Chapter 86
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Translator: Ace
Chapter: 86
Chapter Title: Killing the Pigeon (8)
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Launching the tabloid picked up speed right after the Ford v. Chicago Tribune case finally wrapped up.
The Chicago Tribune had branded the pacifist and anti-war Ford an anarchist, prompting him to fire back with a million-dollar defamation lawsuit.
The trial dragged on massively—compiling all the witnesses' testimonies alone produced over two million words—but the crowning moment came when Chairman Ford himself took the stand.
"Could you read this article for us?"
"...I forgot my glasses today. My eyes are too dim to make out the text. My apologies."
"Mr. Ford, are you familiar with the American Revolution?"
"Yes, I am."
"When did it happen?"
"...1812?" (It began in 1775)
"Do you know who Benedict Arnold is?" (The archetypal traitor)
"Yes, I do."
"What did he do?"
"...A writer?"
The lawsuit ended in Ford's victory.
- He wasn't that ignorant; he just got slapped with the label of "ignorant anarchist."
The million-dollar suit concluded with the Chicago Tribune ordered to pay Henry Ford six cents, which they didn't. Instead, newspapers across the country—including the Tribune—had a field day mocking the millionaire Henry Ford's intolerable ignorance.
Conversely, the incident won him sympathy from the masses, who were mostly "ignoramuses" themselves, but it left an unbearable scar on the chairman's pride. How could he sleep at night after such nationwide humiliation?
Now the furious chairman threw himself into creating a "scorching, lowbrow tinderbox" vicious enough to devour the Chicago Tribune—with an utterly open mind.
I felt a twinge of guilt, like I'd poisoned the well, but wasn't this better for him than some pointless stunt? Making money while channeling passion into something constructive.
And so, a new breed of newspaper emerged before the public—one that showed no outward ties to me, Congressman Curtis, Chairman Ford, or his circle.
A tabloid.
Yeah. The Sun was always the gold standard for tabloids. The name sticks in your mouth just right. Lethal enough to kill with a pen.
I happily picked one up from the newsstand—this product of the new era, subtly infused with my influence—and bought a copy.
[SHOCKING TRUTH!! Eugene Kim Is a Descendant of the Chinese Imperial Family?!]
Damn it, this rumor had finally crossed the Atlantic.
Old man. You give him a Chevrolet and this is your revenge? Way too petty.
I had to rake in cash hand over fist before the Great Depression hit. Money, money, money. Time to expand the business.
But money alone? No, I needed to grease the political wheels early. Meeting California assemblymen and the governor while I'm here? Just part of the protocol.
Prohibition was right around the corner. To pull off my grand Je-Sa Plan, lobbying was essential. A handshake and a photo-op with these precious politicians? Small price to pay.
And I had to help my old comrades-in-arms too.
"Ah, hello, sir!"
"I'm discharged now—what division commander? Ha ha."
"You'll always be my division commander! Thanks to you, I survived. I'll never forget this debt for the rest of my life."
John Miller and the other black soldiers who'd escaped to San Francisco got top priority for jobs. Miller had a law degree, so I made him our family lawyer. We'd be tangling with the law plenty going forward.
And as expected, there were quite a few educated ones among them, so after talking it over with the family, we started planning a school.
Realistically, Koreans couldn't mount any meaningful action on their own. But proactively fostering ties among people of color? Best case scenario. Nothing integrates growing kids better than shoving them in the same classroom.
And that wasn't all. I had to manage the home front—our Korean community.
I'd tried everything to stop him, but Park Yong-man was dead set on putting a bullet in a Japanese skull ASAP and left anyway. I barely held onto An Chang-ho after begging him to stay one more year.
Handling all this remotely from Washington D.C.—or trekking out in person—made time fly by.
Even my final duties as a brigadier general wrapped up one by one amid the chaos.
"Gah!"
September 1919. Wilson finally collapsed mid-street speech.
