The Meat Grinder

The battle lasted from noon until dusk.

Thick blood flowed freely across the walls, drying into a blackish-red depiction of Hell that gave off a pungent, fetid stench.

The Ottomans retreated, leaving countless corpses behind.

As night drew near, they clearly had no interest in continuing with a night battle. Their artillery positions, however, erupted again, pouring shells into the city. The results were minimal, more like pointless venting.

Constantinople had cannons of its own.

They had been forged for Constantine XI by Urban, but limited funding meant their calibers were all small. After personally inspecting the structure of the Theodosian Walls, Urban had concluded that cannons would be difficult to install in the towers.

She was too old. When this ancient wall had been designed a thousand years ago, no one had considered mounting cannons on it. Naturally, it was incapable of returning the enemy's artillery fire.

Lothar did not know whether to call Constantine XI kindhearted or foolish.

Urban knew the structure of the Theodosian Walls and was a cannon founder. If you could not even pay her wages, had you never realized how dangerous she might be? For someone like her, if you had no use for her and could not guarantee her loyalty, then even if you did not secretly execute her outright, you should at least have assigned more people to keep a close watch on her.

Mahmud II sent an envoy beneath the walls, proposing a temporary truce so both sides could collect their dead. The ceasefire would last until tomorrow evening.

Naturally, Lothar did not refuse this request.

The terror of the Black Death had left a deep impression on every intelligent life-form. In the world of Yesterday's Great Ship, even the giant clans of the far north had lost eighty percent of