1885, I came to save Greece

Night fell, and the cold sea breeze, carrying a salty, damp scent, seeped through every crevice of the abandoned royal estate.

There was no laughter or aristocratic salon here, only the scent of iron and blood brought by two Germans.

Friedrich Kluge, a former captain of the Prussian Jäger and a veteran of the Franco-Prussian War, had a hideous scar on his left cheek that stretched from the corner of his eye to his jaw.

Hans Schmidt, Kluge's old subordinate, was taciturn, but his hands were calloused and his eyes were like an eagle's; he could always spot the slightest slack in the ranks at the first moment.

Training begins from the very first second, and there is no logic to it.

"waste!"

Kruger's leather boot slammed into Dimitrios Papadopoulos's lower back. The former sharpshooter rolled around in the mud, his mouth filled with foul-smelling muddy water.

"Your gun muzzle is raised by 0.3 millimeters! At 800 meters, that's enough to cause the bullet to miss its target by half a meter! Are you trying to kill the enemy, or are you trying to tell him where you are?!"

Dimitrios coughed up muddy water, said nothing, turned over, raised his gun again, and aimed.

Not far away, former Inspector Nicholas Costas and his squad were practicing urban warfare. The so-called "city" was a simulated street block built with tattered planks and sacks.

"Wrong! Wrong! Another fatal mistake!" Schmidt's voice was like shards of ice. "Why didn't you use the mirror to check before turning the corner? Is your head harder than a bullet?"

He snatched a rifle from one of the team members with lightning speed, and with a standard shoulder thrust and sidestep, the butt of the rifle slammed into another team member's chest like a battering ram.

"Bang!"

The team member collapsed to the ground, curling up in pain.

"In real urban warfare, you're already dead! Your teammates, because of your stupidity, are dead too!"

There was no comfort, no encouragement, only the most primitive and brutal correction.

In the dead of night, the manor is divided into individual hells.

On the muddy training ground, barbed wire was erected less than half a meter off the ground. Blinding beams of searchlight swept back and forth.

"Get out of the way! All of you, get out of the way! Anyone who dares to raise their head, I'll shove them into the mud and drown them!"

Kruger's roar was shattered by the sea breeze.

Fifty carefully selected "troublemakers," shirtless, crawled forward through the cold mud and gravel. Sweat, blood, and mud mingled and dripped from their taut muscles. Each breath sounded like the roar of a broken bellows.

Gunshots rang out overhead.

That's Schmidt firing live ammunition! Bullets whizzed past the barbed wire, sending sparks and mud splattering onto everyone's faces.

Fear gripped everyone's hearts in an instant.

"Cowards! Scared already?" Kruger stomped on the back of a teammate who was trying to cower. "Do you think your enemies will stop firing just because you're afraid?"

These once unruly men, now gritting their teeth, trampled all their dignity and pride into the mud. Their eyes, tempered by fear and humiliation, did not dim; instead, they grew brighter and sharper.

They were a pack of hungry wolves driven to the brink of despair, sharpening their claws once again.

More than a month later, Constantine stepped into the manor again.

The air was thick with the pungent smell of gunpowder, sweat, and blood.

On the playground, fifty people were divided into ten five-person teams and were conducting a team infiltration drill.

They moved swiftly and coordinated perfectly, communicating silently through the obstacle course with a series of complex sign language and eye contact, like fifty black shadows.

Costas's squad was tasked with the raid. He kicked open the wooden door of the simulated house, and two team members slipped inside in combat formation, while the other two provided suppressive fire from outside the window. The entire process, from breaching the door to taking control of the target, took less than three seconds.

Constantine's gaze fell on the sharpshooter Dimitrios, who was lying prone on the distant clock tower, practicing his sniping skills.

Kruger stood beside him, holding a pocket watch in his hand.

"Target, 300 meters away, moving target, you have a two-second firing window."

No sooner had the words left his mouth than a watermelon hanging on a rope darted past from behind a low wall.

"Bang!"

Gunshots rang out.

A watermelon in the distance exploded with a sound, its red flesh scattering everywhere.

Kruger glanced at the pocket watch, and Scarface twitched.

"1.8 seconds. Barely acceptable."

Constantine stepped forward, not looking at the target, but heading straight for Lagudas, who was practicing combat in the mud.

"Lagudas!"

Upon hearing the summons, Ragudas, covered in mud, stopped what he was doing and abruptly stood up straight.

"Your Highness!"

Constantine took off his coat, tossed it to a servant, and then unbuttoned his shirt cuffs.

"Come on, let me see the results of your training."

Lagudas was stunned, and everyone around him was stunned.

