Boundless Ambition of the Sultan

[5th of July 1413AD, Edirne(Adrianople), Ottoman Empire.]

Edirne—once Adrianople, the Roman bastion guarding the path to Constantinople.

In its heyday, it was a mighty stronghold, the empire's shield against the waves of barbarian invasions. A gateway to the heart of Europe, it stood as a bulwark of Roman civilization, its walls brimming with the legacy of the empire's might.

Now, under Ottoman rule, the city had been reborn as Edirne, its Roman identity deliberately erased to sever ties with its imperial past. It had not yet been a century since its capture, but this former Roman stronghold had transformed into the Ottomans' springboard for conquest—an ominous staging ground for future campaigns, particularly against the prize of Constantinople itself.

Edirne was no longer a gateway to protect; it had become the gateway to attack.

Mehmed Çelebi now ruled from this city, standing triumphant as the sole Sultan of the Ottoman Empire. His journey to the throne, however, had been anything but secure. The scars of the "Ottoman Interregnum" still lingered—a bloody and chaotic period of civil war that fractured the empire following the catastrophic defeat of Sultan Bayezid I at the Battle of Ankara in 1402.

Bayezid's humiliating loss to Timur, the Turko-Mongol conqueror, had shattered Ottoman stability. The Sultan had been captured, and though his sons, including Mehmed, were rescued, the unity of their family crumbled almost immediately. Lacking a formalized system of succession, the Ottoman princes descended into fratricidal warfare, each vying for the throne.

The Interregnum left the empire on the brink of ruin. Territories were divided, alliances crumbled, and the dream of Ottoman dominance seemed perilously close to collapse.

Mehmed, though initially a vassal to Timur, was already plotting his own rise. To stabilize his early rule, he minted coins bearing both his name and Timur's, symbolically acknowledging the great conqueror's authority to buy himself time. Yet Timur's attentions soon turned back to Central Asia, leaving Anatolia to its own devices.

Freed from external interference, Mehmed focused on eliminating his rivals. Victory did not come easily, but through careful maneuvering and unrelenting ambition, he eventually prevailed. By 1413, Mehmed declared himself Sultan, establishing his court in Edirne to solidify his control over the empire's European territories.

But Mehmed's challenges were far from over.

Even as he consolidated his power, dissent arose from within his own family. His brother, Mustafa Çelebi, who had been in hiding, emerged and demanded a partition of the empire—a compromise Mehmed would not entertain. A brief but fierce battle ensued, ending in Mustafa's defeat and exile to the island of Lemnos.

For a moment, it seemed as though Mehmed's throne was secure. But the specter of rebellion loomed large. His nephew, Orhan, became a focal point of intrigue. Rumors of a conspiracy between Orhan and the Byzantine Emperor Manuel II Palaiologos reached Mehmed's ears, forcing the Sultan to act.

Following a practice borrowed from the Byzantines, Mehmed ordered Orhan to be blinded—a grim but calculated move to eliminate any challenge to his rule.

Such actions underscored the precarious nature of his position. Even within his own bloodline, threats to his authority were ever-present.

Yet Mehmed's greatest test would not come from within his family, but from the people themselves. A populist revolution, led by the charismatic Sheikh Bedreddin, threatened to upend the fragile stability Mehmed was working so hard to achieve.

Sheikh Bedreddin, a theologian and Sufi mystic, had gained immense popularity in both Anatolia and the Balkans. His teachings—an unusual blend of religious syncretism and social equality—resonated with the masses.

He preached unity across faiths and classes, calling for the dissolution of rigid hierarchies that defined the Ottoman social order.

Under Mehmed's brother Musa, Bedreddin had been appointed qadi of the army, a role that allowed him to spread his influence and build a network of followers.

Now, with Musa gone, Bedreddin's movement began to gather steam, spreading discontent and unrest across the empire.

What made the Bedreddin movement so dangerous was its revolutionary zeal.

It wasn't just a challenge to Mehmed's political authority—it was a challenge to the entire structure of Ottoman society.

Bedreddin's call for a populist uprising appealed to peasants and disenfranchised communities alike, sowing discord at a time when the empire could least afford it.

