Whoosh—
Under the bright moonlight, a figure moved swiftly through the dense forest.
He wore a linen tunic and pants, stepped in boots made of animal hide, and his upper body was clad in a tattered leather armor. At his waist hung a curved dagger, and across his back was a self-made bow.
From his appearance, he was a determined young man, his eyes bright and his movements nimble. He ran and leapt through the layered forest like a wild animal, his shadow, cast by the moonlight, flickering and breaking into pieces.
He looked like a ranger from a knight's novel.
Suddenly, he raised his hands, sensing the cold gleam of a crossbow bolt in the darkness.
"Password?" A middle-aged man slowly emerged from the darkness, holding a crossbow.
"Odysseus."
"Follow me."
The middle-aged man let out a sigh of relief.
The two weaved through the woods, avoiding one trap after another set for defense, turning through numerous twists and turns. Soon, they came upon a light.
Pushing aside the bushes that obstructed their way, they found themselves in a clearing.
It was a camp set up in the heart of the forest.
The young man surveyed the surroundings—trenches, watchtowers, chevaux-de-frise, fire oil—everything one would need. Nearby, there was a stable with plenty of horses.
The commander of this small group was quite a formidable person.
By late night, most of the soldiers were resting in their tents, with only a few on duty patrolling. The watchtowers in the distance still had lights burning.
The middle-aged man led him into the largest tent.
Inside, a man clad in iron armor was sharpening his longsword. The sword, dark red in color, clearly had tasted blood.
"Captain Mehmed, this young man responded to the password."
Mehmed put down the sword, nodded, and gestured for the middle-aged man to leave.
The middle-aged man saluted and exited.
The young man stepped forward, pulling a letter from his pant leg, and handed it to Mehmed.
"Captain Mehmed, this is a command from General Ibrahim."
Mehmed took the letter, opened it, and read a few lines before suddenly laughing.
After laughing, he pulled out a bottle of wine from under the bed and poured some for himself and the young man.
"My son is about your age."
Looking at the young man, who was sipping the strong liquor, Mehmed's weathered face softened with a hint of nostalgia.
The young man didn't respond, continuing to drink.
"The last time I received a letter from him, he said he was in a place called Mistras. Have you been there?"
The young man thought for a moment and then understood what Mehmed meant.
"You mean Mistra, the capital of the Morias Duke. I heard it's a good place."
"My son said the same thing. He's learning Greek and astronomy there."
Mehmed's tone lifted with excitement when he mentioned his son.
The young man looked at Mehmed's smiling face in the firelight, suddenly feeling a bit of confusion.
"You look like you're from the Caucasus, so how did you end up like this?"
Mehmed laughed heartily.
"I was a slave of an Ottoman Bey since I was a child. When I grew up, I married another slave, and we had a son. Originally, I helped the Bey take care of horses, but somehow, I offended his brother, and our entire family was sold to a Genoese slave trader."
"I rowed oars, served as a soldier, and mined. My life was spent between the hands of various slave traders."
"During that time, my wife died, beaten to death by an Ottoman noblewoman just because she fell asleep while cooking."
A flash of sorrow passed through Mehmed's eyes.
"My last master was a large landowner, and I served as his guard while my son took care of horses."
"My youngest son rode on the horse, awkwardly wielding the whip. He lost the horse once, and he was beaten with sticks."
"At that time, I sadly thought that perhaps my beloved son would also repeat my fate."
Mehmed gripped his wine cup and downed it in one go.
"I prayed to heaven, hoping someone would save us."
"Unexpectedly, the very next day, the troops of a despot came, killed my master, and we were sold at the market again."
"We lived there for a long time until one day, a young man in a purple robe appeared with an impeccably dressed servant."
"We were taken to a castle where there were dozens of other slaves with similar experiences. There, we had our first full meal, took our first bath, and wore brand-new clothes."
"I remember my son's eyes gleaming with joy. It was the first time he smiled since his mother was killed."
"The servant told us we had to go far away to do something, and in return, our families would stay there and enjoy good living conditions."
"Some people sneered, others hesitated."
"I agreed without thinking."
"The rest, I'm sure you already know."
Mehmed poured the last drop of wine and stared at the empty bottle.
"So, I don't really know where I'm from, nor do I know which god I believe in. No one ever told me."
After saying this, Mehmed seemed to remember something, and awkwardly made the sign of the cross on his chest.
"Oh, my son is now an Orthodox Christian, so I suppose I should be too."
"And where did you learn all this military knowledge and how to read letters?"
"General Ibrahim taught me some, and I figured out the rest myself. I've been fighting for a year now; surely, I didn't learn nothing."
Mehmed took the letter and tossed it in front of the young man.
Before the young man could finish reading the letter, Mehmed began speaking again.
"The Ottoman army is assembling. The general has ordered us to withdraw to the rear, to the south of the Corinth Wall."
