Istanbul, March 1898
Snow dusted the roofs of Istanbul as smoke curled from the chimneys of the factories along the Golden Horn. The empire, once mocked as decrepit, now roared with life. In less than two decades, Abdulhamid had wrenched the Ottoman state into an age of steel, steam, and oil. Where once Europe had sold rifles to the Sultan, now it bought his. Where once Ottoman students went abroad to learn, now foreign students came to Istanbul.
And now, for the first time, the empire's scientific treasures were being exported.
In the Imperial Academy of Sciences—an institution Abdulhamid had willed into being—men of genius debated in Turkish and Latin script. Nikola Tesla himself had arrived the previous year, lured not by money but by freedom: a promise from the Sultan that his visions would not be shackled by bankers or patent-wars. Beside him worked men and women from across the empire, Arab chemists trained in Baghdad's new universities, Anatolian engineers schooled in Istanbul, Greek mathematicians assimilated into Turkish academies. Together they built machines that seemed like miracles.
Tesla's alternating current systems now powered much of Istanbul. In Basra, oil-fueled turbines—built under his guidance—lit the docks brighter than Alexandria. And now, Abdulhamid's ministers spoke of exporting this progress not just across the empire, but into Europe itself.
At the Council that March, Abdulhamid addressed his ministers with calm gravity.
"Gentlemen, for centuries Europe bled us of wealth, of dignity, of life itself. But now, the tide turns. They come to us for steel rails, for oil, for power itself. Soon they will come for science. We will sell them the light they crave. And in selling, we shall bind them to us—not with chains, but with wires, with currents, with the invisible threads of progress."
Some ministers hesitated. The Grand Vizier frowned. "Majesty, if we give them our genius, do we not risk strengthening them against us?"
Abdulhamid's eyes hardened. "No. For what we export, we already surpass. We will give them the shell, but keep the core. They will see our science as marvels, but not know the secrets that drive it. Just as Europe once gave us muskets while keeping repeating rifles for themselves—so shall we turn their own game against them."
The Council murmured in agreement. The empire was no longer the beggar, but the merchant.
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That spring, delegations from Austria and Italy came to Istanbul to negotiate contracts for Ottoman-designed oil turbines and electrical systems. Engineers demonstrated Tesla's designs in the palace courtyard: lamps glowing without wires, currents transmitted invisibly. The Europeans marveled, scribbling notes furiously.
But Abdulhamid noticed more than wonder in their eyes. He saw fear. For the more the Ottomans advanced, the more Europe saw not a dying empire—but a rival.
That very month, Crescent Eyes intercepted coded messages in the Austrian delegation's baggage. Selim presented them to the Sultan.
"Majesty, their engineers are not only buyers—they are spies. The Germans and Austrians cooperate to copy our turbines. The French write of sowing discontent among our Balkan students. And worse—the British speak of uniting Europe's rivalries against us."
Abdulhamid read the papers in silence. At last, he spoke. "So they conspire together, even as they quarrel among themselves. They cannot tolerate a strong empire in the East. They see our science not as progress, but as threat."
Selim's eyes narrowed. "Shall we cut their throats, Majesty?"
The Sultan shook his head. "Not yet. Let them copy our turbines, let them whisper in their salons. They do not realize they copy only shadows. The true light, the true future, we keep. And while they chase smoke, we plant roots. What matters is not what they steal, but what we make permanent: loyalty, unity, Turkishness."
Still, Abdulhamid ordered Crescent Eyes to extend their networks across Europe. Agents would shadow delegations, bribe clerks in Paris, intercept telegrams in Vienna. The empire's spies would not only defend but strike.
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By summer, reports flowed back to Yıldız. Crescent Eyes had uncovered an astonishing truth: in Paris, London, and St. Petersburg, secret meetings were being held. Diplomats and generals spoke of an "Eastern Barrier"—a coalition to check the Ottoman resurgence. It was still whispers, still drafts on paper, but the intent was clear.
Selim laid the report on the Sultan's desk. "They plan a ring of steel, Majesty. An alliance to strangle us before we grow too strong."
Abdulhamid traced the words with a finger. He remembered trenches, alliances, the Great War that had consumed the world in his first life. He knew the pattern. The storm was building, still far, but inevitable.
"Then," he said softly, "we must be ready before they are. We must not only defend—we must reach into their hearts. If they weave shadows around us, we will weave deeper shadows in their own capitals."
Selim bowed, his eyes glinting. The Crescent Eyes would not merely guard the empire—they would spread their web across Europe itself.
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That autumn, Istanbul hosted an international exposition. European delegations arrived, eager to display their machines and wares. Yet it was the Ottoman pavilions that stunned the crowds: oil-fueled engines, electric trams running on Tesla's current, rifles forged in imperial factories. Newspapers from Paris to Berlin wrote in astonishment: "The Sick Man Walks in Iron."
But behind the applause lay daggers. Crescent Eyes uncovered plots to poison engineers, to steal designs, even to detonate bombs at the exhibition. Each was foiled in silence—agents disappeared, bombs dismantled before they could ignite. The public never knew. But Abdulhamid knew. Europe was no longer content to whisper—it struck openly, if still in shadows.
On the final night of the exposition, Abdulhamid stood on the balcony of Yıldız, watching fireworks blaze over the Bosphorus. To the crowds, they were celebration. To him, they were warnings—flashes of fire that would one day consume continents.
Selim joined him. "Majesty, Europe unites against us. They will not forgive our rise."
The Sultan's voice was calm, yet beneath it burned iron. "Then let them unite. They will face not the sick man they mocked, but the Iron Sultan. Let them plot in Paris, in London, in Vienna. Crescent Eyes already sit in their shadows. When they strike, we will know. And when the storm comes, we shall be the ones who endure."
He turned his gaze westward, beyond the Bosphorus, into Europe itself. The shadows had grown long. But he had lived this century once before. And he knew: this time, the Ottomans would not stumble blindly into the fire.
This time, the fire would serve them.