November 4, 1918: Bound for Paris
November 4, 1918. Addis Ababa. The seasons had shifted without me noticing. The mountains visible through the window retained the full traces of the recent rainy season, dyed a deep green, while the rooftops of Addis Ababa sprawling below lay shrouded in the early morning mist, revealing only hazy outlines.
Paris Peace Conference. I rolled those six words slowly in my mind. January 18, 1919. A date I'd read hundreds of times in history books from my past life. In France's Paris, diplomats from 32 countries would gather to discuss the postwar settlement of the World War. In reality, the Big Four would decide everything, with the rest mere extras stamping approvals. And the Ethiopian delegation would attend. Led by me, personally.
Ah, damn. This is straight out of an epic event. I groaned inwardly and turned my gaze to the pile of documents spread before me. Papers mingled with Amharic and French. Diplomatic protocols, anticipated agenda items, profiles of each country's delegates. Beside them, my personal notes densely filled in Korean. Just imagining Tafari staying up all night trying to decipher those Korean memos before giving up brought a strange sense of satisfaction.
"Your Majesty."
I looked up at the sound of knocking. It was Tafari Mekonnen. Entering the study with his usual low, measured steps, he clasped his hands and gave me a brief bow. At a glance, he seemed like a quiet, courteous young noble, but I knew that gaze. Those eyes were scanning every document in the room and every nuance of my expression simultaneously.
"You're here early."
"I've come to report that preparations for departure are complete. All delegation members are scheduled to assemble by dawn tomorrow."
"Very well."
I lifted my coffee cup and took a sip. Ethiopian beans, hand-dripped. One of the few luxuries I could enjoy in this world.
Not being able to have an iced Americano is still the greatest tragedy, but whatever.
Tafari stood silently, waiting for me to continue. I knew that silence wasn't mere patience. He had a question. A heavy one.
"Speak if you have something to say."
The moment permission was granted, he opened his mouth without hesitation.
"There are concerns during Your Majesty's absence from Addis Ababa."
"The conservative Ras lords, I presume."
A faint tension flickered at the corners of Tafari's eyes. Because I'd named it first, no doubt. He continued regardless.
"Movements from Gugsa Araya Selassie and Ras Seyum Mangasha are far from ordinary. With Your Majesty away, the northern nobles will see it as a rare opportunity. Especially the factions opposing the nationwide road expansion plan..."
"Tafari."
I called his name quietly. He fell silent. I set down my teacup and looked him straight in the eye.
"What do you want while I'm gone?"
It was a direct question. His piercing gaze wavered for a moment—a rare occurrence.
"I request full administrative authority in Your Majesty's stead."
The answer I'd expected. I paused briefly. Internally, I'd already decided, but these things couldn't be answered immediately. The weighing process itself was politics.
Tafari Mekonnen. The future Haile Selassie. The most renowned emperor in Ethiopian history. Talented, cool-headed, and genuinely devoted to his country. And ambitious. That ambition made him useful. But it also meant he could never be taken lightly.
"Very well."
I nodded. I didn't miss the subtle release of tension in his shoulders.
"However."
I picked up one document from the desk and handed it to him. The nationwide road expansion plan. Centered on the railway from Djibouti to Addis Ababa, it connected key points across the empire with main arterial roads. Budget estimates, mobilized manpower, phased construction schedules—all penned by me personally.
"By the time I return from Paris, at least the surveying for the Addis Ababa-Djire section must be complete."
Tafari took the document and scanned it slowly. His gaze changed. It started as formal acknowledgment, but as he read, genuine interest took hold.
The empire's veins. Roads had to be opened for armies to move, taxes to be collected, and reforms to proceed. Tafari knew that well.
"I shall obey."
He knelt. Watching him, I murmured inwardly. Please take good care of things. And at the same time, Just hold steady and don't stir up trouble, please.
