章 2: Tales of Hope and Visions
[Somewhere in a Royal Library inside Blachernae Palace, Constantinople.]
Five Years Later.
It felt like only yesterday that John had been thrust into this new life, reborn into an era he had once known only through history books. Surprisingly, he had adapted quickly to his circumstances. Despite coming from the future, he rarely questioned the absurdity of his reincarnation anymore. What was the point?
Days turned into weeks, weeks into months, and eventually years. He had endured the indignities of infancy, though being a suckling toddler had been no picnic either. Finally, at five years old, he was free from the humiliation of crawling and babbling.
He could now walk, talk, and even think freely, though his new body still came with its limitations.
For most, it seemed miraculous. A child who spoke before two and could read by three? To the imperial court, John was nothing short of a gift from God.
His father, Manuel II Palaiologos, had been elated, hailing John's precociousness as divine proof that his dynasty had been blessed. The court priests had whispered of sainthood, and palace attendants often venerated the young heir in ways that made John's skin crawl.
For four long years, John's life as a baby had been smooth sailing for everyone but him. For John, it was torture. Crawling, cooing, and drooling all day in front of sycophantic adults had pushed his patience to the limit.
Now, at last, he could walk and talk. Yet, even with his newfound independence, he felt confined—trapped by the weight of his identity and the walls of the palace.
"There's not much to do," he grumbled inwardly, staring out of the arched window beside him.
Being royalty came with its perks, but also its burdens. As the heir apparent to the crumbling Byzantine throne, John was rarely allowed to leave the palace. Guards and maids shadowed his every move, their watchful eyes scrutinizing even the smallest actions.
"I can't even take a dump in peace," he thought bitterly. "Curse this child's body."
Every morning, maids dressed and undressed him like a doll, much to his humiliation. The same maids hovered around him constantly, often whispering prayers under their breath as if he were some sacred relic.
The religious figures who visited the palace treated him as though he were a living saint, a figure of veneration and prophecy. This unearned reverence only added to his discomfort.
And yet, those inconveniences paled in comparison to the daily challenges of navigating this ancient world.
"I didn't appreciate modern plumbing nearly enough in my past life."
The lack of basic amenities left him silently cursing the reality of medieval royalty. Indoor toilets? Nonexistent. Baths? Rare. And as for the food? Let's just say medieval cuisine wasn't exactly Michelin-star material.
"I guess this is how it's always been for nobles back in the day… How 'convenient.'"
Puk!
"Ouch!"
A sharp sting interrupted John's musings, and he groaned, rubbing his forehead. His gaze darted to the source of the pain—a rolled-up parchment lying on the floor, the culprit of his sudden discomfort.
"So, our young symbasileus," a familiar voice drawled, "what did you discover during your journey into Wonderland?"
John froze, his small body stiffening as a cold sweat formed on his brow. That mocking tone, coupled with a devilish grin, could only belong to one person.
His tutor.
"Damn old man," John muttered internally, though he dared not say it aloud.
He turned to face the figure looming over him. "Ah, well, yes… no…" he stammered, fumbling for words. His gaze flicked around the room, desperately seeking an escape route.
The old man's grin widened, his expression equal parts amused and menacing. "Oh? What's this? Where's all that bravado I sensed just moments ago?"
"What bravado, old man? You're imagining things," John muttered, sighing heavily as he rubbed his forehead. He decided to shift tactics. "Rather, your face… well, how should I put it… 'eloquently' speaking—"
"Haha!" The man's laughter boomed, echoing through the grand library like thunder. The force of it seemed as though it might shake the very walls around them.
"So, my face left quite an impression, did it?" the old man teased, feigning offense. "Well, I can't change what God has given me, can I?"
He leaned closer, his grin growing wider as he loomed over John. To the young prince, it felt as though a ghost were reaching for his throat.
Damn old man, leave me alone! John thought, suppressing the urge to flee.
The so-called "old man" was none other than Pavlos Maziatikos, a scholar monk and longtime advisor to the Palaiologan family.