The young man shrugged.
"Congratulations, you get to see your son."
Mehmed laughed again.
"The general said that when His Highness returns, we'll be baptized and will officially become free men."
"By the way, young man, what's your name, and why did you join the army?"
The young man smiled.
"My name is Hakan. I'm a thief, I stole something I shouldn't have, and had nowhere to go. General Ibrahim noticed my skills, and I ended up following him."
Mehmed nodded.
...
The next day, Captain Mehmed assembled his troops and joined General Ibrahim's legion.
The entire legion was divided into six hundred-man units, with Ibrahim leading three of them, and the remaining three captains leading the others.
Of course, the units weren't fully staffed.
After counting the numbers, Ibrahim's legion totaled 513 men, and they set out toward the coast.
Some were thinking of their families, some were filled with hope, and some just went with the flow.
They were to be sent in batches to the ports in the Corinth area by the ship Northumbria, where local officials had verified the documents left by Isaac and would supply them with weapons and food.
Ibrahim and several captains stood together, watching as sailors loaded supplies and horses onto the ships.
The ships weren't large, and with so many supplies, it seemed they would have to make multiple trips.
He heard that the people in Athens were also moving southward, wondering if his wife and daughter had made it to Mistra.
This time, when they returned, His Highness Isaac would likely preside over their baptisms.
Ibrahim watched the busy crowd, smiling to himself.
...
Meanwhile, on the vast Atlantic.
Captain Henry was writing in his logbook.
At this point, he no longer had the scholarly demeanor of his past. His beard was unkempt, his captain's uniform worn and ragged. The charcoal pencil in his hand was much shorter, scratching along the parchment.
"We've repaired the ship and are officially setting sail, looking for the way home."
"I had the sailing master record a map of the magical islands near us. Perhaps one day someone will name one of them after me…"
"Our luck has been so bad, and we encountered another storm. Luckily, nothing major happened, though I have no idea where we are drifting now."
"We still have enough food, but our fresh water is running low. We've done everything we can, and now all we can do is pray to God."
"Oh God, all-knowing and all-powerful, please save your followers, save the people of Rome!"
Just as he was writing, a commotion erupted on the deck.
Henry frowned and stood up.
Bang—
The door to the captain's quarters suddenly burst open.
A few ragged sailors appeared in front of Henry.
Henry saw these rough men, who usually laughed and shouted despite being stabbed, were now shedding tears.
"Captain, look!"
Captain Henry rushed out of the cabin and climbed up to the lookout tower.
In the distance, on a small island, a purple double-headed eagle flag was fluttering in the wind.
...
When Governor Lothair on La Palma Island received the report, he was momentarily unsure of what he heard.
"Wait, say that again. What exactly happened?"
"Your Excellency, a French fisherman found a ship with the double-headed eagle flag on the beach. The sailors say they're from the St. Nicholas!"
Without bothering to ask for further details, Lothair quickly rushed to the beach.
By the time he and his men arrived, a large crowd had already gathered on the beach.
The French refugees were muttering something incomprehensible, and Lothair couldn't understand.
He pushed through the crowd and found the local priest.
"Father, is it really the St. Nicholas?"
The priest nodded, pointing toward the center of the crowd.
Lothair looked in that direction and saw a group of ragged sailors sitting on the ground, crying loudly.
The leader of the group struggled to stand and saluted Lothair with a naval salute.
He recognized the governor's insignia.
"The St. Nicholas has completed its mission successfully. Captain Henry Pedd reports to you!"
Lothair quickly supported the faltering Henry, took off his governor's cloak, and draped it over his shoulders.
"Quick, bring our hero some water and food, clear out all the accommodations!"
Lothair shouted to the servants.
It was evening, and Captain Henry walked forward amid the crowd, occasionally sipping the water handed to him and receiving bread offered to him.
The sea breeze began to blow on the island, gently caressing Henry's withered face.
For some reason, he suddenly remembered his distant homeland, the beautiful Crete.
He still remembered as a child, lying on the beach, feeling the sea breeze and listening to the elders telling stories of the past.
"Before the Latins colonized us, Crete was the brightest jewel of the Empire!"
"When the emperor summoned us, the strong men of Crete would board ships, take up their bows and crossbows, and under the double-headed eagle flag, punish the enemies in distant lands, spreading our name far and wide!"
"Our fire ships defeated countless strong enemies. The Turks broke their swords against us, the Goths bowed to us, and even the powerful Venetians were nothing more than the emperor's vassals!"
Whenever the elders told these stories, Henry would foolishly wave a stick, imagining it as a curved sword striking at enemies.
As a child, he couldn't understand why the elders' voices would choke with emotion, tears often welling up in their eyes.
A boy doesn't know what ideals are, and as he grew up, those ideals turned into an unreachable and fading dream.
And now—
Now, Captain Henry finally let go of the long-held tension in