An Audience with the Ex-Sultan
I arrived at a small mansion after accepting the invitation from the Sultan—no, the man who was no longer Sultan. What a mess, coups on top of coups. The country was spinning just fine. He'd gone from absolute monarch to constitutional one, back to absolute, then constitutional again, until one final brain hemorrhage turned him into just another human being. That's who I faced.
"So, did you achieve your dreams?"
"Dreams?"
"I heard you wanted to see me so badly, that you wanted to talk."
"A bit late for that."
Late? Was it? Well, the Ottoman Empire had been rotten for ages. But the Turks? Not in my book. If it was late by his reckoning, sure, but in a way, I'd arrived right on time. I wanted to give this guy—who'd been shaking with rage trying to save his crumbling country—a real shot at it. Compared to that, the Rwanda Plan—no, the Sudan Plan—I'd just been obsessing over was trivial. Whether there were Black people in America or not, Michael Jackson would still show up. Whether there were many or few, boxing, basketball, track and field—they'd all get thrown into the world's dirty, brutal, merciless jobs anyway. In the end, my Sudan Plan was just a minor tool to kneecap America's potential while getting Roosevelt elected to check Britain.
As for Sudan, which had been dumped on me against my will, I just needed to keep it from collapsing while it was in my hands. Now that he'd just gotten elected, I could wash my hands of it. Britain's golden rice spoon they'd handed over? We call that "lacing it with drugs" back home. I needed to bide my time, make excuses, and sell it back to Britain. Worrying about American Blacks settling here permanently? No point getting tied down further. As long as the Arabs I'd kicked to the streets didn't terrorize me with shit-and-piss attacks, I'd count my blessings.
"What are you thinking about so deeply?"
"Just now, I was thinking about the cat I left at home."
"Oh, cats are so cute, aren't they?"
The ex-Sultan seemed to have one of his own; he cracked a faint smile.
"Ah, this city is truly beautiful."
"Thank you."
"The reason you invited me to this beautiful city was probably to protect it."
"I can't deny that."
"So, do you want to hear how I drove Russia out of Manchuria? Or how I reformed Joseon? Or maybe how I turned Korea into the Korean Empire?"
"All of it. Or rather, it used to be all of it."
"Those short snippets in that book just didn't convince me."
"Not anymore, though."
"Because you're no longer Sultan?"
"If we're splitting hairs, yes."
"I'm here precisely because you're no longer Sultan."
"?"
"I figured you were ready now. That's why I came."
"Do I look like the Emperor of the Korean Empire to you?"
"I don't know how a Sultan protects an empire. Never tried it. But I do know how an ordinary man protects his homeland. Been there, done that."
Or are you saying you're no longer interested in a country without a Sultan?
I asked without words, and he answered.
"Is there anything I can do?"
"This is exactly the time when you can do something."
"Do you really think those Young Turk kids can pull it off?"
Like hell they could. Even to an outsider like me, they looked tailor-made to ruin the country. The ex-Sultan in front of me had missed the mark too, but at least amid the specter of nationalism, he'd tried to hold the empire together with Islamic unity. The Young Turks didn't get it—their Turk-first supremacy was a childish disease, a pathological fit that would dismantle the empire. A Turk nation-state and an empire couldn't coexist. Why else had I named it the Korean Empire, proclaiming it the successor to the Three Hans and a realm of the Son of Heaven? To avoid ethnic discrimination. The Joseon people weren't superior anyway, so just live peacefully. If it had been purely ethnic, we could've gone full nation-state. But it wasn't, so we went celestial empire—and celestial empires can't play nation-state. Yet those Young Turks wanted to discriminate against every minority while claiming heavenly mandate. They condemned the massacre-loving Sultan for slaughtering Armenian infidels, then did the exact same to those "alien" Armenians. Good luck with that.
"I don't think so. And you're the only one who can rein them in."
What a joke—hoping to win wars like that? Enemies would sprout from the shadows. "I see you want something from me."
"What on earth does the Supreme Leader of the Korean Empire want from a half-imprisoned man like me?"
Want? "Buy some of our badass tractors."
"And become this country's Prime Minister."
......
"You're joking, right?"
"Not a joke."
"Then I'll be frank. It's not something I'd say, but I'm unpopular. The army—no, if you could at least 'support' the army?"
"Ha, you wouldn't move an army just to sell some tractors, would you? Did that book paint me as the type?"
"But you know there's a country here that would do unprofitable things like that. And that this country needs to join hands with one that does unprofitable things."
The Supreme Leader lit a cigarette.
"This country needs French mediation somehow before getting torn apart between Britain and Germany."
"…"
"Even from the other side of the globe, I could tell. What do you think?"
"We're already allied with France."
"Does France think so? Ex-Sultan, or should I say ex-pro-German?"
"Frankly, it looks like this country is just clinging to France's coattails. Am I wrong?"
"…"
"Just advice: Understand their greed. They want more than you think. Give what you must, but make sure you get what you need in return. Focus on gains, not avoiding losses."
"Why give me that advice now?"
"Because of that tractor order you placed?"
"Just that?"
"Does it sound like a joke?"
Sell to agrarian powerhouse Ottoman, then to agrarian mid-tier Balkans, then to agrarian heavyweight Europe. Did he think I was joking?
"I heard that back when you were Sultan, you permitted a port in Gaza and handed all of Palestine to France on a platter. Right?"
"…"
"Permitting the Jerusalem diocese is the same thing. No need to fool me. You're not Sultan anymore."
"Yes, that's what I did."
A Sultan preaching Islamic unity permits a Jerusalem diocese? The world turns beautifully. But that's the world for you.
