Already Distorted History
July 15, 1918, Addis Ababa.
"Have a seat."
I pushed the stack of documents aside. Tafari sat across from me at the table, setting down the newspaper. I didn't miss how his movements were just a touch quicker than usual. This man doesn't speed up even when he's excited. Quite the opposite—if he's enduring something, his posture straightens even more, and his words slow. But right now, it was the reverse. That meant even he was surprised.
Tafari Mekonnen took a moment to steady his breath before speaking.
"Germany has surrendered."
...What?
"Germany has surrendered."
My voice rose without me realizing it.
"When did the news come in?"
"Urgent telegram from Djibouti yesterday. From the French railway operators there—dated three days ago from Paris."
I picked up the newspaper from the table.
— Le Kaiser abdique, la guerre est finie.
Printed in bold type across the top of the front page. It was in French, so I could read it all.
Germany capitulates. The Kaiser abdicates. The war is over.
What the hell is wrong here?
I raced through my thoughts. In the original history, Germany's surrender came in November. The Allies' Hundred Days Offensive starting in August, Bulgaria's surrender in September, the Ottomans in October, Austria-Hungary early November, and finally the armistice on November 11. But this was July. The Second Battle of the Marne had only begun three days ago. Normally, the Germans would launch their offensive there, only to be halted by the Allied counterattack and retreat starting July 18. Ludendorff would then admit it was the "turning point of the war," leading to a long process that ended with white flags in November.
Yet here was a surrender article in the July 12 edition.
What changed?
I slowly turned the pages. Pages 2 and 3. My eyes skimmed the articles rapidly.
Ludendorff's offensive on the Western Front ultimately fails. German logistical shortages. Massive U.S. reinforcements. Revolutionary fervor rising in Berlin. Kaiser Wilhelm II decides to abdicate.
The content was similar to the original history. Just the timing was off. It felt like three or four months had been compressed into a sprint.
Why did it end so much sooner?
I kept flipping. And stopped.
Page 4. A single photograph. Black and white. The print quality was poor, details blurry, but I could make it out. Soldiers. In uniform. Posed formally in front of some government building.
But the uniforms...
I pulled the paper right up to my face.
No way, why is this here...?
The hat shape. The epaulet design. The collar angle. The placement of medals on the chest. It was a form I'd seen countless times in textbooks and papers from my past life. The era was different, details varied, but the overall silhouette was unmistakable.
The uniforms of the Daehan Empire.
What the hell? Why is the Daehan Empire showing up here?
I started reading the article text. Slowly, line by line.
Délégation militaire coréenne à Paris
— La délégation du général Bae, chef d'état-major de l'Empire Coréen, présentée à la conférence d'armistice.
Korean European Expeditionary Force arrives in Paris. Delegation under Daehan Empire Army Marshal ‘Bae’ attends armistice conference.
I read the full article. The Daehan Empire had joined the war. On the Entente side. And they'd won.
"Your Highness."
Tafari's voice cut in quietly. I looked up from the paper. He was watching me. As always, with eyes that revealed nothing of his thoughts. But now, there was something more in that gaze. A faint tension, like he was waiting for something.
"Did you read the article on page 4?"
"I did."
Tafari nodded slowly, and I quietly set the newspaper down. This wasn't how it was supposed to go in the original history. The Eulsa Treaty in 1905, the annexation in 1910. In the history I remembered, Joseon—no, the Daehan Empire—should have been fully swallowed by Japan around then.
Yet here it was in the paper: a photo of Daehan Empire military delegates shaking hands with Allied representatives in Paris.
Something was twisted.
I quickly reviewed my memories. The Russo-Japanese War starting in 1904. Japan won in the original timeline. They annihilated the Russian Baltic Fleet at Tsushima and secured priority rights on the Korean Peninsula via the Treaty of Portsmouth. That laid the groundwork for the Eulsa Treaty.
But what if the outcome of that war had been different?
I glanced back at the article. Short as it was, one phrase stood out.
Guerre d'Indépendance Coréenne.
Korean War of Independence. So that's what they called the Russo-Japanese War in this world.
