Chapter 126
Chapter 126
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Translator: Ace
Chapter: 126
Chapter Title: Bosnian Crisis (2)
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‘Franz Joseph, you incestuous jaw-dropper, you filthy geezer!’
I couldn’t hold back the surging rage and screamed it inwardly.
How dare he spout such nonsense, asking about my parents’ well-being right in front of a Korean?
“I’m sorry, Baron. Let me apologize on his behalf. Uncle is just like that by nature. I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive him.”
As I fumed, trying to swallow my anger, Archduke Franz Ferdinand—who was utterly blameless—turned to me with a genuinely apologetic expression and apologized in his place.
I knew it. He was a stubborn, opinionated man who hated hearing others out.
And that he was the type to hurl reckless insults even at his own family, enough to shock his only son, Crown Prince Rudolf, into suicide.
‘But that doesn’t mean I have to understand it.’
Still, no matter how furious I was, there was nothing I could do.
Making a fuss about it would only hurt me in the end, and I couldn’t very well shatter the alliance with Austria-Hungary over some generational insult.
For now, all I could do was look at Franz Ferdinand’s face and hold it in.
Ah, how long had it been since I last felt this shitty?
It had to have been since Algeciras—Baldacci?—when pointless stubbornness ruined everything.
But while Bezobrazov was a greedy idiot who couldn’t even read the room, Franz Joseph I was far worse: he understood the situation perfectly but abused his position to do this on purpose.
‘No wonder Austria-Hungary ended up like this.’
Franz Joseph I, often called the tragic emperor due to his unfortunate family history, ironically became the very cause of the empire’s downfall—the one he’d devoted his life to protecting.
Whether due to poor upbringing from his mother or not, he’d clung to absolute monarchy his whole life, depended solely on the German Empire diplomatically, and showed zero interest in army, economy, or industrial growth while other nations grew strong.
Even now, with the Bosnian crisis causing massive economic and political damage to Austria-Hungary, he was blindly pushing annexation anyway. That said it all.
He even despised his nephew and heir, Franz Ferdinand, for marrying a “lesser” woman, snubbing and checking him even as Franz Ferdinand scurried about trying to prevent the empire’s fracture.
‘No wonder Austria-Hungary collapsed just two years after Franz Joseph I died.’
Of course, the empire’s dissolution stemmed mainly from defeat in World War I.
But that war itself was as good as caused by Franz Joseph’s ambition to swallow Serbia whole. It was all on him.
And as a result of all these blunders, the Habsburg dynasty he’d guarded his entire life lost all its past glory and fell into total ruin.
‘Sigh... Why are all the monarchs I meet such a mess?’
I sighed and shook my head.
It suddenly made perfect sense why most European monarchies vanished around the World Wars.
Among all the rulers I’d met so far, the only one remotely worthy of being called a wise king was Edward VII—and even that was a stretch.
Edward VII had his own skeletons in his private life, after all.
‘Still, giving up and heading back to Berlin now feels wrong. I should try persuading him a few more times.’
From the pigheadedness I saw today, it didn’t look promising.
Oh well, no helping it.
I hadn’t come with sky-high expectations anyway.
I just never imagined the emperor would ask about my parents.
“Baron, shall we head back to the hotel now?”
“No. I’ll take a short walk nearby first.”
“Good call. You look like you could use some time to cool off.”
I excused myself from Ambassador Czirsky, who nodded understandingly, and headed to the park in front of Schönbrunn Palace.
The fresh air was clearing my jumbled head, if only a little.
“Oh right, I promised Luise I’d pick up souvenirs.”
I’d completely forgotten because of Franz Joseph.
As I pondered what to get, my eyes caught an artist selling postcards in the park.
Hm, Luise doesn’t care much for flashy gifts. Maybe something like that would suit her better?
“Hello. Mind if I take a look at your postcards?”
“Ah, a student from the East? Go ahead, browse away. All handmade by me.”
I nodded at the artist’s words and examined the postcards.
They were impressively detailed—clearly the work of a skilled painter.
‘This guy looks familiar, though.’
Had we bumped into each other somewhere?
Or maybe he was one of those figures who’d make history.
“If you don’t mind, what’s your name?”
“Uh... Adolf Hitler?”
Shit, why the hell is this guy here?
What are the odds of strolling through a park, stopping for postcards, and running into Adolf Hitler—the worst war criminal in human history, the mustache Führer?
Even hitting the lottery jackpot would be more likely.
“Something wrong?”
“Oh, nothing. Thought you were someone I know.”
I brushed it off with a smile to the tilting-headed young Hitler, my rage at Franz Joseph already forgotten. Now my gut was burning for an entirely different reason.
Adolf Hitler.
That name carried too much infamy to just stand by.
‘What the hell do I do with this guy?’
My first instinct was to kill him quietly, but I shook it off.
It’d be pointless.
As long as I was around and the German Empire didn’t lose World War I like in the original history, there was virtually no chance of Hitler and the Nazis seizing power.