Seated in the halls of his palace in Edirne, Mehmed contemplated the trials before him. The shadow of the Interregnum still loomed over his reign.

Though he had emerged victorious, the bloodshed of the civil war had weakened the empire, leaving cracks that his enemies—both internal and external—were eager to exploit.

Sheikh Bedreddin's populist revolution was an alarming reminder of just how precarious the empire's foundations remained.

The peasants and common folk, emboldened by Bedreddin's teachings, could quickly become a force that even the Sultan's armies would struggle to contain.

In the quiet of his chambers, surrounded by advisors and maps of the empire, Mehmed's thoughts turned to the weight of his ambitions. He had secured his throne through cunning and force, but he knew the true challenge lay ahead: the consolidation of his empire.

His enemies were many—recalcitrant nobles, restless vassals, foreign powers, and the ever-present threat of rebellion.

Mehmed had no illusions about the difficulties of his reign. The Ottoman Empire was still young, its borders fragile and its future uncertain.

But the Sultan's determination burned brightly. He was no ordinary ruler—he was a man shaped by turmoil and tested by war. The same fire that had carried him through the civil war now fueled his vision for the empire's future.

Mehmed resolved that he would not merely hold the throne; he would expand its reach. He would quell revolts, subdue his rivals, and unite his people under a banner of strength and stability.

Edirne, the Gateway of Europe, would serve not just as his capital but as the launchpad for his ambitions. And Constantinople, the city that had eluded his forebears, remained the ultimate prize.

In the flickering torchlight of his palace, Mehmed's resolve solidified. The weight of history rested on his shoulders, and the destiny of the Ottoman Empire lay in his hands. Whatever challenges arose—whether from the Byzantine emperor, rebellious brothers, or charismatic revolutionaries—he would face them all.

For Mehmed, the path ahead was clear. He would leave his mark on history, not as the Sultan who inherited a fractured empire, but as the ruler who transformed it into a force the world could not ignore.

Mehmed's gaze lingered on the horizon, where Constantinople lay, veiled in its defiant splendor. Known as "The Apple of the World," the city was a symbol of unmatched grandeur, a jewel coveted by emperors and conquerors alike. For centuries, it had resisted those who sought to claim it, yet to Mehmed, it was more than just a dream—it was his destiny.

To take Constantinople would be to write his name into eternity, to become the leader his faith foretold. From his earliest days, Mehmed had been steeped in the sacred prophecies of Islam, where the revered Prophet Muhammad spoke of the city. Among the Prophet's words was a promise:

"Surely, Constantinople shall be conquered. What a splendid leader will her conqueror be, and what a splendid army that will achieve it."

Though the Prophet had not lived to see its fulfillment, Mehmed held these words as a divine mandate. His faith told him that it was not a matter of if but when Constantinople would fall. The dream of conquest, carried forward by his ancestors, burned in his heart like a sacred flame.

He thought of Alp Arslan, his forefather, who centuries earlier had shattered Roman power at the Battle of Manzikert. That victory had seemed like the first step toward the fulfillment of the prophecy. Now, Mehmed believed the final chapter rested in his hands.

To him, Constantinople was not just a city; it was the beacon of divine destiny, a place where faith, power, and ambition intertwined. Conquering it would not only cement his legacy but serve as the ultimate act of devotion to his Creator.

Every decision, every battle, every reform he undertook was driven by this singular vision. His heart burned with a fierce resolve as he prepared to one day lead his armies to the city's mighty walls, determined to claim it as his own and fulfill the promise that had echoed through the centuries.

But recent intelligence had shaken the Sultan's confidence. Worrying reports flowed in from the spies he had planted within Constantinople.

At first, Mehmed dismissed them as futile Roman attempts to delay the inevitable. But the reports consistently mentioned one name: John VIII Palaiologos, the young co-emperor of the Byzantine Empire.

Mehmed's curiosity grew. He ordered his spies to keep closer watch on this emerging figure, and the information they brought back left him unsettled. John VIII, it seemed, was no ordinary ruler.

