Chapter 133
Chapter 133
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Translator: Ace
Chapter: 133
Chapter Title: Ongoing Crisis (5)
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“To think an ungrateful traitor like you would have the audacity to show up here. I truly picked the wrong man to trust!”
“I won’t deny that I’m a traitor, but at least I don’t want to hear it from you.”
Late 1909, in German Kiautschou.
As soon as Yuan Shikai and Duan Qirui, representing the Qing Dynasty and the Republic of China respectively, locked eyes in the negotiation hall arranged by the mediating great powers, they bared their teeth and growled at each other. Arthur von Rex, the German consul in Qingdao who had provided the venue, let out a deep sigh.
Muttering that things wouldn’t go smoothly with these two looking like wolves fighting over rotten meat was par for the course.
‘All because of that young Hans von Choi, I’ve ended up with this headache.’
Of course, Rex knew deep down that this was the best option available.
“Now, now, save the red faces for later and take your seats first. We can’t even get the talks started like this.”
Sir John Newell Jordan, the British consul in Qingdao—who would later represent Britain at the Washington Naval Treaty—and the other diplomats from the five great powers mediating alongside Rex spoke sternly. Only then did Duan Qirui and Yuan Shikai halt their power struggle and sit down.
Rex, the French consul Pierre Jacquin de Margerie, the Russian consul Ivan Yakovlevich Korostovets, and the American consul William Woodville Rockhill followed suit, taking their prepared seats.
“First off, we can assume both sides agree to the recommendations sent by our five nations, including the German Empire, to the Qing government and the Republic of China.”
“That’s correct.”
“Of course.”
Rex emphasized the point as if he had to make absolutely sure, and Duan Qirui—with his calm expression—and Yuan Shikai answered almost in unison.
Duan showed no change in expression, but Yuan looked like he was grudgingly accepting it, his face ashen.
And small wonder. Until Duan had stabbed him in the back, Yuan had been one step away from seizing all of China in his grasp.
He could hardly be pleased with the great powers’ clear-cut verdict to just split the country in half without a fight.
He’d betrayed the emperor yet again to ascend to the throne of his dreams and abandoned the dynasty he’d served his whole life, only to end up with half of China.
What nonsense was this—reviving the Jin Dynasty and Southern Song in the 20th century?
Naturally, Yuan wanted nothing more than to drop dead right there on the spot from Duan’s treachery shattering his ambitions before his eyes.
The glaring eyes of the foreign consuls were all that kept him from acting on it.
“To think our land is now to be halved at the hands of the foreigners. How can I ever face our ancestors after death?!”
But Yuan wasn’t the only one outraged by what was styled as “recommendations” but read as “threats” from the great powers.
Prince Chun, who had received the proposal from Duan, couldn’t contain his fury at the idea of handing southern China over to the rebels.
Intellectually, he knew there was no choice, but humans don’t run on logic and reason alone.
And to top it off, the one who’d proposed splitting China was none other than that damn Hans von Choi again.
Unable to suppress his boiling rage, Prince Chun ended up smashing every piece of porcelain in his residence.
Meanwhile, Duan Qirui—the new power behind the Qing—breathed a sigh of relief. He’d achieved his goal of buying time to plot for the future by clinging to the Qing’s lifeline.
The revolutionaries like Sun Yat-sen felt the same.
Regretful they hadn’t toppled the Qing, they were still quietly pleased to have the great powers recognize the Republic of China. They accepted the recommendations and planned to bide their time.
It was half a victory, but the revolution had succeeded all the same. They didn’t want to squander their newborn republic by rejecting the powers and earning their ire.
They still remembered all too well how the great powers had trampled China nine years earlier during the Boxer Rebellion.
Of course, Yuan vented his frustration for a while, grumbling that weak scholars like these were impossible to work with. But even he had no desire to stand against the powers’ armies, so he tearfully shifted his goal from ruler of China to ruler of its south.
Now all that remained was deciding how the Qing and Republic would split the country—and that was what Duan and Yuan had to hash out here today.
“Let’s neatly draw the border along the Yangtze.”
“Don’t make me laugh! With the Republic backed from Sichuan to Shandong, you think that’s even feasible?!”
And as territorial negotiations always went, the real haggling began, and Duan and Yuan immediately raised their voices.
Like children squabbling over toys, they clashed fiercely to grab as much land as possible, dragging the talks out longer and longer.
If the consuls hadn’t been watching them with bored, impatient eyes as if to say “wrap it up,” they might have come to blows and shown the world the mainlanders’ spirit.
“Fine. We’ll concede Anhui. But Shandong goes to the Qing.”
“Then Hubei’s ours.”
“……Very well.”
Hours later, Yuan Shikai and Duan Qirui miraculously reached an agreement, putting an end to the tedious verbal sparring.
Rex, who had dozed off while watching, snapped awake and spoke up.
“Yawn. So, with this, we can consider the border adjustments settled?”
“Tch, yes.”
“Good. Then let’s draw up the treaty right away.”
Rex declared.
