The Birth of Our Rifle
August 23, 1919. Addis Ababa, Menelik Palace.
The moment I opened my eyes, two sensations hit me. Excruciating muscle pain. And the smell of oil.
I stared at the ceiling for a moment, doing nothing. My body was knotted up in places all over. This was the result of spending weeks glued to the desk in my study, clutching blueprints.
In my past life, I'd died from overwork. How much had I learned from that lesson in this one?
...Not at all.
I muttered inwardly as I slowly sat up. My shoulders creaked. My neck wouldn't turn. The muscles at the base of my skull were so tight they hurt to touch.
Two months. Two months spent in that study. Disassembling and reassembling Spanish Mauser rifles, scrutinizing every dimension of each part, wrestling with how to merge the engineering knowledge I'd squeezed out from my past life with the harsh realities I'd witnessed firsthand in this one's arsenals. Burning draft notes written in Hangul dozens of times. Some days, I'd realize midway that the entire design direction was wrong. Other days, I'd scrap it three times over. Those nights proved just how reckless it was for a history-buff military nerd and engineering dropout to design a rifle.
But it was fine. I flexed my fingers, then clenched them. The joints were stiff. It was fine. It was complete. That was enough.
Then, a scent wafted in from beyond the door. Thick, heavy, on another level entirely from oil or paper. Ethiopian coffee beans.
I inhaled reflexively. Something in my body stirred. The muscle pain seemed to fade into the background for a moment—an illusion, but a welcome one.
One of the things I'd adapted to best in this country was coffee. No iced Americanos in my dreams, and hand-drip was long abandoned without the setup. But no matter how you brewed Ethiopian beans, that aroma was world-class. Even by my past life's standards.
Come to think of it, I did have a bowl of pork soup back then.
I recalled the look on Yeo Woon-hyung Construction's face—like his jaw had dropped off a cliff—when I'd said I wanted some. Of course, he'd gotten it for me anyway.
Shaking off the memory, I got out of bed. My leg muscles protested the moment my feet hit the floor, but I ignored them. I washed my face and changed into the house robe the maids had laid out. The mirror showed dark circles under my eyes, but I had no time to fuss over my appearance.
I opened the door. There stood Tafari Mekonnen. Right in the corridor. Arms folded, a bundle of documents in hand, gazing at me with those signature calm eyes.
He'd been waiting since early morning.
"...You're early."
I spoke first, and he launched into his report.
"Yesterday, I delivered the blueprints to the arsenal's technical team. After an all-night review by chief machinist Alemu and the Korean Empire's technical advisors, they've approved it for production."
I said nothing for a moment. Production approved. Hearing those words felt like something drained out of me all at once. The tension built over two months collapsed in a rush.
"...I see."
My voice came out hoarse.
"The first prototype test is scheduled for today. Shall we head to the arsenal right after breakfast?"
I looked at him. Tafari Mekonnen. Come to think of it, last night, after confirming I was asleep, he'd taken the blueprints straight to the arsenal himself.
"Let's eat first."
"Understood."
Breakfast was brief. Just three rolls of injera soaked in wat. I hadn't been hungry to begin with, but the coffee helped a bit.
The arsenal we visited next was breathing in the morning air. The moment we passed through the gates, familiar smells assaulted my nose. Machine oil, iron, and smoke from somewhere.
As I stepped into the workshop, all eyes turned to me. Then Alemu hurried over, his thick-knuckled hands—hands of a man who'd spent decades working metal—holding something.
A rifle.
Its surface unfinished, reeking sharply of fresh metal. Nine more lay on the workbench. Ten in total.
My feet moved on their own toward them. I stood before the bench and reached out, picking up one of the rifles. Its weight settled into my palm. Heavy, but lighter than the Spanish Mauser. A natural outcome of minimizing parts.
I pulled the bolt. Clack— Smooth. No snags. Clearance of 0.03 millimeters. I'd designed with 0.01 mm extra leeway beyond what Alemu's team could achieve. This was the result.