Under his leadership, Constantinople had begun to stir. Trade, once stagnant, flourished with vigor. The Byzantine military, long the subject of ridicule among the Ottomans, was undergoing an extraordinary transformation. The reforms implemented by the young emperor were yielding results Mehmed had not anticipated.

What puzzled him even more was the peculiar surge in trading activity in a region seemingly unrelated to Constantinople: the Morea. Reports detailed a prosperous trading hub in the city of Achaea, in the southern Peloponnese. It was a subtle but alarming development, one that hinted at growing Byzantine resilience.

Turning to his Grand Vizier, Beyezid Pasha, Mehmed sought counsel.

"What do you make of this, Grand Vizier?" Mehmed asked, his tone solemn. "Should we be wary of these developments, or dismiss them as the desperate throes of a dying empire?"

Beyezid stroked his beard thoughtfully, his expression grim. "My Sultan, it would be unwise to ignore these signs. The young co-emperor appears to be a formidable force. His actions have already strengthened the infidels, and their position grows increasingly threatening to us."

Mehmed's brow furrowed. "What approach do you suggest we take in dealing with this situation?"

The Grand Vizier rose, pacing as he weighed the options. "Threats will achieve little, my Sultan. The Byzantines' economy is recovering rapidly, and their diplomatic alliances grow stronger by the day. A hasty confrontation could embolden their efforts and fracture our own stability."

He paused, then continued, "The civil war has left the empire weakened, and the people are still reeling from its toll. To engage in another conflict now would risk destabilizing us further—something we cannot afford. Our priority must be to consolidate power within our own borders before pursuing further conquests."

Mehmed nodded, absorbing the weight of Beyezid's words.

"What of other threats?" the Sultan asked.

"The wretched Bulgarians are already restless," Beyezid replied. "Signs of rebellion grow, and whispers of a new crusade from the West have reached us. We must tread carefully, my Sultan. The infidels are regrouping, and any misstep could invite calamity."

Mehmed let out a long breath, his gaze hardening. "Then consolidation it is," he said. "We shall secure our position, strengthen our hold on the empire, and eliminate internal dissent before we march forward."

Both ruler and advisor knew that caution was the only path forward. The actions of the young co-emperor, John VIII, had not gone unnoticed, and Mehmed understood that vigilance and strategic preparation were now paramount.

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[Off the coast of Achaea, Aegean Sea]

How long has it been? Six years? John pondered as he gazed out at the horizon. The salty breeze brushed his face as he reflected on the time that had passed since his coronation as co-emperor.

Six years. A span of time that felt like both an eternity and the blink of an eye. Within those years, the Byzantine Empire had undergone changes he had once thought impossible. Many of his reforms—ideas borne not of this world but of the modern life he had once lived—had begun to take root. Though the challenges had been immense, the results had exceeded even his own expectations.

One event had set the stage for this transformation: John's first meeting with Gavriel, the Megas Domestikos. The general had been a pillar of strength and reliability, far more competent than John had anticipated. Initially, John believed the military reforms would be his greatest hurdle. After all, the Byzantine army was an aging, fractured institution—an afterthought in an empire that had grown far too accustomed to losing ground. But Gavriel had proved to be both receptive and brilliant, executing John's vision with precision.

The reforms were nothing short of revolutionary. Drawing on his knowledge of modern military standards, John introduced a regimen inspired by none other than the U.S. Marine Corps. He remembered reading about their infamous training in his past life—the grueling exercises that forged soldiers into warriors with unyielding discipline and strength.

The Marine Corps regimen became the foundation for his army's transformation.

The beginner test alone was enough to send most recruits into despair: 100 push-ups, 100 squats, 100 pull-ups, and a 10-kilometer marathon—all before they even progressed to more advanced drills.

But then again, it was not like John is a masochist despite the other side begs to differ, it was one of his experimentation on how well the regimen would be in the current environment.

Although he made amendments to the regimen, it was limited to physical exertion. He had, as of yet, no idea of what other conditions he had to improve in order to fully implement his masochisms unto his soldiers. 

This brutal training regimen mirrored the one he recalled from a famous anime character known for similar exercises, whose ludicrous routine often seemed like a joke—until now. Here, it was no laughing matter.

