The Conflict Begins
June 9, 1926, Menelik Palace, Addis Ababa.
No matter how hard I pushed industrialization, why hadn't anyone invented instant coffee yet? I muttered that thought to myself as I tilted my cup once more.
Ethiopian beans. I'd tried every method to get one step closer to hand-drip perfection, but in the end, all I had was traditionally brewed coffee. It was rich, heavy, and good... but it still couldn't match the sweet, effortless comfort of instant coffee. Was this the limit of modernization, or just the limit of my taste buds?
Spread out on the table was the Second Industrialization Plan, underway since 1922. Now in its third year, we were right at the halfway mark. I leaned back against the chair for a moment, flexing the knuckles of my right hand. The joints I'd overworked sketching blueprints now ached faintly on cloudy days, but I'd grown used to it. Designing rifles alone for two straight months in my early twenties meant accepting some aftermath.
Thirty years old. By the Ethiopian calendar it was different, so I stuck to the Gregorian: Zenebework Mikael's body had turned thirty this year. Add my past life's age, and I was well over sixty. No clue how to tally them properly, but it sure felt like I'd lived a good long while.
A quick recap of the last decade? Busy as hell.
I took another sip of coffee and turned my gaze to the first page of the plan. When the First Industrialization Plan wrapped up in 1922, I remembered standing silently in front of the arsenal facilities for a long time. Cumulative rifle production: 50,000 units. Light machine guns: 4,000. Monthly ammo output: over a million rounds. Calculating what those numbers meant, I'd set the Second Plan's targets at double. And the results? We were on the verge of surpassing them.
Rifles: 100,000 cumulative. Seeing that figure in last month's report, I'd paused mid-sip. Not quite感動, but something heavy settled in my chest.
I remembered the weight of that single Belgian-made pistol at my waist on the dawn Iyasu V was deposed in 1916. How rare it was inside the palace walls. Ten years later, Mehal Sefari soldiers now carried rifles I'd designed—machined to Ethiopian specs by Ethiopian workers in the Addis Ababa Arsenal.
And 9,000 light machine guns. That line started slower than rifles. Higher design complexity, plus time to simplify the feed mechanism and gas system for our facilities. But once on track, production climbed steadily.
We bought Schneider 76mm mountain gun license rights from France in 1923, and Vickers machine guns plus 2-pounder pom-poms from Britain in 1924. Tough negotiations both: the first bundled with Djibouti railway concessions, the second leveraging Blue Nile headwaters security. Britain wanted to manage Blue Nile flows for Sudan irrigation projects; I turned it into diplomatic leverage. Of course, I didn't give it away cheap—secured solid terms for our licenses first.
Tafari's eyes when he got the briefing? Still vivid. Not praise, not calculation—just a look that said, As expected. When did he start reading my moves like a book?
Anyway, now the June morning in Addis Ababa stretched beyond the window. Rainy season approaching. Distant clouds piling up, visible through the glass; eucalyptus in the palace gardens swaying in the breeze.
Gold mines. Steady revenue kicked in late 1920. Finance Minister Zeleke's monthly figures proved how much that stabilized our monetary economy. Markets once dominated by Maria Theresa thalers and salt bars now saw our native birr gaining ground. Long way to go—local fiefdoms still bartered daily, full penetration another decade at least. But the direction was right.
Iron mines fed the Alesa Steelworks. Starting with crucible smelting, Ethiopian steel production now met domestic demand. Laughable next to Britain or Germany, but melting our own iron on African highlands? That meant something.
Harar textile mills grew faster than I'd predicted. Raw cotton and sisal from the south, looms spinning, cloth flowing through Addis to Djibouti rail and beyond. Two years to lock in that flow. Now exporting past domestic needs to Djibouti and the Arabian Peninsula.
As someone who'd dissected Ethiopia's economy pre-startup, I knew how unnatural that was. Single-export reliance left us vulnerable to great power bargaining. Diversification wasn't optional—it was survival.
More than anything, the Ras Council felt worlds away from its founding. In 1916, those Ras eyes brimmed with suspicion: Was this kid empress's new setup encroaching on their lands? Surrendering autonomy to the center?
Now? At some point, they started bringing proposals to the council. Road repair budgets for their domains, commercial dispute mediation with neighbors, arsenal equipment for their own turf. They'd realized it benefited them. Exactly as intended.
I'd smirked inwardly when Hailu Tekle Haymanot first tabled foreign-tech equipment issues. The quickest to smell money now wanted more.
Loyalty contests shifted to reform-slice contests. That rivalry pulled all Ethiopia forward.
Not that dissent vanished. Gugsa Araya Selassie and northern conservative Ras still shot sharp glances sometimes. But in a world where yesterday's ally became today's rival, then tomorrow's partner, overt rebellion lost its footing. Without the council, way more energy would've burned on infighting.
