Chapter 98
Chapter 98
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Translator: Ace
Chapter: 98
Chapter Title: Portsmouth Treaty (2)
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"...Is this truly the best we could achieve?"
"I am deeply ashamed, Your Majesty. My own shortcomings have caused you great distress."
"I am not blaming you, Foreign Minister Komura. Had it not been for your efforts, we would have gained nothing at all."
Having signed the Portsmouth Treaty and returned to the homeland, Komura Jutarō knelt on the floor, prostrating himself before Emperor Meiji amid tears of gratitude.
Yet a faint smile of relief at having survived played across his face.
Of course, the other ministers attending the imperial council—including Prime Minister Katsura—wore no such expressions. They couldn't afford to smile.
The primary objectives of Lushun and Dalian had slipped away once more into the distance, and while Japan's influence on the Korean Peninsula had gained recognition from the great powers, it fell short of outright colonization.
In comparison, Sakhalin was frankly a land even Japan had once abandoned as too difficult to manage.
And even that was only half the island.
'And yet that bastard Komura gets praised by His Majesty for wrangling concessions from Russia.'
Not that it was much of a concession—more like Witte tossing scraps in an act of charity to end the war quickly.
Still, Katsura could hardly show his bitterness, no matter how sour it tasted.
"That said, I am profoundly disappointed in the incompetence of the Prime Minister and the military in this war."
"...I have no words to offer, even if I had ten mouths."
Emperor Meiji's sharp tone that followed forced Katsura to sweat profusely as he bowed his head low.
The generals of the Imperial General Headquarters, led by Yamagata Aritomo, bent their waists just as deeply—almost as if their foreheads might touch the floor.
Yet despite the Emperor's reprimand, they could not muster a single excuse.
The Japanese forces simply could not breach the Russian defensive lines fortified with trenches, barbed wire, and machine guns—the unholy trinity of trench warfare.
Infantry charges were cut down mercilessly by Russian machine guns, and even the somewhat effective artillery barrages faltered due to a shortage of shells, stemming from Japan's industrial limitations.
This was not due to any particular incompetence on the part of the Japanese army.
The Russians had failed to break through Japanese trenches in kind.
It was the trench warfare of 1914 in all its futility—both sides desperately trying every trick to pierce the enemy's lines.
But a decade earlier, in 1904, doctrine and weaponry simply offered no answers.
The Japanese public knew none of this, nor did they care to.
All they knew was that incompetent commanders had forced mothers and wives to bury their husbands and sons.
"Why are you still alive, you bastard?!"
"Give me back my son, you monster!"
"You don't deserve to call yourselves the Imperial Army!"
Returning from the brutal front lines, Japanese commanders were pelted with curses and filth.
Army of the Yalu commander Kuroki Tamemoto—branded with the shameful moniker "Slaughterer of Allied Forces at the Yalu"—could not endure the humiliation and committed seppuku.
The commander of the 12th Division, Lieutenant General Inoue Hikaru, hanged himself alongside his wife.
Even Emperor Meiji—who in the original history had dissuaded Nogi Maresuke from seppuku over Lushun by declaring it premature—said nothing as these deaths mounted.
To the Emperor and the people, they were non-citizens, traitors whose sins could not be washed away even in death.
In this atmosphere, the few who escaped unscathed were Nogi Maresuke—still holding out with guerrillas in the mountains—and a handful of generals stationed on the peninsula due to the persistent Korean righteouses, along with the Japanese Navy.
They had avoided the ruthless Japanese accountability by not being on the front lines or simply not belonging to the army.
"Admiral Makarov, if you'd permit it, I'd love to slap that grin off your face."
"Hahaha! I'll take the sentiment, Admiral Togo."
Meanwhile, with the return of Port Arthur decided, Admiral Stepan Makarov—now heading to Vladivostok with the Pacific Fleet—shared a hearty laugh and handshake with Togo Heihachirō, who had come to see him off now that the war was over.
Togo, who had been toyed with unilaterally by Makarov throughout the conflict without a proper fight, could only sigh in exasperation.
Makarov, however, beamed with pride at a job well done.