The soldiers faced not just physical exhaustion but the limits of their mental endurance. Many broke under the strain, but those who remained became stronger—hardened in both body and mind.

The transformation was profound. Over the course of six years, the Byzantine military had evolved into a disciplined, unified force. Though it was still far from the might of the Roman legions of old, it was no longer the frail, fragmented army of recent decades.

Soldiers became more confident in their ability, as well as building comradery amongst themselves. It aims to strengthen cohesion as well as coordination. As it turns out, the regimen was proven to increase the level of tactical acuity.

Gavriel commented it like this, "Good Theon, even Julius Caesar would've been envious if he saw this current men executing orders without hesitation."

But John's vision extended beyond military strength.

John's vision extended far beyond the military.

He knew that strength alone could not sustain an empire; it needed a foundation of prosperity and stability. The economy, long neglected, was the lifeblood of the empire, and it was there that John directed much of his energy.

Constantinople's harbors such as Theodosius and Sophia, so neglected that it was no longer worthy of calling it a ships' haven, now thrummed with activity as he repaired neglected infrastructures and encouraged foreign merchants to reestablish their trade with the city.

Next in the agenda was the court reorganization. Despite John and Manuel II initial skepticism to the administration reform, a perfect excuse came at the most opportune time, right after their discussion on the issue reached an impasse.

Corruption, the age-old cancer of Byzantine bureaucracy, was the first to be systematically rooted out.

John and Manuel II implemented stricter oversight. dismissed inefficient officials, and streamlined administrative processes to create a government that worked not for its own benefit but for the empire's survival.

Despite initial resistance that almost caused a civil war to erupt, with John newly trained Byzantine army, the bureaucrats cower and the strife did not materialize as it was instead forcefully disarmed.

The results were undeniable. Prosperity began to return to Constantinople, and whispers of hope spread through its streets. The people, long accustomed to decline, began to see the faintest glimmer of a brighter future.

Now folks, you remember Demarchos Vernon, do you? The vermin who slips through the sewer.

The name alone was enough to spark a mix of frustration and rage in John. The man, who had presented himself as a harmless bureaucrat, had vanished into thin air just after their first meeting. 

Not a single soul who had acquainted with him could account for his whereabouts. It was as though he had never existed—a ghost who had walked among them, leaving only the faintest trace of his treachery.

The mystery did not sit well with John.

After informing his father, Emperor Manuel II, of Vernon's suspicious activity throughout his service to the empire, the emperor had wasted no time in launching an extensive investigation.

What the investigation uncovered shook the foundations of the empire.

The investigation revealed the existence of an underground network known as The Prince.

This shadowy organization had operated in secrecy for centuries, bleeding the empire dry while remaining undetected.

Its reach extended deep into the Byzantine bureaucracy, its members cloaked by layers of corruption and incompetence.

The audacity of their operation enraged Manuel II. To think that such a parasite had thrived within his empire, feeding on its lifeblood while evading detection—it was an insult he could not tolerate.

"Purge them," the emperor had commanded, his fury palpable.

The imperial edict rang loud and swift, hunting down and eliminating The Prince's operatives within the capital. Those implicated were arrested, interrogated, and executed, but despite that, the influence it had on the empire remain as a scar.

The purge revealed another disturbing truth: Vernon had been more than just a lowly bureaucrat. He had been working under a higher authority, a figure known only as The Duke.

This discovery left John unsettled.

The Duke was a name whispered in the organization's ranks, a title that hinted at a hierarchical structure not unlike a feudal noble system. From "Dukes" to "Counts" to "Knights," The Prince appeared to function as a shadow government, pulling strings from the darkness.

To John, the parallels to modern criminal cartels were both striking and unnerving.

Though Vernon's remaining vermins had been dealt, the organization roots persisted. The head of the snake had not been cut—only the tip of the tail wounded.

And while The Prince had suffered a setback, it was minor at best.

Then again. The most pressing question now was this: Who would replace the previous Demarchos of Constantinople?

This role was vital—not just to ensure the capital returned to their former glory but also to rebuild trust and efficiency within the city's trade and taxation systems. Finding the right person for the position was crucial to the empire's economic recovery.

