1885, I came to save Greece

Chapter 51 The Birth of a New Star and the Twilight of the Old Gods

The palace corridors were so quiet that you could hear the crackling of candlelight.

Constantine lowered his eyes, looking at Metaxas, who was kneeling in front of him on one knee.

On that thin face, excitement and fervor intertwined, and his eyes shone with an astonishing light, like flames burning.

"Your Highness! My life, my loyalty, from this moment on, belong entirely to you!"

The voice echoed through the empty corridor, each word striking the hearts of everyone present.

At the entrance to the operations room, the generals who had been so arrogant just moments before now stood frozen in place, like a flock of geese with their necks choked. Their gazes shifted back and forth between the kneeling Metaxas and the standing Constantine, their expressions changing from shock to bewilderment, and finally settling into an indescribable complex emotion.

Especially Papagiel, the division commander who had just been "slaughtered" beyond recognition, watched this scene, and his burly body trembled slightly.

He wasn't jealous; he was trembling with fear.

He finally understood that what the Crown Prince had chosen was not an ordinary knife, but a genius who could define war! And he, Papagiorou, was fortunate enough to become the first whetstone for this divine weapon.

How fortunate, and how... tragic.

After a brief silence, the crowd stirred like ripples on water after a stone was thrown in.

But this time, instead of mockery and snickers, there were uncontrollable gasps and exclamations of amazement.

"My God...is this...is this the art of war of Germany?"

"No, I asked Military Attaché Krauser, and they've never seen such terrifying artillery tactics! This is something Metaxa has all to offer!" A young artillery captain said in a low voice, his face flushed with excitement.

A group of young officers and colonels who had been standing in the corner, barely daring to breathe, now had their eyes shining. They pushed aside the obese general blocking their way and squeezed forward, wanting to get a closer look at the kneeling figure.

Their eyes were filled with longing, like people who had been thirsty for days in the desert seeing an oasis.

Just then, a figure stepped out from the crowd and went straight to Constantine's side.

He was the British ambassador, Sir Charles Harding.

The seasoned diplomat, always bearing a touch of arrogance and reserve, had lost his usual smile. He gave Metaxas a deep look, then turned to Constantine and said in an almost whispered, yet incredibly solemn voice:

"Your Highness, your chief aide-de-camp is a true military genius."

Sir Harding's gaze shifted to the still-open door to the war room, as if he could still see the blood on the sand table.

"I dare say that even Sandhurst, the most prestigious Royal Military Academy in the British Empire, would love to have such a student, no, such an instructor."

This assessment carries a surprisingly heavy weight.

An ambassador from a world superpower and naval authority bestowed such high praise upon a Greek lieutenant.

Constantine finally smiled; this was exactly the effect he wanted.

He not only wanted to win over the military leaders at home, but also to make the representatives of the great powers who held sway in Athens see clearly that Greece was no longer a pawn they could manipulate at will.

He reached out and helped Metaxas up from the ground.

"I accept your loyalty."

His hand slammed heavily on Metaxas's shoulder, which was taut with excitement.

"But your life belongs to Greece."

Constantine then turned to the group of old-school generals, their faces ashen and their expressions varied.

His gaze was sharp as a knife, sweeping over the faces of Army Minister Zorbas, Division Commander Papagiorou, and the brigadier generals and colonels who had just been laughing.

His voice wasn't loud, but it carried an undeniable decisiveness.

"As it turns out, the outcome of a war no longer depends on who has the longer beard or the louder voice."

Constantine's gaze finally landed on Papagiorou, and the general instinctively straightened up.

"It depends on whose brain is closer to the truth."

Constantine surveyed the entire room, then slowly, and deliberately, asked:

"Does anyone still think that my people are all talk and no action?"

The audience was silent.

The fat generals who had been the loudest earlier now wished they could bury their heads in their uniform collars, afraid that the crown prince's gaze would fall on them.

Army Minister Zorbas's lips twitched a few times, but he ultimately didn't dare utter a single word. He felt a burning pain in his face, as if he had been slapped a dozen times from both sides.

Papagiorou, under everyone's gaze, bowed his head deeply, a heartfelt submission to absolute power.

The goal of establishing authority has been achieved.

Moreover, it was done in the most exhilarating and irrefutable way.

Constantine no longer paid any attention to these distraught old gods.

He took Metaxus with him, turned around, and strode through the crowd toward the depths of the palace.

The crowd automatically parted to make way for them.

Wherever he went, all eyes were fixed on Metaxus. Awe, curiosity, envy, fervor…

That night, the name Ioannis Metaxas swept through Athens' high society like a storm.

He is no longer the "bookworm who rose to power by flattery".

He is "a mysterious military genius by the Crown Prince's side".

He is a "war artist who composes concertos with artillery fire".

Some even privately referred to him as "the future Napoleon of Greece".

Constantine walked ahead, listening to the whispers behind him. He knew that the new star he had personally lit had risen.

Next, he will give this star a wider, and more dangerous... sky.

As I stepped out of the corridor, a cool evening breeze blew by.

Constantine stopped in his tracks.

"Write a new budget report." He didn't turn around.

Metaxas stood at attention behind him: "Yes, Your Highness. I will cut all unnecessary expenses and use every piece of drachma for artillery and training."

"not enough."

Constantine turned to look at him, his eyes deep.

"What I need is not a report on cost-cutting, but a blueprint for building a strong military."

"A blueprint that would allow us to win a local war against the Ottomans in a short period of time."

Metaxas gasped for breath.

He thought his deductions last night were the limit of his wisdom, but a casual remark from the Crown Prince made him instantly realize his insignificance.

Short-term! Against the Ottomans!

He thought it was just a distant dream, but in His Highness's words, it seemed like a project that could be completed step by step.

He was filled with excitement once again.

"Yes, Your Highness!"

Constantine nodded in satisfaction.

He knew that the knife was already sharpened.

It's time to use it to begin a major overhaul of this bloated and decaying kingdom's army.