EMPIRE REWRITTEN [Isekai ? Alt-History ? Strategy]

Chapter One: Awakening

Restless. That was an understatement. My mind was spinning, fragments of memories pushing their way to the surface, each more alarming than the last. Constantinople, its towering walls looming large against the horizon. Endless councils with generals, their faces etched with exhaustion. The weight of responsibility—both in metal and in spirit—is pressing down on me. The weight of a crown. But not just any crown.

*Constantine.*

The realization struck like a lightning bolt, cold and fierce, leaving me breathless. *Constantine Palaiologos.* The last emperor of Byzantium. How could that be? I wasn't him—I was Michael Jameston. A fifty-five-year-old American. I sold books, for God's sake.

But as I examined my hands—his hands—scarred and hardened from battle, the truth dug its claws into me. This body wasn't mine, yet somehow, it was. I was Constantine. Somehow, I was.

I rose shakily from the stool, gripping the wall for support, feeling the cold stone bite into my skin. Panic clawed at my throat, but I forced myself to breathe—in and out, slow and steady. I needed to think.

How? Why?

Constantine's memories, life, and struggles were pouring into me, overwhelming my sense of self. The more I resisted, the stronger the memories became. The Morea. The title she had used—*Despot*. My breath hitched. This was real. I was here, in his body, in his world.

I closed my eyes, hoping the darkness would provide some escape, some reprieve, but it only sharpened the flood of memories. I had stood in the halls of Constantinople, spoken with Emperor John VIII, and fought on the front lines of an empire on the brink of collapse.

I was Constantine Palaiologos.

The realization hit me like a blow to the chest, and I gasped for air, my hands trembling as I gripped the rough stone wall.

I couldn't be. Yet... I was.

The woman—*Theodora*, his wife—watched me with concern and confusion. She rose from the bed, her gown whispering against the floor as she approached. "Are you certain you're well?" she asked softly.

I forced myself to meet her gaze, seeing the genuine worry etched in her eyes. "I'm just... overwhelmed," I managed to say, the words foreign yet somehow fitting.

She offered a gentle smile. "You've taken on so much lately. The responsibilities here in the Morea, the matters with your brothers. It's no wonder you're feeling the weight of it all."

I nodded slowly, seizing on her words. "Yes, that's it. Just... the weight of everything."

Her hand rested lightly on my arm, a comforting gesture that only deepened the surreal nature of the moment. "Perhaps some fresh air would help clear your mind," she suggested. "Or a ride through the countryside?"

"Maybe later," I replied, attempting a reassuring smile. "I think I just need a moment."

She squeezed my arm gently before stepping back. "Of course. I'll have breakfast sent up for us."

As she approached the door, I took a deep breath, trying to steady myself. Once she was gone, I allowed myself to sink back onto the stool, running a hand through my hair.

I needed to understand what was happening. Was this some kind of vivid hallucination, a dream, or had I truly been transported into Constantine Palaiologos's body?

I tried to recall the last thing I remembered as Michael Jameston. Closing up the bookstore late at night, the scent of paper and ink lingering in the air. The sound of rain tapping against the windows. I had felt a sharp pain—a headache unlike any I'd experienced before—and then... darkness.