The delegation departed the palace at dawn. We would take the train to Djibouti. The railway linking Addis Ababa and Djibouti. Without this French-built line, Ethiopia would be completely isolated inland. In truth, it still bothered me. It wasn't built from French goodwill, but for their own interests. That was the source of the odd discomfort I felt every time I rode it.
But for now, we had to use it. Inside the passenger car, I sat by the window, watching the passing scenery. The red highland soil stretched beyond the glass. Scattered eucalyptus trees stood here and there, with herds of grazing cattle occasionally passing between them. The landscape of the country I sought to modernize—one still mired in the medieval era.
I placed the bundle of materials from the study on my lap. Originally meant for the ship, my hands opened them first. Korean Empire. Notes densely packed in Korean. No cryptographer in this land could crack it. No one here knew Hangul. At least not in Ethiopia.
1904. Korean War of Independence. Repelled Japanese invasion. 1915. Entry into Europe. Eastern Front concluded in 6 weeks. 1918. Capture of Aachen. Allied victory status confirmed.
A timeline utterly divergent from the history I knew. But what truly sent chills down my spine was the military section. Modern squad- and platoon-level tactics. Combined arms. Air-ground integration. Maneuver warfare doctrine.
I read those terms slowly once more. Air-ground joint operations. Tactics organically linking ground forces and aircraft. Even by my era's standards, a concept most military powers perfected only through World War II. And it was already implemented in combat by 1918.
Then a name caught my eye: Field Marshal Park Young-ho of the Korean Imperial Army. I wrote it in the notes, then immediately erased it. Ah, pencil—traces remained. I rubbed it with my finger to smear the mark and sighed.
Same boat. Probably. Someone living in the past with future knowledge. Ethiopia had me; the Korean Empire had him. And we both shared a madness for military history.
I let out a wry chuckle. The problem was, it wasn't a laughing matter. If the Korean Empire had perfected air-ground doctrine, they'd send a delegation to the Paris Peace Conference too. As victors. As a Big Five nation officially recognized.
I quietly calculated the odds of encountering their delegation. If we met? Ethiopia's empress and the Korean delegation. An African Black female monarch and East Asian diplomats. Two entities with seemingly no connection on the surface. But if they had someone like me...
We might even help each other. I gazed at my reflection in the window. The twenty-two-year-old Ethiopian empress. The body I'd awkwardly settled into after reincarnation. The face everyone called quietly fierce.
...Who knows. First, to Djibouti. Then, think on the ship.
Three days later, Djibouti port. The Red Sea's salt-laced wind brushed my cheek. The harbor's distinctive smell—coal smoke, fish, and brine—pricked my nose. On the docks, laborers unloading cargo mingled chaotically with Arab merchants and French colonial officials.
And at the center, a steamship lay anchored. Messageries Maritimes. A French vessel on regular service. Operating routes from Marseille across the Indian Ocean and East Africa. I recalled reading they'd lost 22 ships during the war. This one before me seemed to be running flat-out to make up for it, with traces of wartime wear evident everywhere: peeling paint on the hull, railings patched in spots.
"Your Majesty, we are ready to board."
The attendant announced, and I nodded slowly. Climbing the gangplank, I glanced back once. Djibouti's red, arid land. Beyond it stretched the railway to Addis Ababa. At its end was Tafari. And the reforms I'd left half-finished.
"Departing!"
The heavy thrum of the steam engine vibrated through my soles. The Messageries Maritimes bore me away, slowly exiting the harbor.
To Paris. To the Big Five's stage for postwar settlements. The Ethiopian Empire's delegation—the African continent's sole independent kingdom—was heading there now.
I placed my hand on the deck railing and watched the receding Djibouti port. My guts twisted oddly. Tension? Anticipation? I didn't know yet.
No—probably both.
"Your Majesty, shall we retire to your cabin?"
"A bit longer."
Waves slapped the hull. The Arabian Sea's hot wind tousled my hair.