Chapter 1 – The Return
Istanbul…
As the majestic silhouette of the city slowly rose through the morning mist, a gust of wind brushed the mane of his horse, carrying to Balibey's nose a scent he hadn't smelled in years.
Salt from the sea, the aroma of stone ovens, the stillness of mosque courtyards, the essence of roses… and grandeur.
All blended into the soul of this ancient city.
As he rode his horse up from the docks of Eminönü, his eyes fell first upon Süleymaniye, then Topkapı, and in the far distance, Yedikule.
Each was a chapter of history. Each, a relic of either glory… or betrayal.
"Istanbul..." he whispered, "Seven sultans, ten thousand martyrs, a million prayers.
But now… there's a silence in you."
Climbing uphill, his eyes scanned the streets.
The faces of the palace guards were tired. The voices of the merchants, low. The eyes of the people, wary.
This was once the city of Sultan Süleyman's justice, of Yavuz's might, of Fatih's conquests...
Now, it seemed to be eroding from within.
"When victory is forgotten, fear reigns."
Balibey had returned to Istanbul after many years. But this was no ordinary homecoming—this was the beginning of a call that would awaken a glorious past.
He had lived on the road for as long as he could remember.
He had carried the Ottoman banner from the eastern frontiers to the western ports.
But now, the place where the banner had fallen was not beyond the borders… but deep within them.
"If these lands don't awaken once more…" he thought, "the future will bring only darkness and discord."
The dome of Hagia Sophia flashed past his gaze. His eyes grew heavy. So many martyrs… so much sacrifice… under that dome.
But now, the shadows were growing.
As he approached Topkapı, his heartbeat quickened.
He wasn't just reporting to a sultan… he was reporting to destiny itself.
The sacred relics had been located—but this was only the beginning.
He whispered to the wind:
"If those relics remain in enemy hands… it won't just be Istanbul that falls.
History itself will crumble."
And with that, he rode toward the palace gates.
It was time to awaken.
He passed through the First Gate of Topkapı Palace, and Balibey's mind was consumed by one thing only: the message he carried for the Sultan.
The sun had not yet risen. The air was crisp, and dew coated the stone paths.
His kaftan fluttered gently in the breeze. His footsteps were measured, but resolute.
Still, a thread of doubt lingered in his mind.
"The Sultan may still be resting at this hour… but this news cannot wait."
With every step, the weight of what he knew pressed heavier on his shoulders.
"What if I'm too late?
What if this news brings not hope, but dread?"
As he neared the inner courtyard of Topkapı, his eyes drifted toward the towering palace walls, then toward the Gate of Felicity.
But just as he was lost in his own thoughts—
A voice broke the silence behind him.
"Balibey!"
He stopped. Narrowed his eyes. Looked back.
Emerging as if from shadow, a man approached—quiet in step, sharp in gaze.
Kasım.
Tall and graceful in build, the remnants of youth still clung to his face, but his eyes held an old weariness.
No sword hung at his waist. No armor clad his frame.
His weapons were intellect, loyalty, and vigilance.
He was a palace aide—though not just any aide.
He was one of the Sultan's most trusted men.
Though he seemed quiet, perhaps even timid, his name echoed in whispers during the Empire's most secretive missions.
Balibey offered a faint smile as they approached.
"Kasım Ağa… It's good to see you this early in the day."
Kasım inclined his head slightly. "I expected you sooner, Balibey. The Sultan retired to his private chamber just before dawn. But he also said… he expects an early message."
Balibey nodded. "There's no time to waste. We've found the trail of the relics."
Kasım's gaze sharpened.
"Then the time for shadows is over. It's time for fire."
As they walked together toward the Gate of Felicity, the silence of the palace seemed to murmur that something was coming.
As they crossed into the Second Courtyard of Topkapı, Kasım finally broke the silence.
His voice was low, but his words were firm.
"Istanbul is stirring," he said.
Balibey glanced sideways at him, not interrupting, just listening.
"There have been minor uprisings near Hagia Sophia these past few days. Then a riot in the Grand Bazaar… And last night, a Janissary was ambushed in Galata. None of this is random."
He paused, eyes fixed on the stone path.
Then, in a whisper:
"Something—or someone—is behind it all.
But we don't know who.
They're like shadows. Every clue we find disappears just one step ahead."
Balibey exhaled deeply.
"So the rot isn't just outside. It's inside, too."
Kasım nodded.
"And rot on the inside always cuts deepest into the state."
They walked on.
Eventually, they reached the front of the Imperial Chamber—the Sultan's private hall.
The door stood silent. No voices came from within.
Only the breeze moved, brushing gently against the stone.
Just as Balibey drifted into thought—
A hand touched his shoulder.