Pavlos was an oddity—a man who looked like what John once jokingly described as "a failed attempt to combine a toad and a grasshopper." Despite his eccentric appearance, he was one of the most respected figures in the empire, known for his brilliance and his sharp tongue.
Though the court revered John as a prodigy, Pavlos had little patience for such sentiments. He treated the young symbasileus like a bratty child, unafraid to smack him on the head or call out his arrogance.
At first, John had resented Pavlos for his harshness. But over time, he had come to appreciate the old monk's candor and wisdom—though he would never admit it aloud.
Still, the monk didn't let the boy's brilliance go to his head.
Of course, Manuel II never challenged Pavlos' behavior or his methods imposed upon his heir.
The emperor knew the monk's habits all too well and understood the nature of their long-standing relationship. Pavlos had served the imperial family for decades, his loyalty unquestionable, his influence undeniable.
In his prime, Pavlos Maziatikos had been a brilliant administrator and an accomplished political figure, his monastic vows doing little to diminish his sharp mind or biting wit. Though nominally a man of the cloth, he had frequently acted as an advisor in court, skillfully navigating the volatile Byzantine political landscape.
When John turned four, Manuel II entrusted him to Pavlos, appointing the monk as his personal tutor and guardian. The decision reflected the emperor's deep trust in Pavlos' ability to guide his heir, both intellectually and morally.
At first, Pavlos harbored doubts. The young prince was clever, yes, but most royal children tended to be spoiled, self-important, and easily bored. Pavlos expected no different from John. But within months, the monk found himself surprised—awed, even—by the boy's potential.
By the end of the first year, John had far surpassed Pavlos' expectations. His enthusiasm for learning, his sharp memory, and his capacity to understand complex subjects were nothing short of extraordinary.
Politics, administration, military strategy—though still in their infancy, John excelled in all of it.
Pavlos had to admit, grudgingly, that the boy's aptitude exceeded even that of his father. Manuel II was competent enough—his administrative skills were respectable, and he was more capable than many of his predecessors—but his talents were limited to the ordinary.
John, on the other hand, was no ordinary child. He was a prodigy, a diamond in the rough.
Still, extraordinary talent came with extraordinary pressure. Looking at the boy's progress, Pavlos couldn't help but think of the empire's predicament. The once-great city of Constantinople was a shadow of its former self, its walls holding back not just invaders but the crushing reality of decline.
The Ottoman Empire, with its rapidly consolidating power, loomed over Byzantium like a gathering storm. The betrayals of the Venetians during the Fourth Crusade, the disastrous Battle of Manzikert, and centuries of internal strife had bled the empire dry. The faithful prayed for revival, but hope was a scarce commodity.
And yet, as Pavlos observed the young prince poring over ancient texts, something deep within him stirred.
Was it hope?
Perhaps.
This boy—this extraordinary boy—could be more than the heir to a crumbling throne. Perhaps he could be the spark that reignited the empire's fading flame.
But Pavlos knew better than to dream too big. After all, history was littered with the corpses of those who had reached for greatness and fallen short.
Even so, Pavlos couldn't shake the feeling that John might be different.
Pavlos sighed, his playful demeanor giving way to something more serious. "I know you're incomparably different from your peers, but that doesn't mean you can slack off in your studies."
John, sensing the shift in tone, wisely held back a snarky response. Instead, he nodded and settled into his chair, resignation written all over his young face.
Ugh. Fine. Keep your lectures coming, old man, he thought, though he dared not say it aloud.
The lessons Pavlos taught weren't just about academics—they were about duty. With each passing day, John felt the weight of the empire settling more heavily on his shoulders. Philosophy, human nature, the role of faith in shaping the destiny of nations—these were the discussions that filled their sessions.
Pavlos, despite his eccentricities, was a master of his craft. His insights were unparalleled, his knowledge vast. As they delved into ancient texts written by sages and strategists of old, John found himself captivated. It was as if he were rediscovering lost truths, tapping into the wisdom of those who had come before him.
Still, John couldn't resist teasing his tutor whenever the opportunity arose.
"Well, if the great Master Pavlos says so, I suppose I'd better keep up," he said with a mischievous grin.
