1885, I came to save Greece

Chapter 201 Gunshots from the Clock Tower

The young priest's departing figure appeared exceptionally thin under the lights of the command post, yet possessed an indescribable sense of power. Metaxus stared at the figure disappearing through the doorway, his fingertips unconsciously tapping on the cold map. The rigor of military science and the fervor of faith—two inherently incompatible forces—intertwined, collided, and ultimately merged into a form of warfare he had never envisioned before.

For the first time, he realized just how grand and insane the picture Prince Constantine had painted truly was.

This war has long since transcended the scope of tactics and military strategy.

Inside a secluded cave on the border of the Ottoman Empire.

The firelight illuminated Hakan Bey's somber face. As a specially trained special forces officer meticulously cultivated by the Ottoman Empire, he had never felt so frustrated and angry. For over a month, his most elite "harassment force" had suffered more than half its losses, without even making a sound.

The soldiers who escaped brought back not valuable intelligence, but fear that was enough to destroy morale.

They said those Greek farmers were not afraid of death.

They said the priests in those villages were more terrifying than the devil.

They say that every church bell is a death knell.

"Useless!" Hakan Bey kicked over the campfire in front of him, sparks flying everywhere, scalding the surrounding guards who retreated in shock.

He knew that conventional harassment tactics had completely failed. The network of churches and villages, like a spider's web, was dividing, encircling, and eroding his forces. He had to change tactics; he had to strike with overwhelming force, shattering the very core of this network!

A scarred adjutant approached and whispered, "Sir, our men have found out. All intelligence and orders point to one place—the Monastery of St. Nicholas. That's the 'brain' of the Greeks!"

Hakan Bey's eyes suddenly sharpened.

St. Nicholas Monastery.

He certainly knew that place. An ancient building standing alone in the valley was one of the most sacred sites in the entire Thessaly region.

"Pass on my orders!" Hakan Bey's voice echoed through the cave, filled with a desperate madness. "Gather everyone who can still move! Take all the explosives! We'll forget about those villages; we have only one target!"

He reached out and pressed a heavy point on the map.

"St. Nicholas Monastery!"

"Once we destroy that place and kill the priest inside, those peasants will be nothing but a swarm of headless flies! I'll show them that their God is worthless before the Sultan's scimitar!"

The night grew deeper and deeper.

A long-brewing storm finally poured down. Large raindrops pounded against the forest floor with a dull thud. A howling wind swept through the woods.

The terrible weather provided Hakan Bey with perfect cover.

Nearly two hundred surviving bandits, like demons in the night, silently surrounded the St. Nicholas Monastery under the cover of wind and rain.

A bandit skillfully climbed the telephone pole and used pliers to cut the only telephone line connecting the monastery and the Larissa command post.

Another group of people cut down several large trees on the mountain road leading to the monastery, completely blocking the road.

A deadly net, under the cover of the storm, is quietly tightening.

Inside Larissa's command post, Metaxus stared at the map, his brow furrowing deeper and deeper. Three hours had passed, and no intelligence had come from the direction of the St. Nicholas Monastery. This would have been absolutely unthinkable before.

"Send a cavalry squad to check! Quickly!" he ordered.

Half an hour later, the cavalry captain rushed back, soaking wet and pale: "Reporting, Captain! The road to the monastery is blocked by felled trees! We...we can't get through! And the telephone line is cut!"

Metaxas's heart sank.

He rushed to the window and looked out at the dark and stormy north.

He knew something was wrong.

"boom!"

A deafening explosion shattered the tranquility of the monastery. A massive breach was blasted through the monastery's thick walls!

Dozens of bandits, howling, poured in through the breach!

"Enemy attack!!"

The piercing alarm blared throughout the entire monastery.

The dozens of militia members stationed there were immediately awakened from their sleep, grabbed their weapons, and rushed toward the breach.

A fierce battle erupted instantly!

The firelight flickered in the rainy night, and the sounds of gunfire, explosions, and shouts of battle mingled together.

The militia members, relying on the monastery's buildings, fought bravely. They fought fiercely and were fearless. But the bandits outnumbered them several times over, and their firepower was far more ferocious.

One after another, members of the militia fell screaming in pain as they lay in pools of blood.

The gap is getting bigger and bigger.

