The Feast of Satisfaction
"Your Excellency, today's state banquet is ready."
"The guests?"
"All the guests are seated."
"Then they're all just waiting for me, huh."
The Supreme Leader slowly slipped on his dress shirt and stepped out of the room. While the whole world trembled in the red night, this place was right in the thick of the feast.
"His Excellency is entering the room."
Everyone turned to look at him.
"Please all rise."
"Come on, just stay seated, relax."
The mother who had borne many children to become the People's Mother, the People's Hero who had saved comrades in a perilous situation—everyone was in attendance. But the one who truly lit up the room was undoubtedly His Excellency, stepping through the door and praising them all.
"Come on in, everyone. Eat before it gets cold—that's when it's best."
As he offered words of encouragement, rather than letting the food cool, he set an example by taking the first bite himself. Only then did the guests start devouring the dishes in front of them like ravenous wolves.
"Everyone seems satisfied, eh?"
"Who wouldn't be, sharing a meal with Your Excellency."
"You've gotten better at flattery, haven't you?"
"It's an honor."
"This is North Sea sea urchin steamed with kelp-fed kelp, served with a light soy salt sauce, and a whole roasted gibnut slathered thinly with seasoning."
"Looks like it suits everyone's taste. I'm pleased."
"What could escape Your Excellency's discerning eye?"
"Have some more."
In this boring world, fine dining was one of the few things that satisfied my scant desires. Gandhi burned through a fortune on every meal, didn't he? No reason a non-vegetarian like me couldn't do the same.
"Coconut crab soup seasoned with whole peppercorns, and donkey short ribs lightly brushed with soy sauce."
"Hey."
"Yes."
"This liver dish—is it goose liver or duck liver?"
"Duck liver, sir."
"Tsk. Don't serve this from now on."
"Understood, I'll see to it."
This was the kind of cruelty only real Frenchmen would love. I shoved the foie gras aside and watched the others enjoy their meal before slowly pouring myself a drink.
"Your Excellency, allow me the honor of pouring you one."
"Handle your own business. What's so hard about it?"
Did they really think I wouldn't notice that pouring my drink was their loyalty contest? I didn't prepare this banquet to flaunt power—I called them here to feed them. Well, yeah, they have to eat for the cuisine to evolve. For cuisine to advance, demand must grow, and as the Korean Empire expands aggressively, they need to contribute through labor, taxes, whatever it takes to sustain the national body. For that, with our bigger stature, cooking methods must diversify for rich and poor alike. That's what creates motivation to keep the empire going. To put it extremely, would anyone willingly deploy to defend China—claiming it's our sphere—if they only ate potatoes their whole lives? But someone who's tasted sweet potatoes or candied potatoes from China might hesitate, at least once. That's human nature. The masses who think a 5,000-won pork cutlet is "too much" when poor will never get it. Expecting 19th- and 20th-century folks to grasp what even 21st- or 22nd-century people won't is the real mistake. The problem is, I couldn't do that. I'm the shepherd. I know you have to give the sheep salt or fodder—something—to lead them to pasture first. Only then can you milk them. That's the shepherd's burden. Like Jesus, whose words were rejected, getting empathy for this is a pipe dream. Fundamentally lonely.
"Rome was the same—the history of fine dining is the history of progress. Fail at that, and you're consigned to the dustbin of history."
Swirling the full glass, the Supreme Leader gazed at his own rippling reflection.
Yeah. Unless you're Britain, to develop a nation, you gotta diversify the menu first.
"Eat up, enjoy it, be satisfied— I permit it. I may not make you all rich, but I'll ensure you can be content."
Most failed rulers who started strong stumbled here. Like reformist monarchs, stoking crisis gets the sheep moving to pasture, but if they can't graze to their taste in peace, they'll wither eventually. Short-term gains from desperate hunger, then crisis again to drive them elsewhere... rinse and repeat. So I, who knew better, couldn't afford that. Not like that damn Mugabe. I had to whip the sheep while satisfying them too.
"Not to your taste?"
"No, it's too luxurious. I was just savoring it."
"Thank you."
