Declaring the Domestic Rifle
"We're making the blueprints ourselves."
I'd made the declaration, and swept my gaze across the room once more. Ras Mikael. Kassa Haile. Seyum Mangasha. Hailu Tekle Haymanot. Lul Seged. Minister Habte. Tafari. …Everyone's mouths were hanging half-open. No, not even half—fully agape. It was a rare sight to see the faces of Ethiopia's top nobles unified in a single 'What?' Even Tafari, whose stone-like expression rarely cracked, had the outer corner of his eye twitching up by about half a millimeter. For him, that was the equivalent of gaping in shock.
"……."
The silence stretched on for quite a while, but Minister Habte was the first to speak.
"Your Majesty."
His voice was cautious, laced with something he was holding back. When this veteran addressed me in that tone, it was usually one of two things: opposition or utter bafflement.
"Are you saying that Your Majesty will design the rifle personally?"
"Yes."
That single word dropped into the room like a stone, and silence descended again. This time, it lasted even longer. Kassa Haile crossed his arms, then uncrossed them. Hailu Tekle Haymanot stopped drumming his fingers on the table. Seyum Mangasha seemed about to speak but clamped his mouth shut, while Lul Seged simply stared at me impassively. My father, Ras Mikael, slowly withdrew his hand from the armrest and let out a quiet breath. That one exhale carried a world of emotion, and finally, Minister Habte, unable to contain himself, spoke up again.
"Your Majesty. Designing a rifle isn't a simple matter. It demands comprehensive knowledge of engineering, manufacturing processes, ballistics calculations… Decades of accumulated expertise from Europe's major arms manufacturers…"
"I know."
I didn't cut him off, but the moment he paused, I responded swiftly.
"I know it's difficult, Minister. But does that mean we can afford not to do it?"
Minister Habte fell silent. I swept my gaze slowly around the room again. Their eyes held skepticism—not outright rejection, nor full acceptance, but a collective 'Is that really possible?' It was only natural. A reasonable reaction. If Ethiopia's empress declaring in 1919 that she'd design a rifle herself didn't sound illogical, that would be the strange part.
"Do you have a concrete plan, Your Majesty?"
Tafari asked quietly, precisely. He wouldn't think I'd blurted it out without thought. Not after all we'd been through. But even his eyes held a hint of 'Surely not.'
So I nodded.
"I do."
"……Would you share it, Your Majesty?"
The room went still. I paused to think. Where to begin? I couldn't reveal my past-life memories—couldn't say I'd been a history and engineering double-major from 2026 Korea, that I had a rough grasp of modern rifle structures and principles, or which country's design I'd reference. I couldn't spill it all. But I could show them a glimpse of the 'how.' I glanced around the room one more time, then fixed my eyes on Minister Habte.
"Minister. Do you remember three years ago?"
His eyes narrowed slightly, calculating the timeline.
"Right after your ascension, when you first visited the armory?"
"Yes."
I nodded.
"I disassembled a French rifle there. Right on the table."
Minister Habte's eyebrow twitched ever so faintly. That scene was replaying in the old man's mind: the Ethiopian princess spreading a cloth on the table, pulling the bolt, removing the barrel, laying out the parts neatly. And me pointing at the rusted barrel, noting the weakened bolt spring tension, warning that continuous fire would cause feeding failures in that condition. He hadn't forgotten. He'd even asked in a low voice back then, 'Where did you learn this?' That memory lingered for him too.
Minister Habte spoke quietly.
"……I remember."
"Three years have passed since then."
I continued.
"In those three years, I've personally overseen equipment installations at the armory, discussed tolerances with the Korean Empire's technicians, watched our machinists mill parts. I've learned what role each component plays, what tolerances they need, what ignites the powder, what enables reliable feeding."
The room was silent.
"I'm not saying we'll produce a finished product from day one. Or aim straight for Spanish Mauser quality."
I tapped the telegram on the table with my fingertip.
"But establishing our own design standards. Ensuring no outsider can tie our hands with a single sheet of paper. That, we can do."
Minister Habte stared at me for a long moment. I quietly read the shift in his eyes—not full trust, but skepticism tilting toward something else. He spoke low and slow.
