Chapter 144
Chapter 144
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Translator: Ace
Chapter: 144
Chapter Title: The Road to War (5)
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“Kyaaahhh──!”
September 14, 1911.
Amid screams erupting from all directions, Pyotr Stolypin struggled to open his eyes.
“Cough… cough… So this is how it ends.”
Stolypin cursed the god who had chosen to take his life in such a manner, even as a sense of relief washed over him—no more suffering in this chaotic world.
He wasn’t afraid of death.
Honestly, he had long known his end wouldn’t be peaceful.
‘It’s just that it’s so heartbreaking to see the reforms I pushed through, even sacrificing the premiership like Alexander II, go down the drain once again.’
Stolypin murmured those words inwardly, his life flashing before his eyes like a montage.
On March 4, 1911, Russia’s parliament, the Duma, descended into chaos.
The land reform bill that Stolypin had poured his heart into since becoming prime minister was ultimately rejected by conservative noble deputies—his political rivals.
“What kind of nonsense is this?! If you wanted to block the bill, stand at the podium and oppose it honorably instead of pulling this dirty backroom trickery?!”
Exploding in rage, Stolypin unleashed a torrent of furious invective, as if he could no longer hold back.
The bill’s defeat was, in fact, a political conspiracy orchestrated by Pyotr Nikolayevich Durnovo—the leader of the conservative nobles opposing him—with the Tsar’s tacit approval.
“No. No. I can’t give up here.”
Yet even after witnessing the land reform bill crumble before his eyes, Stolypin refused to abandon it.
As reformist deputies who had pinned their hopes on the bill traded barbs and blows with the triumphant conservatives, turning the Duma into a madhouse, he racked his brain for a way forward.
And the next morning.
Stolypin went to the Winter Palace and issued an ultimatum to Nicholas II.
He would resign if the Tsar dissolved the Duma for three days and passed the bill.
This exploited Article 87 of the Russian Empire’s laws, which allowed the Tsar to enact specific legislation while the Duma was in recess.
Of course, the article was intended for emergencies during elections or holidays—not for this.
Thus, Stolypin’s move was a loophole that disregarded the Duma’s authority, leaving the Tsar utterly perplexed, as he hadn’t expected him to go this far.
“My son, listen to Stolypin. If you have even a shred of gratitude for his devotion thus far.”
But Stolypin’s resolve to pass the bill was unyielding, and with even Dowager Empress Alexandra backing his decision, Nicholas II ultimately accepted the ultimatum.
In doing so, Stolypin preserved the bill despite the conservative nobles’ outrage that it was outrageous—but lost his position as prime minister.
Yet even by September, he still held the title.
Nicholas II’s indecisiveness meant he hadn’t appointed a successor after half a year.
But that wouldn’t last much longer.
‘Once my successor is named and I officially resign, I’ll retreat to my estate with my family for a while.’
Still, he would return.
He couldn’t let the reforms of the Russian Empire halt here.
“Welcome, Prime Minister Stolypin.”
“Your Highness Olga. Your Highness Tatiana.”
As Stolypin rekindled his zeal for reform, Grand Duchess Olga and Grand Duchess Tatiana—the Tsar’s eldest and second daughters—greeted him warmly.
Today, Stolypin was attending a performance of Pushkin’s The Tale of Tsar Saltan at the Kyiv Opera House (later the Ukrainian National Opera) with Nicholas II and his daughters.
He had submitted his resignation, but he was still prime minister.
The Okhrana had warned of an assassination plot and advised against it.
But Stolypin ignored them.
At this point, worrying about a possible assassin was pointless; he had survived countless attempts already.
“Die, Stolypin!!”
Bang! Bang!
“Gah?!”
“Kyaaahhh!!!”
And Stolypin’s indifference to his safety finally caught up with him in the form of two bullets aimed his way.
As the anarchist Dmitry Grigoryevich Bogrov who attempted the assassination was subdued by pale-faced guards, Stolypin collapsed in a pool of blood. The Tsar’s daughters nearby screamed and fainted as well.
“Huff… huff…”
“Stolypin!”
Gasping for breath, Stolypin turned his pallid gaze toward Nicholas II approaching him.
Ah, the pitiful Tsar, oblivious even to the moth flying into the flame that he himself was.
If only you had trusted me.
Gazing at the distraught Nicholas II with pity, Stolypin murmured softly.
“I’m glad to die for the Tsar…”
And Russia’s last great statesman never opened his eyes again.
Stolypin was dead.
Just as in original history.
‘I was certain he’d die, but honestly, I was a bit nervous.’
If history twisted again and he survived by a hair, I’d have to rethink my entire plan from scratch.
The Russian Empire with Stolypin and without him were worlds apart.
Of course, that’s hypothetical—and given the assassination attempt, the enemies he’d made were so numerous that even if he survived this one, another would’ve come soon enough.
