A Modern Man in Paris, 1918
November 20, 1918, Paris.
"…I'll clear the room for a moment."
The Marshal then spoke briefly to his guard in Korean. "Step out."
"Marshal…?"
"I said step out."
"…Ah, yes."
As the guard withdrew and the door clicked shut, only the two of us remained in the room.
Marshal Park Young-ho stood with the locked door at his back, gazing at me. His eyes were different now—not the calm, calculating look from the conference hall. These were the eyes of someone fiercely suppressing something deep within.
I met his gaze steadily and quietly placed both hands flat on the table.
A long silence stretched out. Ten seconds, perhaps.
Marshal Park broke it first. "It's 1918."
He spoke in Korean. The tone was different from before—stripped of all caution.
"Yes."
I answered briefly.
"And yet Ethiopia's Emperor speaks perfect modern Seoul dialect."
I said nothing.
Park Young-ho stepped toward the table. Instead of pulling up a chair, he stood there, arms crossed—a soldier's stance, but with something unsteady flickering beneath it.
"When did you arrive?"
I knew exactly what he meant by that question.
"Ethiopia. March 1896."
Park Young-ho closed his eyes, then opened them. Slowly, he pulled out a chair and sat.
"I came in 1871."
His voice was low and flat. But I could feel the flatness was forced.
"Right after the Shinmiyangyo. Born on the night the gunboats shelled Ganghwa Island."
My mind raced as I processed that. 1871. Shinmiyangyo. The year the U.S. Navy invaded Ganghwa. In original history, the year Joseon stubbornly clung to isolation. That's when this man reincarnated.
Which meant he'd been fighting twenty-five years longer than me.
"What was your rank?"
"Captain. ROTC."
I nearly laughed at the word. I suppressed it.
"I was a history major. But also an engineering student."
As I said it, Park Young-ho looked at me, and for the first time, something in his eyes softened. The expression of someone long alone finally meeting another in the same plight. I knew that look well. All too well.
To keep from getting swept up in the emotion, I lightly tapped a rhythm on the table with my fingers.
"Mind if I ask one thing?"
"Go ahead."
"Gongji Joint Tactics."
Park Young-ho's eyebrow twitched ever so slightly.
"I read an article that in 1918, the concept was perfected in combat. Squad-level modern tactics, combined arms doctrine. From what I know, that doesn't come until after World War II."
I spoke slowly. "For that to be possible in the 1900s… you'd need someone who knows."
"Exactly."
He nodded, and only then could I smile. Ah, he's one of us.
"K-defense industry's impressive here too."
The room fell quiet again. Park Young-ho paused for a second, then let out a low sound—almost a laugh. The kind held back so long it barely escapes.
"Never thought I'd hear 'K-defense' here."
"Me neither."
I said it and, for the first time, relaxed a bit, leaning back against the chair. The conversation had shifted. No longer conference hall formalities.
"How long?"
"Since 1871." Park Young-ho calculated briefly. "Forty-seven years."
Forty-seven years. I rolled the number in my mind. I'd had twenty-two. From the day I woke up here until now.
But this man—forty-seven. Eyes opening amid the cannon fire of Shinmiyangyo, tearing apart a hermit kingdom, winning independence, breaking through the Western Front, and now seated among the Big Five in the Palace of Versailles.
All alone, for forty-seven years.
I tried to gauge the weight of it, but it was immeasurable.
"Must've been hard."
I said it, and Park Young-ho didn't reply. His silence was the answer.
A brief hush followed. Faint footsteps echoed in the corridor outside. The old Versailles building creaked.
"Me too."
I spoke first. "You can't tell anyone this story."
Park Young-ho looked at me.
"No one to tell. Can't exactly say to Ethiopians that I was Korean. So you just carry it alone. Every day."
Saying it aloud strangely lightened the load.
Park Young-ho said curtly, "I understand."
Those two words weighed more than anything I'd heard in twenty-two years. I exhaled once.
Then, promptly, I placed my hands neatly on the table again.
"But we're in Paris now."
I said it first. Park Young-ho's eyes changed. He understood.
"Right."
Short, simultaneous, crystal clear.
"Sentiments later."
"Sentiments later."
I nodded. The air in the room tightened once more. The moment two in the same boat turned their minds to the same horizon.
"Let me explain Ethiopia's situation."
I began. "Here at the conference, we're in the cheap seats. No agenda control. To get the Eritrea border issue on the official docket, one of the Big Five has to back it. Britain and France don't want to poke Italy—they need them to check Germany."
Park Young-ho listened, eyes narrowed.
"America."
"Wilson's Fourteen Points. Self-determination. Theoretically good for Ethiopia, but I doubt the U.S. will dive into African affairs directly."
"America's tricky."
Park Young-ho said. "Their priority here is Europe's reconstruction. Africa gets sidelined. Wilson pushes principles, but you see him yielding to European interests in every negotiation."
"You've seen it yourself?"
"Daily reports."
I absorbed the weight of that and sorted my thoughts. If America's out. Britain and France won't touch Italy. Italy treats Ethiopia like a sideshow, as we saw yesterday.
That left one option.
"Can the Korean Empire publicly support Ethiopia here at the conference?"
I asked directly.
Park Young-ho eyed me for a moment. "What exactly does Ethiopia want from this conference?"
A question in return. Not diplomacy—not negotiation.
I laid out my prepared points. "Three things. First, international guarantee of Ethiopia's current borders, especially formalizing the Eritrea demarcation as an agenda item. Second, a clause in the peace treaty binding Italy to no military action against Ethiopia. Third, Ethiopia's participation as a founding member if the League of Nations talks proceed."
Park Young-ho showed no expression as he listened.
"Of those three, realistically, one is enough for this conference."
I said. "The Italy clause."
"Italy's the weakest here."
He replied. "Got nothing from the war, no voice. They have to vent that frustration somewhere, but no good outlet. So they flex on a small nation like Ethiopia for psychological dominance."
"I know."
"That's why you didn't just sit quiet this morning."
I pondered his words briefly. "You saw?"
"I was in the hall."
Park Young-ho said curtly, then added, "Has the Italian blood spilled at Adwa dried already? That line was good."
Praise. From him, sparse words carried weight.
Instead of thanks, I returned to the point. "Just the Italy clause is fine. If it hits the official agenda and others endorse or acquiesce, Italy can't oppose without isolating itself. A nation that gained nothing from the war can't afford to dig in on African military action."
The Marshal fell silent, seemingly pondering. I waited. When he finally spoke, it was unexpected.
"Her Majesty, Empress of Ethiopia, knows politics well."
"Living long enough makes you that way, Marshal."
All I could muster was a wry smile.
But given who he was, the Marshal laid the counter on the table first. "If the Korean Empire backs Ethiopia in these talks, what does the Korean Empire gain?"
Direct. No diplomatic fluff—straight to the substance. I liked it.
"Resources."
I said. "Ethiopia's the birthplace of coffee. Produces the world's finest beans. And the highlands have platinum. Confirmed reserves aren't huge yet—proper surveys haven't been done."
Park Young-ho's eyes sharpened.
"And besides that."
"Besides that."
I thought briefly. "Red Sea access. Djibouti's our only port now, French-controlled. Long-term, if the Eritrea coast issue resolves, the Korean Empire could secure a supply base there for routes to the Middle East and Europe."