He spun instinctively, nearly reaching for his weapon, but stopped when he saw the face.
A moment of surprise—
Then a wide grin.
"Cafer... my brother!"
Standing before him in a black cloak, hood raised, eyes tired but shining with familiar light, was Cafer.
He had touched Balibey's shoulder just as he used to during their old campaigns.
"You still walk without watching your back, Balibey," he said with a chuckle.
Balibey laughed too.
"And you still sneak out of shadows like a ghost.
But it's good to see you."
Cafer turned slightly and nodded respectfully toward Kasım. Kasım returned the greeting with equal respect.
The three stood together.
There were no words needed—
Only the silent bond forged by battle, loyalty, and history.
At that moment, the door creaked open.
A young chamberlain poked his head out.
"His Majesty awaits you."
All three bowed their heads.
Silence fell.
And the next step… was a step into fate.
The Imperial Chamber was quiet.
Though the sky outside had brightened, the room remained dim.
The tiles along the walls, the domed ceiling, the deep cushions, the stillness…
All seemed frozen in time.
As the three men entered, their footsteps slowed without them realizing.
At the center of the room stood a large desk—
Covered in scrolls, maps, ledgers, and sealed letters.
Each was a whisper of rebellion, a hint of war, a record of betrayal… or a plan for what came next.
Balibey's eyes fixed on the desk.
In one corner: the provinces of Anatolia.
In another: the gates of Vienna.
And at the far edge: the Italian Peninsula.
"This isn't just a desk," he thought.
"This is the weight of a world."
His gaze rose to the dome above.
"A man who carries so many maps doesn't live by sword alone.
He must live by prayer—or be broken by the burden."
Then, a voice—deep and commanding—echoed through the chamber:
"Sultan Murad Khan."
The twin doors swung open slowly.
The silence shattered.
And a shadow entered…
But this was no shadow.
This was a mountain of a man.
Sultan Murad IV.
Draped in a black-embroidered kaftan, a golden imperial seal upon his chest, and a sword of elegant design at his waist.
Yet the true majesty lay not in his garments—
But in his gaze.
His eyes scanned the room like they weighed an entire nation.
His posture was upright. His steps echoed with dominion.
Not rushed. Not slow.
Each stride declared: the State walks.
His eyes passed over each man in the room.
He said nothing.
He simply stood.
He was a Sultan.
But not just any Sultan.
The seventeenth of House Osman.
The youngest ruler since Süleyman.
The man who tore his empire from the clutches of drunken courts—
And hurled it back into war, law, and dignity.
Murad IV.
The grandson of Fatih.
The shadow of Yavuz.
And now…
A ruler ready to carve his own legend.
The Sultan stood at the center of the chamber.
Balibey, just a few steps away, waited with his head bowed—though his eyes sought the face he had not seen in five years.
Five years.
Since that last audience, so much had changed.
Back then, the Sultan had been younger—his temper on full display, his decisions swift, but turbulent.
But now…
His shoulders were broader.
His gaze, deeper.
His presence—unshakable.
His features had hardened—not from wrath, but from patience, from pain, and from the weight he bore.
"He is no longer the same…" Balibey thought.
"…not the man I once knew.
Now, before me stands not just a ruler…
But a sovereign forged by fire."
As those thoughts echoed in his mind, the Sultan's voice filled the chamber.
"Welcome, Balibey."
Plain words, but sincere.
Neither too warm nor too cold.
It was a voice that knew loyalty.
Balibey immediately knelt, bowing deeply.
"May my Sovereign never be left without a guardian. Your shadow is enough, my Sultan."
The Sultan stepped forward.
"So many roads, so many deserts... and yet, you return once more to the palace."
Balibey raised his head. His eyes were clear now.
"My Sultan, as I promised… after five long years, I have not returned empty-handed."
The Sultan's attention sharpened.
Behind him, Kasım and Cafer stood quietly, listening.
Balibey approached the desk and pulled several scrolls from his belt, laying out sealed maps and documents.
"We have located the sacred relics. Seven in total.
Five lie to the east. Two have drifted west.
Each hidden, protected… but not erased."
The Sultan said nothing at first.
His eyes wandered over the documents.
Balibey continued:
"For now, we know the identity of only one who holds a relic.
A name that brings unrest… even when whispered."
He took a step closer, lowering his voice:
"Leonardo."
A heavy silence fell over the chamber.
No one looked at one another, but everyone's thoughts turned to the same shadowed figure.
Leonardo.
Blood of an Ifrit.
The one who had stolen Osman Gazi's sword.
A creature of cunning, strength, and corruption—
And perhaps now, the greatest threat of all.
His name hung in the air like smoke.
No one spoke for a while.
The Sultan remained still at the head of the table.
His gaze locked on the maps—but his thoughts were far beyond them.
