The Russians are now attacking Moldovan Protectorate. But thanks to the early preparations, the Ottomans did not suffer much from logistical capabilities, due to previous initiative on fixing that.
Despite having that, what remains, remains. The reform of the Russian military has become one of the reasons that Janissaries has lost its claws.
Moldovan Protectorate
The air reeked of gunpowder and blood. Smoke curled into the sky as cannons thundered across the battlefield, shaking the very earth beneath the soldiers' feet. Muskets cracked in rapid succession, filling the air with the acrid stench of burnt powder. The dead piled high—Russians and Ottomans alike—yet neither side relented.
Inside the Ottoman command tent, lit by flickering oil lamps, the tension was palpable. A young officer, his uniform stained with sweat and soot, rushed inside, bowing quickly before speaking.
"Pasha!" he gasped. "We managed to repel the attack, but the Russians seem eager to throw themselves into the grave."
The man he addressed sat cross-legged upon a cushion, fingers drumming impatiently on the hilt of his yataghan. His face, hardened by years of battle, twisted into a sneer at the news.
"Hmph! Damn that Tsarina!" he growled, clenching his fists. "They are relentless, like rabid wolves."
He stood abruptly, his gaze like fire as he turned toward the officer.
"Keep up the defense! Every bullet must find its mark—not a single shot wasted! If they want to meet their end here, let us grant them their wish."
The officer nodded sharply. "Understood, Pasha." With that, he turned on his heels and exited, his voice barking orders across the camp.
The battle raged on.
Beyond the trenches, Ottoman lines remained firm, but the Russians were disciplined—trained in the new ways of war, no longer the disorganized masses they once were. The reforms under Catherine had borne fruit, and now, the Janissaries were beginning to feel the difference.
Yet the Ottomans held their ground. Logistics had been prepared well, supply lines secured and the navy able to provide support whether to supplies or support fire. The mistakes of past wars would not be repeated here.
Still, victory on this front would not come easily.
Cairo, Egypt Eyalet
Far from the chaos of war in the north, another storm brewed in the scorching sands of Egypt.
Inside the grand halls of the Cairo Citadel, the scent of incense and aged parchment lingered as a gathering of men sat cross-legged upon ornate carpets. Their expressions were grim, their whispers venomous.
"My lord," one of the noblemen spoke, his voice low and urgent. "Now is the time. The Ottomans are at war with Russia—their forces stretched thin, their eyes turned away from us."
Across from him, Ali Bey al-Kabir, the ruler of Egypt in all but name, listened intently. His sharp eyes gleamed with ambition, but his expression remained composed.
"Indeed," he mused, stroking his beard. "But do not forget—the Ottomans have just bled the Russian navy. The Sultan has proven that he still wields strength at sea."
Another noble scoffed. "What of it? The Empire has lost its grip on us! The Janissaries in Cairo are few, and Istanbul cannot afford to send reinforcements. The Mamluks are no longer weak—we have gathered strength over the years. Now is our time to cast off the Ottoman yoke!"
Murmurs of agreement rippled through the chamber.
Ali Bey exhaled slowly, before rising to his feet. He knew the path he was about to take would lead to war—but the opportunity was too great to ignore.
He turned to his men, his voice steady, resolute.
"Sound the drums. We march to reclaim Egypt as our own."
And with that, the first spark of rebellion ignited.
Within days, banners of defiance were raised across Egypt. The Mamluks had risen.
And they were not alone.
Palestine & The Orlov Uprising
As the sun set over the Levant, another man prepared for war.
Zahir al-Umar, the powerful sheikh of Galilee, stood upon the ramparts of his fortress in Acre, gazing toward the sea. His contacts in Cairo had confirmed what he had long suspected—the time to break free from Ottoman rule had arrived.
Meanwhile, in Greece, the Orlov brothers, emboldened by Russian support, gathered forces in the hills of the Morea. Their aim was clear—an open revolt against the Ottomans.
Everywhere, the empire trembled with unrest.
Topkapı Sarayı – Istanbul
The heavy oak doors of the Divanhane burst open with a loud thud, startling the gathered viziers mid-discussion. Moldovancı Ali Pasha strode into the chamber, his robes billowing behind him, urgency written all over his face.
Sultan Mustafa III, seated upon the elevated Taht-ı Hümayun (imperial throne), arched an eyebrow at the abrupt intrusion. The court fell into a tense silence.
Ali Pasha fell to one knee, his voice strained.
"Hünkârım, grave news. Egypt and Palestine have risen in revolt."
For a moment, nothing. Then—
A loud clang echoed through the chamber as the Sultan unsheathed his kilij, pointing the gleaming blade at Ali Pasha.
"Pasha!" Mustafa's voice boomed. "You are known for your jesting, but now is not the time—especially when it comes to rebellion!"
Ali Pasha swallowed, his forehead damp with sweat. "I fear it is no jest, Hünkârım."
He lowered his gaze and carefully extended a sealed letter. "The latest reports confirm it. Ali Bey has declared independence in Egypt, and Zahir al-Umar follows suit in Palestine. The Orlovs have also begun stirring trouble in Athens."
Mustafa III took the letter with measured patience, scanning its contents.
The silence in the room was deafening.
Finally, the Sultan exhaled, his grip tightening around the hilt of his sword.
"The wolves have smelled weakness."
Murmurs spread among the viziers—some in disbelief, others in barely concealed rage.
Grand Vizier Moldovancı Ali Pasha took a cautious step forward. "Hünkârım, this… this is no coincidence. The Russians have been fostering dissent in our provinces for years. This is their doing."
The Sultan's jaw clenched. "Perhaps. But the time for blame comes later. Now, we act."
He turned to the Tersane Kethüdası (Naval Secretary).
"Send word to Kapudan Pasha immediately. The navy is to reinforce our garrisons in Crete and Alexandria. Any rebel ships attempting to leave Egyptian waters must be sunk."
His gaze then shifted to another pasha. "Divert additional Janissaries to Syria. Palestine will not fall to traitors."
A murmur of approval passed through the Divan, though not all pashas agreed.
"Hünkârım," one of them hesitated, "we are already at war with Russia. This… this may be a war too many."
Mustafa III's eyes flashed with cold determination.
"I care not if the seas turn red with blood." His voice was low, measured—deadly. "We are the House of Osman. We do not kneel to rebels."
The Sultan turned back to Ali Pasha.
"Summon my son."
A few viziers exchanged uncertain glances.
"Hünkârım, you wish for Shehzade's counsel?" one of them asked hesitantly.
Mustafa III smirked, but it did not reach his eyes. "He has already played admiral. Let us see if he knows how to handle a war on multiple fronts."
With that, the orders were set.
The empire would not crumble without a fight.