Chapter 20. Golden Calf
After that day of madness.
Surprisingly, nothing happened.
I'd "predicted" two big things.
First, the outbreak of the Great War.
Second, that infamous "Armageddon Report."
And even if I'd nailed the first one, hardly anyone believed the whole report would come true.
"How's the war going right now?"
"Looks like France held them off, at least for now."
As expected, all the countries embroiled in the war had naturally attempted a short war.
The Germans trampled over Belgium toward Paris, but failed to achieve their strategic goals, bringing in the era of trench warfare.
And then? They desperately tried to censor the reality of the trenches.
With everyone singing glory and voluntarily enlisting, the moment they realize it's rotting meat worse than dogshit tumbling in no man's land, forget sustaining the war—worst case, government collapse.
So the European countries competed in bullshitting, propagandizing 'pleasant trenches where you comfortably kill enemies and earn merits.'
Of course, what we West Point cadets grind through is the Civil War, the prequel to modern warfare.
Anyone imagining such 'pleasant, comfortable trenches' here deserves to be stripped and chased out immediately.
Still, nobody wanted to think it'd turn into the hell described in my 'report'—one that'd make even Satan go 'Ah, fuck, humans got me beat.'
A pleasant evening time.
I opened the letters that had flown in from all over, one by one.
Dear Eugene Kim,
The first letter was from Song Qingling.
I'd undoubtedly turned down the offer from her father, and our contact had been cut off after that.
But the moment news of the war's outbreak reached her, this enterprising businesswoman from far-off China extended a tentacle my way.
The conversation was much the same as before, but the investment angle had shifted. Last time, it was basically about buying me off. This time, my power balance had tipped slightly in my favor.
For now, table it.
KakaoTalk starts the psychological reply timer the second you clear 10,000 messages, but letters? You can take days, and it's no big deal.
To Jin. The moment I heard the news of full-scale war erupting in Europe, I rushed to write this letter—
Dorothy, of course.
But this time, unusually, the letter was pretty thick.
To Cadet Eugene Kim,
Senator Curtis's letter was enclosed.
Both father and daughter's letters contained a measure of worry, a measure of awe, and various thoughts on the future direction ahead.
Though the ratios differed greatly.
Senator Curtis urged me to contact him anytime if I needed help in any way, and helpfully summarized the situation in Washington D.C. and New York—precisely what I needed most.
Washington was quieter than expected.
Unlike the gossip-thirsty public, Washington's eyes were fixed far more on Mexico, which was already ablaze, than across the Atlantic.
Mexico was deep in a brutal civil war, with that infamous "Pancho Villa"—a name even known back in Korea—running wild. The U.S. Army's hypothetical enemy was still those Mexican bandits, not the Imperial German Army.
New York?
Manhattan was a ruin. The financial markets of Paris, London, and Berlin had linked arms and detonated in a massive miscarriage, and New York was on its last legs from the shockwave alone.
The New York Stock Exchange had shut down in emergency. Figuring out how much they'd lent to London and Paris, and how much they could claw back, had Wall Street on the verge of mass suicides just from the bad debts and advances.
After drafting a reply to Dorothy, I pondered a moment, then picked up my pen again.
To Senator Curtis, I decided to casually probe the military and commercial value of Yun-shaped barbed wire.
The U.S. Army? No need. Just hand some sample wire to a decent trader.
Our British and French friends, scraping away in the trenches, would test firsthand how much more miserably it could screw over the Germans. If those geniuses on the glorious Western Front couldn't see the value of Yun-shaped barbed wire, they deserved to die.
This much, Curtis would see as a light gesture of goodwill rather than some bond to cash in. Of course, I'd take a hefty introduction fee.
Once the wire's value shone through, I'd use the Yun-shaped barbed wire patent as collateral for maximum loans.
I could expand the barbed wire business with that cash, or guns... guns... ah, too damn wasteful to give up. Machine guns keep circling my brain.
Time to admit it. It wasn't about the profits. My 20th-century macho-ism polluted brain saw quitting guns as a matter of pride. Fuck. The second I quit, selling pills to Syngman Rhee and An Chang-ho becomes all for nothing!
I considered mentioning the Armageddon Report but shot it down in my head.
Timing wasn't right yet. My value would peak once Washington's big-eared friends realized Europe was hell...
Tap. Tap tap.
The irritable tapping of my pen on paper snapped me from my long reverie.
Our idiots—no, our newly promoted Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse—were scribbling furiously on paper, racking their tiny brains.
"Fuck. No answer."
"You too? Same here."
The common question from the guys about to get fucked soonest, from the bombshell I'd dropped in the report.
'How the hell do you break through a properly built trench line?'
Of course, West Point drilled this thoroughly.
With noooooort and dooooool charges.
But the hook I'd thrown them.
Barbed wire waiting for the exhausted after "charge forward to your death."
Enemies firing bolt-actions from behind wire, helmets barely visible.
Even more bullets than the Civil War from machine-gun nests.
Even our future shining stars repeated thought experiments on my homework but came up empty.