"Propose a deal to France: In the same handwriting as that treaty you signed as Sultan permitting the diocese, add one 'unknown' page."
"If the diocese is 'threatened,' France can deploy troops across all of Palestine—with just that one sheet of paper."
"…Are you insulting me? Or is this from France? Who are you representing?"
"I just know France will gladly take the offer. Then they'll happily make you Prime Minister, upping the ante."
"Because if you don't become Prime Minister here, that deceptive sheet becomes worthless scrap and their own embarrassment."
"Cry that French deployment in Palestine is a Western invasion, rally your Islamic forces. Conversely, call it the Young Turks' diplomatic disaster, dismantle the Turk supremacists obsessed with territory."
"Back when you were Sultan, it was just a Christian diocese—no big deal. Blame the party's reckless pro-German moves for provoking France. Perfect."
The Sultan's eyes clouded over right in front of me.
"Such deception and lies… Aren't you afraid of divine judgment after death?"
Wasn't this telling him to sell off the holy land of Palestine next to Arabia—and rally supporters around the sale?
"If you read the book, you know I'm an infidel."
"Isn't this what you expected when you called me here? If I'm the devil, you invited me to this beautiful city."
"Build your power moderately, then ally moderately with the Young Turks and become Prime Minister."
"And just buy those tractors on top?"
"Just? 'Just' tractors? You're too modest. Ha. Ha. Ha."
The Supreme Leader laughed genuinely for the first time here.
"Looks like you bought tractors following my lead, but don't know the local conditions for them to actually roll. Being of noble blood."
"…"
"See for yourself later. Whether they really work."
"If you run them right, you can save a country."
For real. A few weeks after the devil departed, under intense French pressure, the ex-Sultan was released from house arrest.
"Your Excellency, are you sure? If we follow the plan—"
Ottomans aren't the 'enemy' or something?
"It won't work."
"Pardon?"
Even ten seconds of thought showed a dozen reasons why not. He himself admitted unpopularity—a massive red flag. Plus, unlike Joseon, where I dodged reefs with killer maneuvers in a canoe, the Ottoman was different. Vast, and for an old battleship like that, sharp turns were the prelude to capsizing in crisis. Why did Zeng Guofan or Li Hongzhang's self-strengthening fail? Empire-sized, yet they tried movie-like rapid pivots and flopped. Qing should've just stuck to conservatives, hardcore Cixi support—might've lasted longer as Western cash cow. Even I, post-Korea-to-Korean-Empire economic boom, don't touch the rudder. Empires thrive on stability. Mess with it, and it's harmful new winds, old laws crumbling. I know how irrationally that bureaucracy runs—hierarchical, efficient. I ordered hair removal, they shaved everything bald. Korea became the Bald Korean Empire.
"Still, I want to see it. Hobby. Plans are about making them, not being ruled by them."
Otherwise, it's Schlieffen Plan chaos? Humans control plans, not vice versa—in this backstab-happy world.
"A failed ex-monarch's bumbling Prime Minister bid from worse conditions than mine—wouldn't you want to watch?"
"Your tastes are peculiar, sir."
Not the thing to say to the Supreme Leader, comrade?
"Korea's timing was perfect. Great location, solid backing, and luckiest of all."
As Joseon became Korean Empire, Russia naturally came to extort from the new boss. Problem: The Supreme Leader, cursed by the Chinese witch into Dark Evolution mode, was extremely pissed. No fancy declaration of war or whining to Britain. As Son of Heaven realm, he voided all Russian treaties with fake-heaven Qing and marched into Russian Manchuria—Korean Manchuria. Russia counterattacked gleefully, but. Leader skipped fort-building, armed and liberated Chinese locals for sabotage across Manchuria. Brutal Russian crackdowns? He declared unlike spineless Qing surrender, Korean Empire fights to the death. Russian south-push reliant on rails stalled at South Manchurian-grad and Shanhaiguan-grad, with armed Chinese rebels from hills in their rear. Colder and harsher than Siberia, Russia figured enough—let's draw borders and peace. But no way Leader agreed. No war declared, no peace—just heavenly realm labeling Russian troops illegal bandits. More Russian oppression of Manchurian Chinese? More rallying to Korean side from Hebei, bulking up. Pissed Leader saw it as chance to weaken Chinese power in Manchuria, whether Russia killed 1 million or 10 million—even all. Baltic Fleet deployment blocked by Britain amid Great Game and Boxer cleanup disinterest in East Asia. Russia felt thoroughly screwed. They decided it was all British plot. Instead of war, they took Leader's silent "your Qing treaties void? Ours too" and bailed. Couldn't record losing to Eastern landlubbers. Manchuria? Rip it back later—once done once, twice is easy. Thus, the Russo-Korean War became minor border spat, erased from history; Russia meekly withdrew from Manchuria. Except Vladivostok.
Britain knew all this—reason they shoved Korea into anti-Russia front. Too far east, both hushed it, so unknown non-war-war. If truth leaked—not mere spat—Russo-Japanese War happens twice more.
"Even rethinking, damn lucky."
Great Game era, long-Britain short-Russia Korea was primed for growth. That's luck.
"Luck turned Joseon to Korean Empire, drove Russia from Manchuria as Son of Heaven, swallowed Japan."
"But them? Bad timing, dangerous spot, backers eyeing exit, rotten luck—can they succeed?"
Crush Russia, make Black Sea internal sea; evict squatting Anglo-Franco-Germans; colonize Greece; return great power? If so, next time I'll invite him as honored guest.
To hear his badass tale.