1885, I came to save Greece

Chapter 193 The Spreading Fear

The embers of Corino Farm had not yet completely cooled. A more systematic and brutal harassment was spreading like a plague along the Thessalian border.

The attackers disguised as bandits were no longer small groups of a dozen or so harassing others. They began to operate in groups of dozens, or even hundreds. Their targets were no longer limited to individual farms.

In northern Larissa, a newly built government-funded irrigation canal irrigating thousands of hectares of farmland was blasted open with a deafening roar. The rushing water flooded the soon-to-be-harvested wheat fields, turning the golden waves of grain into a murky swamp.

Near the border town of Kalambaka, a newly built national grain depot was engulfed in flames overnight. It contained surplus grain recently sold by thousands of farmers from over a dozen nearby villages. The fire raged for two days and two nights, reducing the farmers' hard-earned wealth to ashes.

Attacks have become ubiquitous.

When a lone farmer is working in the fields, he may be shot at from the distant woods.

Wagons carrying grain would be destroyed by rolling boulders on the mountain roads.

The village wells were filled with rotting animal carcasses.

Their goal was chillingly clear: to completely paralyze agricultural production across the entire border region in the most cruel and vicious way, and to uproot Constantine's new policies.

Fear, like an invisible poisonous fog, spread rapidly across the vast plains of Thessaly.

During the day, farmers had to work in groups, carrying pitchforks and sickles, their eyes darting around warily. The slightest sound could send chills down their spines. The songs that once echoed through the fields had vanished, replaced by a stifling silence.

The nights became a long, agonizing ordeal. No village dared to turn off the lights. The elderly and children were gathered in the church or open space in the center of the village, while the able-bodied men, armed with various makeshift weapons, stood guard at the village entrance all night long. The bonfires burned brightly, their flickering flames illuminating faces etched with fear and exhaustion.

The beautiful dreams for the future that I once had have been completely replaced by the primal fear of survival.

Some people's beliefs began to waver.

"It's not as good as when I was working for Master Savaras..." a young man complained hoarsely, leaning against the corner of the wall. "Even though I had to pay 70% of the rent and get whipped by the steward, at least... at least I could get a good night's sleep!"

The person next to him didn't refute him, but just sighed silently.

Once this terrifying thought takes hold, it spreads like a virus among the desperate crowd. Safety trumps everything. For those struggling on the brink of death, dying with dignity is far less desirable than living in humiliation.

The foundation of the new policy is being eroded and shaken little by little by this invisible fear.

The procurement work of the "national granary" was forced to stop completely. No farmer dared to risk their lives and travel long distances to transport grain. They would rather let the wheat rot in their own homes than embark on that road that could lead to their deaths.

Something even more terrible happened.

In the local government office of the border town of Tilnavos, a group of farmers rushed in, surrounding an elderly man with gray hair. Their faces showed no anger, only desperate pleas.

The old man knelt down with a thud, and tremblingly pulled a brand-new land deed from his bosom. That piece of paper, which symbolized freedom and hope, now felt as heavy as a thousand pounds.

"Sir! Please! Take this land back!" The old man sobbed uncontrollably, tears streaming down his face. "I don't want it anymore! We don't want this land! We just want to live! We just want the women and children in our families to survive!"

The farmers behind him knelt down, their cries filling the air. They held up the land deeds high above their heads, as if they were holding hot irons.

The young official in charge of receiving them looked pale and helpless at the scene before him. He too was of commoner origin, promoted by the Crown Prince. He understood better than anyone what these desperate faces meant for His Highness the Crown Prince's new policies.

That meant the beginning of an avalanche.

Athens, the royal palace.

The atmosphere in Constantine's study was as oppressive as the sea before a storm.

Ioannis Metaxas had just returned secretly from Thessaly. He was thin, with sharp eyes, and covered in dust. He said nothing of substance, simply placing a few items on Constantine's desk.

A brass cartridge case.