I let out a breath. Tafari spoke again.
"Did Your Highness already know?"
A low, calm question. More like probing disguised as inquiry.
I answered honestly. "No."
He raised an eyebrow slightly. A major expression change for him.
"You didn't know?"
"I'm reading it for the first time right now."
I tapped the newspaper with my finger.
"I didn't expect Germany's surrender this early. I figured the war would end this year, but not this soon. And the Daehan Empire..."
I paused. How to explain? I couldn't tell him about my past life. That I was a Korean man, that Joseon lost its country in 1910 in the original history, that this article wasn't just international news to me because of those memories.
So I chose my words carefully.
"The Daehan Empire is a country I've taken an interest in. One that tried to maintain its independence against Western powers in Asia. I've read some of their documents before, so I was curious how their situation would turn out."
"And that country won."
Tafari's voice remained even.
"Against Germany. And by joining the Allies."
"Yes."
"A non-European nation in Asia defeated a European great power and preserved its sovereignty in that war."
He paused briefly.
"Just like Ethiopia defeated Italy in 1896."
I felt the weight of those words. Tafari watched me as he said it. Morning mist hung over Addis Ababa beyond the window, blanketing the eucalyptus groves. Something stirred in his eyes. Calculation? Emotion? Or both.
"Exactly."
I replied slowly.
"Just like our victory at Adwa. Proof that the impossible can become possible."
Tafari fell silent for a moment. He tapped the table once with his finger, then withdrew. A signal he was thinking.
"The war ending early is good news for us."
"Good and bad."
He looked up. I continued.
"The good news is the Paris Peace Conference will open sooner than we expected. That gives Ethiopia time to take our seat there."
"And the bad?"
"We're not ready."
I glanced at the stack of papers on the table.
"Industrialization Phase 1 is underway, but it's still early days. Ammo production has started, but on a small scale. We've formed one Mehal Sefari division, but half the equipment is still outdated. How much weight Ethiopia's voice carries at the Paris Conference depends on how strong we look."
Tafari nodded.
"So we have no choice but to hurry."
"The sooner, the better."
I picked up the newspaper again. Looked at the page 4 photo once more. Soldiers in front of some Paris building, printed in black and white. Stern faces turned toward the camera. One of them stared straight ahead in the shot.
The Daehan Empire had survived.
A world that called it the Korean War of Independence, not the Russo-Japanese War.
I rolled those words over in my mind again. War of Independence.
In my past life, the Korea I lived in had lost that war. Lost its country and endured 35 years of colonial rule. Independence movements, exploitation, forced labor. That was what I'd studied in history department.
But this world was different. Somewhere, something had changed.
I couldn't stop the thought. This world wasn't the one I knew. Proof was me. A Korean man born in 1896 into an Ethiopian princess's body. That alone was an event that never happened in the original history.
My mere existence was already altering this timeline.
Was the Daehan Empire the same? Had something—or someone—changed somewhere?
I forced the thought aside. I didn't know. Couldn't know. And there was no way to find out right now.
What mattered was here and now. This study, this table, this country.
I set the newspaper down and pulled the documents back.
"Tafari."
"Yes, Your Highness."
"We need to accelerate preparations for the peace conference. Make first contact with the French consul Brice to sound out the possibility of an Ethiopian delegation attending in Paris. I'll draft the official telegram myself—let's meet again this afternoon."
Tafari stood.
"Understood."
As he walked toward the door, he paused. That was his usual pattern.
"Your Highness."
"Speak."
"When you saw the Daehan Empire article. Your expression was... different."
I looked at him.
"What kind of expression?"
Tafari didn't answer directly. He gripped the door handle and said very quietly,
"The look of someone who has encountered something long lost."
The door closed.
I was alone in the study. The mist over Addis Ababa hadn't lifted yet. Eucalyptus scent mixed with rain seeped through the window cracks.
I picked up the newspaper one more time. Page 4. In front of the Paris building. Men in Daehan Empire uniforms.
You survived.
The words rose from somewhere deep inside. They would have trembled if spoken aloud.
Even so, you survived.