The Non-White Great Power
July 23, 1918, Addis Ababa.
I hadn't left the study for almost a week. I gauged the time by the angle of sunlight streaming through the window and survived on the coffee Ayenash brought me, barely touching proper meals. The desk was buried under mountains of documents, more than half of them scraps of information on the Korean Empire I'd gathered from every corner.
French newspapers. Copies of British diplomatic papers. Neutral press articles from Geneva smuggled in via the Djibouti-Addis Ababa railway operators. Unofficial dispatches from Paris handed over by French Consul Charles Brice.
I spread the pieces out like a puzzle and started fitting them together.
Korean War of Independence. That was the phrase I'd first encountered a week ago. But the more I looked at it, the stranger it seemed. A war of independence. Not a defensive war, but one they'd named themselves. It meant rising up first to avoid being taken.
In original history, from 1904 to 1905. The Russo-Japanese War I'd studied in my past life had a clear outcome. Japan won, with the Portsmouth Treaty granting priority rights on the Korean Peninsula—and the history that followed was all too familiar, the kind I didn't want to revisit.
But this was different. How? I scanned the documents again.
The articles focused less on battle details and more on results. The Franco-Korean military alliance. Rights in Manchuria. Deployment to the Western Front. Advance into German territory. Delegation to the Paris Peace Conference. And at the very end, a single line etched in bold: “Recognized as a great power….”
I placed my finger on that word and paused. Recognized as a great power. A nation of colored people, a non-European state—no less than one born on the Korean Peninsula—standing shoulder-to-shoulder with Europe's giants at the Paris negotiating table.
Thinking of the path that country had taken in my past life's memory, this wasn't just some diplomatic win. I stared at the word for a long time until two memories overlapped in my mind.
One was from my third year in the history department, winter, reading a paper in the library at two a.m.: the record of Emperor Gojong shouting down the signing of the Eulsa Treaty in 1905, only for it to happen anyway via Foreign Minister Park Je-sun. Even reading the nation's downfall as "history," I'd felt suffocating frustration imagining the desperation in that room.
The other was the photo on page four of the newspaper right there on the desk: men in military uniforms staring straight ahead in front of some Paris government building.
That country had survived. No—not just survived. It had won.
Ah, damn… I propped my elbows on the pile of papers and rubbed my forehead. Processing emotions wasn't easy. Twenty-two years in this body with my past life's memories, and still, feelings sometimes ambushed me from unexpected angles. Should've read this with my guard up. Too late now.
I exhaled once and turned back to the documents.
The conclusion from a week's worth of intel was this: The Korean Empire had repelled Japan alongside Russia in the 1904 War of Independence. They'd reformed their military afterward, joined the Entente in 1915 on the European front, and by July 1918, contributed to Germany's early surrender, earning their place among the victors….
Why Germany surrendered faster pieced together from the articles. In original history, Ludendorff's Spring Offensive failed in 1918, but the Allies were exhausted too. U.S. reinforcements tipped the balance—but here, one more factor joined: the Korean Expeditionary Force. Multiple pieces noted how this ally, tied to France via military pact, wrapped up the Eastern Front quickly, freeing troops for the West.
Even tactical doctrines were mentioned. Combined arms tactics. Maneuver warfare. Modern squad- and platoon-level tactics. Concepts I'd known from mid-to-late 20th century were already battle-tested here in the 1910s.
Is there another me out there somewhere? The thought flickered and faded. No way to verify. Not important right now anyway.
What mattered was elsewhere. I pulled out a notepad and jotted in Korean: A precedent for a colored nation becoming a great power.
That was the core.
Adwa, 1896. When Ethiopia beat back Italy, Europe dismissed it as an "exception." Lucky African savages got lucky. So they could try again. And Italy would, in 1935, in my past life's history.
But Korea's achievement shattered that "exception" logic head-on. Not just a battlefield win—they'd secured sovereignty at the peace table and gained great power status. Proof that non-European states could do it diplomatically, militarily, institutionally.
Meaning Ethiopia could too… I started to write that, then stopped. Too optimistic too fast. Korea's path differed from ours. Terrain, population, external threats—all different.
But the very existence of proof that it was possible changed everything. I folded the note and tucked it in a drawer, then shoved the week's documents aside.
Time for what needed doing.
The Ras council convened by morning. The Ras arrived at staggered times, but by afternoon, the key players were seated: Ras Mikael of Wollo, Kassa Haile of Selale, Hailu Tekle Haymanot of Gojjam, Lul Seged of Showa, and Ras Tafari.
