopped, as if to grant the Morean army a moment to realize what had just occurred.

Francisco closed his eyes.

The enemy was giving them time.

And he knew why.

Murad wanted the Morean forces to abandon the walls and come out.

So predictable.

The man had always preferred open battle over siege warfare.

But maintaining this stalemate would only delay the inevitable—defeat.

“I need to see my cousin.”

Hoping the Prince had a plan, Francisco withdrew from the walls.

He wasn’t the only one drawn by the deafening blasts.

Ivania, who had been guarding the Prince, rushed over, while Adrianos, responsible for another section of the walls, arrived on horseback.

Gathered in Athens’ court, no one wasted time on formalities—all eyes turned to Francisco for answers.

“W-What happened?! That sound just now—was that the walls collapsing?!”

“They haven’t fallen completely, have they?! Tell me they’re still holding!”

“Whoa, calm down. Damn it… Take a breath first.”

The way they both pressed him with similar frantic urgency grated on Francisco’s nerves.

Only after he muttered under his breath loud enough for them to hear did the commotion settle.

Yet their expectant stares remained heavy.

Francisco quickly relayed the situation.

“The walls aren’t completely down. But after just a few blasts, a section collapsed.”

“How?! How is that even possible?!”

“I’m not entirely sure. Judging by the craters left behind, something was fired at the walls. But I didn’t see any trebuchets.”

( TL : Trebuchets is a medieval siege engines used to throw large projectiles. Image in end )

At those words, only one possibility came to mind for both Ivania and Adrianos.

Ivania hesitated, but Adrianos spoke without reservation.

It was a difference in experience.

Ivania, having fought mostly in northern Italy, where open battles were prioritized over sieges, had rarely encountered such weapons.

But Adrianos had learned of them during the sieges of Constantinople.

“A bombard.”

“A what?”

“A cannon. A weapon that uses gunpowder to throw massive iron balls, capable of bringing down walls.”

“But aren’t bombards incredibly difficult to transport? And if it was something that distinctive, wouldn’t we have noticed it earlier?”

“They must have hidden it somehow. I don’t know what method they used, but… one thing is clear—our defenses won’t hold as long as His Highness anticipated.

Unless we had the triple walls of Constantinople, any fortress would eventually fall to such weapons.”

“So we have no choice but to follow my cousin’s decision.”

Adrianos frowned at the use of “cousin” but let it go.

Francisco was right.

Everyone knew that only the Prince could devise a way out of this crisis.

As Francisco and Adrianos prepared to request an audience, an unexpected obstacle arose.

“…That won’t be possible. Have you forgotten? His Highness has secluded himself.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

Francisco’s expression twisted.

He had always suspected that blind loyalty and unchecked ambition could one day prove disastrous, but he hadn’t expected it to be now.

Until now, he had held his tongue, as the person was the Prince’s confidant.

But to maintain such rigid obedience in a moment like this?

“The walls are on the verge of collapse. A prolonged defense is impossible.

And you’re telling me I can’t see my cousin?”

Ivania said nothing.

She merely pressed her lips into a thin, frustrated line.

That silence sent a deep, indescribable unease through Francisco and Adrianos.

---

TL : Trebuchet were used a lot in the medieval ages and still were used till 15th century, before cannons fully took over the warfare.

The recent series of events had successfully weakened the Ottomans.

Though there were dark shades to it all, they had annihilated 4,000 enemy soldiers through a fire attack, repelled the Sultan’s elite Janissaries, and inflicted another 3,000 casualties through an ambush.

These were feats that even renowned commanders would struggle to achieve. And given that they were accomplished when everyone had predicted an overwhelming Ottoman victory, their significance shone all the brighter.

However, the Morean army led by the Prince had suffered losses as well.

To slay those 4,000 enemies, 300 men had thrown themselves into the flames at Nemeapatre to ensure the fire attack’s success. There were also 98 knights who willingly met death to hold back the Janissaries, as well as another 200 who fell in battle. And then, 1,000 soldiers had abandoned all hope for the sole purpose of deceiving the Sultan, while 700 had been sacrificed as a diversion during the ambush. More than 2,000 lives had been lost in the fight against the Ottomans.

It was partly because of such heavy losses that the Prince decided to avoid direct confrontation.

Despite achieving an advantageous kill ratio, the absolute difference in numbers was too great. The enemy still commanded 7,000 troops, whereas the Morean forces had barely maintained around 4,000. Some might question why such a gap was a concern, believing that the Prince’s leadership alone could overcome it. But there was a loss far more devastating than all the sacrifices mentioned before—one that only Ivania knew.

Naturally, this “critical loss” must never be revealed. Even if it meant thousands more had to die.

