Chapter 42
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Translator: Ace
Chapter: 042
Chapter Title: The Great Matter of Marriage (2)
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Before diving into the Nobel story, let me first tell you about my own marriage saga.
The beginning was truly innocent.
Violet had scouted some promising juniors from her girls' school, and the club members promised to look for suitable young ladies of good character. Up to that point, there wasn't a single issue.
All fires start from a single tiny spark.
And this spark ignited during one of our usual card games at the club.
"Arthur, you need to get married soon, right?"
"That's right. In the Kingdom of Joseon—not to mention the entire Far East—marriage is basically the rite of passage into adulthood. The men there style their hair into a topknot as a symbol of manhood, but if an unmarried bachelor dares to wear one, he gets a good thrashing. It means you're not a real adult."
"Haha! That's ruthless. You can tell at a glance if someone's an adult just by their hairstyle."
"So what about bald guys? Are they not adults?"
We bantered like that as cards spread across the table, cigarette smoke billowing from everyone's mouths like factory chimneys.
Me? I don't smoke.
I told you. Just this once.
"Don't Koreans smoke?"
"They smoke like chimneys. Selling matches there could make a fortune, so we're gearing up for match exports too."
"Not cigarettes?"
"They grow plenty of tobacco locally. Breaking into that market might be tricky."
And so the chatter went.
Which company looked promising, how this place or that was faring. Who died. Who had a kid. And so on.
Lately, Napoleon III had been the hottest topic. As the nephew of that Napoleon, it was only natural for Brits to wonder if he'd pick a fight with England to avenge his uncle.
After tearing into Napoleon III and the French for a bit, there was one guy who always got dragged into the roasting: Mr. Francophile himself, Lord Palmerston.
Palmerston was infamous in Britain as a pro-French advocate. His logic was that settling tensions with France and building friendly ties would let Britain run wild unchecked across the globe.
Damn... that's a brilliantly insane idea.
Even if a rich family goes bankrupt, they coast for three years. Even if France loses its mind, it's still France. With France as the enemy, Britain would have to pack up all its overseas stalls and focus solely on dealing with them—so Palmerston wasn't entirely wrong.
But ever since Napoleon III's coup, Anglo-French relations had cooled again. Palmerston was now mocked as the fool who went all-in on French coins and got liquidated.
"Still, Arthur, you should marry into the Whig Party crowd, right?"
"Pardon?"
"You're no noble, you're in trade, and your business is centered on that distant Far East. Naturally, Whigs. Hitching your wagon to a high-ranking Whig right when your name's at its peak? What could be better?"
"Why are you suddenly shoving your politics down my throat?"
"What's your alternative?"
"I'm promising, so marrying the daughter of a noble house with a famous name but tight finances could work. That might suit the Tories even better."
"Arthur, you're not the type to mingle with those filthy Tories obsessed with grain laws and tariff walls!"
Suddenly, the two old men shut me out and started bickering among themselves.
Are all men the same in the end? Whether they're wearing silk top hats or taegukgi caps, squabbling over politics seems universal.
I figured that was just idle chit-chat flowing by.
But when Gladstone showed up in front of me, it stopped being "just chit-chat."
"I'd like to introduce you to some fine ladies. What do you think?"
"Of course, sir. It would be an honor if you made the introductions."
"The Tories have some good ones too. Especially the Peelites in their ranks—plenty of free-trade supporters there."
"Uh... I'm not a politician."
"With your fame and track record, you'd shun politics? You're an intellectual too. Not using that wisdom and talent for the Empire's good would be a huge loss. Even if Parliament's not on your mind, cozying up to a supportive party would boost your business immensely."
Gladstone ranted passionately about how solid his Peelite faction was within the Tories and how they were toiling hardest for Britain's future.
A few days later.
A letter arrived at my hotel room.
[To Arthur Leigh, former Plenipotentiary.
I'd love to hear the details of how you brilliantly opened Joseon and shaped Far East diplomacy.
If you're amenable, let's set a suitable date to invite you over. Please reply—]
The sender... Lord Palmerston.
Palmerston might be yesterday's news now, but this guy's a heavyweight who smashed his own party leader—the Prime Minister—and toppled cabinets.
Would he just summon me to chat?
Anyone could see marriage talk would come up naturally.
Love calls pouring in from all sides.
But grab one hand, and the other side won't sit idle.
In a parliamentary system—unlike a presidency—governments flip overnight. What if a party that resents me seizes power and says, "Hmm. One man's too deep in Joseon's interests. Let's boot him"? I'd be screwed.
Crisis.
I wanted to lay low and keep politics at arm's length until I bulked up my operation, but I'd gotten too famous too fast.
How to navigate this wisely?
Z Warrior Park In-ho from the future can do it. Intelligentsia of the 21st century, lend me your strength!
Bullshit, bullshit...
It hit me.
What? How're you gonna handle it?
Wisdom comes from books, after all. 19th-century folk wouldn't know, but as a 21st-century man, I've got vast references and precedents.
The 21st-century wisdom I pulled out?
Ninjas are strong, but escaping ninjas are even stronger.
"I've got business in America."
"What? Suddenly?"
"The Yanks are sniffing around the Far East too, so I should pay a visit. Now's the time, or the chance might slip away."
To smoothly manage Joseon, I needed to give America a little taste.
Plus, Alfred Nobel was in New York right now.
In web novels, you invest early in historical giants before they bloom and hit the jackpot. Now's prime time to recruit Nobel.
Absolutely not running to America to dodge this marriage fire. Pure business passion!
And so, I boarded a transatlantic liner.
Currently, in 1852.
