1885, I came to save Greece

Chapter 236 The Burning Mountain

The Orthodox Cathedral in Ioannina.

When the first cannon shot rang out from outside the city, the bishop, who was wiping a silver cross in the prayer room, paused for a moment.

He listened intently.

The second, the third... a series of explosions, like the roar of God, came clearly.

The bishop's face revealed a ruthless expression, like a hunter who had finally caught his prey.

He put down the cross and the velvet cloth and stood up.

He was not merely a clergyman. His other identity was that of the longest-serving and highest-ranking senior agent of the Greek Royal Intelligence Service in the Epirus region, codenamed "Saint."

He had been waiting for this day for far too long.

Without the slightest hesitation, the bishop strode out of the prayer room and climbed the narrow stone steps to the church's bell tower.

He did not have the bell ringer do it for him.

He stepped forward himself and grasped the thick, smooth bell-ringing rope.

He used all his strength to pull the rope.

"clang--!!"

The heavy, melodious tolling of the bells echoed throughout the city of Joanina.

"clang--!!"

"clang--!!"

This is not a signal for prayer, nor is it the sound of a clock to mark the time.

The bell tolled rapidly and fiercely, like a war drum.

This is the clarion call of rebellion!

The sound of a bell is a signal!

In every corner of the city, in those Greek communities that the Ottomans never set foot in.

I heard that familiar, pre-arranged chime.

Countless doors and windows were bolted shut from the inside.

The blacksmith, who was working, put down his work and took out a sharp, long-handled iron hammer from under the quenching tank.

The miller, who was grinding flour, lifted the sack covering the flour, revealing several gleaming axes inside.

In an ordinary house, the bed boards were lifted and the cellar door was opened. Kitchen knives, harpoons, sickles, and even several old-fashioned firearms, wrapped tightly in oilcloth and treasured for decades, were taken out.

at the same time.

In the camp of the Albanian garrison in the south of the city.

Thousands of Albanian soldiers, under the command of their officers, had already assembled. They too had heard the cannon fire outside the city and the bells ringing inside; their expressions were tense and bewildered.

Their commander, a colonel named Ismail, strode onto the reviewing stand.

His pent-up resentment towards his Turkish superior finally found an outlet at this moment. Last night, a "businessman" secretly visited him, leaving behind a heavy box of gold coins and a promise from the Greek crown prince.

Ismail drew his sword, pointed it to the sky, and loudly commanded his soldiers who obeyed only his orders:

"Let the Turks handle their own affairs!"

"Our mission is to protect our own camp and the safety of our families!"

"No one is allowed to step out of the camp without my order!"

He chose to remain on the sidelines.

This was a path paved by Constantine's spies, paved with gold and promises.

Inside the city, another flame was lit.

Dozens of Greek youths rushed out of their homes and attacked a lone Turkish patrol squad on a street corner. They set fire to the Ottoman ration warehouse with oiled cloth. Thick black smoke billowed into the sky.

Many more citizens brought out tables, chairs, cabinets, and stones from their homes to build simple yet effective barricades at various intersections leading to the Ottoman camp.

The flames burning inside the city echoed the howling cannon fire outside.

After entering the city, the troops led by Metaxus displayed extremely high tactical skills and iron discipline.

They did not rush to expand their gains like headless flies.

The soldiers of the First Battalion quickly cleared the area inside the city wall, riddling dozens of Turkish soldiers who attempted to counterattack with bullets, and established a solid landing zone.

The follow-up troops then quickly dispersed in squads.

They advanced forward in groups of three or five, taking turns providing cover along the corner of the wall.

They neither charged nor shouted.

They simply remained silent, using precise bursts of fire to eliminate any resistance fighters that came into view.

A Turkish officer was trying to assemble his soldiers behind the barricades when a bullet pierced his forehead as he peeked out.

Just as a machine gun mounted on the roof began to fire, several rifle grenades were fired from the other end of the street, blasting the entire roof into the air.

This mountain guerrilla division, like a ruthless surgeon, is precisely cutting away the "necrotic tissue" belonging to the Ottoman Empire from the city, street by street and area by area, with a scalpel.

city ​​center.

Abdul Bey was dragged from under the beams by his personal guards amidst the ruins of his mansion.

He had a large gash on his head, and blood smeared half of his face. His magnificent silk nightgown was now just tattered rags.

"My guards! Where are my guards!"

He struggled to his feet, screaming in terror.

He attempted to rally his personal guards for a counterattack.

But his soldiers were now caught in a pincer movement, bombarded from both outside the city and by the elusive rebel forces within. Their organization was disrupted, and their morale had completely collapsed.

Several guards, supporting Bey, tried to escape through the back door.

They had just rushed into the street.

A squad of Greek soldiers carrying rifles emerged from the street corner.

The two sides collided head-on.

The guards let out a strange cry, abandoned their commander, and ran away.

Abdul Bey stood alone in the middle of the street, wearing a tattered bathrobe.

He looked at the Greek soldiers with their cold faces, pointing their dark gun barrels at him.

His legs went weak.

He collapsed to the ground.