After all, nothing praised a soldier more than an enemy cursing them as worthless scum.
But as Togo and his fleet departed Lushun, and thoughts of Rozhestvensky abandoning ship amid the homeland's turmoil surfaced, even Makarov couldn't hide his unease.
"When I return to St. Petersburg, I should pass on my condolences to Zinovy."
Rozhestvensky was a scoundrel who'd slept with his wife, but as one of the few competent admirals in the Russian Imperial Navy, Makarov couldn't help regretting his resignation.
Thus, upon returning home, Makarov planned to petition the Tsar for his reinstatement.
Though whether Nicholas II—doubtless swamped with chaos—would even hear him was another matter.
Rumors from the homeland spoke of strikes and riots erupting across Russia, keeping authorities in a frenzy suppressing workers.
Makarov figured the Tsar would be pulling all-nighters to handle it.
But contrary to his assumptions, Nicholas II carried on as usual, heeding the Russian nobility's advice that "no people, no problems" by showering the "rabble" with unrelenting lead.
"Admiral, preparations for departure are complete."
"Then let us bid farewell to Port Arthur, gentlemen. It's a place we'll never see again, at least while we're still breathing."
Makarov shook off his gloomy thoughts with a booming voice.
Home awaited them.
"It's been a while, Minister Yi."
"Have you been well, Minister Min?"
"Minister? I'm just a mere chamberlain now."
With the Russo-Japanese War finally over, Yi Yong-ik—now free—returned to Korea and patted the self-deprecating Min Young-hwan on the shoulder.
He had already heard the news.
Their positions in the Imperial Court of the Korean Empire no longer existed.
"I hear Yi Wan-yong snatched the post of Minister of Taxation and Land while I was away?"
"Indeed. He was fawning over the Japanese like a lapdog."
Min Young-hwan, who had never cared much for Yi Wan-yong, replied with a sneer.
As Japan seized control of the Korean Empire, Yi Wan-yong attached himself faster than lightning—originally slated for Minister of Education, but history's shift landed him Minister of Taxation and Land instead.
And that was just the start.
The current Korean imperial court brimmed with pro-Japanese factions or those who had flipped to their side.
They moved solely at Japan's behest.
The Korean Empire had become a living corpse—a vegetable stripped of its own will, reduced to a puppet.
"In the end, this country has become Japan's protectorate."
Better than outright colonization, perhaps, but only a matter of time.
Japan had merely shelved annexation for now, lacking the capacity to swallow Korea whole at once.
They would absorb it bit by bit until it became their territory someday.
"I'm old enough that I won't live to see it, but others won't be so lucky."
"Minister..."
"What of His Majesty? Did he say nothing?"
At Yi Yong-ik's question, Min Young-hwan let out a heavy sigh.
That alone was answer enough.
"He said at least the ancestral shrines are preserved, so that's a relief."
"...That's it?"
"That's it."
Min Young-hwan's voice carried no trace of loyalty to the Emperor.
Yi Yong-ik merely shook his head in disappointment.
"In the end, we'll have to proceed with your plan, Minister."
"I've already submitted my resignation to His Majesty. We need to leave before the inner treasury funds are exposed—especially with Yi Wan-yong frantically hunting for the vanished money, pale as a ghost."
"Pfft! Quite right. I've already been ousted from office, so no need for a resignation from me."
Yi Yong-ik burst into unintended laughter, recalling Emperor Gojong's inner treasury funds—known as his secret slush fund—now safely slumbering in the Deutsche Bank of the German Empire.
Gojong had amassed vast secret funds while managing the imperial household's private assets, depositing them in foreign banks like the First Bank, Tukhwa Bank, and HSBC. The total amounted to at least 510,000 marks—roughly 25.1 billion won in modern value.
In the original history, most of these funds were seized by Japan starting with Yi Yong-ik's kidnapping, barely touched.
But now, Japan hadn't claimed a single penny.
Before the war erupted, Min Young-hwan and Yi Yong-ik had siphoned off Gojong's slush funds to safer havens.
With much of it under Yi Yong-ik's name, it was feasible.
The funds converged at Deutsche Bank's Shanghai branch before flowing to a Berlin account.
