1885, I came to save Greece

The king's study was connected to his bedroom.

This was George I's absolute territory, the air thick with the musty smell of old parchment, mixed with the rich aroma of fine Cuban cigars, and a faint, almost imperceptible scent of rust and gunpowder seeping from the map.

Constantine ignored his father's gesture and walked straight past the desk to the huge European map that took up almost the entire wall.

The map is quite old, with yellowed edges, and each border line looks like an unhealed scar, imprinted with memories of blood and fire.

King George I slowly sat down at the desk behind him, his movements somewhat stiff. He lit a cigar but didn't smoke it, letting the bluish-white smoke rise and swirl like a veil, blurring the complex and unreadable emotions on his face.

Constantine's finger fell neither on Greece nor on the Ottomans.

It was lit in a faraway place.

The Crimean Peninsula, on the northern coast of the Black Sea.

A place familiar to all European royal families, yet often selectively forgotten for the cold, hard logic behind it.

Thirty years ago, the Crimean War.

Constantine's voice rang out in the quiet study, each word like a small hammer striking a bronze bell, clear and resonant.

"Father, you are a Danish prince, and my mother is a Russian Grand Duchess. You know better than I how absurd that war was."

Why would the then-world superpower, Great Britain, and France, the leading land power in continental Europe, send hundreds of thousands of troops from afar to join forces with the Ottoman Empire, which they considered their mortal enemy, to attack Tsarist Russia, a fellow Christian civilization?

He paused for a moment, seemingly giving his father time to think, but then immediately gave his answer.

"It's not because they love the Sultan, nor is it to defend the so-called peace of Constantinople."

"It's because of fear."

"They feared Tsar Nicholas I's Black Sea Fleet! They feared that if that fleet broke through the Dardanelles, it would utterly shatter Britain's trade routes and the very foundations of its hegemony in the Mediterranean!"

"Therefore, they would rather support a rotting and stinking Ottoman Empire than let Russia remain trapped in the Black Sea bathtub, never to rise again."

Constantine's fingers slowly traced the lines of the map, from Crimea to Berlin.

Through the smoke of the cigar, George I's gaze became unusually solemn. He felt as if he wasn't listening to his son analyze history, but rather as if someone were peeling away his skin layer by layer with a scalpel.

"Seven years ago, the Berlin Conference."

"During the Russo-Turkish War, the Russians reached the gates of Constantinople, and the Ottomans signed the Treaty of San Stefano, a treaty of surrender. A Greater Bulgaria, which included Macedonia, suddenly emerged, almost becoming a hand that Russia extended into the Balkans."

Constantine tapped his finger heavily on the spot in Berlin, producing a dull thud.

"and then?"

"The British Prime Minister, Benjamin Disraeli, that shrewd Jew, didn't even send a single soldier."

"He simply had the Mediterranean Fleet swagger around the strait, and then, together with Germany's Iron Chancellor Bismarck, convened a so-called 'European Coordination Conference' in Berlin."

"As a result, the Russians tearfully relinquished all the spoils they had gained. And Britain? Without shedding a drop of blood, they 'seized' administrative control of Cyprus from their 'ally,' the Ottoman Sultan. What a shrewd deal!"

Constantine finally turned around and looked directly at his father.

"You see, Father. The British support the Ottomans against Russia, while at the same time, under the guise of 'protection,' they feel perfectly justified in dismembering Ottoman territory."

"This is Britain. This is the national policy they've followed for over a century—offshore balancing!"

"They don't need a powerful ally; they only need a weak but capable proxy. They will always stand against the victors, always support the weak against the strong, and let Europe bleed and succumb to internal strife forever! In this way, the isolated British Isles can rest easy and enjoy the spoils, ruling the world!"

King George I felt as if an invisible hand was gripping his heart, making it difficult to breathe.

He knew all of this history, and he knew every detail by heart.

But never before had anyone so coldly and nakedly torn away all that warm diplomatic rhetoric, laying bare the bloodiest and dirtiest logic of self-interest before him, like a butcher handling pieces of meat on a chopping board.

The king felt that his decades of ruling experience, on which he had relied for his livelihood, was like a castle built on the sand, groaning under its unbearable weight and teetering on the brink of collapse in the face of the ideological waves stirred up by his son.

The cigar in his hand had gone out at some point, and cold ash had fallen to the ground, but he was completely unaware.

"This...this is all history now."

George I's voice was hoarse and dry as he tried to grasp at the last straw to maintain his dignity as king and father.

"What direct relation does this have to our present predicament, and to Greece's current predicament?"

A smile finally appeared on Constantine's face.

That smile contained innocent pity for her father, but also absolute confidence that she had the game under her complete control.

His finger moved again, striking heavily on the narrow, hair-thin throat on the map that connects the Black Sea and the Mediterranean.

The Dardanelles and the Bosphorus!

"That's the key!"

"Father, haven't you seen it yet? Britain's so-called 'protection' of the Ottoman Empire is hypocritical, conditional, and a bargaining chip that can be used for trade at any time!"

"But their fear of Russia moving south and entering the Mediterranean is real, eternal, and ingrained in the very bones of every British politician—a national instinct!"

Constantine's voice suddenly rose, filled with a seductive power.

"The Ottomans are their watchdogs now, used to plug the Black Sea bottleneck, that's for sure!"

"But this dog is old and sick; it's almost toothless! Even if a nobody like Bulgaria bites off a piece of its flesh, it can only howl a few times!"

"What value does a dog that can't guard the door have to its owner?"

"And we, Father!"

Constantine whirled around, opening his arms as if to embrace the entire map, to embrace the world he was about to turn upside down.

"We, Greece, can be that new watchdog! A younger, stronger, more energetic, and seemingly... more obedient new sheepdog!"

"As long as we demonstrate sufficient value, as long as we can prove to London that we are more effective at containing the Russians than that terminally ill Turk! The British might even feed us, cutting off pieces of meat that originally belonged to that old dog and throwing them to us!"

George I's pupils suddenly contracted.

This metaphor, crude yet so precise it sends chills down your spine.

"Therefore, Sir Harding's promise was not some act of kindness, but a test! London is looking for a new agent! This is the real reason we dare to extort money from them!"

Constantine walked back to the table, picked up the glass of water that had gone cold, and drank it all in one gulp, his Adam's apple bobbing.

He put down his cup, looked at his father's pale face, and typed out the final conclusion, word by word.

"And now is the best time." Be a more obedient sheepdog.