"You cheeky brat," Pavlos muttered, clicking his tongue. "I wonder where you got that personality from."
John smirked. "I am the son of my father, so it was obvious where it came from."
Pavlos rolled his eyes but didn't dignify the comment with a response. Instead, he gestured to the table between them, where several scrolls and manuscripts lay waiting.
"Today, young lord, we'll discuss the Battle of Manzikert," Pavlos announced, his tone growing serious as he took his seat.
The lighthearted banter faded, replaced by an atmosphere of focused intensity.
John's curiosity piqued. History lessons had become his favorite part of their sessions. In his past life, he'd found the subject dull, a jumble of dates and events that felt disconnected from his reality. But now?
Now, history was his reality.
"Manzikert wasn't just a battle," Pavlos began, his voice steady and deliberate. "It was a turning point. The arrogance of Emperor Romanos IV led to our downfall."
The monk paused, letting the words sink in before continuing. "But history is not just about wars and emperors. It's about choices. It's about the paths we take—and the ones we avoid."
"Romanos IV was brave and generous," Pavlos continued, "but he was also impetuous. He feared losing his throne so much that he underestimated the Turks, dismissing them as a mere 'horde.' How wrong he was."
John listened intently, absorbing every word. Pavlos' blunt criticism of the emperor surprised him—wasn't it sacrilegious to speak ill of the dead, especially one that was the emperor? But the monk didn't seem concerned. His words carried the weight of hard truths.
"Romanos' overconfidence led to disaster," Pavlos said, his tone sharp. "His army was destroyed, his capture led to the loss of our eastern territories, and his failures plunged the empire into civil war. His reign marked the beginning of a steep decline."
John frowned, his small fingers tapping the edge of the table. "Why would the people at the time didn't unite to undo all the damages instead of senselessly stabbing each others' back and exacerbated the problem?"
Pavlos sighed. "That, young prince, is a question many have asked. But hindsight is always clearer than foresight. The choices we make in the moment often seem right—until they're not."
Noticing John lost in thought, Pavlos reached into his robes and produced a thin stick. Without warning, he gave the boy a light smack on the head.
"Ouch! What was that for?" John yelped, glaring at his tutor.
"What do you think of what I just told you?" Pavlos asked, his expression unreadable.
John rubbed his head, his irritation obvious. "What's to think? I just heard you rant about how foolish the emperor was and how his blunders got us into this mess."
Smack!
Pavlos delivered another swift tap, this time with a hint of satisfaction.
"Ouch! Seriously, what was that for?"
"While Romanos IV may have been flawed, he was still our emperor," Pavlos said firmly. "You cannot speak of him like that—neither in private nor in public. Do you understand, young symbasileus?"
What hypocrisy! You just called him arrogant and impetuous! John thought but bit his tongue.
And so, the lesson continued, with John begrudgingly swallowing his irritation. For now, he was still just a child—a prodigy, yes, but still subject to the whims of his tutor.
One day, John thought darkly, I'll work this old codger to the bone. And if death comes for him, I'll drag him back from the grave.
Meanwhile, Pavlos felt an inexplicable chill run down his spine. He glanced at John suspiciously, but the boy's expression was perfectly innocent—too innocent.
Am I going mad? Pavlos wondered, shaking his head.
Unbeknownst to him, John was already plotting his tutor's downfall—not with malice, but with the mischievous determination of a young prince who was, after all, still only five years old.
----------------------
After the day's grueling lesson with Pavlos, John found himself strolling through the palace gardens with his father, Emperor Manuel II.
The gardens were quiet, their well-kept greenery offering an illusion of vitality. But even here, amidst the fragrant flowers and the soft rustle of leaves, John could feel the weight of decline pressing against the edges of this serene haven. The gardens, for all their care, were modest—far from the grand opulence one might expect of an imperial palace. They reflected the state of the empire itself: fading, diminished, yet clinging to remnants of its former glory.
