The Taegukgi on the Mediterranean
Marseille, November 17, 1918—off the coast. The Mediterranean was far bluer than I'd imagined. This sea we'd entered after crossing the Arabian Sea and the Suez Canal stretched out endlessly in a deep cobalt hue so vivid it stung my eyes. To eyes grown accustomed to Africa's red earth and gray skies, the color was overwhelming. I propped my elbows on the deck railing and stared blankly at the horizon. Marseille was still a few hours away.
"Your Majesty, the wind is fierce. Perhaps you should return to your cabin…"
"It's fine."
I cut off the attendant. I liked the strong wind—whether it whipped my hair into a frenzy or the chilled air clawed at my cheeks. The moment I set foot in Marseille harbor and left this ship behind, every gesture would fall under scrutiny as Empress Zenebework Mikael. Until then, I wanted to linger in this gale. In my hand was the Hangul notebook I'd fetched from the cabin. I hadn't opened it yet. Just holding it brought a strange calm. Letters only I could read in Ethiopia. A language known only to me. Born of profound solitude, yet my safest refuge.
That was when it happened.
"Look over there. It's a battleship."
A sailor's shout rang out through a telescope. In French. I whipped my head around instinctively and spotted something approaching from the west. Just a silhouette for now. But its size… that was no ordinary vessel. I beckoned the sailor and borrowed his telescope. My fingers trembled faintly as I adjusted the lens. And then focus snapped into place.
My heart nearly stopped.
Rooooar—!
“Imperial Korean Navy battleship, Kwangmu!”
It was a battleship. A colossal hull, easily over 20,000 tons full load, sat heavily on the Mediterranean's blue surface. Turrets lined the centerline, their thick, long main gun barrels tilted skyward in a row. The side decks bristled with secondary guns, and thin smoke trailed from the funnels. And at the bow… an unforgettable flag fluttered.
“The Taegukgi…”
White field with the red-and-blue taegeuk symbol. The four trigrams at the corners. I recognized that flag at once, buffeted boldly by the wind. I'd lived 22 years under it. Written dozens of reports in classrooms where it hung.
The Korean Empire.
I couldn't tear my eyes from the telescope. There was more than one ship. Widening my view, I saw it: smaller vessels that looked like destroyers flanking both sides. An escort flotilla, their own Taegukgi flags snapping in the breeze.
"The War God of the East."
A low voice from a French officer behind me. I listened closely.
"Korean Empire Navy. They built that battleship themselves, no doubt. Hard to believe."
The officer clucked his tongue in admiration.
"The ones who pushed all the way to Aachen. Their air-ground combined tactics on the Western Front? Frankly, even the French Army could learn a thing or two. Brave, strong, and above all, disciplined. They didn't earn the title 'War God of the East' for nothing."
War God of the East.
I repeated the words inwardly. The name Park Young-ho flickered through my mind. Nothing confirmed. Just records showing the Korean Empire's military doctrine had perfected air-ground tactics by this point. But that record weighed heavily on my chest. The possibility that someone like me was there in the Korean Empire—someone who knew the future.
The battleship's massive hull slowly paralleled the Messageries Maritimes. Over 160 meters long, at least. Black smoke from the funnels. Tiny figures visible on deck. My inner military nerd started crunching numbers: what tech was aboard, what range those main guns had, what targets they could shred.
And at the same time, another instinct kicked in.
That should be an Ethiopian battleship.
No—someday, it would be. Ethiopian battleships dominating the Red Sea after the Arabian. Destroyers sailing from Djibouti harbor. The Ethiopian green-yellow-red flag fluttering instead of the Taegukgi.
A pipe dream. Pure fantasy for now. Ethiopia had no proper navy, barely a single usable port thanks to being landlocked.
I slowly lowered the telescope. The Korean Empire's battleship was already receding westward. The Taegukgi shrinking smaller. It wasn't headed for Marseille. Some other destination. The Paris Peace Conference delegation had likely arrived separately, or was traveling apart from this flotilla.
Either way, I'd meet them in Paris.
The thought lingered as I turned back to the northern horizon.
Marseille harbor came into view that afternoon. The first glimpse was the basilica atop the hill: Notre-Dame de la Garde. Its Byzantine golden spire overlooked the city, with dense stone buildings cascading down toward the port like a river. The Mediterranean sun blazed off the white walls, dazzling the whole scene.
The racket started the moment we entered the harbor. Crowds on the quay—not just many, but a mob. People lined up in rows, reporters darting between them, photographers hoisting cameras.
I gazed down from the deck, swallowing a deep internal sigh.
Right. I'm the Ethiopian Empress, setting foot in Europe for the first time. The monarch of Africa's last independent kingdom, come in person to the Paris Peace Conference. Big news in this era. And Ethiopia—the nation that crushed Italy at Adwa. The only black kingdom to survive the great powers devouring the continent. With the Empress herself.
They probably pictured me in flowing robes, majestic yet somehow primitive.
Clunk. The gangway dropped.
I descended slowly. The instant my foot hit the quay, flashes erupted. Not just once—a barrage that stung my eyes. Reporters surged forward; attendants rushed to block them. The delegation formed up on my flanks.
I stared straight ahead through the chaos.
Murmurs rose from the crowd. French—I caught it quickly.
"That woman's the Ethiopian Emperor?"
"Empress."
"So young… and that beautiful."
I winced ever so slightly as the words hit. Here we go again. This body had turned out this way by chance. Zenebework Mikael's face was… dramatically striking, to be honest. 171 centimeters tall. The sharp, distinct features typical of Ethiopians. A refined royal build. Add generous curves and imperial robes, and of course the stares poured in.
The problem? They made me deeply uncomfortable. Twenty-odd years as a man in my past life hadn't prepared me for this. Being ogled for my looks felt alien. No—receiving men's gazes with this face felt downright cringeworthy.
My hard-won coping mechanism: act like I felt nothing. I composed my expression. The polished imperial mask—serene, enigmatic, untouchable. Befitting the "Saintess of Adwa."
Inwardly, I just wanted to push past these reporters already.
"Your Majesty, what are Ethiopia's demands at the Paris Peace Conference?"
One reporter shoved forward, yelling in French.
"Your Majesty, one word on your delegation's stance!"
"Do you plan direct talks with Italy on the Eritrea issue?"
Questions rained down. I let them slide off my back as I walked. Not the time to answer. Anything said here would hit Europe's front pages by morning. It'd be showing my hand before sitting at the Paris negotiating table.
In diplomacy, silence wasn't a virtue. It was strategy.
A French protocol officer hurried up, bowing crisply and offering greetings in fluent French. I replied briefly and followed him. Parting the thick crowd felt endlessly disorienting. Finally, a car came into view—the ride to Marseille station.
The door shut behind me, and I exhaled deeply.
I'll live.
Flashes still popped beyond the window. What a day to crave some gukbap.