The Problem is the Economy, You Fool #5: The Qing-Zhong War Breaks Out
As the Zhong-Qing, no, Qing-Zhong War erupted, I excused myself from Theodore for a moment and got in touch with London first.
'By any chance?'
'Not me. You?'
'No.'
'Really?'
'Yes.'
'What if it is?'
'Oppose any territorial cessions or reparations collections. If we must intervene, only after the war.'
'...OK.'
Crisis averted, for now. Given the nature of the incident, Korea had to sprint out front with a declaration of innocence. Suspicion wouldn't vanish, of course, but with Korea swearing it wouldn't grab a single scrap from this mess, we probably wouldn't be the first with our hand chopped off.
After hashing out fresh Panama Canal estimates with Theodore and waiting for the next express train to Korea, another telegram arrived for the Supreme Leader.
"France has gotten involved."
"Paris?"
"No firm figures yet, but they're shelling out massive cash. Supplies too, probably."
"Those bastards won't build battleships to check Britain or armies to check Germany—why dump money into the yellow monkeys' circus?"
Well, considering they'd lavished cash on their colonial hick America, it wasn't that weird.
Just—
"Surprising those fuckers have spare change to throw at the East right now."
Really. With the road from Berlin to Paris lying wide open, how? Guts of pure shit.
From what I knew, they weren't even building battleships for lack of funds, yapping, "Why not just crank out torpedo boats en masse?"
They claimed Britain was close enough for torpedo boats to suffice—but didn't that mean ditching every colony but Algeria? And now, after dumping all those colonies, they were investing in China, where those very colonies made it worthwhile? Christ.
Looked like Britain had thoroughly sold France on it. Or maybe France was floating a litmus test.
If Britain meddled with France even in this piddly far-flung Eastern spat, it meant they couldn't be France's partner in the inevitable Great War with Germany. For France—pinned down to an all-in army bet after Germany gutted their naval dreams—this was probably a burning question.
Maybe this wasn't even a Qing-Zhong War anymore. Just Britain and France flexing for dominance in their future alliance, jockeying for the reins.
Seemed I was right. When I called London saying I was heading home, they tried sweet-talking me first, ahead of the cheeky Chinese instigators.
Korea blocking China? That's Korea blocking France. Korea blocking France? Could blow up into Britain blocking France.
Obviously, Britain couldn't stomach that future. At least not if they planned to help France upfront while screwing from behind—they'd want to stitch it their way, stitch by stitch, not get steamrolled losing control.
I had my certainty. London wanted third-party peacemaker Korea out of this Qing-Zhong mess even more than Paris did.
And to ensure it—
'Let's discuss Taiwan's future—in London. Or Paris, if possible.'
Damn, dragging people back and forth. What, a three-way cross-examination?
Still, tough to turn down. Looked like Britain had spies in America too. They'd sniffed out my slight interest in Taiwan.
Or hell, maybe the American emperor was the British spy.
Timing too perfect. No matter how you sliced it, they were trying to tie me down. Did I have to go?
I sprawled out, knocking back whiskey.
If London was the greedy MPs' dinner table, Paris was the debt-masked madams' ballroom.
Surprisingly, the former was safer—if interests aligned. Long as you were dead sure you weren't the main course.
The latter? Burned knightly orders as heretics, played Christianity's shield while allying with pagans.
Basically, zero trust from jump.
In my view, Europe's—no, the whole world's—diplomacy turning rotten stemmed from French being the lingua franca.
But why couldn't London or Paris fathom Qing beating Zhonghua Republic like a stray dog? They'd need my mediation then—the only real sway over Qing.
Zhonghua was already in the Anglo-French pocket, sure. But Qing—the one I'd hand-reared from the wild? Not even close.
Qing. The Great Qing Second Empire. My pet masterpiece: a Bismarck for Greater China.
After the emperor who'd earn the posthumous Guangxu name and his crew fled to Chang'an, they revived the nation.
China scoffed as hopelessly retrograde, but Qing's loyalists everywhere rallied to it. Even China's harshest Qing-haters agreed: Cixi was evil's root.
Right when Cixi got purged, Qing crumbled—and that fallen emperor rebuilt from Chang'an? Past diehards couldn't help clinging to "maybe."
Yeah, every so-called loyalist backed Qing.
Blood-tears tale to Jiangnan-Fujian eyes, but honestly? Revived Qing looked more like a proper Eastern state than the Yankee puppet Zhonghua.
Lagging south in pop and power, sure—but Qing ruled Tibet, Xinjiang, Uyghurs, western Mongolia. Prestige? Matched the Gaos, nay, the Weis.
My predecessor eyed that potential, urged rebuilding from Chang'an.
So yeah, today's Qing was a modern man's handiwork.
Long as this Qing breathed free outside the fence, Empire Chinese couldn't twitch without consequences.
Prime guardian of Korean peace? Me.
I cracked my eyes, glaring at the sandstorm-faced madam before me.
Why always these suffocating types, never the beauties? Even dragged to Paris.
I scrubbed her name from my brain, zeroed in on the issue: the opera onstage.
She boasted zero culture, less French—but that's why she had to fake artsy.
Least during opera, I could tune out the godawful noise.
French investment? Tell 'em to fret tomorrow's bankruptcy first.
Yeah, since hitting Paris, I'd slacked off opera-binging.
Every French feeler via envoy? Casual brush-offs.
What's the harm? Couldn't play Eastern sage?
Let 'em approach on "negotiation" pretenses—that'd cost them.
No plans to bite Paris bait.
Who'd they think I was, their Napoleon III?
So madams glared all they wanted—I tossed scraps, zipped it otherwise.
What could they do? "No culture, no French."
In my memories, novel-France rivaled or alt'd London. Bad chowder? Or was this normal?
Dunno. Crank more torpedo boats then.
Me—the torpedo boat profiteer who'd outgrown 'em for battleships and subs? Peak comedy.
"Looking bored?"
"Ah, welcome. Finally, someone sensible. Sir Richard."
"Don't snub the madam."
"Regrets. Exquisitely beautiful—but this Oriental lacks finesse in cultured French. Convey 'exquisitely beautiful,' please."
"Hahaha. Naturally."
I played friendly, implying fallout with Paris would suck—for them.
But what could ya do? Europe now: Germany rising, Britain sinking.
France? Regional heavyweight.
Stronger than Korea, sure—but from afar? No interlocutor.
Sail a fleet here first, talk.
Sensing my dog-food acorn vibe on France, Richard mediated, choking laughs.
"Paris scenery—beautiful, eh?"
"Gorgeous. Ah, the madam too."
"Know somewhere more so."
"Oh? Prettier than the madam?"
"The salon she runs. You've dodged invites how many times?"
Ahh... Bit too aloof?
Didn't see that curveball.
I turned, eyed the slave-trader glare from the madam.
Hm. Sorry, uncultured Oriental overstepped with rejections.
Forced a grin.
Supreme Leader's slacking finale: opera past overture, climax-bound ages ago.