1885, I came to save Greece

Chapter 198 The Exhausted Borderlands

The victory at the Dry Valley was like a gentle rain, briefly hydrating the parched land of Thessaly, but it failed to extinguish the flames hidden deep underground.

The war is not over. It has simply taken on a more grueling form.

The Ottomans learned their lesson. They no longer organized large-scale, foolish frontal assaults. Instead, they employed small harassment squads, like venomous snakes, appearing and disappearing unpredictably along the long border. They no longer attacked heavily fortified villages, but instead sabotaged irrigation systems, burned fields, and attacked lone farmers.

A full-scale military confrontation degenerated into an endless, low-intensity counterinsurgency war.

This is precisely the most fatal test for irregular armed groups like militias.

Inside Larissa's secret command post, Joannis Metaxas had been standing before a massive sand table for over three hours. On the sand table, the small blue flags representing the enemy were being pulled out one by one; but the small black flags representing friendly casualties were also slowly and steadily increasing.

What troubled him even more were the reports compiled from various villages.

"The Shiqiao village group has been on night watch for half a month, and three people have fallen ill due to exhaustion."

"In Hongtupo Village, the autumn harvest is less than 30% complete, and the able-bodied men are all on the front lines."

News has come from Blackwater Village that some villagers are starting to complain, believing that this fighting has no end and hoping... to return to their previous lives.

Every line of text pierced Metaxa's heart.

His tactical system worked perfectly. But the foundation of this system was people—the farmers who toiled by day and fought by night. Their bodies were not made of steel, and their wills were not indestructible. They could display astonishing courage and fight a bloody night to defend their homes. But they could not endure this slow, hopeless torment, day after day.

Victory is turning into a slow-acting poison, gradually eroding the foundation of the militia.

Metaxas picked up a battle report, turned, and left the command post. He had to see Constantine.

The study in the Royal Palace of Athens.

Constantine put down a report on the latest German chemical technology and looked at the travel-worn Metaxas.

"The situation is worse than I imagined." Metaxus didn't mince words, placing a stack of documents directly on the table. "Your Highness, this is the casualty statistic for the past twenty days. We've lost 127 men, only 30 of whom died in direct combat. The rest died from assassinations, traps, and diseases caused by exhaustion."

His fingers tapped on one of the reports.

"This is the most crucial point. Our grain procurement volume has decreased by 70% compared to last month. Farmers have neither the time to harvest nor the energy to transport the grain. If this continues, we will collapse due to food shortages even before the Ottomans invade."

Constantine silently flipped through the report; the only sound in the study was the crackling of the wood burning in the fireplace.

Metaxas's voice carried a deep sense of powerlessness.

"Tactically, we've done our best. But we're facing a professional army that relies on the Empire for supplies. And we're just a bunch of peasants armed with passion and hatred."

"Passion will fade, hatred will be masked by weariness." He raised his head and looked directly at Constantine. "Your Highness, I suggest that a battalion be secretly transferred from the new army to the border under the guise of 'retired soldiers returning home.' We need real soldiers to undertake the most arduous defensive tasks, giving the farmers a chance to catch their breath."

This was the only feasible solution he could come up with after careful consideration.

Constantine closed the report, stood up, and walked to the window.

"no."

Two words, simple yet resolute.

Metaxus was taken aback: "Your Highness?"

"Captain, don't you understand?" Constantine turned around, his azure eyes utterly calm. "From the very beginning, this war wasn't a military confrontation. It's a political war. The moment we deploy our regular army, even a single soldier, the Ottomans will immediately seize upon it and declare to the world that we've disrupted the peace."

"At that point, they will have a legitimate reason to launch a full-scale war. All our efforts will be in vain."

"But we can't just stand by and watch the militia collapse!" Metaxus's tone was somewhat urgent.

“What they lack is not military support,” Constantine said, walking up to him and emphasizing each word. “What they lack is a reason. A nobler reason to fight, one that transcends exhaustion, fear, and the very desire to survive.”