Yet, as John wrestled with the dilemma of appointing a new Demarchos, another pressing issue demanded his attention.

Turkish refugees continued to pour into Constantinople, fleeing the relentless chaos and violence engulfing Anatolia. Their arrival, while inevitable, strained the city's already fragile resources, stoking the simmering anger of the local populace. Many Byzantines harbored a deep, visceral hatred for the Turks—a hatred born of centuries of bloody conflict, conquest, and humiliation.

Their resentment was not without reason.

The wounds inflicted by decades of war, loss, and occupation were still raw. Memories of land stolen, churches desecrated, and families shattered lingered like a festering wound in the Byzantine psyche. To the citizens of Constantinople, these refugees were not victims—they were symbols of their empire's decline.

And yet, as John observed the growing influx of desperate, displaced people, he did not see enemies. He saw an opportunity.

John firmly believed that these refugees could be integrated into the empire—not as outsiders, but as contributors to its future. For him, this was not simply a matter of charity or compassion; it was a strategic maneuver to heal divisions, strengthen the empire's social fabric, and increase its dwindling population. But such a monumental goal required a cornerstone, and John knew exactly what it would be: education.

John envisioned an empire where all citizens, even the Turkish refugees, would have access to education. He believed this reform could foster unity between Byzantines and their former foes, breaking down centuries-old barriers of hatred. Moreover, education could serve as the means to integrate the newcomers into Roman society, turning them from outsiders into citizens, from burdens into assets.

But, as with every grand plan, there was a catch—several, in fact.

The empire's finances were in dire straits. Funding such a sweeping initiative would require resources that the treasury simply did not have. On top of that, the proposal met fierce resistance from one of the empire's most powerful institutions: the Church.

The Church's opposition was both financial and ideological. Its coffers, already strained by decades of decline, could not support what it viewed as John's latest "imperial whim." The clergy, burdened with caring for the city's impoverished, had little patience for what they saw as an impractical and overly ambitious reform.

But the root of their resistance ran deeper. Many clergymen outright rejected the idea of educating Turks, let alone integrating them into Byzantine society. To them, these refugees were the descendants of their oppressors, infidels who had desecrated their faith and slaughtered their people. Extending the Church's limited resources to such people was, in their eyes, an insult to the memory of their suffering.

The Patriarch himself, a stern and traditional figure, stood at the forefront of this opposition. Educating Roman citizens was one thing; extending that same privilege to Turks was, in his words, "unthinkable."

John was undeterred.

The Patriarch's opposition only served to strengthen his resolve. If there was one thing John had learned from his father, Emperor Manuel II, it was the art of negotiation. He knew the Patriarch would never yield to compulsion, and he refused to invoke imperial authority to force the Church's hand. While he could have imposed his will as co-emperor, John believed it was unwise to antagonize an institution as deeply intertwined with Byzantine society as the Church.

Instead, he chose a different approach: persuasion.

In a private audience with the Patriarch, John began his pitch with the precision of a seasoned diplomat. His tone was calm, measured, and deliberate, each word chosen to pierce the Patriarch's defenses.

"You see," John began, "many of these refugees are not Turks in the truest sense of the word. Their ancestors were forcibly Turkified—ripped from our faith, our culture, and our empire. These are lost Romans, severed from the Church by the brutality of history. Education offers us a chance to bring them back into the fold, back to their true home."

The Patriarch frowned, his skepticism evident, but he remained silent. Sensing an opening, John pressed on.

"This is not charity," John continued, "nor is it a concession to our enemies. It is restoration. A chance to reclaim what was taken from us. A chance to strengthen the Church, to restore its influence among these lost souls."

The Patriarch's expression softened, though his eyes still held doubt. John knew he needed one final push.

"I understand the Church's burdens," John said, lowering his voice. "I know how much it has given to sustain our people in these difficult times. That is why I will grant the Church greater autonomy in its affairs and reduce the taxes levied upon it. This reform will not weaken the Church—it will empower it."

