EMPIRE REWRITTEN [Isekai ? Alt-History ? Strategy]

Chapter 76: A Sultan's Pride

"I am the Emperor of the Romans, and this land is my right. Face me on the battlefield, or leave in shame."

The audacity of it made Murad's blood surge. Beside the text, a crude painted figure (stenciled) image stood out in flaking red pigment: a stylized silhouette of a man wearing an imperial crown and cape, unmistakably meant to be Constantine, with sword drawn, facing shadow of a turbaned figure on horseback whose features were left ominously blank. The smaller crowned figure stood bold and defiant; the larger one loomed like a dark wraith. There was no mistaking the intent of the artwork. It was a direct challenge – a taunt aimed squarely at Murad.

For a moment, an incredulous silence hung in the air. One of Murad's younger officers, literate in the Arabic script, read the painted words aloud again in a halting voice, as if to ensure he hadn't misinterpreted such brazen insult. Others gathered, whispering in widening circles. Only a fraction of the soldiers could read, but understanding spread swiftly as officers and Janissaries murmured the message to one another. The visual alone required no literacy: the figure of the Christian Emperor standing fearless before the faceless Sultan conveyed its own unmistakable story. A ripple of unease mixed with anger coursed through the ranks.

Murad felt a hot flush creep up his neck. His initial reaction was a snarl of contempt. He spat on the ground at the foot of the wall, spittle dark on the dust. "Childish provocation," he growled, turning aside as if to dismiss it. "The work of desperate men playing at soldiers and scribes." He forced a dry laugh, attempting to show his disdain. But the brittle sound convinced no one – least of all himself. Underneath his outward scorn, Murad's pride was deeply pricked. Never in his life had he been addressed in such a manner, and by a Byzantine upstart no less. Sultans were accustomed to receiving elaborate pleas for mercy or groveling surrender terms from defeated foes – not gauntlets flung in their face painted on castle walls. This was a new kind of insult, one that struck at morale and honor before swords were even drawn.

Grand Vizier Halil Pasha stepped forward from the retinue, his elderly features drawn tight with concern as he gazed at the provocative graffiti. He knew well the Sultan's temper and the importance of prestige before the army. Halil's voice was soft but urgent. "Your Majesty, do not let this... affront force your hand," he implored. "Constantine seeks to enrage you. He baits you to fight on his terms. We must be cautious." Halil's eyes flickered to the watching soldiers – he too noted the hushed voices, the way the men stole glances at their Sultan to gauge his response. Imperial invincibility had been one of the Ottomans' greatest weapons; now these crude daubs threatened to chip away at that aura.

Murad's nostrils flared. For a heartbeat, Halil's warning only stoked his resentment – he did not relish being lectured on temperance at a moment like this. The Sultan rounded on the wall again, drawing his dagger in a flash. With an angry thrust, he stabbed the blade into the heart of Constantine's painted silhouette and dragged it downward, gouging through plaster. "I am not so easily led by the nose," Murad snapped, voice echoing off the deserted buildings. Red flakes of paint fell like blood at his feet as he rent a long scar through the Emperor's stenciled form. "He wants to provoke me? Fine. I shall answer his provocation." Murad turned to Halil, eyes blazing. "This Constantine will get what he so boldly asks for – both my fury and my pursuit."

Halil bowed his head, lips pressed thin, knowing further argument was futile for now. Murad wheeled to face his gathered officers and the knot of Janissaries beyond. "Let it be known," the Sultan called out in a clarion voice, gesturing at the vandalized slogan, "that I do not flee from a fight! I will meet this so-called Emperor on the field and grind his arrogance into dust." His words rang with conviction, and many soldiers answered with cheers, a reflex of loyalty, though edged with a zeal to erase the insult done to their sovereign. Murad saw some of his men grinning fiercely at his proclamation, eager at the prospect of battle. Yet, in the furthest ranks, others exchanged wary looks. The Sultan's rage was clear, but was it wise? Whispers drifted at the edges of hearing, whispers Murad could imagine even if he could not discern the exact words: The Emperor dares our Sultan to attack... He calls himself rightful lord of this land... Does our Sultan delay? Will he answer the challenge? Such murmurs, seditious or simply fearful, were unacceptable. Murad knew the only cure for doubt now was decisive action.