Chapter 102
Chapter 102
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Translator: Wjin
Chapter: 102
Chapter Title: Traces of the Storm
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If someone asked who the greatest victor of this war was, the obvious answer would be Austria, the triumphant side. But surprisingly, there was another nation that profited handsomely without lifting a finger.
"Heh heh heh."
Prussia, which had declared neutrality at the outset of the war, immediately threw its support behind Austria the moment France suffered defeat at Ulm—as if it had seen that coming all along.
It even flaunted its astonishing bat-like agility by offering to lend mercenaries if Austria desired, ensuring that Britain and the Netherlands wouldn't dare make any rash moves.
Yet with that single stroke, Prussia reaped considerable gains.
Austria, having swallowed up Bavaria and the Palatinate, announced it would legally divide those two territories among other states as well.
When you thought about it, it was an inevitable step. No matter how mighty Austria was, gobbling up all of Bavaria and the Palatinate outright would have been impossible.
Attempting such blatant expansion of national power would naturally draw suspicion from other nations.
For these practical reasons, while Austria seized most of Bavaria and the Palatinate, it doled out the northern portions evenly to Saxony, Prussia, and the other electorates.
"Mm ha ha ha!"
"Your Majesty... you seem in high spirits."
Among them, the elector-state that claimed the largest share was naturally Prussia. But Friedrich couldn't stop laughing regardless.
"Occupying Paris and holding a coronation there? As expected of His Highness Franz—he pulls off the unimaginable without batting an eye."
"It's unimaginable, true. But ordinarily, such actions tend to be diplomatic blunders."
"After forcing France to its knees in just six weeks, who could object? Isn't that the ideal model of a mighty military power that we Prussians should emulate?"
Damn it—why hadn't he thought of holding a coronation in Paris himself?
If he had, he would have joined the war and given Franz, crowned King of the Romans in the Hall of Mirrors, a thunderous round of applause.
Unaware or perhaps indifferent to Friedrich's inner thoughts, Prussia's Field Marshal Anhalt-Dessau coolly analyzed the war's outcome.
"I wondered what kind of sorcery they pulled off, but the intelligence is finally coming in. Austria developed muskets three times superior to France's and kept them under strict secrecy. Even in the decisive battle, they lured the enemy without revealing their performance."
"A simple yet foolproof strategy. Of course, the Austrian generals who executed it were top-notch. But the real marvel is whoever developed those muskets. They call this rifle the Franz 1738, I hear?"
"Yes. I'm not sure if it's true, but they say both the new bullets and the improved rifles were developed by His Highness Franz Stefan himself. Hard to believe, but..."
"Why dismiss it? This is the man who, in his teens, succeeded in refining platinum—something no one had even dreamed of."
Ever since Franz had plunged into politics in earnest, his achievements were so dazzling that many had forgotten his origins as an exceptional craftsman and merchant.
At the very least, Friedrich had never forgotten that first encounter.
"Ah... yes, you're right. Hearing Your Majesty say it, it does make sense."
"Exactly. In fact, His Highness Franz's true genius might not even lie in politics. With his deep knowledge of metals and weapons, one can scarcely imagine the breadth of his expertise."
Anhalt-Dessau gave a wry smile at the sight of Friedrich, excited like a child.
'Whenever His Highness Franz is involved, he's always like this.'
Just days ago, he'd broken out in a cold sweat convincing the man not to personally march to Paris.
When the Elector of Brandenburg insisted why he, of all people, couldn't attend the King of the Romans' coronation, it was so absurd he could barely muster a retort.
"However, Your Majesty, Austria growing this strong poses a potential threat to us as well. We're allies now, but..."
"On the contrary. Suppose we tried to check Austria—do you have confidence you'd defeat their army armed with those rifles?"
"...That would be impossible."
"Precisely. I have no such confidence either."
There were limits to what tactics could overturn; fighting an army with three times the range was suicide.
Why did France lose? They waged a battle where victory was impossible.
"Then, in your view, how will the powers maneuver from here, taking this war as a turning point?"
"Naturally, they'll scramble to uncover the production methods for those Franz rounds and rifles. They have no choice."
"Meanwhile, Austria will perfect its next-generation tactical manual and surge even further ahead."
Once basic equipment reaches a superior level, tactics and strategy must evolve accordingly.
In the end, the next war won't go to whoever merely acquires the Franz rifle—it'll favor the one who masters strategies worthy of its capabilities.
"Britain and France are no doubt deploying every spy they have to steal blueprints or key techniques. If I may be so bold, perhaps we should..."
"No need."
Friedrich chuckled and produced a freshly delivered letter.
"This is..."
"A secret missive from His Highness Franz. You're the field marshal, so you need to know—but keep it confidential."
"Understood. But what on earth does it say...?"
"It offers the production method for the Franz rifle—the very one you were raving about needing to uncover. With just one condition."
No matter how swiftly Britain or France deciphered the method, testing and field deployment would take at least five years.
