The Gospel of Happiness
In 1862, in the heart of the British Empire, London.
As James Serget had predicted, Britain’s politicians were drowning beneath a deluge of crises so overwhelming that even if they had two heads, they still couldn’t keep up.
“The situation between Denmark and Prussia looks ominous. Isn’t this bound to explode any day now?”
“They say King Otto of Greece is on the verge of being overthrown. What are we supposed to do about Greece?”
“Building factories in Qing first is the priority! Everything else is trivial by comparison!”
Every day the newspapers screamed about diplomatic crises and conflicts erupting across the European continent. A nervous tension gripped London’s financial district, the fear that war could break out at any moment.
Because of that, the horrific incident that had occurred on the far side of Asia failed to generate the kind of uproar one might have expected.
But then an American poured money into every newspaper in London, flooding them with vivid, firsthand accounts so gruesome they could not be read without rage. Only then did the British public truly understand just how terrible things had become in Northeast Asia.
In an era where sensationalism sold papers, the tragic deaths of British subjects were guaranteed front-page material. When the newspapers also received detailed factual reports along with a modest “facilitation fee,” only a fool would refuse to run the story.
The London press pounced like starving beasts on raw meat. Their pens flew across the page.
A dry report of “death by sword” was transformed into lurid horror-novel prose: “Their bodies were hacked into five pieces and left rotting in the street.” Unverified rumors multiplied in print—heads severed and mounted on spears, corpses left to be devoured by wild dogs—and were delivered straight to London breakfast tables.
“Does this make any sense? They killed people just for walking down a road?”
“Daimyo? What the devil is that? Even if Her Majesty the Queen herself passed by, they wouldn’t dare draw a blade for blocking the way!”
One particular American, who mourned the deaths of these British citizens as if they were his own brothers, understood exactly which nerves to strike to ignite British fury.
It wasn’t simply that citizens had been cut down by swords. The true outrage was that mere Asians had dared to murder British subjects for the crime of “blocking their path.”
If a British duke had shot a citizen for standing in his way, the duke’s mansion would have been burned to the ground by an enraged mob the very next day. Yet here was some insignificant Oriental lord committing an act that even British royalty and nobility would never dare.
From every pub and café, the furious roars of citizens erupted. They had touched the reverse scale of a people who went half-mad the moment their liberty and rights were infringed.
This boiling public outrage soon spread like wildfire into Parliament.
“What on earth is the government doing?! Our own citizens were butchered by monkeys, yet you’re still fiddling with diplomatic notes?”
The Conservative MPs seized the moment and frothed at the mouth.
“The Liberal cabinet’s spineless diplomacy has turned the British Empire into a laughingstock! Even the savages of Asia now trample our Union Jack!”
At Disraeli’s inspired attack, Prime Minister Palmerston’s face flushed crimson. If the criticism had been entirely baseless he might have felt wronged, but who could have imagined that Palmerston’s cabinet—the very vanguard of gunboat diplomacy—would be accused of weakness?
“Are you telling me to pursue a harder line? In that case, shall I introduce a bill this very instant to dispatch the fleet and wipe that insolent island nation off the map?”
“Prime Minister, please calm yourself. Is war a child’s game?”
Chancellor of the Exchequer Gladstone hurriedly stepped in to apply the brakes.
“It is indeed a tragic incident. But if we rush into war, civilian casualties will be enormous. It could easily be perceived not as justified retribution but as naked aggression. There is also the matter of the budget.”
“So we are simply to sit and watch while those barbarians slaughter our people like pigs in an abattoir?”
Had the budget truly been the only concern, criticism would have arisen even within the governing party. But Palmerston’s cabinet, which had already secured a monopoly over Japan’s textile market in the wake of the Qing disaster, was burning with eagerness for war.
The fact that Gladstone was still restraining them showed almost superhuman patience.
Just as the atmosphere grew dangerously heated, Baron Eldridge, a senior Liberal, cautiously offered an opinion during a party elders’ meeting.
“The Chancellor’s concerns are valid. However, we cannot ignore the righteous anger of our people.”
“But starting a war based solely on public sentiment…”
“I am not suggesting we ride the wave of public opinion blindly. I am merely saying we should clarify our objectives. There is no need to fight the entirety of Japan. The ones who caused this incident were a provincial lord called ‘Satsuma,’ not the Japanese government itself.”
“So we carve out only Satsuma?”
“Precisely. Let us focus the entire objective of this war on Satsuma alone and reduce it to ashes. After we set an example, the terrified shogunate will have no choice but to pay reparations and grant us the ‘complete opening of the textile market.’”