And Tafari. Tafari Mekonnen in one word? Perfect executor. I set reform directions; he implemented administratively. I played diplomatic cards; he handled follow-ups. Cracks among Ras? He mediated first.
Of course, I knew he wasn't just an executor. Ambitious. Always had been, still was—not fully zeroed on me. But he calculated. This growth path benefited him too, with me at the center. That silent lion knew it.
So we still collaborated. Not without friction—sharp clashes sometimes, especially on military budgets and diplomacy. We both knew our differing math, but it was negotiation, not war. That sufficed.
Cup emptying, I flipped to the next page. Third Industrialization Plan details due next year, targets already in my head. Vehicles first: trucks, aircraft. Dream stuff, honestly. Knew combined arms hinged on them—Park Young-ho, that reincarnated Korean marshal I still swapped letters with, proved it on the Western Front.
But independent production here? Impossible yet. Imports? Doable. Post-WWI surplus from France and Britain meant used biplanes feasible within two years, budget permitting. Utility unclear, but "Ethiopia has aircraft" carried diplomatic weight.
University Hospital, year three, pumping grads with Addis Ababa University. Menelik Cadet Academy on its sixth class, alumni spreading through Mehal Sefari and fief armies—overall military quality rising.
Nine years to 1935. I repeated it mentally. Mussolini seized power in 1922—four years ago. History said he'd focus domestic consolidation: formalized dictatorship in 1925, still mopping postwar chaos. No complacency, though. Every Rome report, I read through 1935 lenses.
And now.
Bam-bam-bam!
"Your Majesty! Urgent dispatch!"
The study door knocked just as I set down my cup.
"Come in."
The door opened. In strode Foreign Office Director Herui Wolde Selassie. Herui: fluent in French and English, one of our most modern bureaucrats. Mid-thirties, already entrenched on Addis's diplomatic stage.
But his face today was off—I clocked it the second he entered. Herui rarely showed emotion. Diplomatic training or nature? Now, though: caution. Underlaid with duty to deliver bad news.
"Your Majesty, an emergency report. From Britain and Italy."
I set the cup down properly, straightening. "Sit."
He sat, placing a document envelope on the table.
"Confirmed via our liaisons in London and Rome. Came through unofficial channels first, so verification delayed the report."
"How long?"
"First caught last December."
Last December. Six months. Foreign maneuvers I'd missed for half a year.
"Details."
Herui pulled out papers: Amharic translation and English original.
"Britain and Italy exchanged notes last December, forming an accord."
I kept my face blank as the words hung.
"Content?"
"Two points. First: Britain supports Italy's request to Ethiopia for railway rights across our western regions. Linking Eritrea to Italian Somaliland."
My fingers on the table stayed still.
"Second: Italy supports Britain's request for Blue Nile upper dam permits. For Sudan irrigation."
Herui set the papers down. "Mutual backing of each other's demands, Your Majesty. Both cabinets have approved. Ethiopia to get formal notification of terms."
Silence settled. I let it stretch seconds, calculating.
Anglo-Italian partition of Ethiopia. Past-life history books covered it: December 1925 note exchange. In original timeline, Tafari protested fiercely to the League of Nations; 1926 spotlighted Ethiopia's case. Despite weakness then.
But here, I sat in Tafari's seat.
It happened anyway. As expected, but right on cue.
I spoke slowly. "Has this accord been officially conveyed to us, or still unofficial?"
"Unofficial yet. British Consul Russell touched base on scheduling a meeting, but no formal documents."
"Italian side?"
"Consul Colli di Felizzano silent."
I processed both. Britain moving first. Russell's request meant London had packaged their demands. Italy's quiet? Watching Britain shake us, timing their rail ask.
Divided roles.
Britain floats dams to rattle us; Italy follows with rails. Bundle for concessions.
I closed my eyes briefly, then opened. Original history: Ethiopia rejected both. Boosted diplomatic stature via League, despite frailty.
Now? Different. 100,000 rifles, 9,000 machine guns deployed. Hundreds of Schneider mountain guns, arsenal churning ammo monthly. Alesa steel, gold stabilizing currency.
And crucially, 1926 Ethiopia had an ally: the Korean Empire.
Hand on table, I said, "Herui."
"Yes, Your Majesty."
"Reply to Consul Russell: I'll receive him next week. Via official channels."
Herui's eyes narrowed slightly, nodding. "Official channels?"
"Yes. Publicly."
Took him two seconds, but I read the shift in his gaze. Unofficial meant containing knowledge. Official, public? Signal: We know. No secrets. No backroom deals.
"Contact Consul Yeo Un-hyung too. Today."
Herui gathered papers. "Share this with the Korean Empire, Your Majesty?"
"Appropriate. 1918 accord commits joint response. Briefing their Foreign Ministry is procedure."
Herui bowed, no more questions, and left.
Gazing out the window again, I saw it: the storm of war approaching us.