1885, I came to save Greece

Chapter 258 Deceiving the Heavens

Inside the meeting room of Tatoy Palace, the air was so cold it could freeze.

Sir Harding, the British ambassador; Baron Schneider, the German ambassador; and Captain Orlov, the Russian military attaché—three men representing the highest levels of power in Europe—had faces even more somber than the sky outside the window. They had arrived with an ultimatum, only to have Constantine deflect all pressure with a telegram from Austria-Hungary and a venomous "precondition."

Constantine's lips curved into a barely perceptible smile. He neither pursued the attack nor uttered another word. He simply stood there calmly, savoring the silence of a victor.

Finally, it was Sir Harding who broke the deadlock. He stood up, not looking at Constantine, but stiffly adjusting his bow tie.

"Your Highness, today's meeting was very... enlightening," he said through gritted teeth. "I will report your 'peace intentions' to London as they are."

Baron Schneider also stood up, giving Constantine a deep, complex look. "I hope to see that combat report on Krupp artillery as soon as possible."

"Of course, Your Excellency," Constantine nodded. "The most detailed version will be on your desk as soon as the war is over."

Only Captain Orlov stood up without a word, downed the rest of his vodka in one gulp, slammed the glass down on the table, and turned to leave.

King George I breathed a sigh of relief as the three magnificent carriages drove away from Tatoy Palace in the dead silence, feeling his back was soaked with sweat.

"Connie, you...you're playing with fire!" He walked to his son's side, his voice still trembling.

Constantine took his father's arm, his expression returning to ease. "Father, the fire is already burning. If we don't play, we'll be burned to death. If we play, we have a chance to set our opponents' houses on fire too."

After he finished speaking, he turned to his aide-de-camp Alexandros and ordered, "Prepare the horses and go to Larissa. Also, inform all domestic and foreign journalists that I will be holding a military parade at the front in three days."

The order sent shockwaves through the entire city of Athens.

Is His Highness the Crown Prince going to conduct a military review at the front lines? What is he planning to do?

Is it a show of force against the great powers? Or... the clarion call for a final assault?

Three days later, on the Thessalian Plain, outside the city of Larissa.

Dust billowed, and military flags stood like a forest.

Tens of thousands of Greek soldiers, arranged in neat square formations, formed a sea of ​​steel under the scorching sun. Their bayonets reflected a chilling glint in the sunlight.

On the makeshift platform, Constantine, dressed in a crisp marshal's uniform, stood tall and straight as a pine tree. Behind him stood a group of conservative veterans of the Greek military, each with a ruddy complexion and ramrod straight back.

Below the platform stood journalists from across Europe. Their cameras clicked as they captured the scene, preparing to send the images to newspapers in London, Paris, Berlin, and St. Petersburg.

Constantine walked to the front of the platform, facing his army and the cameras that recorded history.

His voice, amplified by the simple loudspeaker provided by the "Nicholas Dimitrios" laboratory, was heard throughout the training ground.

"Soldiers! Warriors of Greece!"

"Three days ago, in Athens, I expressed our desire for peace to the envoys from Europe! I told them that the Greek people love peace, and our swords are only wielded to protect our homeland!"

"But! The arrogant Ottomans rejected our goodwill! They rejected the mediation of His Majesty the Emperor of Austria-Hungary! They thought that by hiding in Constantinople, they could ignore the victories we won on the battlefield with our blood!"

He paused for a moment, his gaze sweeping over the young and enthusiastic faces.

"They are wrong!"

"Since they can't learn respect at the negotiating table, then we will teach them how to respect peace on the battlefield!"

"I, Constantine, hereby declare!" His voice suddenly rose, like a sword drawn from its sheath.

"The time for the final assault has come!"

"Hurrah!"

"For Greece!"

"For His Highness the Crown Prince!"

A thunderous roar of cheers erupted from the soldiers' chests, soaring into the sky. The old generals were so excited that their beards trembled; they seemed to already see the Greek flag flying over Constantinople.

The reporters were frantically taking notes, and headlines were forming rapidly in their minds.

The Greek Crown Prince's Ultimatum!

The Balkan Wars Reignite, and the Final Offensive Imminent!

The Enraged Lion: Constantine's Crazy Gamble!

The day after the military parade, a dramatic military mobilization unfolded in full swing under the watchful eyes of the world.

Units that had just won great victories on the battlefield of Epirus, with their resounding numbers, were "urgently recalled" from the rear. During the day, they "assembled" along the widest and most conspicuous roads, blowing loud bugles and singing rousing war songs, towards the main battle line in central Thessalia.

Carriages, artillery, and infantry formations stretched endlessly.

It was less a military mobilization and more a large-scale armed parade.

The Ottoman Empire's spies stationed on the borders could transmit this "valuable" intelligence back to the rear with almost no effort.

The intelligence was so perfect and so public that it aroused strong suspicion even among some relatively clear-headed Turkish officers.

Meanwhile, new rumors were quietly circulating in the shops and cafes of Constantinople, Smyrna, and Thessaloniki.

"Have you heard? The Greeks are almost exhausted; their treasury is empty!"

"This final offensive is the result of that young crown prince betting the last vestiges of the nation's resources. If we don't win, Greece will go bankrupt!"

"That's right, a distant cousin of mine in Athens said that bread there is now being rationed!"

These rumors, through Alexandros's intelligence agency and the mouths of bribed merchants and sailors, were precisely spread to every corner of Ottoman society.

They, along with the intelligence about the "Greek army gathering" at the front lines, perfectly formed a logical loop: it was precisely because it was a final, desperate gamble that such a grand and all-or-nothing effort was necessary.

Late at night.

In the command tent at the Larissa front, only Constantine remained.

The daytime hustle and bustle had long since dissipated, leaving only the footsteps of patrolling soldiers outside the tent and the chirping of insects in the distance.

He stood before the enormous military map, which was covered with small red and blue flags representing both sides' armies. On the central front of Thessaly, the blue flags were densely packed, forming an aggressive offensive posture.

Constantine's gaze, however, did not linger there.

He reached out and gently picked up a small blue flag representing Ioannis Metaxas's "Mountain Hunter Division" from the rest area behind Epirus.

His finger did not move the flag toward the main battlefield in the center.

Instead, they headed north, far away, along the winding contour line on the map that represented the Pindus Mountains, bypassing the Ottoman army's densely packed frontal defenses, and moved all the way to the rear of the defenses, an area almost ignored by everyone.

He planted the small blue flag firmly in the ground.

The oil lamp in the tent cast his shadow on the map, making him look like a giant who controlled the game of chess.

"The performers are in place, and the stage lights are on."

Constantine stared at the lonely yet deadly blue flag and murmured to himself.

"Now, let's see how our protagonist, Mr. Edheim Pasha, performs."