“Per the treaty, the Qing and Republic of China will use Sichuan, Hubei, Anhui, and Jiangsu as the boundary: everything north goes to the Qing, south to the Republic. Do both sides agree?”
“We agree.”
“And you both agree to a five-year truce following the treaty’s signing?”
“Agreed.”
“Excellent. With this, we’ve restored peace to China once more.”
Rex clapped his hands in declaration, and Sir Jordan and the other diplomats looked relieved, as if a nagging toothache had finally been pulled.
But Duan and Yuan stood there glaring at each other, refusing even a handshake.
It looked like the issue was tied up for now, but both men knew better.
This peace wouldn’t last.
And when it shattered, the Qing and Republic would clash once more to seize heaven’s mandate over the continent.
Clack—clack—
“Lord Ito, we’ll arrive in Shenyang shortly.”
“I hope the Qing officials are waiting. I don’t much like being kept hanging.”
After the Qing and Republic signed the peace treaty in Kiautschou, dividing China into a Jin-Song split.
The Western powers turned their gaze away from China back to their own pressing issues. But Ito Hirobumi, who had reclaimed power’s center after the Russo-Japanese War, saw the division as opportunity and moved Japan to extend its reach into the continent once more.
It was regrettable they hadn’t squeezed in among the powers at the Kiautschou talks to make their voice heard. Still, it was too early to abandon China’s interests entirely.
With the truce in place, both Qing and Republic were building strength for the coming battle for heaven’s mandate. Ito planned to sell arms to both sides, reaping money and concessions in return.
“That fool Yamagata thinks war solves everything. That’s why he failed.”
But Ito himself was different.
He was confident he could gain everything Yamagata wanted without spilling a drop of blood.
This was ‘diplomacy’—Ito Hirobumi’s way. It was the difference between him and Yamagata Aritomo, who had lost power to public backlash and the Meiji Emperor’s pressure, now reduced to watching his grandchildren play at home.
“Getting old, eh? My body’s not what it used to be. If this Qing deal goes well, I’ll take leave and rest up proper.”
Japan’s puppetization of Korea was progressing smoothly too, ever since they’d “transferred” diplomatic rights recently. No worries there.
The Korean emperor had thrown a minor fit, sure—but confined to the palace without stepping foot outside, he was no concern.
‘No, the army brass worry me more than Korea.’
After reclaiming power post-Russo-Japanese War, Ito had tried excluding the military from politics, signaling he wouldn’t tolerate their meddling anymore.
As a result, he was now public enemy number one to both army and navy, who sought any chance to drag him down by any means.
Fools.
Dangerous ones.
Not now, perhaps, but left unchecked, they’d eventually run wild and ruin Japan.
Just as in the Russo-Japanese War.
‘Can’t let that happen.’
The shogunate era was long over.
For the future, Ito vowed to strengthen civilian control before he died, ensuring soldiers could never meddle in politics again.
Screeech—hiss~!
“Ah, looks like we’ve arrived.”
Lost in those thoughts, Ito realized the train had reached its destination.
He exited slowly with his entourage.
But he didn’t know.
A young independence activist from Hwanghae Province—who had taken his life in the original history—was waiting in the same spot to end him once more.
Click—
“Lord Ito, over here!”
One of the Japanese come to greet him called out.
As Ito turned, raising a hand in greeting, a gunshot rang out.
Bang—!
“Gah!”
“Lord Ito?!”
“Kyaaah!”
One bullet cleanly pierced Ito Hirobumi’s forehead.
He collapsed dead on the station platform without a final word. His entourage and the Japanese troops there to guard him frantically searched amid the screams, heads swiveling wildly for the assassin.
But the man who had severed Ito’s lifeline, An Jung-geun, was nowhere to be seen.
He stood leisurely atop a distant building, scoped rifle in hand.
“……Korea hooray.”
An Jung-geun murmured softly, then vanished into the darkness before the Japanese troops—trained by a retired old German Jaeger instructor—could swarm in, just as he’d been taught.
Unlike him, though, Ito Hirobumi couldn’t escape his fate this time either.
“So Ito Hirobumi’s finally dead.”
“Who’s that?”
Sipping my coffee while reading the morning paper, I couldn’t help but chuckle at the news of Ito getting sniped by An Jung-geun the physician-turned-assassin. Luise, sitting beside me, tilted her head.
“Japanese politician. Nothing for you to worry about.”
“Oh?”
In truth, Ito’s assassination wasn’t a huge international incident in either the original history or this world.
Europeans saw royalty getting offed by anarchists all the time. The world flipping out over one old Japanese pol would be the real oddity.
“Man, this year’s been noisy all around.”
“Tell me about it.”
“Here’s hoping for some real peace from now on—no more conflicts or revolutions.”
I gave Luise’s hopeful words a wry smile and gently stroked her hair.
But unlike Princess Viktoria Luise’s wish, Europe’s peace was sprinting tirelessly toward its end. The calendar had flipped from 1909 to 1910.
And with it, the world plunged into the mad 1910s, drenched in the fires of war.