And that account belonged to none other than our protagonist, Hans Choi.
Money that would be stolen by Japan anyway if the Korean Empire fell.
Thus, Hans had persuaded Min Young-hwan to divert it, promising to use it for independence movements if calamity struck—and to manage it securely himself.
He pledged to return every cent if the Empire endured intact.
But as everyone knew, the odds favored collapse over survival.
And collapse it did.
"Looking back now, it's nothing short of a miracle."
At least the money wouldn't go to Japan.
Gojong would explode upon learning he'd been robbed with eyes wide open, but it was for the country.
The Emperor would understand someday.
"So, what's next?"
"As you know, most domestic righteouses have been crushed, but many still fight on."
"Even if it means opposing His Majesty and the court?"
"Especially because of it—more people sympathize with our cause."
As the Emperor and court became Japanese puppets, countless Koreans turned away in disillusionment.
Among them were many Imperial Army officers and soldiers, including Lieutenant Commander Park Seung-hwan, who shed his uniform to join Min Young-hwan.
"I plan to gather them, go abroad, build strength, and form an organization to reclaim our freedom."
"Splendid. Count me in."
"Of course."
"Speaking of which, where are Yi Hyang-sul and Yi Hoe-young? I don't see them."
Yi Yong-ik finally noticed the absence of the two men usually glued to Min Young-hwan's side.
Min Young-hwan replied with a meaningful smile.
"They're in America."
"America? Wait, don't tell me...?"
Yi Yong-ik's face twisted oddly at the mention.
"Minister Min, are you plotting a coup?"
"Not exactly, but the intent is similar enough."
"Heh..."
"An incompetent king can be dethroned—it's one of our Joseon traditions, rooted in our founding ideology, no?"
Joseon was born under Mencius's theories of righteous revolution, so it wasn't wrong—but Yi Yong-ik wondered if this was the right context.
Still, feeling his blood stir after so long, he grinned.
"Intriguing. Very well—I'll stand with you to the end."
The two turned their gazes toward the vast sea.
Japan's war was over.
Korea's war was just beginning.
Meanwhile, the Qing Dynasty—upon hearing of the Portsmouth Treaty—was far from calm.
Shocked, rather.
That Korea, their tributary state, had become Japan's puppet.
"Korea has inevitably fallen into Japan's grasp as a protectorate—what of Qing's face now?!"
Prince Chun lamented in his mansion upon receiving the news.
Ten years after defeat in the Sino-Japanese War, an old tributary had slipped into Japanese hands.
In ten more years, Japan would annex Korea; in twenty, plunge its filthy feet into China.
In the age of imperialism, protectorates were merely the prelude to colonial annexation—a logical fear for Prince Chun.
"And the Slavs are sending troops to northern Manchuria, claiming it as their own."
This news poured cold water on the Qing court's joy over the return of the Liaodong Peninsula.
Naturally, the Qing protested to the powers, begging them to rein in Russia—but silence was their reply.
Only then did the Qing court realize.
The powers had tacitly allowed Russia to take everything north of the Songhua River.
And that was that.
Qing lacked the means or will to stop it.
"If the Manchus lose Manchuria, can they still call themselves Manchu?"
Prince Chun asked himself bitterly.
The answer was no.
"No more. Qing must change."
This affair deepened Chinese intellectuals' loathing for the inept Qing court.
Revolutions that toppled Western nations like France were no longer mere foreign tales.
'And we haven't even avenged our humiliation against Germany...!'
Prince Chun still woke from nightmares, recalling that moment.
The arrogant gaze of the German Emperor looking down on him.
The sneering face of that vile Korean boy beside him.
Memory distorted by personal grudge, but it hardly mattered.
For revenge against the German Empire and that detestable Hans Choi, Prince Chun could not let Qing fall like this.
The old Prince Chun—who once sighed in relief at Qing's fall, finally unburdened of power—existed no more.
Only a vengeful soul remained, sworn to restore the Great Qing's glory.
Yet before the Portsmouth Treaty's ink could dry, fresh news from Europe struck Prince Chun anew.
He realized then.
How distant and treacherous the path to vengeance truly was.