Baron Eldridge turned to Gladstone and added,
“If we refrain from indiscriminate shelling of civilian residential areas and focus our fire on military installations and castles, we can avoid moral condemnation. What do you think?”
If civilian casualties could be kept to a minimum, the sacrifice of the innocent could be limited.
Gladstone pondered for a moment, then nodded. Even he was not without fury at the news that his own countrymen had been hacked to pieces simply for blocking the path of some petty lord.
“…If the military response is limited to Satsuma and civilian harm is minimized, then I consent.”
“Excellent! Then it is decided!”
Palmerston immediately moved to rally Liberal opinion and brought the matter before Parliament. The Conservatives had no grounds to oppose it; on the contrary, they urged even harsher measures. Thus, for the first time in a long while, the House passed a declaration of war through rare bipartisan cooperation.
The orders dispatched from London reached the British legation in Yokohama at once. Minister Neale immediately delivered an ultimatum to the Satsuma residence.
1. Immediately pay £50,000 in compensation to the bereaved families.
2. The Lord of Satsuma shall board a British warship in person—no proxies—and offer a formal apology.
3. The ringleaders of the murders shall be executed at once, or handed over to British authorities for lawful trial.
Satsuma’s reply, of course, was exactly as expected.
“The culprits? We have no idea who they are. There was a whirlwind that day—who could see who cut whom?”
“Money? True samurai do not purchase absolution with coin!”
Blind, deaf, and utterly shameless.
Had Satsuma actually accepted the demands, both nations’ parliaments would have been thrown into confusion. Unfortunately, Satsuma possessed no such capacity for rational judgment.
“Royal Navy, set sail! Target: Kagoshima!”
Black smoke billowed as the rumble of steam engines echoed across the wide sky.
“Let us teach those savages, gentlemen, exactly whom they have dared to provoke!”
On that day, the fate of Satsuma was sealed.
Although the combined British and American fleets had set sail, they could not reach Japan overnight. The war itself would take at least six months, possibly a full year, to conclude.
Having judged that every objective of his Asian visit had been achieved, I boarded a ship and crossed the Pacific once more.
I could not leave the company unattended for too long, and more importantly, if I was to begin selling cotton aggressively across Asia, I needed to increase production at least twofold.
And so, the moment I finally set foot on the pier in my homeland of Mississippi—
“Waaaaaaaaaaah!”
“Serget! Serget! Serget!”
The crowd that packed the harbor let out a roar so thunderous it seemed the entire dock would collapse.
“Chairman, look over there. Doesn’t it resemble the Go board we saw in Qing?”
“…It really does. How can they be divided so cleanly, without the slightest mixing?”
On the left side of the pier stood neatly dressed white citizens. On the right, Black workers in overalls. The two groups were separated as clearly as the Red Sea parted by Moses, yet the decibel level of their cheers was identical, as if by prior agreement.
In other words, whether Black or white, the success of this agreement had driven both sides to the brink of madness with excitement.
Even without dragging Japan into the picture, the agreement I had reached with Prince Gong alone was projected to increase Southern cotton exports by at least thirty percent starting next year.
Thirty percent might sound modest, but when an entire national-scale industry—the South itself—received a sudden thirty-percent boost in output, it was nothing short of an economic miracle or revolution.
And once Satsuma was thoroughly thrashed by the Anglo-American joint fleet, Japan would need even more cotton. At that point, it was highly likely that local production would be unable to keep up for the next several years.
The dying Southern economy had been taken off its oxygen tank and fitted with a rocket engine instead.
Of course, the only ones who would truly ride that rocket were the companies under my control.
“Hero of the South! Savior of the South!”
“We welcome the return of Chairman Serget!”
At the head of the welcoming crowd, Chairman Farrar was the first to rush forward and seize my hand in both of his.
Behind him stood the newly elected “Reconstruction faction” congressmen, lined up like a folding screen and clapping enthusiastically.
“Welcome back, Serget! How does it feel to set foot on home soil again?”
“Thanks to you, Mr. Chairman, I was able to travel with peace of mind. No matter how splendid the Qing imperial court may be, nothing compares to the warm comfort of home.”
When my aides—Leo, Henry, and Ben—disembarked behind me, another huge cheer erupted from the Black section of the crowd.
They were no longer slaves.
They were the very model of “successful Black men”—dressed in sharp suits, serving as aides to the chairman who ruled the world’s markets, and having even traveled all the way to the British Empire.
The three men strode down the red carpet, waving confidently beneath the pouring gazes. Even the white spectators were so awed by their bearing that they made way. It was no exaggeration to call it the return of a triumphant general.
“Chairman, welcome home. Allow me to carry your luggage.”