Time for the counterattack. No more scouting.
Time to meet Prince Lee.
In front of a Washington D.C. hotel.
It had been ages since I'd seen him.
"Welcome, sir."
"Ha ha. Eugene. You've grown into quite the strapping young man—unrecognizable. There's something different about war heroes, indeed."
Syngman Rhee.
Time to establish some kind of relationship with this guy, one way or another.
He was the type who only felt fulfilled at the top, but he had real talent, and right now, he was an irreplaceable human resource among Koreans. Facts.
But if I couldn't control him, better off without him.
I laughed it off outwardly while pondering how to handle him, then led him cordially into the pre-booked hotel room.
But the moment the door clicked shut,
Thud!
"What the—?"
"Just spare my life, please."
What? Had he finally lost it?
Syngman Rhee dropped to his knees and kowtowed.
No, what the hell was this to someone young enough to be his nephew?
"Get up."
"Please, just let me live!"
"Calm down! Why would I kill you, Unam?"
"Because I would have! No way I'd let you live!"
He screamed in desperation.
"I'm not like the others! Don't lump me in with dream-wandering An Chang-ho or trigger-happy Park Yong-man! I'm Syngman Rhee! Whatever calculations are in your head are already in mine!"
"...Looks like we're both crystal clear on the situation."
I hauled him up half by force and guided him inside.
"Have a drink. Tough to talk stone-cold sober, right?"
"Liquor? Prohibition passed ages ago."
"Come on, just try a sip."
Syngman Rhee's eyes bulged like saucers after downing the glass I poured.
"This... this is Korean liquor."
"It is. Imported under personal use pretext."
I tapped the bottle. The clear, resonant clink was music.
"The Provisional Government's biggest headache is funding, right? If they could legally offload booze across the Pacific to the States—"
"It'd be huge. You planned this far ahead? Gripping the Provisional Government's purse strings?"
I just smiled instead of answering, but he knew that was answer enough.
At my expression, Syngman Rhee let out a stream of ha-has.
"Fine. It's over. I'm just begging for my life now. You could drown me in the Pacific anytime—you've got the power and the reason. But I need to live. Live to see Korea independent. Please spare me."
"If the game's up, wouldn't it be better to go quietly to the afterlife than flail pathetically? Begging for your life from someone young enough to be your nephew—lost all pride?"
Even at my sarcasm, he shook his head.
"I know exactly what you think of me. Power-mad. Obsessed with the top spot. Am I wrong?"
"You know it well enough."
"You don't know Korea. If you'd seen that wretched country crumbling pathetically, you'd get it. That Korea ruined by Yi Myeong-bok. If I'd worn that fancy crown, it never would've fallen so miserably! Not to the Japs—to Yi Myeong-bok, that worm! After he threw me in that dank cell, I resolved it!"
I silently refilled his glass, and he gulped it down without hesitation.
"No trusting anyone else. I'd save Korea with my hands—that was my vow."
"Huh."
"If I just wanted luxury for myself, I'd lick Japanese ass. But I despise the incompetent, pampered Yi dynasty as much as the Japs. My life's goal: boot out the Japs with these hands—not anyone else's—then have all Korea chant my name as I spit on those royal tombs."
Was this sincere?
Sincere as hell.
Politicians don't lie much. They mix 1% lies into 99% truth. That's the job.
His rage and hatred were real enough, but that didn't mean I had to nod sympathetically and pat his back.
And Syngman Rhee seemed to think the same.
"You don't need to understand me. Let's talk reality now. All the benefits I can offer if you spare me and use me."
"Straight to the point. Nice."
"Who else can I have raw talk like this with? Haven't you been stifled by all the pretense, hypocrisy, and high-minded bullshit?"
I didn't answer. He shrugged.
"Fine. Business. As America's hero rose, I lost my value here."
"You know it."
"I'll hand over my entire Hawaii organization. Take 'em to San Francisco or whatever."