I gave a brief opener. The war was over. Germany had surrendered. A peace conference loomed in Paris.
That hung in the air, and the room fell silent for a beat.
Ras Mikael spoke first, his voice low and heavy. "A peace conference—talks held after war's end?"
"Yes."
"Why would Ethiopia join? We're uninvolved."
Not uninvolved. Since securing Entente approval and declaring neutrality in 1916, we'd taken British and French military aid and arms. Not full combatants, but tilted toward the Allies.
But a deeper point mattered more. "We can constrain Italy's future actions there."
Ras Mikael's eyes narrowed. Italy. Mentioning that name chilled the room. Adwa was victory, but before that, invasion—Ethiopia's nobles never forgot.
I pressed on. "Italy joined the war but gained little. That frustration could turn eyes back to Africa."
"When?"
"Not immediately. But ten, fifteen years out? No guarantees."
Tafari looked up at me. He knew: I didn't make these "predictions" lightly.
Meeting his gaze squarely, I continued. "An Ethiopian delegation attends, we gain two things at minimum. First, international guarantee of our current borders as a formal agenda item. Second, Italy's signature pledging no military action against us. That signature becomes our shield later."
The Ras exchanged glances—silent conversation.
Kassa Haile ventured cautiously, "Who leads the delegation?"
I glanced at Tafari. Expected question. Expected answer. "I believe Ras Tafari is suited."
Tafari's eyes narrowed ever so slightly—one of his rare tells.
"Fluent in French, versed in Western diplomacy, with experience and insight enough to represent Ethiopia internationally."
The room's mood shifted. No objections surfaced; the name I'd dropped carried too much weight here.
Yet Tafari spoke slowly. "I am honored, Your Majesty." His voice stayed low, even. "But Addis Ababa's stability is not fully secured. Whether my absence now is wise requires discussion."
Not outright refusal, but aimed at it. I knew why he resisted. Domestic politics. Power vacuum in the capital during a long Paris stay. Risk of Iyasu's remnants regrouping. And deeper still, anxiety over what might unfold in the palace without him. He hated uncontrollable variables.
I understood. Of course.
But one thought solidified in my mind.
The Korean delegation would come to Paris. Almost certain—victorious great power skipping the conference? Unthinkable.
Paris Peace Conference. If their people showed, I had to meet them. Not just emotional curiosity about "how they survived."
Ethiopia and the Korean Empire. Two colored nations voicing together at Paris? Diplomatic weight transformed. Non-European solidarity against Western interests. Forge that link now…
I have to go myself.
That was the conclusion. Tafari was needed here. His logic on the capital shaking without him held water. But if he wasn't going, one option remained.
I spoke slowly. "Understood."
Tafari's eyes sharpened faintly. He knew I didn't yield easily.
"Ras Tafari, you stay in Addis Ababa."
The room hushed again.
"Then the delegation…?" Kassa Haile asked.
Seated, I placed both hands neatly on the table. Calm posture, steady voice. "I'll go myself."
Silence stretched longer this time. Ras Mikael squinted. Kassa Haile looked up. Tafari said nothing—but his silence was the room's loudest reaction.
"Your Majesty means to go to Paris in person?" Lul Seged asked.
"Yes."
"Is that wise? Security concerns, leaving the capital…?"
"Ras Tafari regents. Capital runs fine."
"But Your Majesty…"
"The world watches the stature of negotiators. Not just if Ethiopia sends someone, but how seriously we take it. The Empress going sends a clear message."
The air grew heavy.
Tafari finally spoke. "I cannot block Your Majesty's decision."
I caught the weight: not endorsement, not dissuasion—just statement of fact. He disliked it. Couldn't counter instantly. That was Tafari Mekonnen—spoke only with solid logic.
To him, I said, "While I'm in Paris, national operations delegate to you, Ras Tafari. Oversee phase one industrialization. Lead Mehal Sefari second reorganization talks."
His eyes shifted subtly. Authority granted—and responsibility loaded. He knew both sides.
"When do you depart?"
"As soon as possible. Confirm conference dates, move immediately. Sound out Consul Brice first on Paris entry protocols."
"Understood."
Short reply. I scanned the room. Ras faces varied: shock, concern, calculation, watchfulness. No opposition voiced. Ras Mikael rumbled low, "Return safe."
Brief words—the best fatherly support this room allowed.
I bowed my head lightly.