"Defending their homeland is a reason enough for them to take up arms. But it's not enough for them to fight like true warriors, to the last drop of blood."

Metaxas fell silent. He couldn't refute it, yet he couldn't find an answer. A higher reason? What was that? Wealth? Honor? What meaning did those ephemeral things have for a farmer struggling to survive?

Constantine, seeing his confused expression, offered no further explanation. He simply patted Metaxas on the shoulder.

"Go back and hold your line. Reinforcements... will arrive soon. But not the kind of reinforcements you're thinking of."

Metaxus left the palace, filled with doubts.

However, just half an hour after he left, another report from Thessaly was delivered to an inconspicuous monastery in Athens through a completely different channel.

This is Father Callinicus's temporary residence.

The messenger was a "Tinder" sergeant disguised as a beggar. His face and hands were covered in grime, but his eyes revealed the vigilance and determination unique to soldiers.

Callinicus was copying scriptures by the dim candlelight. His life was like that of an ascetic; even in Athens, he maintained the same routine he had taken on Mount Athos.

The sergeant respectfully handed over a small scroll wrapped in oilcloth.

Callinicus put down his quill and unrolled the scroll. It wasn't military intelligence, but a record of his observations. In rough handwriting, it detailed the various horrific events that had occurred in the border region over the past month.

Each name, each village, each bloody description.

Callinicus's breathing gradually became heavy. He read very slowly, each word as if etched into his heart.

As he read the last paragraph, his hand, which held the scroll like a withered twig, began to tremble uncontrollably.

"...September 27th, South Church of Blackwater Village. Bandits stormed in, knocked over the statue of the Virgin Mary on the altar, whipped it with a horsewhip, and carved the crescent and star symbol on the icon with a knife. Then, they burned the church to the ground. Father Andrei, in order to protect the relics, was burned alive by the bandits inside the church. Before he died, he made the sign of the cross on his chest..."

"...October 3rd, Shiqiao Village. The bandits dismantled all the crosses in the village, piled them up, and forced the villagers to spit on them. Those who resisted were beheaded on the spot and their heads were hung at the entrance of the church..."

"Click—"

He actually snapped the wooden shaft of the scroll in half.

Callinicus suddenly stood up, the movement so forceful that it overturned the wooden chair behind him.

The dull thud of the chair falling to the ground echoed in the deathly silent room.

He didn't turn around, nor did he try to help. His eyes were fixed on the huge cross depicting Jesus' crucifixion on the wall. The flickering candlelight cast his shadow, distorted and enormous, across the wall.

What he saw was no longer just the words on the report.

He saw the statue of the Virgin Mary being whipped, Father Andrei being consumed by flames, and the helpless villagers being forced to desecrate their faith.

This is not war.

This is blasphemy!

This is the devil's most direct and shameless provocation against God! It is a declaration of war against the entire Orthodox world!

Callinicus closed his eyes, his chest heaving violently. A flush of pain and anger rose on his face, which was gaunt from long periods of asceticism.

When he opened his eyes again, his gaze had transformed from pity into a fierce and resolute intensity.

Without consulting anyone, or even changing out of his patched and worn monk's robe, he strode out of the room and addressed the two young priests praying outside in an unyielding tone:

"Come with me to the palace."

Half an hour later, the palace gates were knocked heavily.

The guards stopped the three men who looked like country monks.

Callinicus did not speak, but took out the royal emblem that Constantine had personally bestowed upon him from his bosom.

The guard's expression changed, and he immediately let them pass.

When Constantine saw Callinicus again in his study, the priest's face held a calm before the storm.

Callinicus walked to the center of the study and bowed deeply to Constantine.

"Your Highness."

His voice was hoarse, yet exceptionally clear.

"Let worldly wars be fought by worldly soldiers."

"But God's war must be fought by God's servants."

He raised his head, his hawk-like eyes staring directly at the crown prince.

"Please allow me, carrying the cross, to go to that land ravaged by the devil!"