Adolf Hitler was a monster born from the blood of Versailles and the Great Depression.
And even his rise was thanks to idiots like Hindenburg and the Weimar bigwigs.
‘Besides, the consensus is World War II would’ve happened even without Hitler.’
Honestly, if Germany fell that far, what was I even doing here?
‘And I’ve got no use for him anyway!’
What could I possibly do with this guy? Propaganda? I’d already conquered mass media with radio.
‘If I need a mouthpiece, I’ll use Goebbels with his PhD.’
Leaving him be felt wrong, but acting felt iffy too.
Young street artist Hitler was the ultimate hot potato.
‘Yeah, that’s probably the best play.’
“Sir?”
“Ah, sorry. They’re all so beautiful, I can’t decide. Did you go to art school?”
“Me? Haha, no. They said my style didn’t match what the academy wanted.”
“That’s a shame. You’re really talented.”
Hitler’s skill was genuinely enough to make a living as a painter.
It just didn’t align with entrance exam art.
That’s why the academy director suggested architecture instead—but he didn’t know our Adolf only had a middle school education.
“Business good?”
“Decent. But I’m thinking of moving on. Germany’s booming way more than Austria these days. Save up enough, and I’ll head there.”
“I see. When you do, apply to the Berlin University of the Arts. A friend studying there says the professors love this style lately.”
“Really?”
Hitler perked up, still hung up on art school.
Pure bullshit, of course.
How would I know what Berlin’s profs like?
But I had pull to get him in, and stuffing him in art school to watch what happens beat leaving him loose.
Everyone wonders, right?
What if Hitler actually went to art school?
Call it surveillance—or an experiment.
And if our mustached friend later pokes into politics?
Well, I’d deal with it then.
“Take care, good luck with sales.”
“Thanks, safe travels.”
Vienna street artist Adolf Hitler waved goodbye with a smile to the Eastern student who’d bought a stack of postcards, lost in thought.
Berlin University of the Arts.
Not quite Paris, the art capital, but Germany’s top art school.
Getting in would be a dream come true.
“Austria was a mistake. My art’ll sell in Germany.”
Hitler jumped to conclusions and silently thanked the helpful Eastern student.
“Speaking of, that Hans von Choi from the East— the boy who saved the Kaiser—is making waves in Germany too.”
Maybe he was the Übermensch Nietzsche spoke of.
Not racially Germanic, sure, but his feats earned honorary Aryan status, Hitler mused.
Thus, Hitler took an interest in Hans (unwanted, surely) and dreamed of leaving Vienna for the German Empire.
After selling more postcards for travel money, that is.
“Hurry up, Koba. How’d you rob banks with that running?”
“Huff... huff... Shut it, Comrade Trotsky.”
Meanwhile, in a café mere meters from Hitler’s stand, two other figures who’d leave massive marks on world history chatted.
Lev Davidovich Trotsky, who’d fled Siberian exile and defected to Vienna a year ago, and the Georgian revolutionary Ioseb Besarionis dze Jughashvili.
Hitler’s soul rival and future steel secretary-general: Iosif Vissarionovich Stalin.
Originally, Stalin should’ve been jailed in Baku by Russian authorities this era, but with Stolypin—the original-history enthusiast for jailing revolutionaries—rising early, history shifted. This world’s Stalin had fled persecution like Trotsky and holed up in Vienna.
Hans would’ve been floored if he knew: mustache showdown today?
“Boss, two Café Choi please.”
“Damn it, why order that swill without asking? I hate the stuff!”
“’Cause I ordered first. Tough, should’ve spoken up.”
Trotsky’s snark made Jughashvili feel an ice pick craving like never before.
But he couldn’t kill a comrade over coffee, so he summoned superhuman patience.
“Heard the guy behind Café Choi is in Vienna. Hans von Choi, the Kaiser-saver.”
“Probably why Austria-Hungary annexed Bosnia-Herzegovina lately. Bismarck’s heir and all.”
Jughashvili sneered, but it wasn’t wrong.
Germany was Austria-Hungary’s ally, and the annexation violated Bismarck’s Berlin Treaty.
Hans coming for damage control made sense.
“Heh, Bismarck once said: Modern Europe’s a powder keg, leaders smoking atop the arsenal. One spark’ll ignite a war to swallow us all.”
“And the cursed Balkan idiocy’ll light it. Think this’ll spark war between imperialists?”
Trotsky shook his head with an enigmatic smile at Jughashvili’s question.
“Not yet. But I suspect this is the fuse.”
It was the age of nationalism.
And Serbia, with stakes in Bosnia-Herzegovina, was infamous for its extremism.
Trouble was plenty possible.
And that’d be the chance for Trotsky’s world revolution.
“Revolution sweeps Europe, Koba. Empires and kingdoms’ll crumble, red worker flags rising from the ruins.”
Trotsky declared dramatically, arms wide like a thespian.
Jughashvili just grimaced: here we go again.