Boris arrived at headquarters, but the command post was already engulfed in raging flames. There was not a single living soul around. He stared at it all in bewilderment.
Boris desperately searched for someone who could give him orders. The guns of battle had already begun to roar. He did not know whether he should return to his position or charge toward the very front of the war.
Just then, Boris noticed people boarding a ship, apparently preparing to leave. Furious, he snatched up a rifle and fired toward the harbor, but bullets filled with wrath could not harm those cowards boarding the ship to flee.
"You sons of bitches! You're the ones who sent us into this hell! And now you want to leave us behind and run away on your own!
"To hell with the Russian Empire! To hell with the Third Rome!"
Boris roared himself hoarse. He had no idea whether it was the earlier gunfire or his curses that drew attention from the harbor—or whether those people were simply waving farewell to the city.
Boris saw someone waving at him, seemingly beckoning him over. Though the distance was too great for him to be sure, he still threw down his rifle and rushed downhill.
Rain began to fall from the sky. Amid the ruins of Topkapi Palace, puddles of mud and blood lay everywhere.
Countless corpses sprawled across the ground in every direction: Russians, Ottoman Imperial Guards, ordinary soldiers and palace servants, even slaves who had only just been freed and jihadists who had clawed their way up after untold hardships.
Khrulyov was fortunate. He had not been shot dead by the Ottoman defenders on the charge, nor had he been blown to pieces by shells from his own side.
But he was also unfortunate. Just