The Patriarch's silence hung heavy in the air. For a moment, it seemed as though he would reject the proposal outright. But John's words had planted a seed of doubt in his opposition. The prospect of restoring lost faithful—and securing tax relief—was difficult to ignore.

After lengthy deliberations and consultations with the clergy, the Patriarch begrudgingly agreed to support the reform. His acceptance was reluctant, his consent tempered by conditions and caveats, but it was a victory nonetheless.

John could have enforced the reform without the Church's approval, but he chose not to. He understood the Church's importance to Byzantine society. Since the moment Christianity had been adopted as the empire's faith, the Church had served as its spiritual and moral backbone. John knew that respecting its history and contributions was far more effective than alienating it through force.

And so, the reformed education system was born.

Though modest at first, the initiative yielded remarkable results. Schools were established across Constantinople, providing education to a new generation of citizens—refugees and locals alike. Children learned not just reading and arithmetic but also Roman history, theology, and the Greek language.

The reforms did more than ease tensions between the refugees and the locals. They began to foster a sense of unity, a shared identity rooted in the empire's values and traditions. For John, this was the ultimate goal. Education was not merely a tool for integration—it was an investment in the future.

He envisioned a Byzantine Empire rebuilt on a foundation of knowledge, strength, and cooperation. An empire where every citizen, regardless of their origin, could contribute to its survival and prosperity. An empire that, like the phoenix of old, could rise anew from the ashes of its decline.

Despite the early signs of revitalization, the Byzantine Empire's economic situation was once again veering into turbulence.

Persistent demands from the Venetians and Genoese to relinquish control of Thessaloniki placed immense pressure on the emperor. These maritime powers, emboldened by the empire's weakened state, sought to wrest the city away from Roman hands, their envoys cloaking veiled threats in diplomatic pleasantries.

John, however, urged his father, Emperor Manuel II, to hold firm. "To yield now," he had counseled, "would not only diminish our authority but embolden them to take more." Manuel, trusting his son's insight, heeded this advice, resolutely refusing their demands despite the diplomatic fallout.

But the financial strain persisted. Thessaloniki remained Byzantine, but the cost of defending it stretched their limited resources.

Recognizing the need for immediate relief, John proposed an alternative solution.

He suggested that the emperor seek financial support from their growing network of allies—relationships carefully cultivated through Manuel's diplomacy and John's uncanny ability to persuade even the most reluctant benefactors. Manuel's reputation as a shrewd and eloquent statesman opened doors, while John's vision of reform and progress inspired confidence. Together, they secured enough pledges of support to temporarily alleviate the empire's fiscal woes.

It was not a long-term fix, but it bought them time—a currency more valuable than gold in an empire teetering on the edge.

Amidst this backdrop of economic struggle, one of John's most ambitious reforms began to bear fruit: the education initiative.

From its modest beginnings, the system had started to produce a generation of promising individuals, ready to serve the empire in new and innovative ways. Among these was a standout figure—Selim, a young man of Turkish descent whose name would soon become synonymous with the empire's resurgence.

Selim had come from a prominent merchant family in Ankara. But after the Ottoman Empire's devastating defeat at the hands of Timur's forces, Anatolia descended into chaos. Local pashas, desperate to consolidate their power, turned to extortion, squeezing merchants for every last coin. Selim's family, like so many others, was ruined. Their wealth confiscated, their livelihoods destroyed, they fled Ankara in search of safety, leaving behind the only life they had ever known.

When Selim and his family arrived in Constantinople, their dreams of finding salvation in the fabled city crumbled almost immediately. What greeted them was not the grandeur of Rome's legacy but the grim reality of decay and poverty.

"This is the great Constantinople?" Selim had muttered in disbelief. "It's more a slum than a city."

Yet, despite his disappointment, Selim resolved to rebuild his life. Life in the city, though harsh, was still better than the chaos he had fled. He refused to let his family's downfall define him, vowing instead to rise above the ashes of their past.

John had been aware of Selim for some time. The young refugee's reputation as a resourceful and ambitious merchant had reached his ears, sparking his curiosity.

When John approached Selim directly, the Turk was immediately suspicious. He regarded the co-emperor with wary eyes, expecting yet another noble seeking to exploit the plight of the refugees.