"7.65x53mm, the standard ammunition for the Ottoman Empire's copy of the German Model 1884 Mauser rifle. Exquisitely crafted, it should have come from the Royal Arsenal in Constantinople."

A charcoal sketch.

"These are the footprints I found near the scene of the attack. The style of the boots is standard issue for the mountain troops of the Ottoman border guards. The anti-slip treads on the soles were specially designed to adapt to the mountainous terrain north of Thessaly."

Finally, there was a detailed report.

"Your Highness, under the pretext of 'surveying border defenses,' I personally led a team to track down one of the 'bandits.' Their retreat route was meticulously planned, perfectly avoiding all local police patrol points, and they eventually disappeared at a secret pass on the border known only to the local garrison."

Metaxas raised his head and looked directly at Constantine.

"When they operated, they worked in squads and platoons, providing cross-cover, and their tactical maneuvers were extremely professional. Ambushes, demolitions, night raids... these are not the actions of bandits."

His voice was cold and firm, like a judge's verdict.

"Your Highness, this is not a banditry. This is an undeclared war commanded by professional soldiers and executed by the Ottoman regular army."

Constantine's fist slowly clenched under the table. His knuckles made a slight "crackling" sound as he exerted force.

The map on the table seemed to have transformed into a giant chessboard. And he was being checkmated in the most shameless way.

This is a conspiracy.

A vicious scheme that is out in the open, yet has no solution.

The Ottoman Empire intended to use this kind of "low-intensity" asymmetric warfare, and this kind of proxy harassment where no incriminating evidence could be found, to destroy the foundation of its new regime.

If he swallows his anger, the achievements of land reform will be gradually eroded by endless fear and destruction, public support will be lost, and his prestige will plummet. Greece will regress to its original state of poverty and weakness.

If Greece were to send a large army to proactively cross the border and launch a punitive expedition, the Ottoman Empire would immediately announce to the world that Greece had broken the peace treaty and brazenly invaded. They would then launch a full-scale war under the pretext of "self-defense." At that point, the "protectorates" like Britain and France would absolutely not risk offending the Ottomans for the sake of a "disobedient" Greece. Greece would face the wrath of a behemoth alone, and national destruction would be imminent.

Constantine slammed his fist heavily onto the map, making a dull thud.

He felt like a lion trapped in a cage, possessing great strength but unable to break free from the prison woven with intrigue and cunning.

Just then, the attendant Alexandros entered and reported in a low voice.

"Your Highness, Pavlos, the peasant representative who was the first to stand up for you during the land reform, has risked his life to come from Thessaly to request an audience."

Constantine's body trembled slightly. Pavlos, he remembered that name. The man who, during the distribution of food, was the first to kneel down and kiss his boots, his eyes filled with the purest gratitude and hope.

"Let him in."

A moment later, Pavlos was brought in.

He was no longer the spirited man Constantine remembered. He was ragged, covered in wounds, and his face was etched with weariness and hardship. He entered the study, saw Constantine, and his knees buckled, causing him to kneel down.

The guards tried to help him up, but Constantine stopped them with a gesture.

Pavlos did not weep, nor did he plead. He simply raised his head, his eyes, once as bright as stars, now only showing a deathly dimness. In a hoarse, almost inaudible voice, he asked three questions.

first question:

"Your Highness, you have given us land, but who will protect it?"

The second question:

"Your Highness, you have given us hope, but who will protect our hope?"

The third question:

"Your Highness, you have given us a new life, are we... just going to watch ourselves die again?"

Every word was like a bullet, piercing Constantine's heart with pinpoint accuracy.

The study was deathly silent.

Constantine looked at Pavlos, who was kneeling on the ground, trembling, and at the extinguished flame in his eyes.

He opened his mouth, but found that he couldn't utter a single word.

The crown prince's dignity, the grand vision of the new policies, the future of the nation... all seemed so pale and powerless at this moment. He could promise everything, but he couldn't answer this most basic and weighty question.