Beyond the walls of the Blachernae Palace, Constantinople lay sprawled, its once-proud skyline now a patchwork of splendor and decay. From the palace heights, John could glimpse the weathered stone of the city's defensive walls and the crumbling grandeur of its ancient monuments. The Byzantine capital still bore the marks of its storied past, but they were fading—just like the empire it represented.
It was a rare moment of solitude for father and son, uninterrupted by courtly demands or the ever-watchful eyes of attendants. John cherished these fleeting times, though today, his heart was heavy with questions he could no longer suppress.
"Father," John began, his voice tentative yet steady, "why does our beloved empire face such struggle? Can we not rekindle the flames of its former glory?"
The question had lingered in John's mind for some time. He had often wrestled with it alone, unsure of how to bring it up to the man standing before him—the emperor who was also his father, and, in some ways, the inheritor of Byzantium's decline.
But after the intense lesson with Pavlos, John could no longer keep the question buried. Though he already understood the empire's decline through the lens of his past life's history books, facing the reality firsthand—and confronting one of the central figures of that decline—made it impossible to ignore.
Manuel II paused mid-step, his expression flickering between surprise and sorrow. The weight of his son's words settled heavily on him. It wasn't the kind of question he expected from a boy of five, yet something in John's tone suggested this wasn't mere childish curiosity.
Turning his gaze to the horizon, Manuel let his eyes linger on the distant cityscape of Constantinople. Even within the sanctuary of the palace, the city's slow decay was impossible to ignore. The emperor's face softened with regret as he finally murmured, "Why, indeed."
The words were barely above a whisper, but John heard the weight they carried.
Manuel's silence was agonizing. John's question wasn't born from idle curiosity; it came from the restless frustration of someone who knew what awaited the empire if it continued on this trajectory. How could a civilization so rich in history, knowledge, and culture have fallen so low?
John broke the silence, his voice low but insistent. "Over the last century, we've lost so much. Our lands, our people… our strength. The Turks now hold what was once ours, and instead of standing united, we've wasted ourselves on petty infighting."
Manuel's brow furrowed. Though John's words stung, the emperor didn't interrupt.
"It's not just the Turks," John continued, his small hands curling into fists at his sides. "We've bled ourselves dry. Civil wars, betrayal, mismanagement... It's like we've forgotten what we're fighting for."
Manuel's lips tightened into a thin line. The boy's words cut too close to the truth.
John had gleaned much from Pavlos' lessons and his own fragmented memories of history. The reign of his grandfather, John V, loomed large in his thoughts—a reign marked by civil unrest and territorial losses. While the Ottomans had consolidated their power, forging unity from the chaos of the fractured Seljuk Empire, the Byzantines had squandered theirs in endless cycles of rebellion and intrigue.
"Grandfather didn't help matters," John said carefully, watching for his father's reaction. "But it wasn't just him, was it? You and Uncle Andronikos... your fight only made things worse."
Manuel stiffened at the mention of his late brother, Andronikos IV. The accusation cut through the air like a blade, sharp and unyielding.
For a long moment, Manuel said nothing. His gaze remained fixed on the distant walls of Constantinople, their stones weathered and worn, silent witnesses to the empire's long decay.
Finally, Manuel sighed, his voice heavy with weariness. "You're too young to carry such thoughts, my son."
"But I'm not wrong," John shrugged both his shoulders, his eyes unwavering yet innocent.
Manuel turned to his son, studying him with an intensity that made John's heart quicken. What did his father see in him?
"...No, you're not wrong," Manuel admitted at last.
The emperor clasped his hands behind his back and resumed walking slowly down the garden path. John followed, his small legs working to keep pace.
"My brother and I..." Manuel began, his tone measured and distant, "we were both products of a broken time. The empire was already fractured when we were born, its foundations weakened by centuries of misrule and betrayal. We did what we thought was necessary to survive, to protect what little remained of our legacy."
He paused, his shoulders slumping slightly. "And yet, in trying to preserve the empire, we only hastened its decline. Andronikos saw our father's weakness and rebelled against him. And I... I fought to defend the throne, even knowing it would tear the empire apart."