Kruger and Schmidt also frowned, wanting to step forward to stop them.

"Your Highness, this is too dangerous!"

Constantine waved his hand, looking directly at Ragudas: "Will your enemies show mercy just because you are a prince?"

He beckoned to Lagudas with his finger: "Attack me with your strongest move."

Lagudas took a deep breath, his eyes narrowed, and he no longer hesitated. He let out a low roar and pounced on Constantine like a tiger descending a mountain.

Constantine didn't take the hit head-on. Instead, he turned his body slightly to the side and, like a venomous snake emerging from its hole, precisely kicked Lagudas's shinbone.

Lagudas grunted, his forward momentum faltering.

Constantine pressed his advantage relentlessly, closing in with his elbows and knees. Every movement was concise and efficient, targeting the vulnerable joints of the human body.

That was the most refined killing technique in later generations of martial arts!

Despite his brute strength, Lagudas was forced to retreat steadily. In less than ten rounds, Constantine delivered a clean and decisive over-the-shoulder throw, slamming him hard into the mud.

Constantine didn't stop, pressing his knee firmly against the other man's throat.

"You are dead."

The entire training ground was deathly silent.

Everyone, including the two Prussian instructors, looked at Constantine as if he were a monster.

Constantine helped Ragudas up and patted the dirt off his shoulders.

"Good strength, but lacks technique."

He turned around and faced everyone.

"I can call each of you by name. Dimitrios, your long-range shooting is accurate, but your weakness is rapid-fire shooting within fifty meters. Costas, your tactics are excellent, but your stamina can't sustain a long urban chase."

He pointed out the strengths and weaknesses of each core member one by one, with terrifying precision.

Then he went to the simple mess hall, picked up a lunch exactly the same as the soldiers', consisting of black bread, salted fish, and vegetable soup, and ate it heartily.

At that moment, the last trace of doubt and estrangement in the eyes of all the soldiers vanished completely. In their place was a heartfelt, fervent worship and love.

The two-month deadline passed in the blink of an eye.

A brand new unit was born. They were equipped with Mauser 1871 carbines secretly smuggled from Germany, and carried powerful Webley-Price naval revolvers at their waists. Every single one of them had eyes like poisoned blades.

The king's test has begun.

"Target: 'Sea Serpent,' a Panamanian-flagged cargo ship. Expected arrival at berth number three in Nafplio port at 9 PM tomorrow night. The ship carries contraband Ottoman silk worth 300,000 drachmas. And... Apostolos, a political prisoner and former Deputy Minister of Finance under the protection of Zaimis."

"Mission: Obtain the smuggling ledger from the ship and capture Apostolos alive."

"Requirement: Do not alert any official forces. Evacuate before dawn."

In the dead of night, the port of Nafplio is shrouded in a damp fog.

Costas led twenty men, like ghosts, lurking in the shadows of the dock.

The massive silhouette of the "Sea Serpent" slowly approached the shore. The ship was brightly lit, and the noise of the sailors and the commotion of unloading cargo blended together.

"action!"

Kostas gave the order.

Lagudas's assault team silently climbed onto the deck along the anchor chain. Their movements were as nimble as cats. The short knives in their hands flashed coldly in the moonlight, and the sailors on lookout duty collapsed without even a groan.

In the control room, the captain was boasting to a first mate about the profits from the trip.

The door was pushed open silently.

Costas walked in, the dark muzzle of his gun pointed at the captain's head.

"Where are the ledgers and Apostolos?"

Meanwhile, at the other end of the dock, an inconspicuous carriage was preparing to pick up an "important person".

From the clock tower, Dimitrios locked his sights on the coachman's head through the scope.

Four o'clock in the morning.

While Athens was still asleep, Kostas was already standing in the royal study.

A ledger stained with the salty smell of seawater, and a middle-aged man gagged and bound like a rice dumpling, were thrown in front of George I.

The king looked at everything before him, then at his son standing calmly to the side, and remained silent for a long time.

He waved his hand, signaling Kostas to step back.

"Connie..." the old king's voice was a little hoarse, "You did it."

He picked up the ledger, as if it weighed a ton.

"I authorize it."

Constantine got everything he wanted.

But what he didn't know was that this seemingly flawless operation ultimately left a slight flaw.

In the palace, an elderly servant responsible for cleaning Constantine's study found a crumpled piece of paper while emptying the wastepaper basket.

It was a target sheet from a shooting range, covered with numerous bullet holes and a hastily written signature—"Kruger".

The servant's eyes flickered as he carefully hid the target paper in his bosom.

Late that night, a secret letter written by him was quietly sent out of the palace and placed on Prime Minister Zaymis's desk.