"No matter what those hook-noses say, don't yield an inch. We ally with America if possible, or at least Britain."
"And Russia?"
"What are you talking about? Russia's already a comrade—family."
What actual Russians thought was another matter; I'd already linked arms with them. The Korean Empire had pursued Russian-style reforms since Joseon days? Unlike how modern Russia chased Korean-style ones.
"I see."
It wasn't surprising that over half of Lee Wan-yong's overseas time was in Russia.
"So, virgin land reclamation still not going well over there?"
"They're trying, but it overlaps with beaver breeding grounds and ranges."
"Nonsense. Those two go hand in hand. You need beavers—lots of them. Siberia above all needs water sources."
The Supreme Leader rambled on about how beaver dams would moisten Siberia, bringing damp winter winds even to Manchuria, turning its plains into Ukraine-like chernozem black soil someday. They didn't know if it was feasible but nodded along. Why quibble if His Excellency wanted beavers in Siberia? They just hoped he'd be content with beavers and send back the elephants roaming Manchuria. The cold weather made them stuff themselves silly!
"Wan-yong."
"Stolypin."
Both suffered superiors spouting nonsense, so they clinked glasses and continued chatting.
"Why not ease up at The Hague?"
"Then you wouldn't have earned the Tsar's wrath and been demoted to Siberia, right?"
"…"
"…"
Wan-yong remarked on their absurd plights.
"Then I wouldn't be out here in Siberia either."
"This vodka's bitter enough—skip the bitter talk."
"Agreed."
Vodka-loosened, Lee Wan-yong opened up.
"How's that virgin land reclamation and land reform going?"
"As you can imagine."
"His Excellency stuck me here to check since it's not going well—report issues."
"…"
Russian Republic forces split into three: the Tsar's loyalists, proletarian masses, and native boyars. The problem was the boyars. Unlike loyalists wary only of Korea, these assembly-seat holders blocked reforms. They feared real republican progress. Stuck in botched Siberia from the start, Stolypin wished both sides would leave. Total powder keg. And it was.
Stolypin couldn't deny he fit this keg Siberia perfectly. He just had to do it, despite cries of autocracy. In empire or republic, he wanted to do the necessary.
"Frankly, I need help."
"What kind?"
"A symbol."
"Something to show we're achieving, acting, capable—a symbol."
"I desperately need one."
To move those three—or at least two. Current land reforms dismantling vested interests were mere extensions of virgin land work. Something else... a symbol.
Symbol, huh. Lee Wan-yong recalled the past. Joseon had similar times. What did His Excellency do? A unity rally with prizes.
Lee Wan-yong's eyes drifted to the wall—the trees.
"Tree-felling campaign?"
"Tree-felling?"
"Praise the manliest man who fells the thickest tree? Rewards?"
To Lee, felling Siberian trees wasn't casual firewood chopping. No tree today meant one tomorrow in your yard—not pastoral, but war with nature.
"Trees are essential for settlements anyway—not a bad idea."
"…"
"Stack wood towers per village?"
"Chop every damn tree?"
"Anyone here who can't fell a tree?"
Soldiers struggled with trees housewives hauled alone here.
"Make paper from them, whatever. Tractors handle that."
"Tractors?"
"Didn't know after buying? It's a factory on wheels. Hook valves to it, process anything."
"Round logs to pulp? Doable anywhere. Versatile."
Lee Wan-yong flexed his fingers slowly.
"Hmm... maybe His Excellency sent tractors here foreseeing this."
"I bought them for reclamation..."
"He doesn't ship everything requested."
"…"
"No joke. Orders can take ten years now."
Lee Wan-yong downed his last shot. Stolypin looked pensive, scheming—His Excellency knew how to ignite men's hearts too well. That exiled figure in despair? Even if not him, His Excellency would've stepped in himself. He seemed to want that.
"…"
"…"
Lee Wan-yong stood; Stolypin downed his last with thoughts and rose.
"His Excellency conceived that tractor like a toy since childhood."
"…"
"Treat it like one—use freely. It might become anything depending on the user."
"Noted."
"Good."
Drunk on booze and nostalgia, Lee Wan-yong had rambled uncharacteristically.