"We can't hold on any longer! Retreat! Retreat into the cathedral!" the militia leader roared, his arm dripping with blood.

The surviving defenders, supporting the wounded, fought their way back until they finally retreated into the magnificent cathedral. The heavy oak doors were firmly held back by heavy stone statues and benches.

Hakan Bey walked to the church door with a sinister grin.

"Blow it up!"

The cathedral was in a mess.

The groans of the wounded mingled with the sounds of thugs banging and shouting outside the door. Several elderly priests moved among the wounded, bandaging their wounds and offering their final prayers.

Despair enveloped everyone.

Father Gregorios, the old abbot of the monastery, stood before the altar. He was over eighty years old, his body hunched over, and he needed assistance to walk even on ordinary days.

He looked at the young people lying in pools of blood, at the terrified monks, and listened to the blasphemous swearing outside the door.

The sacred place he had guarded his entire life was about to be defiled by these devils.

In his cloudy old eyes, there was no fear, only a silent resolve.

He did not pick up the Bible.

He turned around, without saying a word, and walked with faltering but unusually determined steps into his small, simple, quiet room.

The room was furnished to the extreme: a wooden bed, a desk, and a crucifix.

Father Gregorios knelt before the bed and made the sign of the cross. Then, with difficulty, he bent down and pulled a long, rectangular object, tightly wrapped in oilcloth, from under the bed.

He untied the tarpaulin, revealing an old-fashioned British-made hunting rifle.

The gun barrel was made of walnut wood, smooth and shiny from years of handling. The metal parts were spotless, reflecting a cold, eerie light in the dim candlelight.

This gun accompanied him for more than half a century.

Before becoming a priest, he was the best hunter in the mountains.

Father Gregorios did not hesitate. He took several heavy bullets from a wooden box in the corner and skillfully loaded them into the chamber.

Then, he shouldered his hunting rifle and walked out of the quiet room.

The banging on the door outside grew increasingly violent.

Without looking at anyone, he walked straight to the side of the church, to the narrow, steep spiral staircase leading to the bell tower.

He climbed upwards step by step, with great difficulty.

Every step seemed to require the utmost effort.

The wind and rain poured in through the windows of the clock tower, making his monk's robes flutter loudly.

He finally reached the top of the clock tower.

A fierce wind whipped up torrential rain, lashing his face. He squinted his aging eyes, peering down through a narrow firing port.

Flames soared into the sky at the church entrance.

The bandit leader, Hakan Bey, stood on the corpse of a militia soldier, arrogantly shouting and ordering his men to plant more explosives.

Father Gregorios rested his heavy hunting rifle on the windowsill.

The wind and rain blurred his vision.

With his wrinkled, slightly trembling hand, he calmly made the sign of the cross on his chest.

Then, he pressed his cheek against the cold butt of the gun.

The cloudy eyes, through the crosshair and rear sight, steadily captured the laughing head below.

He pulled the trigger.

"Bang!"

A crisp gunshot pierced through the wind, rain, and noise.

At the church entrance, Hakan Bey, who was laughing wildly, suddenly stopped.

His head suddenly exploded, spraying red and white matter mixed with skull fragments backward.

Red and white matter, mixed with skull fragments, sprayed backward, covering the flag representing the Ottoman Empire behind him.

The headless corpse swayed and then fell straight backward.

The sounds from the battlefield abruptly ceased.

All the bandits stared in disbelief at the horrific scene, their minds blank.

Their leader is dead?

Just as they were in disarray and at a loss.

"Beep—beep beep—!"

A loud and urgent bugle call, like a sharp sword, suddenly rang out from the mountains and forests behind them!

"charge!!"

Metalus took the lead, leading his cavalry like a black tide, charging fiercely from behind the bandits!

The bandits, besieged on all sides, completely collapsed!

They dropped their weapons and fled in all directions.

However, it was too late.

The church doors suddenly burst open!

The surviving militia members and monks, their eyes burning with the flames of revenge, charged out with various weapons in hand, roaring in fury!

A one-sided massacre has begun.

The militia and reinforcements, who were seething with anger, surrounded and annihilated the bandits who were in dire straits.

Metaxas rushed into the monastery courtyard, looking at the corpses scattered on the ground and the flames soaring into the sky. His gaze finally settled on the towering bell tower.