But John was nothing if not persistent. Over several meetings, he managed to break through Selim's skepticism. Slowly, the young man came to realize that this boy—barely older than himself—was different. John's sincerity, his intellect, and his unwavering commitment to the empire were undeniable.

"A co-emperor of Byzantium, seeking me out personally?" Selim had murmured, shaking his head in disbelief. "This doesn't make sense."

And then, John made his proposal.

The offer stunned Selim. John wanted him, a Turkish refugee, to become the next Demarchos of Constantinople—the empire's chief administrator of trade and taxation. It was a role of immense influence and responsibility, one that would place him at the heart of the empire's economic revival.

In exchange, John asked only for one thing: loyalty. Not just to him, but to the Byzantine Empire itself.

Selim was speechless. The idea seemed absurd. A Turk, entrusted with one of the most critical positions in Byzantine governance? It defied everything he thought he knew about this fractured empire.

But John's conviction was unshakable, and in time, Selim agreed.

He did not accept out of patriotism or idealism. Selim was no nationalist. His world revolved around wealth, opportunity, and survival, and this position offered him all three.

"God and country?" Selim had thought to himself, a wry smile tugging at his lips. "To hell with them. I just want to live."

And live he did.

Five years passed, and the results of John's gamble were undeniable. Under Selim's guidance—now known by his Hellenized name, Nikos—the empire's economic engine roared back to life. Trade flourished, albeit modestly, and Constantinople began to reclaim its reputation as a center of commerce and prosperity.

The Ottoman Sultan, watching from afar, could not ignore the Byzantine resurgence. Little did he know that one of the driving forces behind this revival was a man who had once called the Sultan's lands his home.

Selim, now Nikos, had become a pivotal figure in the empire's recovery. If the Sultan ever learned the truth, it would not merely anger him—it would haunt him. The irony was almost poetic: one of his own people, a former subject of the Ottomans, had become the architect of the Byzantines' revival.

The transformation of the empire was not Nikos' doing alone, of course. It was a collective effort, the fruit of John's relentless reforms and the people's growing willingness to embrace change.

Under John's leadership, the once-failing economy stabilized, trade routes reopened, and the military became a force to be reckoned with. The empire's cultural and intellectual achievements soared, earning it respect even from neighboring powers.

Now, standing on the deck of a galley bound for the newly established city-port south of Laconia, John turned to Nikos with a smile.

"It seems your investments in Morea have finally borne fruit, Nikos," John remarked, his tone laced with genuine admiration.

Nikos returned the smile, his eyes reflecting pride tempered by humility. "It is nothing, Your Highness. It was your vision that made this possible. Without your support, this would have remained little more than a dream."

John nodded, acknowledging the partnership that had made their success possible.

The transformation of Morea, once a neglected and overlooked region, into a thriving hub of trade and industry was a triumph. Beneath its unassuming surface, they had discovered rich deposits of gemstones—a resource that had revitalized the region's economy and drawn traders from across the Aegean.

"Who would have thought," John mused, shaking his head with a grin, "that Morea, of all places, held such potential? You continue to amaze me, Nikos."

Nikos bowed his head modestly, but his smile betrayed his satisfaction.

As the galley drew closer to its destination, John allowed his thoughts to drift to the capital. He thought of Pavlos, now a sprightly 90-year-old, whose renewed vigor had become a source of endless amusement for the court. The old man had embraced the empire's resurgence with the enthusiasm of youth, his tireless energy a testament to the hope John's reforms had inspired.

But hope alone would not carry the empire forward.

John knew that every step he took from here on would be under the watchful eyes of his enemies—both those in plain sight and those lurking in the shadows.

And yet, he was undeterred.

The next phase of his plan was already in motion, crafted with such precision that even Sultan Mehmed's spies would struggle to grasp its true purpose.

As the Aegean wind filled the galley's sails, John stood resolute, his gaze fixed on the horizon. Whatever challenges lay ahead, he would face them head-on. The empire's survival depended on it, and he would see to it that the Byzantines rose from the ashes of their past to claim their future.