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Varna

Outside Varna, the sea wind, laden with a salty, fishy scent, blew against Laszlo's face, causing his golden cloak to flap in the wind.

He stood on Frankenhöhe, below which lay the bloody battlefield, once a mountain of corpses and a sea of blood.

Now, the countless crude crosses scattered across the hills in the twilight resembled a pale thicket of thorns.

The vantage point from this high ground was excellent, offering a panoramic view of the narrow plain below, Lake Varna a bit further away, and the boundless Black Sea and the decaying Varna port along the coast.

Standing there, Laszlo, though not daring to compare himself to Wei Wu, was filled with a myriad of emotions.

The thrilling shouts and wails of six years ago seemed to still echo in his ears.

It was now late spring, several months since he had departed Vienna to embark on his eastern tour.

Recalling six years ago, he had also set out from Vienna in winter, launching the largest Crusade in nearly two centuries, with his sword pointed directly at his greatest enemy, the Ottoman Empire.

At that time, he had been in this world for less than a year.

Now, even he could not imagine how he had dared to stake everything on a gamble against the Ottoman.

Perhaps the main reason was that mysterious panel?

Or perhaps it was the surge of passion in his heart at the time?

He pressed his hand to his chest; at this moment, facing the tranquil sea, his heart still palpitated over the insane decision to launch the Ottoman Crusade.

A young man, not over forty years old across two lifetimes, had, by a twist of fate, hoisted the banner of the Holy Roman Empire and the Habsburg Family, leading the European allied forces in a thrilling, desperate struggle against the Ottoman Empire.

If this were in ancient times, it would surely be worthy of an epic—even in this era, his achievements were equally celebrated.

However, to his heartache, when he returned in triumph, what he received most was not praise, but undisguised apprehension and slander.

Indeed, there seemed to be too many countries on the European continent.

Once he eliminated all dissenting voices, perhaps this continent would finally usher in peace?

"Laszlo, come see what this is!"

Leonor's excited call interrupted Laszlo's thoughts.

He turned and went to his wife's side, finding her standing between several massive foundation stones, with deep ruts on the ground leading down from the high ground.

"This is…," Laszlo was slightly dazed, and the roar of cannons seemed to echo in his ears. "This is where the Ottoman placed their heavy cannons. These stones are the foundations for the Ottoman heavy cannons.

Mehmed II was here, blocking my retreat and forcing me into a desperate fight with him."

Leonor showed a surprised expression.

She had seen cannons before; Austria's heavy cannons were already larger than she could have imagined, and judging by the size of these foundation mounts, the Ottoman's heavy cannons were probably several times larger than Austria's.

"My God, they actually possessed such terrifying cannons.

If the enemy's cannons were placed here, where were you then?"

Meeting Leonor's curious gaze, Laszlo pointed to the narrow, desolate plain around Varna.

"Then weren't you exposed to the enemy's cannon fire with nowhere to hide? Even the escape route…"

Laszlo nodded gently, and seeing Leonor actually starting to worry about the battle from several years ago, he couldn't help but smile wryly.

The situation at the time could be described as extremely critical; in fact, his main camp was not very far from the front lines of the battlefield.

Although the Ottoman's cannon fire was mainly concentrated on the unfortunate Philip's Burgundy army, a few shells did land near him.

He clearly remembered a young Saxony knight being blown to pieces by a cannonball right before his eyes.

At that time, he seemed to have become numb from seeing too many warriors die; even such a terrifying scene did not cause him to collapse in fear.

He was not incapable of feeling fear; it was just that the heavy responsibility and immense desire to survive allowed him to overcome it.

Now, recalling it, he only felt immense heartache.

Nearly forty thousand brave warriors from across Europe were buried here, each a vibrant life, now turned into nourishment for wild grasses and flowers, nurturing this land.

What pained him most was Janos, the person he had trusted most since coming to this world, who also perished here.

This feeling became even stronger, especially when Laszlo's gaze swept over Matthias, who stood by his side.

As things stood, Laszlo could only repeatedly tell himself in his heart, "These sacrifices were worth it," to comfort his soul, which still retained a trace of softness and vulnerability.

He was no longer the arrogant, naive young man he had been when he first arrived in this world.

Now, he was the sole Roman Emperor, the true Emperor!

He bore the mission of maintaining the order of Catholic Europe, defending the frontiers of the Catholic world, and was also the great demon king whom monarchs feared from the bottom of their hearts.

"Your Majesty, the sea breeze is too cold. Perhaps we should return."

Matthias's voice interrupted Laszlo's thoughts.

Laszlo waved his hand, his gaze still fixed on the distance.

The setting sun dyed the sea crimson, and in a trance, he seemed to see that fateful battle once more.

For some reason, revisiting the old place years later made Laszlo, this young man, become sentimental.

"A chaotic era…" Laszlo murmured softly, his voice carrying a hint of imperceptible weariness.

For several years, he had campaigned across the land, defeating one enemy after another, bringing the power and prestige of the Habsburg Family to its peak.

During these peaceful years, he dared not slacken in the slightest.

The Hungarian nobles were pressing closer, the Imperial princes harbored their own schemes, enemies from all directions conspired in secret, and then…

Laszlo gazed south, down the coast, where the world's desired city stood.

He had not yet reclaimed that great city, and the Ottoman entrenched there were licking their wounds, like a wounded beast, poised to pounce on Europe again.

He tightened his grip on the hilt of his sword, his eyes gradually becoming resolute.

"One day, I will end all of this," his voice was not loud, but it carried an undeniable authority. "The European continent should not be a fragmented battlefield, and the people of this land should not be displaced by war."

The sea wind grew fiercer, blowing through his long hair.

Laszlo looked up at the sky.

There, a flock of seabirds soared, their white forms a stark contrast against the dim yellow sky.

Leonor wrapped her arms around his arm, looking at Laszlo with some concern, and asked softly, "Isn't it good as it is now? Isn't a peaceful and stable life what we long for?"

Laszlo shook his head: "Danger is only temporarily hidden, not completely gone. My enemies are conspiring against me, and these years of ease seem to have made many people forget my strength. I must help them remember."

After one last look at this tranquil yet desolate land, Laszlo's conviction grew stronger.

If he had survived such a difficult time in Varna, what else could stop him?