In such a risky situation, the Prince had withdrawn into seclusion. With the threat of Murad’s army looming, he left behind only a single statement before shutting himself away: that he was devising countermeasures. Occasionally, a messenger—his face pale—would rush in to relay the Prince’s orders.

And those orders were exactly as expected.

“His Highness commands that vigilance toward the northern wall must not diminish.”

Of all the walls surrounding Athens, the northern one was the only section that did not benefit from natural defenses. Anyone looking to deploy siege engines more easily would naturally target it. Sure enough, when Murad’s forces appeared, Ivania knew the Prince’s judgment had been correct. The enemy’s wagons and soldiers were moving busily toward the northern wall.

“As expected, His Highness was right.”

Standing atop the wall, Ivania spoke with an air of confidence.

Had anyone familiar with her past eccentricities seen her now, they might have laughed at the sight. But at least in this moment, she carried herself like a proper noblewoman. Of course, if someone could peer into her mind, that illusion would be shattered instantly.

Ivania was well aware of it—how her body subtly heated up whenever she recalled the Prince standing before her, no longer a child but a fully grown man.

Behind the cool beauty she projected was a simmering, clinging desire.

It was that desire that had kept her by his side, waiting for a moment that might never come. But recently, she had been rewarded for her patience. Ivania traced her fingers over the hand the Prince had once touched, over the lips that had met his, as she recalled the past.

How often had she been disregarded simply for being a woman? She had been fortunate, and skilled enough, to rise to the rank of mercenary captain without suffering unspeakable horrors. Yet, no matter how capable she proved herself, the world continued to see her as just a “woman.”

A society so deeply entrenched in male dominance would never appoint a woman, no matter her abilities.

All but one man. The Prince had been the sole exception.

“You have always carried the burden alone, Your Highness.”

“Even if His Highness is not by my side, I will prove here and now that I am worthy of his trust.”

Ivania made her vow. To fulfill it, she could not afford to miss a single movement Murad made. Determination settled in her blue eyes. If she had wanted a passive life, she would never have picked up a spear. She wished to stand proudly beside her chosen partner, and that was why she had remained by the Prince’s side. In that regard, he was nearly the only one who mattered.

Alright, let’s do this.

“Do not let go of your spears! The enemy still outnumbers us! A moment’s carelessness will bring His Highness grief!”

As Ivania burned with Intensity, Don Francisco merely shrugged.

The soldiers are going to drop like flies.

Her orders were perfectly reasonable, but the more a commander overexerted themselves, the faster their troops wore out. Still, there was nothing better to shake them out of their recent contentment. Even so, Francisco voiced his thoughts aloud.

“You look all refined on the outside, but inside, you’re a total mutt.”

If she had a tail, she’d be a spitting image of a warhound. With a sigh-laced chuckle, Francisco turned his gaze toward Murad’s formation, having refocused his mind. If the officer he’d placed his faith in was acting like this, then he had to be all the more diligent.

Though his mannerisms might seem carefree, his experience did not simply vanish.

Don Francisco was not just any knight—he had once wielded a spear in the Reconquista, fighting against Muslim forces to reclaim Iberia. That was why he could see things others overlooked.

The first thing that caught his eye was how the enemy forces had split into three divisions.

At first glance, the center seemed the thickest, but even under the sunlight, there was little reflection. Perhaps they had dusted themselves with dirt to dull the polish of metal. However, the weather had been too dry for the ground to be damp enough for such a method.

From that one detail, Francisco deduced that the majority of soldiers in the center were lightly armored infantry.

Then where were the Sultan’s famed elite guards?

The distinctive white hats of the Janissaries were nowhere to be seen, meaning they had yet to join the front lines. The only noteworthy force was the Sipahi cavalry waiting in reserve on the left flank.

If anything else stood out, it was the long procession of wagons laden with wood and other supplies.

Francisco frowned at the sight of the slow-moving carts.

“Are they planning to fortify their position and advance methodically? Damn, if that was their plan, they should’ve taken their time from the start.”

Wasn’t Murad the one who had been using bold deception tactics precisely because he wanted to avoid a drawn-out siege? For him to change course now was proof that the Prince’s message had hit its mark.

Francisco scoffed at Murad’s change in tactics with the sarcasm of youth but soon turned away from the watchtower.

The smirk had vanished from his lips.

“Guess his pride took a real hit. Seeing how thorough his preparations are.”

Anyone could see that he was planning for a long war. It was a little concerning, but as long as they crushed the enemy before their fortifications were completed, it wouldn’t matter.

Others might hesitate, but the knights he led—veterans of the Reconquista—were experts at securing victory, even in unpredictable battles.

If this was all the enemy had, then winning would be simple.

“Still… I won’t let my guard down.”

Even if Murad had some other trick up his sleeve, they had the Prince.

With that unwavering belief, Francisco ran his hand over his sword hilt.