Manuel's voice grew quieter as he continued. "Andronikos allied himself with foreign powers, thinking it would secure his claim. I stood against him—not out of love for my father, but out of duty to the empire. It was a mistake. One of many."
The regret in Manuel's voice was palpable, and John couldn't help but feel a twinge of sympathy for the man standing beside him. His father was no villain, no heartless despot—just a flawed man trying to navigate an impossible legacy.
"Do you think..." John began cautiously, his voice softer now, "...that we can fix it?"
Manuel turned to his son, his expression unreadable. For a moment, he simply studied John, as if searching for an answer within the boy's young face.
"I don't know," Manuel said honestly.
John's heart sank at the admission, but before despair could take root, Manuel knelt and placed a firm hand on his son's shoulder.
"But if there's anyone who can, it's you," the emperor said, his voice steady.
John's eyes widened, his young face betraying both shock and an emerging resolve. The weight of his father's words pressed down on him like a leaden cloak, yet somewhere deep within, something began to stir—a spark of determination he hadn't felt in either of his lives.
In his previous life, no one had expected much of him. He had been one of countless ordinary people, moving through the endless, monotonous grind of modern existence. Life had been a cycle of surviving rather than thriving, each tomorrow looking eerily like today, devoid of ambition or purpose. Expectations, if they existed at all, were mundane and uninspired—finish school, get a job, pay the bills.
But here, in this world, the contrast couldn't have been sharper. Even as a child, John was treated with reverence. Priests and scholars whispered of his brilliance, courtiers showered him with praise, and strangers bowed as if he were destined to save them. The weight of their hopes was suffocating, their expectations bordering on worship. To them, he was no mere boy; he was the beacon of a faltering empire, a figurehead onto whom they projected all their desperate dreams.
Of course, John thought bitterly, it wasn't entirely unusual for this time period. People in this era seemed to cling to impossibly naïve ideas, as though a miracle could swoop in and save them from the mess they'd created.
After all, even the Pope once sent children to reclaim the Holy Lands, believing divine intervention would somehow make up for their innocence and inexperience.
But Manuel's words—these weren't the empty praises of sycophants or the desperate prayers of an overzealous clergy. This wasn't modern-day parents expecting their children to follow their whims, pushing them toward shallow goals for their own pride.
No, this was different.
Manuel II spoke not as a father seeking a reflection of himself in his son, but as an emperor entrusting the future of a dying state to someone he believed could rise to meet the challenge.
His voice carried the raw honesty of a man who had learned, through years of hardship, the cruel truths of power.
Manuel knew better than anyone that trust was a commodity Byzantium could no longer afford. Betrayal had worn the empire thin; intrigue had poisoned its courts.
Allies could become enemies in the blink of an eye, and survival was often a lonely path carved by those who dared to act with ruthless decisiveness.
"Either you walk alone and carve a path of survival," John thought, echoing his father's unspoken lesson, "or you smash the walls of doubt and contempt with tyranny."
It was clear to John that his father wasn't trying to burden him out of malice or desperation. This was Manuel's way of passing on the grim truths of leadership. In this fragile empire, trust was dangerous, hope was fleeting, and survival meant carrying burdens others could not.
"You have a mind unlike any I've seen, John," Manuel had said, his voice unwavering. "And a heart that beats with both wisdom and ambition. If there's any hope for our empire, it lies in you."
John let the words settle in his mind, replaying them over and over. They were heavy, but not crushing. If anything, they lit something within him—a fire fueled by the weight of expectation, but tempered by a steely resolve.
In his past life, the thought of being responsible for anyone other than himself would have terrified him. But now? He didn't have the luxury of fear. This wasn't just about him; it was about the empire, the legacy, the lives of thousands.
If there's any hope for our empire, it lies in you.
The words were both a challenge and a promise.
John straightened his posture, his young shoulders bearing the invisible weight of a crumbling empire's future. He didn't know if he could fulfill his father's expectations, but he did know one thing:
He would try.
クリエイターの想い 
lordgsh
lordgsh I just had to expand this chapter further because I thought that the characters development and nature were not fully explained. I hope those who read this like the latest version better.
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