The End of a Sultan
The air in the dim chamber was heavy with dust and decay. The tall windows of the Beylerbeyi Palace had long since lost their luster, their curtains faded and moth-eaten. Outside, the Bosphorus glimmered under the morning sun, but inside, the light could not penetrate the gloom.
An old man lay upon a narrow bed, his body frail, his once-imposing figure now wasted away. His hair, once thick and dark, had thinned into wisps of gray. His skin clung to his bones, wrinkled and pallid. Yet his eyes, though dulled by years of sorrow, still burned faintly with the remnants of pride.
This was Abdulhamid II, the thirty-fourth Sultan of the Ottoman Empire. Once, he had commanded armies across three continents, ruled millions, and been revered as the Caliph of Islam. Now, stripped of power, he was nothing but a prisoner in his own empire.
The guards outside his chamber were not loyal Janissaries of old, nor even soldiers of his own choosing. They were men assigned by his enemies — a reminder that he was no longer Sultan, but an exile.
A cough wracked his chest, wet and painful. His body was failing him. He knew it. Death was near.
He closed his eyes and remembered. The empire he had inherited had been weak, decaying, mocked as "the sick man of Europe." He had tried to reform, to resist foreign powers, to play them against one another. Yet what was the end result? Rebellion in the Balkans, war with Russia, humiliation at the hands of Europe, and betrayal within his own palace.
Now, the empire itself teetered on collapse, divided by nationalism, crippled by debt, mocked by those who once feared its name.
Abdulhamid exhaled slowly, bitterness filling his chest more than any disease. So this is the fate of the Ottomans? To end not in glory, but in shame?
The sound of boots echoed in the corridor. Guards changed shifts. Outside, the seagulls cried over the Bosphorus. Inside, the Sultan's breaths grew shallower.
A final thought flickered in his heart: If only… if only I had another chance. With what I know now, with the truth of what the future holds… I could have saved it. I could have saved them all.
Darkness closed in. His body gave one last shudder. And then, silence.
The reign of Abdulhamid II had ended.
Or so it should have.
A Gift Beyond Death
Light.
Brilliant, blinding light.
Abdulhamid's eyes snapped open. He gasped and sat up violently. But—where was the cold, damp cell? The cracked ceiling of Beylerbeyi Palace?
Above him stretched a ceiling painted in gold and marble, its surface gleaming under sunlight that streamed through vast windows. Curtains of crimson silk framed the scene. The scent of roses and sandalwood filled the air.
He stumbled from the bed, staring wildly. His legs moved with a strength he hadn't felt in years. He looked down at his hands — no longer gnarled and trembling, but youthful, steady, strong.
"Impossible…" he whispered.
He rushed to the polished bronze mirror that stood by the wall. Staring back at him was not the broken shell of a man in exile, but a youth in his twenties, sharp-eyed, broad-shouldered, his hair dark and thick once more. His skin glowed with vitality.
Abdulhamid's heart raced. He touched his face, his arms, his chest. This wasn't a dream. It wasn't an illusion.
He recognized this room. Dolmabahçe Palace. The very palace where he had spent his youth before ascending the throne.
He staggered backward, his mind reeling. He had died. He remembered it clearly — the final moments, the last breath, the bitter regret. And yet here he was, decades younger, alive again.
His lips trembled. Rebirth…?
No, not mere chance. This was no accident. His heart knew the truth.
Allah had answered.
His chest swelled with emotion. He dropped to his knees, tears streaming down his face, and pressed his forehead to the polished floor.
"Ya Allah… The Most Merciful, The Most Generous… You have returned me! You have given me a second life! I swear by You, I will not waste this gift. I will not allow the Turks to fall again. The Ottomans shall rise anew. I will forge a future where our people no longer bow before Europe, no longer rot in weakness. This time, I will lead them to greatness!"
The words echoed in the chamber, carried by conviction deeper than steel.
He stayed in prayer for a long time, trembling with gratitude and determination. When at last he rose, his eyes were different. Gone was the bitterness of an old man defeated. In its place burned the fire of youth, sharpened by the wisdom of a lifetime.
The weight of memory settled on his shoulders. He remembered all that was to come: the Balkan rebellions, the endless debt to Europeans, the infiltration of foreign influence, the humiliation of lost wars, and at last, the catastrophe of a world war.
Not this time.
Armed with the knowledge of the twenty-first century — of machines, industry, medicine, and the cruel lessons of history — Abdulhamid clenched his fists.
This time, he would not only resist.
He would strike first.
The Oath of the Reborn Sultan
That night, Abdulhamid walked alone through the grand halls of Dolmabahçe. The palace gleamed with wealth, chandeliers of crystal above, carpets of silk below. Yet to his eyes, it was fragile, like a house of cards. Beneath the splendor, rot lurked.
Servants bowed as he passed. Eunuchs whispered among themselves. No one understood the change that had occurred.
But Abdulhamid understood.
The empire teetered on the edge of ruin, its enemies circling like wolves. Within its borders, ethnic fires smoldered, waiting to ignite. The scholars resisted reform, the viziers sold themselves to foreign gold, and the army lagged behind Europe's steel.
And yet, he had been given this chance.
He stopped before a tall window overlooking the Bosphorus. The waters shimmered under moonlight, endless and deep, like the future itself.
Slowly, he raised his right hand, clenched it into a fist, and pressed it to his heart.
"By Allah's name, I swear this: I will not allow the Ottoman Empire to die. I will cleanse it of corruption. I will unite its people as Turks. I will reform our faith to strengthen, not divide. I will bring industry, steel, and fire to our lands. And when the time comes… the Turks of Asia shall march with us, one nation, one destiny."
His voice hardened, echoing through the empty hall.
"This time, the world will not know us as the sick man of Europe. They will know us as the Iron Empire of the Turks."
The fire of determination burned within his chest, hotter than ever before.
And so began the second life of Abdulhamid II — the Sultan reborn, chosen by Allah not for exile, but for empire.