"…Producing the Spanish Mauser as-is would be difficult anyway."
The room froze briefly, then he continued.
"Even with blueprints, we'd need time to source materials and achieve the required machining precision. If identical replication is impossible from the start, it might be better to begin with a design suited to our facilities and craftsmen…"
He trailed off, then added in a grudging tone.
"……It's certainly reasonable."
Fitawrari Habte Giyorgis. The veteran who'd defended this empire since Menelik II's reign. Ethiopia's military legend. The moment he conceded it was 'reasonable', a subtle shift rippled through the other Ras. A calculating silence. And that silence converged on the same conclusion. Even viewing it negatively, no better alternative existed. Kassa Haile nodded quietly first. Hailu Tekle Haymanot followed. Lul Seged lowered then raised his eyes in assent. Seyum Mangasha hesitated, then let out a low rumble from his nose—not opposition, but acceptance. I knew that now. Tafari said nothing. His silence was the strongest endorsement here. Finally, Ras Mikael spoke low.
"……Do it."
With that, the resolution was sealed.
We left the council chamber as the sun began dipping westward. Tafari followed two steps behind. He said nothing as we walked the corridor, but I could feel the weight in his silence pressing against my back. Just as I reached my study and grasped the door handle, he spoke.
"Your Majesty."
I turned, hand still on the knob. Tafari regarded me with his usual serene gaze, his expression like he'd wanted to ask something but couldn't find the words. A rare look for him.
"How much preparation do you need?"
"A quiet night."
I said.
"And coffee."
Tafari nodded once, sharply. The door closed. Alone in the room, the aroma of hot roasted beans soon filled the air. Ethiopian beans. Not iced, not hand-dripped, but no matter how you brewed it, this country's coffee had the world's finest scent. I cupped the mug once, then set it down quietly. I unrolled a large sheet of paper for the blueprints and closed my eyes briefly. I delved into my memories. Memories of 2026. Of Seoul. Reports read by a third-year history major sitting in on engineering classes, exhibits studied during my wartime museum part-time gig, documents devoured until dawn by my overflowing mil-enthusiast tendencies. Rifles. Designs. I began moving the pencil slowly. The reference rifle was decided. Korea's domestically developed bolt-action rifle, which had ended as a prototype in my past life. I'd first encountered it in a modern warfare history class in my third year. Completed in 1952, the Republic of Korea's first independently designed service rifle. Chambered in 7.62mm, while Ethiopia's current ammo was 7mm Mauser. I paused there briefly. Changing the standard cartridge wasn't feasible now. The armory was already producing over 120,000 7mm Mauser rounds monthly, and the entire Mehal Sefari trained on it. Redesigning rifles didn't justify overhauling ammo specs—not with our budget or timeline. So, the new rifle's ammo: 7mm Mauser. Fixed parameter. I resumed with the pencil. I couldn't copy that rifle's structure outright. Different era, different caliber, and above all, 1919 Ethiopian armory capabilities fell short of 1952 Korea. But the basic design was viable, so I wrote the first line on the blueprint.
Ammo Caliber: 7mm Mauser
Action: Bolt-Action
Minimum Effective Range: ~500 meters
Part Count: Minimize
I gazed down at those lines and exhaled slowly to myself.
Ah, damn. Is this really gonna work?
That was my honest inner voice. I was a history and engineering student. I'd learned engineering basics, studied military history, made firearms disassembly a hobby in this life… but I'd never actually designed a rifle from scratch. Not once. And yet here I was, in the Ethiopian empress's study, unfolding a design draft notebook in Korean script, having declared to the Ras council that we'd make our own rifle—and now executing it.
It's a crazy gamble, for sure.
I tapped the pencil tip lightly against the notebook's corner. But there were no other options. Spain wouldn't provide blueprints. Italy was pulling strings behind the scenes. Britain wouldn't sell, France lacked stock, Germany wasn't a signatory. Japan and Korea were too distant geographically. At this rate, we'd make ammo but no guns. If nothing changed by 1935, when Mussolini came, our arsenal would be these 20,000 rifles—and time would wear them down, parts failing without replacements. So, we had to act now.