1885, I came to save Greece

General Papagiorou's proposal was like a red-hot cannonball that crashed into the banquet hall.

With a buzz, the previously enthusiastic atmosphere instantly exploded.

"A sand table simulation? Is Pavlos really drunk or doing it on purpose?"

"This isn't a deduction; it's publicly humiliating that young man! His Highness the Crown Prince's men are in deep trouble!"

"This is going to be good! Let's see how the Crown Prince handles this; he's really in a bind now!"

Amidst the whispers, Army Minister Zorbas and his group of old-school generals could no longer hide their smiles. They were eager for things to escalate, and loudly echoed each other, fueling the fire even further.

"The general's suggestion is excellent! It'll give us old folks a real eye-opener and let us see just what extraordinary skills the top students at the German Military Academy have acquired!"

"That's right! Theory without practice is meaningless; the battlefield is where the real test!" A portly general patted his belly, his shoulders shaking with laughter. "We roughnecks just want to see real skill!"

Their coordinated efforts were aimed at using Papagiorou's drunken rampage to completely crush this "newly rich" figure whom Constantine had personally helped to rise to power.

Even when beating a dog, you have to consider its owner. Today, they're going to beat Constantine's dog in front of everyone!

Not far away, Sir Harding, the British ambassador, leisurely stroked his goatee, a glint of shrewdness in his cloudy old eyes. He observed everything with keen interest, as if watching a play. How would this young Greek crown prince deal with this power struggle from within the military? Would he cower like a coward, or would he bare his claws?

All eyes and all the pressure were on Constantine.

Metaxas's face was completely bloodless.

He wasn't afraid; he was angry, deeply humiliated. The generals' undisguised malice and mockery pierced him like countless needles, sending chills down his spine. He knew all too well that this was a duel he was destined to lose. While Papaggioru was risking his life against the Turks in the Balkan valleys, he was still solving ballistic equations in a Berlin classroom.

His opponent's battle-hardened intuition and cunning were far beyond what a theorist could match.

He lost, and he lost face not just as much as he did.

The Crown Prince behind him will become the biggest laughingstock of Athenian high society in the coming weeks.

However, everyone was wrong.

Constantine, at the eye of the storm, maintained his calm smile without the slightest change. He seemed oblivious to the commotion around him, and to Papagiorou's drunken, defiant face.

He elegantly picked up the crystal wine glass on the table, brought it to his lips, and took a small sip.

The entire room fell silent.

Everyone was watching him, waiting to see how he would swallow this bitter pill.

He put down his wine glass, the bottom of which struck the marble table with a crisp "tap".

The voice wasn't loud, but it was like a silent command, instantly silencing the noise in the room.

Constantine's gaze slowly swept across the entire room, past the gloating generals, past the intrigued foreign envoys, and finally settled on General Papagiorou.

"The general's suggestion is excellent."

He spoke, his voice so steady it was completely calm.

The entire audience erupted in uproar!

He actually... agreed? Does that mean he's backing down?

"What you learn from books is never enough; you must put it into practice to truly understand." Constantine's gaze shifted to the young military officer behind him, whose body was already stiff. "My men certainly need to learn more from our battle-hardened generals."

This statement was perfectly crafted, both praising the veteran and defining the public execution as a "learning experience."

A hint of disdain flashed in Papagiorou's eyes; he felt that the Crown Prince was ready to bow down.

But Constantine's next words instantly froze the smile on his face.

"However, since this is a 'friendly' simulation, there has to be some kind of prize to make it interesting, right?"

Constantine's lips finally curled up slightly, carrying a hint of danger.

"If Metaxas loses," he said clearly, looking at Papagiorou, "I will personally donate ten thousand pounds from the royal treasury to provide General Papagiorou's valiant soldiers with brand new riding boots and parade uniforms."

"Whoosh!"

The generals immediately laughed, and the atmosphere relaxed. Ten thousand pounds! What a generous gesture! This was the Crown Prince preemptively finding a way to save face, using money to save face.

"But..." Constantine's tone shifted abruptly, his voice turning cold, "What if, General... you 'accidentally' lose?"

"Me? Lose?" Papagiorou, as if he'd heard the funniest joke of the century, puffed out his medal-laden chest and roared with a thick lisp, "Loss to a brat who's never even smelled gunpowder? Your Highness, you're joking!"

"I mean, if." Constantine's gaze was fixed on his face like a nail, giving him no chance to evade.

Alcohol and arrogance completely overwhelmed Papagiorou's reason. Provoked by the question, he blushed and laughed loudly, "Your Highness, how could I lose? If I lost..."

He was about to say "a slap on the wrist" when Constantine spoke first, saying in an admiring tone, "General, you truly have the spirit of a soldier! I've heard that Prussian officers, if they make a major mistake in a war game, will voluntarily resign to show their respect for military honor. I think a veteran like you, with your many battles under your belt, must value honor far more than those Germans, right?"

The moment that high praise was bestowed upon him, all the surrounding generals held their breath. Papagiorui was instantly put on the hot seat. If he said "no," it would be an admission that he was inferior to the Germans, inferior to the "bookworms" he called him in terms of a sense of honor. Alcohol took effect, and he slammed his chest, roaring, "Of course! If I lose to this kid, what face will I, Pavlos, have to lead my division? I'll resign my post on the spot and retire home! I mean it!"

"good".

This is exactly what Constantine was waiting for.

He ignored the general who was already somewhat stunned, turned around abruptly, and faced Metaxas, whose face was pale and whose lips were tightly pursed.

At that moment, Metaxas saw not a trace of doubt, worry, or concession in the Crown Prince's eyes.

What he saw was a burning flame.

That look seemed to say to him: I pulled you out of the mire, not to make you a silent shadow! I gave you the title of chief aide-de-camp, not to make you a mere decoration! Now, all of Athens is watching you, watching me! Go, prove to them that my choice was right!

"Metaxus".

Constantine's voice wasn't loud, but it struck Metaxas's heart like a heavy hammer.

"Go."

"Don't let His Excellency the General down."

Constantine reached out and patted him heavily on the shoulder, his hand warm and strong. He spoke his last words in a voice only the two of them could hear.

"And don't let me down."

A surge of scalding heat instantly flowed from Constantine's palm throughout Metaxas's entire body. He understood immediately.

This is not a disgrace.

This is a stage that His Highness has bestowed upon him!

This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity for him to silence everyone with an undeniable victory!

Metaxas abruptly raised his head, the color returning to his pale face, and all the humiliation and anger in his eyes solidified into a cold fighting spirit at that moment!

He stepped forward, from behind Constantine, into the spotlight.

He stood straight before the imposing General Papagiorou, his slender figure radiating an undeniable sharpness at that moment.

He didn't waste any words; he simply gave a crisp, standard military salute, his voice clear and firm.

"General Papagiorou."

"I accept your challenge."