He was thinking like a scorpion.
Still. Silent. Deadly.
The chamber's air felt thick—
As if it required a prayer before one could breathe.
Finally, the Sultan spoke.
His tone was neither soft nor harsh, but the weight of his words surpassed any command.
"Then the first target… is Leonardo."
His eyes drifted toward the western edge of the map.
He slowly traced a finger along the Adriatic coast.
"We will begin from the West.
And we will march East."
A pause.
Then, almost as if reciting prophecy:
"As in the sign of the final hour…
Where the sun rises in the West, and sets in the East."
Kasım stepped forward, his voice calm.
"My Sultan… is it the end times we intend to bring?"
The Sultan turned toward him.
And in his eyes… a spark.
"No, Kasım…
We do not bring the apocalypse.
But before this Empire meets its end—
We shall bring the apocalypse to those who seek to destroy it."
Cafer stepped forth from the shadows of the wall.
"Leonardo is the most dangerous.
He strikes with strength, with intellect, and with belief.
To strike him first… is the right move."
Balibey bowed his head in agreement.
"The Western front is not weak—but if it breaks, the path to the East opens wide.
Leonardo will fall."
The Sultan looked at his three men.
"Then the decision is final.
This campaign… begins in the West.
And it will end in the East—on sacred ground."
He picked up a sealed scroll from the table.
His eyes scanned the map one last time.
Then he pressed the scroll to his chest.
"This is no ordinary campaign.
This… is the rewriting of fate."
After the decree was made, the three men—Kasım, Cafer, and Balibey—bowed and withdrew from the room, one by one.
Left alone in the silence of the chamber, the Sultan remained standing.
But his eyes… were not on the maps.
They looked inward. They looked back.
Then, slowly, he began to walk.
The corridor was silent.
Only the sound of his boots against stone echoed in the dim air.
But in his mind, something ancient stirred.
"Fatih Sultan Mehmed Han…
My forefather…"
He passed between the old portraits, the imperial seals, the records of ancient victories…
But the place he now headed to—
Was known only to the Sultan himself.
He descended into the deepest levels of the palace.
Through sealed doors, hidden chambers, silent guards…
Until he reached the room where the Sword of the Conqueror slept.
As he walked, he whispered:
"This sword is not merely a weapon.
It is the guardian of the legacy."
He reached a stone door.
Placed his hand on a carved seal.
The stone recognized his touch.
The door opened with a quiet breath.
Inside, it was cool.
Not dark—but without light.
In the center of the chamber stood a stone pedestal.
Upon it, a sword—laid diagonally across its surface.
Silent in its sheath.
But its presence… commanded the room.
The Sultan stepped closer.
Looking down at the blade, his voice dropped to a whisper:
"A sword that no diamond can withstand.
A relic of a power that split enemies not by steel alone—but by will."
"Fatih… closed an age with this blade.
And began a final campaign—to Italy.
To recover the sacred relics."
He paused.
His eyes gleamed.
"But his enemies could not match his courage.
They could not defeat him in battle… so they poisoned him at the table."
He stepped forward.
Placed his hand on the sword's hilt.
He felt warmth.
As if the blade had recognized him.
As if his ancestor whispered: "Now… it is your turn."
And he said:
"This campaign… is not over.
Whatever was left unfinished… I shall complete."
He stood before the sword.
The air shifted.
The walls felt alive.
The stone beneath the blade seemed to tremble.
He reached again—this time placing his fingers on the Ottoman seal etched into the sheath.
But the sword would not be drawn by strength alone.
It had a seal.
And that seal could only be broken… by blood.
The Sultan pulled a small dagger from his inner robe.
He cut the tip of his index finger.
The blood ran warm. Dark.
One drop… then another…
Landing on the hilt.
Touching the stone beneath it.
And then—
A faint glow.
From the hilt, and from within the sheath.
The dim room was bathed in a golden-red light, like fire.
The walls did not shake—
But time itself seemed to pause.
A hundred years of silence—broken by a breath.
The Sultan stepped back slightly.
His eyes fixed on the blade.
His lips moved.
"Awaken… Sword of the Conqueror.
Whatever remains unfinished… shall now be fulfilled."
He stepped forward again.
Pressed his fingers to the Ottoman seal on the sheath.
The seal unraveled.
The sheath opened… on its own.
And the blade emerged.
Dark steel.
Curved veins etched inward.
Inlaid with gold.
A single emerald glimmered in the pommel.
And on the blade, etched by Fatih's own hand:
"Victory begins with loyalty."
The Sultan gripped the sword with both hands.
He raised it slowly—but with unshakable resolve.
The blade gleamed with light.
And in that sacred silence, only one vow escaped his lips:
"Now it is my turn, forefather."