The Powder Keg
The Balkans were a land of mountains and fire, where every village kept a grudge like an heirloom, and every church whispered rebellion in its hymns.
In his first life, Abdulhamid had read how the Balkans bled the empire, one uprising after another, until the region tore itself free, leaving the Ottoman heartland exposed and humiliated.
Now, in this second life, he could already see the first sparks. Serbian bands smuggled rifles across borders. Bulgarian agitators spread pamphlets. Austrian envoys whispered promises of support.
And now, one spark had become a flame: a rebellion in a remote mountain valley.
Abdulhamid knew this was no mere local riot. This was a test. A test of his reforms, his factories, and his will.
The empire's future might well be decided in those jagged hills.
The March of New Steel
Ottoman soldiers marched into the Balkan hills, their muskets gleaming not with European stamps, but with the mark of the new Imperial Arsenal. Their uniforms, once ragged patchworks, were woven in Istanbul's mills. Even the wagons bore the stamp of Ottoman industry.
To the soldiers, it felt like pride. To Abdulhamid, riding at the head of the column, it felt like vindication.
At his side rode Selim, his eyes scanning the treeline. "Highness, the men march strong. But the hills are treacherous. The rebels know every rock and path."
"That is why we are here," Abdulhamid replied. "To prove that steel and discipline can master even the mountains."
He remembered reading about guerrilla tactics in his first life — how rebels had bled empires dry with ambushes, raids, and hit-and-run strikes. He would not let history repeat.
The First Ambush
It came at dawn, as the column wound through a narrow gorge.
Gunfire cracked from the cliffs. Stones tumbled down. Rebel cries echoed like wolves.
The soldiers staggered, some falling, others raising shields. Panic threatened to spread. But Abdulhamid's voice cut through the chaos.
"Hold the line! Shields up, rifles ready!"
The new muskets barked in reply, their shots more accurate than the rebels expected. Ottoman cannons, dragged by mule, were hauled into position and fired uphill, blasting rock and trees apart.
The rebels scattered, unused to facing disciplined volleys instead of ragged return fire.
When the smoke cleared, dozens of rebels lay dead, while the Ottoman line held firm.
Selim grinned. "The arsenal serves us well, Highness."
Abdulhamid nodded, though his expression was grim. "This was only the first bite. The wolf has not yet shown its full teeth."
The Village of Shadows
Days later, the column reached a village said to shelter rebels. The streets were eerily quiet, the windows shuttered.
The soldiers searched, finding only frightened peasants. But Abdulhamid knew better. He dismounted, stepping into the square.
"People of the Balkans!" he called. "I am not your enemy. I am the prince who brings bread and protection. But if you shelter murderers, then you side with death."
From the shadows of a barn, a shot rang out. It grazed Abdulhamid's arm. Instantly, Selim and the guards stormed the barn, dragging out two rebels.
The soldiers demanded blood, calling for the village to be burned.
Abdulhamid raised his hand. "No. We are not butchers."
He looked at the trembling villagers. "You see this?" He pointed to his wound. "I bleed as any man. But I bleed for you. If you raise arms against me, you will find no mercy. But if you stand with me, then your children will eat, your homes will stand, and your lives will be safe."
The rebels were executed outside the village. The rest of the villagers bent their heads in submission.
It was a victory — but Abdulhamid could feel the hatred simmering beneath their fear.
The Battle of the Crossroads
The rebellion climaxed at a key crossroads leading deeper into the mountains. The rebels had dug in, hundreds strong, supplied with rifles smuggled from Austria.
The Ottoman army advanced cautiously, cannons roaring, muskets cracking.
Abdulhamid rode among the ranks, shouting encouragement, his presence steadying the men.
The rebels fought savagely, using the terrain to their advantage. For hours, the battle raged, smoke choking the valley.
At last, Abdulhamid ordered his secret weapon: a crude but effective mobile artillery piece, mounted on reinforced wagons — his own invention, inspired by later histories of mechanized warfare.
The cannons rolled forward, blasting the rebel lines apart. Shocked and broken, the rebels fled into the hills.
The crossroads were theirs. The rebellion was crushed.
The Aftermath
The battlefield stank of blood and smoke.
Abdulhamid walked among the wounded, speaking to soldiers, praising their courage. When he came upon a dying rebel, the man spat at his feet.
"You may win today, Turk," the rebel hissed, "but you will never tame us. This land is not yours."
Abdulhamid knelt beside him. "Then I will make it yours. Not by fire, but by blood. Not by conquest, but by unity. You hate me now, but one day, your children will call themselves what I am: Turk."
The rebel gave a bitter laugh before death took him.
Abdulhamid stood, his gaze hard. He knew assimilation would not be easy. But he also knew this was only the first battle in a long war — not of swords, but of identities.
The First Victory, The Greater War
The rebellion was broken. The crossroads secured. The factories had proven their worth.
In Istanbul, news of the victory spread, silencing many doubters. The soldiers returned not as beggars in tattered uniforms, but as warriors clad in steel and discipline.
But Abdulhamid knew the truth. This was no ending. This was the beginning.
The Balkans were a tinderbox. Every spark, if left unchecked, could ignite a firestorm that might consume the empire.
As he stood on the battlefield, the smoke curling into the sky like a warning, Abdulhamid whispered to himself:
"I have beaten back the spark. But the fire is still there, waiting. The Balkans are not yet mine. But one day, they will be — not by fear, not by force, but by transformation. They will be Turks. And the empire will be whole."
Far away, in Vienna and St. Petersburg, men in gilded halls received word of the Ottoman victory. They frowned, uneasy.
For the first time in decades, the Sick Man of Europe was no longer coughing blood. He was sharpening his sword.