1885, I came to save Greece

Zaimis's chilling pronouncement echoed through the luxurious villa in the Kolonaki district, like a death sentence for the entire fate of Greece.

Meanwhile, on the other side of Athens, in the royal palace, Constantine, who had just enjoyed the thunderous cheers of the people, had long since lost his smile.

Before him stood the travel-worn Andreas. This loyal economic advisor had sunken, bloodshot eyes, and the edges of a secret report in his hand were slightly curled from the pressure he was exerting.

"Your Highness, they've made their move." Andreas's voice was low, but it couldn't hide the anxiety and exhaustion in it.

Constantine didn't say anything, he just took the report.

The contents of the report perfectly matched his historical memories from before his time travel and his worst predictions.

Huge sums of money are flowing from Athens to offshore accounts in London and Paris through the National Bank's clandestine channels.

All of the merchant ships under the shipping magnate Sigros issued a unified "maintenance order," delaying their departure time under various pretexts, which caused the cargo throughput of the Port of Piraeus to plummet by 70 percent within three days.

Grain merchants in the Thessaly Plain seemed to have received a unified command, and overnight they began hoarding and speculating, causing flour prices to rise at a visible rate.

The customs authorities under the control of the Zaimis government, under the pretext of "strengthening scrutiny," have been endlessly delaying and obstructing all foreign merchant ships that have expressed interest in cooperating with the Royal Economic Advisor's Office.

An invisible net is rapidly tightening.

This net is not meant to strangle Constantine personally, but rather all the hope he brought to the country.

"Our 'Royal Economic Advisor's Office,'" Andreas's voice carried a hint of helplessness, "is like a pen adept at discovering wealth and calculating. We can uncover every evaded tax and devise the most perfect industrial blueprint."

He paused, then looked up and stared directly at Constantine.

"But, Your Highness, this pen is too fragile."

"When our tax officials went to the warehouses in the port of Piraeus to check the goods, they were met by members of the 'dockworkers' who were kept by shipping magnate Sigros and carried iron bars and daggers. The port police just stood by and watched, turning a blind eye."

"When we tried to trace the flow of funds at the National Bank, Prime Minister Zaymis directly signed a decree prohibiting anyone from investigating, citing the need to 'protect national financial secrets'."

"Our men were even detained overnight by Athenian police for 'disturbing the peace' while tracking a smuggling ringleader!"

Andreas slammed another document he was holding onto the table.

It was an injury report. A young tax official had his left leg broken from behind while trying to record the number of a smuggling vessel.

"Your Highness," Andreas's voice trembled, a tremor tinged with anger and humiliation, "the pen needs the sword to protect it. Otherwise, it can't even protect itself!"

Constantine's gaze fell on the injury report.

The shocking photos of the injuries in the report were like a red-hot steel needle piercing his eyes.

He anticipated the oligarchs' counterattack, but he did not expect it to be so swift, so blatant, and so... reckless.

They are not demonstrating.

They are declaring war.

They want to tell everyone in the bloodiest and most direct way that in this country, whose fist is the law.

Constantine silently stood up and paced back and forth in the room.

Andreas is right.

Economic reform is never a polite dinner party. It is a revolution.

It is a redistribution of wealth.

Any attempt to challenge the vested interests of established groups will inevitably escalate into a bloody, head-on struggle.

Can we expect an army that has been infiltrated and corrupted by the old forces?

Their senior officers were themselves members of the landowning class.

Can we expect a police system under Zaymis's control?

That's like having a fox guard a chicken coop.

He needs a sword.

A sharp, poisoned sword, belonging only to him, capable of precisely piercing the enemy's heart!

"Andreas," Constantine stopped, his voice eerily calm, "Don't reveal a single word of what happened tonight. Let the Prime Minister's office continue celebrating their 'victory.'"

"Your Highness, but..."

"Execute the order." Constantine gave him no chance to question it. "What you need to do now is continue to use your pen to write down every single shady deal, every single name. Don't miss a single one."

"After we write it down, what do we do...?"

"Write it down, and then," Constantine's lips curled into a cold smile, "wait for my sword to come and reap them one by one."

After dismissing the worried Andreas, Constantine did not linger for a moment, but went straight through the long palace corridor to King George I's study.

It was late at night, but the old king had not yet rested.

He was under the lamp, carefully reviewing the guest list for Princess Sofia's wedding, a rare relaxed smile on his face.

His son's successful trip abroad has put him in a very good mood lately.

"Connie, what's the matter so late?" King George I put down the list in his hand and looked at his son with affection.

Without exchanging pleasantries, Constantine placed the blood-stained report of the injuries directly before the king.

The smile on George I's face froze instantly.

He took the report, glanced at it, and his face turned extremely ugly.

"What... what's going on? Didn't Zaimis promise to cooperate with the tax reform?"

"A guarantee?" Constantine sneered. "Father, don't you understand yet? Zaimis, and those bankers, shipping magnates, and landowners behind him, they are the biggest and most greedy parasites on this country!"

He succinctly and completely recounted to George I the economic strangulation carried out in secret by the oligarchs and everything that had happened to Andreas.

With each word spoken, the old king's face grew increasingly grim.

When he heard that the port police were colluding with smugglers and that a tax collector had his leg broken, George I slammed his fist heavily on the desk!

"Damn it! Are they trying to rebel?!"

"They're not rebelling; they've always been the de facto masters of this country," Constantine said calmly and cruelly. "And we, the Glücksburg family, are nothing more than mascots placed on a table to decorate our image."

These words deeply wounded George I's pride.

"Then what do you intend to do?" The old king's voice held a hint of helplessness. "Call in the army? Parliament won't approve it! And it will alert the British!"

"I don't need Parliament, nor do I need the Army." Constantine stepped forward, his gaze fixed intently on his father.

He spoke slowly and deliberately, revealing the long-brewing, earth-shattering idea.

"I need to assemble a special force that is absolutely loyal to the royal family and capable of carrying out 'dirty work'."

"It doesn't belong to the army, nor to the police; it only obeys my orders!"

"What?!"

King George I jumped up from his chair, his face filled with shock and disbelief.

"Connie, have you gone mad?!" His voice trembled slightly with agitation. "This is building a 'private army'! This will shake the foundations of the nation! Parliament will impeach you, and the great powers will interfere! You will destroy yourself, and destroy the entire monarchy!"

The atmosphere in the study froze instantly.

Constantine's expression remained unchanged despite his father's shock and anger.

His gaze was as firm as iron as he met the king's eyes.

"Father, we are not overthrowing the country. We are wresting back the power that belongs to the country from the corrupt elements within!"

He paused for a moment, his voice low but filled with undeniable power.

"And to deal with these rats who lurk in the shadows year-round," Constantine's eyes gleamed with a wild, predatory light, "we can't use cannons; we have to use hunting cats!"

The old king looked at his son, who was both familiar and unfamiliar, opened his mouth, but couldn't utter a single word.