A bloodless war rages across the Atlantic between Britain and America.
Since humanity first challenged the seas, a few immutable laws held.
Ships are made of wood.
Ships advance by wind power or oars.
But 19th-century science and industry shattered even these.
First came paddle steamers.
Not just sails, but steam engines turning massive paddle wheels for far more stable propulsion than oars.
Steam engines improved daily, and the sharpest experts deduced wooden hulls couldn't withstand their growing power forever.
The age of iron ships was dawning.
Transatlantic crossings were hugely profitable yet perfect for showcasing national competitiveness and tech prowess.
Britain's Cunard Line and America's Collins Line were the champions of this silent battle.
Both received massive government subsidies, feverishly building faster, better liners. Lately, German and French firms had jumped in too.
Shipbuilding tempted, but it was iffy. Ships demand insane capital and tech. Collins Line was a zombie firm, hemorrhaging losses without daily subsidies.
Anyway, this rivalry made my America trip a breeze.
Cunard's latest liner, Asia.
The name sealed it. Sister ship Africa was fine, but this sounded way cooler.
Asia sailed from Liverpool to New York in under ten days. Soon, an around-the-world trip in 80 days would be feasible.
Two big tasks in America.
First: Snag Alfred Nobel and plant my flag in the demolition king spot. Skip the Nobel Prize—Leigh Prize sounds lame.
Then just call it the Leigh Prize.
Thirteen-year-olds scare me off that too.
Enough nonsense. Next: Find investors.
Can't openly shove Joseon at them. Whether East Asia Company or East Asia Colonization Joint Stock, it's not just mine—tons of fat cats hold shares.
But other untapped interests we haven't secured?
Let the Yanks nibble on Joseon in exchange for my hatchling rights in Japan?
Joseon alone won't cut it.
Big scores in China and Japan too.
First, persuade Nobel.
"At last, we meet. Arthur Leigh."
"Alfred Nobel! Goodness, I never dreamed you'd come all this way!"
"Business and research are done by people. Meeting them in person is just the natural course."
Nobel conjures that bearded Nobel Prize medal guy, but surprisingly, Alfred was a year younger than me—a fluffy-cheeked fledgling chemist and literature buff.
His father, Immanuel Nobel, was an inventor-entrepreneur too.
Bankrupt once, he relocated to St. Petersburg, Russia, and rose like a phoenix, running a firm in machine tools and explosives.
Alfred's European and American studies? Family money.
Now, he worked under famed Swedish-American inventor John Ericsson while pursuing his own inventions and research.
"Nitroglycerin is wildly unstable and dangerous, but master it, and it'll be a miraculous substance to help countless people."
"I agree. We can't abandon research just because it's risky."
"Exactly. But Mr. Leigh, why did you zero in on this stuff?"
"I've secured plenty of mining rights in Joseon, Far East Asia. As China, Joseon, and Japan open up sequentially, countless mines and civil projects will boom. Demand for efficient, powerful explosives will skyrocket."
Young—nay, boyish—Nobel.
Even in his literary pursuits, he'd already notched an immortal work at 20—wait, one year older? No, the point stands.
Plus, Far East thrill-fests poured out like a phonograph, our explosive views aligned, and he'd already succeeded in business.
Child's play.
Roasting greenhorn Nobel? Easy meat for top agent Park In-ho.
One week.
God made heaven and earth in six days and gamed on the seventh. A week was plenty for me to forge brotherly bonds.
"You're the chap who stole my assistant's soul?"
"Haha, stole his soul?"
"Business types are all alike. Sweet talk for profits, stabbing innovators in the back."
John Ericsson was impressive too.
Famed ship designer, pioneer of screw propellers on ships.
That's impressive?
Our Asia used paddle wheels, but future ships all go propellers.
Wanted to recruit him, but too big a fish. Seemed to have his own soulmate businessman anyway.
"Heh, no worries. I'm no shortsighted profiteer."
"Everyone says that."
"Here's my business proposal for Mr. Nobel. If you're concerned, review it and advise him."
Arthur Leigh provides funds for all R&D and "ideas."
Alfred Nobel takes the cash and dives into development.
No owned explosives factory, so Immanuel Nobel's firm handles mass production.
But once formula's set, it goes exclusively to Arthur's new company—with monopoly rights in Britain and the Far East for this nitroglycerin-based explosive.
Nobels' core turf: Sweden, Russia. Britain or Joseon? Awkward for them. I scoop clean.
"Sounds too good to be true. So, what's the idea?"
"..."
"Tight-lipped, eh? Must be huge."
"Curiosity killing you? Sign here?"
"Hey! Hey!!"
"Of course. I'll sign too."
Soon, we inked the deal and planned a joint venture in Britain: Leigh-Nobel Explosives Company. No reason for Nobel to stay in America.
"Now spill. What discovery dragged you across the Atlantic for a nitroglycerin researcher?"
Those sparkling eyes.
Eyes that'd bring me mountains of gold. Grrraaah.
"Diatomaceous earth."
"Pardon?"
"Diatomaceous earth. The stuff mined in Germany."
"Yes."
"Mix it with nitroglycerin, and you get something far more stable."
Blink.
Then ecstasy.
"Really?!"
"Of course. Test it yourself."
"My god. This changes the world. Unbelievable. Oh! Excuse me, I must go!"
Of course, this alone doesn't solve everything.
But sharing the key discovery early accelerates dynamite's birth—no delays.
Dynamite needs diatomaceous earth? Demand surges, prices rise—basic market logic.
But get this?
Korea and Japan mine it too.
Money's about to multiply endlessly.