Worse, depending on production difficulty, it could drag on for eight.
Gaining that technology ahead of time would save incalculable years—worth more than a fortune in gold.
"We must accept, of course. What's the condition?"
"We'll share our new training manual with Austria. And..."
Anhalt-Dessau committed every word from Friedrich's mouth to memory, figuring it was no great sacrifice.
This was Prussia's golden opportunity to leap ahead.
◇◇◇◆◇◇◇ Friendship, peace, and victory.
The coronation at Versailles could proudly be called a resounding success for faithfully embodying those three elements.
Hearty camaraderie with the electors, reconciliation with France, and the exalted prestige of imperial authority triumphant.
Like the formula for a blockbuster shonen manga, the Austrian troops reveled in all Paris had to offer before preparations began to vacate the capital as promised.
Amid the bustle of the Austrians readying to depart, I met Louis XV at the Fontainebleau hunting lodge, as agreed.
"It's been a while, Your Majesty."
"Indeed... it truly has."
No empty pleasantries—this was the first time we'd spoken face-to-face since before the War of the Polish Succession erupted.
The boy king just starting his reign had aged into a man nearing thirty, scarred by two crushing defeats.
His feelings toward me couldn't possibly be warm, yet his tone was polite, his emotions well-contained.
Is this what it means to be an adult?
"You've likely heard from Cardinal Fleury, but allow me to express my regrets first. We had no intent to humiliate France."
Scholars held that a King of the Romans' coronation at Versailles was a legitimate right, but no need to rub facts in his face and bruise sentiments.
Louis XV sighed at my sincere condolences and poured himself a glass of wine.
"To be frank, didn't you find it satisfying? The first King of the Romans ever crowned at Versailles."
"Honestly, I'd have preferred a coronation within the Empire and an extra 100 million livres in reparations. Versailles lives up to its fame in beauty, but we have our own palaces and cathedrals."
"Ha, you still have a silver tongue."
Was he seeing through me? No, his reaction said otherwise.
This was it: he wanted to refute me outright but couldn't logically, so he'd snipe first.
At well over twice his actual age in experience, such barbs left me unmoved.
Quite the opposite—they telegraphed his emotions, making it easier to gauge what to say next. I was grateful, really.
This was why professional negotiations belonged to diplomats, a truth Louis XV surely grasped.
Yet he'd summoned me because he couldn't endure the current reality.
Perhaps he just wanted to gaze upon the duplicitous villain's face and stoke his hatred.
"Your Majesty, do you resent me?"
"...Would I adore you?"
"You may feel deceived from your position, but I've never lied to you. In both instances, I was the one attacked."
"Attacks where the attacker's wrist didn't just twist—it got wrenched off."
No matter how duped he felt, history would record France's jaw shattering against my legitimate self-defense.
"Your Majesty, I understand your grievance. As I told the cardinal, I don't want France to collapse—not out of excessive kindness or altruism, but because a stable France benefits us."
"I know. Now France is irrelevant to you; you see Britain as your potential rival."
"Britain feels the same. You heard how their ambassador behaved at the coronation?"
The sole third power to treat the funeral-like coronation as a festival.
Having heard of the ambassador's merciless jabs, Louis XV's eyes twitched with fury.
"Pirates who can't even season their soup with manners..."
"Isn't that Britain's way? They show decorum to peers but treat clear inferiors like thugs—no gangster worse."
This era—no, Britain up to the early 20th century scanned like Saiyans with scouters.
The moment you seemed weak, they'd prove their pirate lineage with every fiber of their being.
Allies weren't exempt; the Ottomans fought alongside them in the Crimean War yet still got drained dry.
An Austria-thrashed, shrunken France went without saying.
"Truth be told, I wasn't pleased with Britain's attitude at the coronation either."
My dear little France should be my exclusive punching bag—who gave permission for anyone else to swing?
Before it lost its purpose, I needed to repack the stuffing.
I topped off Louis XV's empty glass myself and whispered conspiratorially.
"I'll help you smash the British snout."
"Anyone can say that..."
"The decisive factor in France's defeat this time. I'll sell you the blueprints for my new rifles."
"...What? You mean it...?"
"Of course, it's not free."
By my calculations, with France and Britain's tech levels, Minie balls and rifled muskets would deploy in four to five years minimum.
The principles weren't that advanced; grasping them meant quick implementation.
So why not sell high, stir the pot, and let Austria advance to the next stage?
Rear-loading rifles were beyond current tech—building them now secured firepower superiority for half a generation.
The key was buying time to advance unchecked.
"Money's no object—name your price."
"First, let the manufacturer I recommend monopolize rifle supplies to your army for the foreseeable future. They'll deliver fast at fair prices—no gouging worries. Then, armed with those, provoke Britain wherever—India, North America, whatever pretext works."
"...What do you mean?"
"An chance to broadcast France's resilience. Victory might be tall order, but chilling spines? Easily."
Refuse, and you're eternal British chum forever.
Could he really say no?