I ran my fingers along the barrel. The rifling angle was set, even if the finish wasn't complete. I exhaled quietly.
This was Ethiopia's rifle, machined from start to finish by Ethiopian hands.
"You worked through the night."
I looked at Alemu. Dark shadows under his eyes. The Korean Empire's chief technician beside him was the same. The eyes of those who'd pulled an all-nighter—but I read what lay beneath the fatigue. Reverence.
I hadn't expected it, but seeing it now weighed strangely on my heart.
"Thank you."
I said it. Alemu bowed deeply. The Korean chief spoke through the interpreter.
"The design specs were clear. Every part's dimensions were specified upfront, with tolerances matched to our capabilities. We proceeded without revisions overnight."
He paused, then added,
"It's a design that truly understands the arsenal's realities."
I fell silent at those words. A design that grasps the on-site realities. I knew where that praise came from.
For two months, I'd slipped in and out of this arsenal dozens of times without even Tafari knowing. I'd stood by the machinists, watched how they cut parts, measured tolerances myself. And reflected it all in the blueprints.
The arsenal's firing range lay on the eastern outskirts of the palace grounds. I'd ordered its refurbishment right after ascending the throne. Once just dirt mounds with targets, now it had proper distance markers and side berms.
A crowd had gathered at the range. Fitawrari Habte Giyorgis, the war minister. Ras Kassa Haile. Ras Seyum Mangasha. Ras Lul Seged. And Tafari.
Nearly every Ras in Addis Ababa was there.
As I approached, they all turned to look. I knew that gaze. Skepticism.
They'd heard the empress herself designed the rifle. Tafari must have circulated the report last evening. I wondered what faces they'd made. Probably like Habte's back in June. Cautious bewilderment. Or hopeful doubt.
I walked straight into those stares.
Habte spoke first.
"We didn't expect Your Majesty in person."
"I have to see the test myself."
His eyes shifted subtly—the old warrior's look of reluctant acknowledgment.
"...Let's begin."
Alemu took position with one prototype. Ammo: 7mm Mauser rounds produced in the arsenal.
I steadied my breath as I watched. This was the real test. No blueprint, however perfect, meant anything if the gun didn't hold up when loaded and fired.
Misfire. Chamber explosion. Bolt failure. Possibilities abounded.
Alemu shouldered the rifle. Aimed. Silence fell. He pulled the trigger.
Bang—
The shot rang out. I checked the target. Hit. 100 meters per the markers. Not dead center, but within the sights.
No explosion. No flying bolt. Alemu worked the bolt; the casing ejected cleanly. He chambered the second round.
Bang—
Second. Third. Five rounds. I counted as I realized my fists were clenched.
Ten rounds fired. The rifle lived.
The Korean chief took the second prototype. Ten rounds at 200 meters. All on target.
The third machinist handled the next. All prototypes from the same design performed flawlessly.
Parts interchangeability test followed. Alemu swapped bolt assemblies between three rifles. Perfect fit.
As expected from identical specs. My mouth went dry watching.
When the tests ended, Habte took a rifle from Alemu. The old general's grip was different. The poise of a battlefield veteran who knew weapons.
He racked the bolt, listened to the sound. Ran his hand over the surface. Long silence, then:
"...Ethiopian-made?"
"Yes."
I said. "Made by Ethiopian machinists, in an Ethiopian arsenal, to Ethiopian standards."
Habte stared at it. I couldn't read his eyes.
"...Your Majesty."
His voice was low.
"We didn't win at Adwa by luck. The prepared prevail."
He offered me the rifle.
"This is preparation."
I took it. Its weight filled my hands.
Clap clap clap—
The applause began as Habte stepped back. Ras Kassa Haile first. Then Ras Lul Seged. Ras Seyum Mangasha. Ras Hailu Tekle Haymanot.
The sound spread through the highland morning air.
Alemu and the technicians clapped. The all-night workers at the range's rear bowed. The Korean chief unfolded his arms and nodded quietly.
I listened to the applause, gazing down at the rifle in my hands.