"Hand over? It's already mine."
If a floater that used to be Syngman Rhee bobbed up in the Pacific, whose side would Hawaii Koreans pick? Mine, obviously. Don't put what's already on the table.
"...True. You could kill me and take it. But optics matter. And the Provisional Government?"
"Control the money flow, done."
"Don't bullshit me. Our thinking aligns. You need your own people embedded to truly seize an organization. Control the Provisional Government from across the Pacific? Impossible, right?"
Spot on. That was my biggest worry.
Plus, the gap between me waiting for the Pacific War and them itching for action now? Unbridgeable.
"The will of all Koreans yearning for independence. Uniting every activist. Sounds great. Look at U.S. Congress—they bicker endlessly. Bunch together guys with nothing but grudges and guts? It'll roll great. The Provisional Government can't function without one strong leader."
That was original history too.
Endless debates on direction and infighting among activists, until Kim Gu's iron-fisted leadership barely kept it afloat.
"That's why you held onto Dosan. Losing control over overseas Koreans? Bad math."
"I agree. Dosan could never run the Provisional Government. Only someone ruthless, calculating, and devious like me can navigate that snake pit."
"Cocky."
"My life's the stake. I'll hand you my leash, then head to Shanghai. Don't like my moves? Cut the funds."
Provisional Government, huh.
Preserving independence forces intact until the Pacific War would help post-liberation.
Letting them die like gnats under Japanese boots felt wrong, and a shriveled Korean talent pool meant the new Korea would have to use collaborators like in original history. Hard pass.
But negotiation's thrill is haggling the price.
"Who cares if there's a Provisional Government?"
"What?!"
"You know my thoughts. Japs will clash with America someday. Bash their heads in, install a pro-U.S. regime. What does the Provisional Government even do?"
"Can't deny it. But what if the Provisional Government helps you, Eugene Kim—not just America?"
His eyes gleamed—he finally had bargaining chips.
"If I seize it, I'll send as many Koreans to America as possible."
"Ho."
"Your biggest weakness as human Eugene Kim is your base. You court blacks because loyal Koreans are few and far between, right? I'll scrape together Koreans for you, come hell or high water."
Tempting. Yeah, he called me here because he had something solid.
"And?"
"I fully back your independence strategy. The Provisional Government builds foundations for decades, awaits the U.S.-Japan war. But others? Independence war this, that. Not what you want."
Approved.
He knew exactly what I wanted.
No support? Backlash.
Support leads to clashes with Japan? I'm dragged in. Inevitable as a Korean-American.
Now to watch him offer his leash willingly.
"So, what's the leash?"
"Same way you did it!"
Blood splattered the table.
He pulled paper from his pocket and scrawled with blood dripping from his finger.
"I, Syngman Rhee, requested Eugene Kim betray America for Korea, but was refused. Therefore—hmm."
"That enough?"
"No."
Classic backpedal. Sharp as ever.
"This just makes it look like I ditched Korea for America. If it leaks, it hurts my control over Korean society. You talked life or death—really wanna live?"
"I wanna live too! What's guaranteeing you won't ditch me?!"
"Fine. We'll call it here. I'll happily store the blood oath at home."
Top-notch scheming to the bitter end.
This demanded an even tighter leash.
"No more lingering attachments to America?"
"None."
"From now on, I'll handle America. Stay in Shanghai, tinker with the Provisional Government. Don't come back."
"Got it. Thank you. Truly."
Thanks my ass. I got mine too.
"Finally, prove your loyalty. Burn every U.S. support base you built. Cut off your retreat."
"...Anything. How do I earn your trust?"
I stood, placed a hand on the doctor's shoulder, and whispered.
"President Wilson is half-paralyzed, can't run the country."
"What?!"
"Expose it. As soon as possible."
Stab his mentor in the back, torch the Democrats? That earns respect.
Refuse? Pacific fish food.
Your move.