The Weight of a Crown Yet Unworn
Every victory came with a shadow.
Factories rose. Schools opened. Steam hissed over the Golden Horn. But as Abdulhamid walked the palace halls at night, he felt the whispers pressing in on him.
Every step forward seemed to push another man into resentment. Every reform stole from someone's pocket. Every forge that burned bright set fire to an old way of life.
He was not yet Sultan. Not yet the master of the empire. But already, the weight of the throne pressed on his shoulders.
The price of progress was not counted in coin alone. It was counted in blood, loyalty, and betrayal.
Blood in the Streets
The first cracks appeared in the bazaar.
A crowd gathered before a textile shop in Istanbul, chanting angrily. The merchant shouted, "These looms of the prince ruin honest men! How can I compete when he weaves cloth with machines, while my hands labor day and night?"
Soon the crowd grew violent, smashing windows, overturning stalls. By nightfall, two men were dead, beaten in a riot that spread through the market like wildfire.
Abdulhamid stood over the reports, his jaw set. He had wanted prosperity, but instead he had lit a fire in the streets.
Selim spat in disgust. "Ungrateful dogs! Should they not cheer the empire's rebirth?"
"No," Abdulhamid said quietly. "They do not see rebirth. They see starvation. Machines do in an hour what men do in a day. To them, I am not savior — I am thief."
He rubbed his temples. He had known this would come. He had seen it before, in history books: the Luddites of England, the workers of Europe rioting against the Industrial Revolution. But knowing did not make it easier to bear.
The Clerics' Challenge
The riots emboldened his enemies.
One Friday, a prominent imam thundered from the pulpit:
"Beware the prince's forges! These machines are sorcery, their smoke unclean! Factories bring corruption, not piety. Did our Prophet weave with steam? Did our Caliphs hammer with machines? This is a path to ruin!"
The sermon spread like wildfire through Istanbul, poisoning minds against him.
Abdulhamid requested a private meeting with the imam.
When they met in a quiet chamber, the imam expected anger. Instead, Abdulhamid bowed respectfully.
"Master, you say machines are corruption. But is not the plow also a machine? Did not the Prophet himself urge us to seek knowledge, even unto China? These looms, these forges — they are knowledge. And knowledge is Allah's gift."
The imam faltered. Abdulhamid pressed on.
"If I build factories, it is not to replace men, but to feed them. To clothe them. To arm them against the unbelievers who circle us like wolves. Would you have us naked before our enemies?"
The imam lowered his gaze. Slowly, he nodded. "You speak with wisdom, Prince. I will temper my words."
It was a victory — but fragile. Abdulhamid knew one sermon did not erase a hundred whispers.
Treachery in the Court
The greatest blow came not from the streets or the mosques, but from the palace itself.
A shipment of rifles — the pride of his new arsenal — vanished on the road to the Balkans. The wagons were found days later, empty, the guards slaughtered.
The Crescent Eyes traced the theft not to bandits, but to a powerful noble: Halil Pasha, a wealthy landholder with ties to Europe. He had sold the weapons across the border to Serbian insurgents, who would soon turn them against Ottoman soldiers.
Abdulhamid's fury was ice, not fire.
In the council chamber, before the Sultan himself, he laid the evidence bare: ledgers, letters, and testimony from captured smugglers.
The Sultan's face turned purple with rage. "Halil! You dare arm our enemies?!"
Halil Pasha stammered, but Abdulhamid's voice cut through.
"This is the true cost of delay, Uncle. While we bicker and doubt, serpents within our own house feed the wolves at our door. If we do not tighten our grip, the empire will bleed itself dry."
The court watched in stunned silence as Halil Pasha was stripped of his titles and dragged away, screaming curses at Abdulhamid.
The Burden of Guilt
That night, Abdulhamid stood alone on the palace balcony, staring at the smoke of his factories.
Selim approached quietly. "You should rest, Highness. You have struck fear into the serpents. The court now knows your strength."
Abdulhamid did not answer at once. Finally, he said softly:
"Fear is not loyalty. Factories are not peace. Every step I take forward cuts someone else down. For every man who gains, ten lose. For every child who eats, another cries hunger. I build a new empire — but at what cost?"
Selim knelt, hand on his sword. "Whatever the cost, Highness, the empire must live. Better a harsh master than a dead nation."
Abdulhamid closed his eyes. He remembered the history of his first life — the slow death of the empire, the humiliation, the loss.
He clenched his fist.
"Yes. Better harsh than dead. Better feared than forgotten."
The Path of No Return
The weeks that followed were tense. The riots quieted, but only under the watch of soldiers. The clerics hushed their protests, but resentment lingered. The nobles bowed their heads, but their knives gleamed sharper in the dark.
The factories roared louder than ever, but their smoke carried the scent of conflict.
Abdulhamid looked upon his empire-in-the-making and realized: he had chosen a path of no return. Every reform would demand blood. Every forge would burn not only coal, but loyalty. Every step forward would carry the risk of collapse.
Yet he would not stop. He could not stop.
He whispered to the shadows of his chamber:
"Let Europe plot, let serpents hiss, let fools riot. I will endure it all. For this is not merely reform. This is survival. This is destiny. And destiny demands its price."
The bells of the factories tolled in the distance like war drums. The empire was stirring. The world was watching.