Of course, fuck. If a solution existed, World War I wouldn't have been that shitshow.
"So, what's the answer?"
"Hell if I know."
"Goddamn it."
"Ah, there is one."
They all perked up.
"What?"
"We defend."
"Should've known better than to trust you."
Of course, battlefields change, so you might push somehow.
But 10% win rate with death on failure? Too risky to bet.
"The real answer's just one."
"Oh, James finally got it!"
"Cheat off the Europeans gleefully killing and dying to find out."
"Four years under Eugene's poisoned you. Contaminated!"
Yeah, that's the answer.
Graduation wasn't far now.
Winter comes, 1915 arrives, then it's over.
By graduation, the report's value would peak.
So, who to fleece first?
Knock knock.
"Cadet Eugene Kim here?"
"Yes, present."
"Report to the superintendent's office."
Yeah, about time for the summons.
The superintendent's second call.
"Cadet Eugene Kim, entering."
"Come in."
Just the two of us.
Even with my guts hanging out, the superintendent intimidated me a bit.
"So, how does it feel to have your prophecy come true?"
"...War broke out. Hard to be happy about it."
"Not happy? Why?"
"Because of all the people who'll die ahead."
He pondered, stroking his mustache.
"You still think many will die."
"Yes."
"Truth be told, I haven't read that report. It stirred up West Point, and I handled it my way."
His solution: ignore it.
Or maybe that's best.
Bluntly, that "seditious tract" swept the academy. Given how razor-thin my position was, I should be grateful it caused no fallout.
"Consider what you did. Cadets ignoring duty hours for group action, mass defiance, insults to instructors... mutiny? Rebellion? Treason? How do I even explain it? That I haven't punished the ringleader—you—is mercy enough. Understand?"
"......"
No, wait.
Sorry, but I'm pretty fucking wronged here.
No matter how I think, Ike was the mastermind. I was pinned down the whole time, couldn't even stand.
If anything, I'm... yeah. The golden calf the Jews made while Moses was off getting the Ten Commandments. Poor innocent yellow golden calf—what'd it do wrong to get smashed? It shines, it's valuable, it's great. Their idiocy, not my crime!
"Whether you predict Annapolis games or wars doesn't matter. West Point cadets must uphold dignity and order. That report and the chaos after exceeded a single cadet's bounds. My final mercy: no court-martial for stirring military unrest. Agree?"
"Thank you for your consideration, sir."
"Dismissed. Next time we meet, it'll be at your court-martial."
Suffocating boomer energy.
'Do what you want, I don't care—just do your duty.' His hardline stance had me throwing up my hands.
For all his tough talk, glossing over that shitstorm was a sea-deep favor. I was ready to weep in gratitude.
And with the report rotting in that drawer another year, it favored me more.
"Heh, heh heh. Hahaha."
Laughter bubbled up unbidden.
The superintendent had perfectly helped me.
Same reason I hadn't tipped off Senator Curtis about the Armageddon Report. Too early, and I might get kidnapped to the War Department.
General Staff? Desk-jockeying in Washington?
What a joke. They'd hound me nonstop for "prophecies" till I was drained, then boil me alive. I'd suffered it in the ROK Army already—do it again, and I'm a moron.
If I just wanted position from predictions, I'd have gone Wall Street, not West Point.
Future knowledge is mighty.
Spinning tales of tomorrow alone lands Alvin Toffler-level slaps. Legendary scholar status, easy.
But annoyingly, the future bundle I could unpack was all doom and gloom.
Great Depression.
Fascism.
World War II.
Auschwitz.
Spreading commies and Cold War.
That's straight-up Doctor Doom.
As the Cassandra myth shows, the guy always singing doom and destruction becomes loathed, right or wrong. Hate's emotional, not rational.
I didn't want that.
Exceptional talent.
Shunned and oppressed by doubters.
Yet rising as a war hero against the odds!
When whites dump reason and humanity in the trenches, dumbfounded,
I'll package my life as one massive marketing epic, a hero saga.
Symbol of the American Dream Americans crave.
That's how to hit the peak.
Mere "invent future stuff first, get rich" or "more prophecies for legend" won't cut it. Parvenu or Cassandra can't buy hearts.
I must fight the United States—no, the white era.
And odds were good.
The Jews' golden calf got smashed, but this Korean golden calf could be worshipped forever.
But... one final untested piece remained.
Instead of dorm after the superintendent's office, I slipped into some dark corner.
To do the most important thing, impossible with Ike and the idiots always around.
If this worked.
My future plans would flip entirely.
A ray of hope pierced this heart-stopping tightrope.
Yeah.
Hesitation was brief.
How many schemes had I pulled, crises weathered? No more stalling.
I swallowed hard and uttered it.
Status Window.
Eugene Kim used Status Window!
But nothing happened!
Fuck. Retona nerfed it. If it were a Ssangyong vehicle, I'd have gotten a real status window. For real.
Facing the grim reality of no status window, I could only trust my own abilities now.
Ha, fuck.
Would it have killed you to give me one? Difficulty nerf, please!!
> Stat Window
Still no window. Fucking dogshit.