1885, I came to save Greece

Three days later, in the royal banquet hall.

The crystal chandelier illuminated the hall as if it were daytime, and the light flowed across every inch of the gilded wall carvings.

Well-dressed men and flowing skirts mingled, the air thick with the scents of perfume, cigars, and food. This was the arena of power in Greece, where every smile might conceal a deal, and every clink of glasses could determine the course of policy.

Constantine, dressed in a well-tailored navy blue royal suit, with the Order of the Garter gleaming on his chest, moved with ease among ambassadors and domestic dignitaries, a perfectly appropriate smile on his face. He discussed the weather with the British ambassador, Sir Harding, and explored Parisian opera with the French ambassador, his every gesture exuding the air of a crown prince.

Half a step behind him stood a figure that seemed out of place.

Ioannis Metaxas.

He wore a brand-new chief aide-de-camp uniform, the silver badge on his collar gleaming coldly. Slender and with a serious expression, he appeared too young and too sharp among the generally overweight, ruddy-faced generals and politicians.

He just stood there, without saying a word, like a drawn sword.

From the moment he appeared, countless gazes, some subtle and some overt, fell upon him.

"Look, that's the Crown Prince's new favorite."

"He's too young, like a military academy student who hasn't graduated yet. This uniform looks too heavy on him."

"I bet he can't even ride a horse!"

Not far away, a group of old-fashioned generals gathered in a circle, clinking their glasses and laughing in hushed tones.

"I heard he's locked himself in the palace these past few days, tinkering with something. I guess he can't finish that budget report and is just going to hide like a coward?"

"What budget report? I think it's a love poem for His Highness the Crown Prince!" A brigadier general, so fat he looked like he was about to burst out of his uniform, winked, eliciting a burst of vulgar laughter from the crowd.

Metaxas could feel those gazes, like needles pricking his back. He clenched his fists, but kept his spine straight, his eyes fixed straight ahead, refusing to look at anyone.

His Highness has ordered him to stand here, so he must stand like a javelin.

After several rounds of drinks, the atmosphere at the banquet became increasingly lively.

Just then, a tall, imposing figure, carrying a wine glass, staggered out from the crowd of generals and walked straight toward Constantine.

General Pavlos Papageorghiu.

His face was flushed from drinking, and his eyes were glazed with intoxication, but his steps were unusually steady, like a bear approaching its prey.

"Your Highness!" Papagiorou's booming voice instantly drew everyone's attention. "I, Pavlos, offer you my highest respect! You have brought Greece a precious seven and a half million pounds! You are the future of Greece!"

He first offered a few exaggerated compliments, then downed the wine in his glass in one gulp.

Constantine smiled and raised his glass in acknowledgment, remaining silent with a calm and unwavering gaze.

Papagiorou's gaze suddenly shifted, like two poisoned daggers, shooting towards Metaxas behind Constantine.

"Your Highness, this young attendant beside you is truly a distinguished figure!"

He walked past Constantine and stood almost face-to-face with Metaxas. The heavy smell of alcohol mixed with the stench of cigars hit him.

"I've heard that this Lord Metaxas is a remarkable 'military strategist.' He learned amazing skills from German books, and with just a pen and a piece of paper, he can calculate where the shells will land."

His voice was full of mockery and ridicule, which drew suppressed chuckles from the generals around him.

"I'm just a roughneck, a real boor!" Papagiorou slapped his chest, which was covered in medals, making a loud thud that made the metal plates clang.

"I'm just curious, does this gentleman's hand, which is only good for writing and holding a pen," he stretched out a thick finger, almost poking Metaxus's nose, "understand how to command real soldiers and win a... real war?"

A blatant provocation!

This is like pointing your finger at the Crown Prince in front of all the military and political dignitaries and foreign envoys and asking: Is the person you chose just a pretty face, or does he really have the ability?

The entire room fell silent instantly.

Metaxas's face flushed crimson, a rush of blood to his head. He felt his dignity, along with the crown prince's face, being brutally trampled on by this drunken warlord. His fists clenched so tightly they cracked, almost uncontrollably swinging out.

Papagiorou's smugness grew even stronger as he watched him. This was exactly the effect he wanted—to enrage him, to make him lose his composure, to make him scream like a cat whose tail had been stepped on.

He ignored Metaxas and turned to Constantine, bowing deeply. In a tone that appeared respectful but was actually coercive, he loudly proposed:

"Your Highness! Tonight is such a beautiful night; wouldn't it be too boring to just drink and dance?"

"To add to the festivities of the banquet, and also to give us old folks a chance to learn from your brilliant aide-de-camp, Your Highness, I humbly request permission for this unsophisticated soldier and your genius aide-de-camp to conduct a 'friendly' simulation exercise right here in the banquet hall. What do you say?"

Papageorghiu's gaze swept over Metaxus's thin shoulders, a cold smile playing on his lips. This wasn't a drunken impulse; it was a carefully planned, calculated scheme. These past few days, the Crown Prince's promotion of the eccentric scholar and appointment of the bookish military officer had nearly boiled over resentment within the army. Today, he was going to be the first to speak out, to use a resounding victory to tell all the soldiers, and His Majesty the King, that war was fought by warriors like them, forged in fire and blood, not by German bookworms hiding in their studies drawing diagrams! He would use Metaxus's crushing defeat to defend the soul of the Greek army!

As soon as he finished speaking, the entire room erupted in uproar!

Sand table simulation!

Everyone knew that Papagiorou was a seasoned veteran, having commanded dozens of battles, large and small, and possessed a masterful command of tactics. And Metaxus? He was just a junior officer! A theorist! A bookworm with absolutely no combat experience!

This is by no means a "friendly" sparring match!

This was a public execution with a predetermined outcome! It was a one-sided massacre!

Papagiorou wanted to use his best methods to utterly humiliate this "newly rich" whom Constantine had personally helped to rise up, in front of everyone, so that he would never be able to hold his head up again!

The challenge has been thrown to the ground.

The entire banquet hall was deathly silent.

All eyes were fixed on Constantine, watching how he would receive the powerful slap.

Seeing this, Papagiorou's smile deepened. He turned to Metaxas again, his voice filled with condescending "benevolence":

"Don't be afraid, young man, it's just a game."

"Your Highness, what do you say? Surely your newcomer isn't afraid to play around with us old hands?"