At that moment, a white man in a suit darted forward and took my bag.
The face looked familiar. It was Williams, who had just been elected to the House of Representatives from my own district of Natchez.
“Congressman, you really don’t have to—”
“Oh come now, what use is a congressman in front of the Chairman? On the contrary, it is only proper that I show my respect to the man who has worked so tirelessly for our region. Hahaha!”
Paying no mind to the eyes around him, he stuck to my side like a secretary and guided the way.
A sitting member of the United States House of Representatives had voluntarily turned himself into a human luggage cart.
This scene had been deliberately orchestrated by Chairman Farrar to demonstrate to the people of Mississippi—and indeed the entire South—just how high my current standing had become.
Of course, given Natchez’s political structure—where reelection was impossible without the support of Serget Cotton—Williams would likely have behaved similarly even without Farrar’s instructions.
Basking in the thunderous cheers of the crowd, I returned to my mansion to shake off the weariness of the journey, only to have uninvited guests disturb my rest.
“Chairman, you have visitors.”
“Who is it? Tell them I’m exhausted and won’t be seeing anyone today…”
“It is Mr. Forrest and… ‘those gentlemen.’”
Leo’s expression had stiffened strangely.
When I looked out the window, I saw a group of men approaching. Though they were not wearing their white hoods, their eyes alone made their identity unmistakable.
The Grand Wizard of the KKK, Nathan Bedford Forrest, along with his Grand Dragons.
My mind instantly turned ice-cold.
Is this because of the election?
The orthodox candidates they had backed had been systematically slaughtered in the primaries by Farrar, who was close to me. Perhaps they had come to vent their resentment.
So far I had left them alone because they had not caused any noticeable incidents, but if they crossed the line here, I would have no choice but to deal with them.
I signaled Leo and Ben to station armed guards outside the door and along the corridor, then had the visitors shown into the drawing room.
“Welcome. You must be tired after such a long journey.”
When I offered tea with as casual an air as I could manage, Forrest opened his mouth with a grave expression, not even touching his cup.
“Invisible Dragon… No. Chairman Serget.”
“Go on.”
“The truth is, we held an all-night debate regarding the recent election and the current situation.”
Just as I thought. So it had finally come.
They could have lived comfortably by remaining willfully blind. Why had they chosen the path of unnecessary enlightenment, just like Breckinridge?
I set down my teacup and began calculating the exact moment I should give the signal.
In the midst of that strange tension, Forrest cried out in a resolute voice.
“We have reached one conclusion.”
“A conclusion?”
“For the sake of the sacred rights of us Southern white men, Black people must remain beneath our feet. However… given the current economic reality and the structure of your business, Chairman, we have decided to acknowledge that this is not feasible at present.”
Hm? This was not the reaction I had anticipated.
“Therefore, we have decided to postpone the subjugation of Black people as a long-term objective and suspend it for the time being.”
“…Is that so?”
How strange. These men were willing to tolerate Black people?
Without racial hatred, what motive would sustain their organization? Wasn’t hatred the very lifeblood that kept them moving?
Reading my confusion, Forrest’s eyes began to glitter with an eerie fervor.
“Instead! Thanks to your recent activities in Asia, Chairman, we have gained a new enlightenment.”
“……”
I had simply gone to sell cotton in Asia. I genuinely could not imagine what sort of “enlightenment” that could possibly have produced.
“We have realized that there exist beings even more inferior, even more insignificant, and far more suitable to be trampled upon for the sake of Southern white prosperity than Black people!”
He clenched his fist and pointed dramatically toward the east.
“Those yellow monkeys living across the Pacific! They are the perfect doormats upon which we Southern white men may wipe our feet for the sake of wealth and glory!”
“……Huh?”
“Watching your own actions—dominating Black people and now seeking to dominate Asians as well—we too have finally understood the greater purpose. Our true enemies were never the niggers within our borders! They were the barbaric Asians beyond them!”
The executives seated around him all nodded vigorously, murmuring in admiration.
“As expected of the Invisible Dragon… Always transcending our narrow common sense with that visionary spirit. We are in awe.”
“The new objective of the KKK is the conquest of Asia! Let us show those yellow monkeys the greatness of the white race!”
Wait. What exactly did I do to cause this?
So… they were changing targets? Instead of Black people, they now wanted to use Asians as their doormats?
These idiots really should be disposed of as quickly as possible… No, wait.
These clownish agitators would evaporate into a national laughingstock the moment their true nature was exposed. Weren’t they nothing more than jesters?
A jester must provide joy and laughter until the very moment he leaves the stage.
Very well. Fine.
I shall bestow meaning upon your otherwise worthless existence.