Besides, considering he was on the verge of resigning and Nicholas II saw him as little more than a nag, reinstatement as prime minister would’ve been unlikely anyway.
‘The dead stay dead, and the living must press on.’
Above all, I had no time to dwell on Stolypin’s death.
Because just days later, on September 29.
The Kingdom of Italy declared war on the Ottoman Empire and invaded Ottoman Libya.
The Italo-Turkish War of 1911 had begun.
And the German Empire was left clutching its neck in shock at Italy’s rash action.
These damn pasta-munchers had started a war without so much as a word to us—Germany and Austria-Hungary—their still-allied nations.
“If Italy had any sense, they wouldn’t have kept us in the dark.”
The Ottoman Empire was, as everyone knew, friendly toward Germany.
So Italy had just attacked an ally’s friend.
Italy’s greed for Libya wasn’t new, so it might’ve just played out as in original history. But to me, it looked like Italy was done tiptoeing around Germany.
“In the end, Italy’s heart has left the Triple Alliance.”
“Your Excellency, the Ottomans are pleading with us to do something about Italy. How should we respond?”
“Sigh. For now, we’ll try mediating between Rome and Constantinople. Though personally, I doubt it’ll do much good.”
If we picked a side outright, maybe—but with Italy still in the Triple Alliance, backing the Ottomans fully felt off, and supporting Italy was awkward too.
Would Italy, eyes glazed over Libya, even listen if we told them not to fight?
I shook my head.
In original history, Italy ignored pleas from Germany and Austria-Hungary to end it peacefully.
If Genoa listened and said, “Oh, really? Guess we’ll stop the war!” I’d eat my hat.
More than the Italo-Ottoman tussle over Libya, I worried about the other war the Italo-Turkish War would spark.
‘News from Greece’s Venizelos has already arrived.’
The Ottoman crisis from Italy’s Libyan invasion.
And the vultures circling to bite the weakened Ottomans.
The Balkans were stirring.
January 1912, Belgrade, the capital of Serbia.
“Welcome, Prime Minister Venizelos.”
Venizelos slightly bowed in greeting to the warm reception from Serbia’s Prime Minister, Milovan Milovanović.
Looking around, Montenegro’s Prime Minister Lazar Tomanović and Bulgaria’s Prime Minister Ivan Evstratiyev Geshov had already arrived.
“Now that the key players are all here, let’s get down to serious business.”
As Venizelos took his seat, Milovanović clapped and broached the topic.
“You all know the Ottoman Empire is in a total mess fighting Italy.”
Contrary to expectations (except mine), Italy wasn’t steamrolling the “sick man of Europe” like in Ethiopia.
Italy’s forces had landed in Libya in October last year, seized coastal cities like Tripoli with naval support—but couldn’t push inland against the Ottomans.
No surprise; an Italy beaten by Ethiopia wouldn’t easily topple the Ottomans, who were stronger despite their woes.
Hearing how Arab cavalry nearly wiped out the Italian landing force… Venizelos could only chuckle.
But for these four prime ministers, Italy’s struggles weren’t crucial—regrettable, but irrelevant.
What mattered was the Ottomans’ chaos from the unexpected war.
“The time has come at last. To show the Ottoman Empire—the ones who soaked this land in our ancestors’ blood and trampled our faith and nation—the might of our own.”
“Montenegro will stand with brother Serbia, as always.”
“Bulgaria stands ready. When the moment arrives, our 600,000-strong army will march on the Ottoman Empire.”
As if on cue, Tomanović and Geshov declared with a ferocious air, ready to invade the Ottomans then and there.
Venizelos, too, smirked in agreement with crushing the Ottomans.
No—he’d been waiting for this day.
“Greece will of course join.”
“Haha, I knew you’d say that, Prime Minister Venizelos. Especially with Greece boasting the strongest navy among us four.”
Milovanović, Tomanović, Geshov, and Venizelos clasped hands and laughed amiably.
Yet inwardly, each sneered coldly.
‘Trust these bastards? I’d sooner bow to Austria-Hungary. You lot can play meat shields drawing Ottoman eyes while Serbia sweeps to victory.’
‘Time to seize Edirne and Constantinople, rebuild Greater Bulgaria! Russia might bitch, but they’re not our daddy.’
‘I can already see them scheming. As dear Hans von Choi said, once we beat the Ottomans, division is inevitable. And Greece will exploit it to the hilt.’
The room reeked of raw selfishness and ambition.
If Russia—the puppeteer behind the Balkan League—knew, they’d be furious. But none showed it outwardly, raising champagne glasses with bright smiles.
“To the glory of the Balkan League.”
“Cheers!”
Thus, the Balkan League was born—a little ahead of schedule.
But no one believed it would last forever.