The Invasion of Europe
Gonzalo of Spain was twenty-nine — remarkably young to have earned a seat on the Empire's Council of Finance.
True, his father's name had opened doors for him, but he was confident enough to believe his own talents had done the rest.
"So what the honorable councilors are saying is that we should go to war."
"Now, it's not quite that simple—"
"What, do you expect us to lose!?"
For months now, the council had gone round and round, unable to commit to any opinion at all. One day a session of the national council, the next a session of the finance council, another day a long audience with the Secretary of State. And when Gonzalo actually listened to what people had to say, one sentiment dominated them all: nobody wanted a war, and nobody wanted to spend money on one either.
"But they're the ones coming to us, gentlemen. This isn't something that goes away just because we keep avoiding it."
"Hmm…."
"…."
Word had it that Portugal's coastal fleet had been all but annihilated — by a single ship, no less. A strange vessel with no sails, belching black smoke. There were too many witnesses to dismiss it as idle rumor.
"Yes, our Empire's navy is strong. No doubt we could sink one of their ships. And then what, exactly? What do you propose to do afterward?"
Under the weight of his charismatic, biting tone, no one could find the words to answer.
"Half our fleet would be gone, wouldn't it? Then how would you check the Ottoman fleet? What about our overseas colonies?"
They might win — but it was everything after the victory that was the problem. Spain held the maritime supremacy of the Mediterranean, and the neighboring powers would hardly leave such a weakened rival alone.
"The moment our strength falters, Portugal will pounce. What would you do about that?"
"Ahem…."
"Ha…."
And so the matter had finally landed on the finance council's desk, with a single solution on the table: settle it with reparations.
"Then we are agreed that this will be resolved by payment of reparations?"
"…."
"…."
No one answered. Speak up, and if things went wrong, you'd share the blame — that, at least, everyone understood. Only when Gonzalo slammed his hand down on the desk did the remaining councilors grudgingly murmur their assent.
"The decision is made, then?"
"F-fine."
"Good."
And so Spain resolved the matter of the reparations by dispatching Gonzalo to Portugal — where, it was said, a king who had come from Daehan was residing at the harbor.
"Whoa…."
The exclamation burst from his lips the moment he stepped off the ship and set foot in the Portuguese harbor. What on earth had they done to this port? Even the roads were paved with fitted stone, packed down with something into a surface smoother than polished marble — the whole city tidier and more beautiful than the capital itself.
"Good heavens…."
And at the salon where he was escorted, his astonishment only deepened. Expecting a middle-aged man — this was a king, after all — he was instead greeted by a breathtakingly beautiful woman.
In an instant, every deliberation and every decision of the council evaporated from his mind.
"Here, this is tea. Try it."
Was this what celestial music sounded like? It was the first time he realized a voice could be beautiful in itself. She spoke down to him without honorifics, yet there was such grace in it that Gonzalo found himself accepting it as perfectly natural.
"Good grief — what is this!"
And the yokan? The chocolate? One bite and a sweetness melted across his tongue like snow. This, surely, was the food of heaven.
'Yes. This place is paradise itself. Heaven on Earth!'
For a fleeting moment, the impious thought crossed his mind that Daehan might not be an earthly kingdom at all.
'No! Stop it! This could be the devil's temptation!'
He tried to change his mind — but then she asked, smiling,
"Is it good?"
His heart had melted at that smile long, long ago.
And above all — what she wanted from him was not money.
"And you truly don't want war, do you?"
At that single remark, a chill ran down his spine.
'Ah. So that's what this means — stay off their land.'
She waived the reparations entirely, then loaded his ship to the brim with a tea set precious enough to rival gold, along with the tea itself and snacks besides. By the end of it all, Gonzalo had concluded that Spain had won.
'I don't know exactly what this 13th parallel is, but it just means don't come any further north than the land we already hold, right?'
It was common knowledge that the farther north you went, the colder it got. And the Spanish much preferred warm southern soil anyway.
So Gonzalo hurried home, already looking forward to meeting her once more — never once imagining that the 13th parallel would keep Spain from stepping a single foot onto the mainland of South America.
"Magnificent! Simply magnificent!"
"The next Council President, without a doubt!"
"Ha ha. Please, it was hardly anything worth this fuss."
Spain was in an uproar. Not a single coin had been spent — and instead, the other side had bestowed gifts so lavish they could almost be mistaken for tribute.
"Oh! So this is Daehan tea!"
"I hear it's an indulgence reserved for the nobility over there."
"Good Lord! And what's this? It's overwhelmingly sweet!"
Gonzalo gathered the nobles and regaled them with his embellished account of the negotiations, and they descended upon the unwrapped bundles of gifts like vultures.
Sugar was an exceedingly precious commodity in Europe, so chocolate — absolutely drowning in it — was an instant sensation. The Spanish took to eating the yokan alongside their tea and nibbling the chocolate whenever the mood struck.
'Heh heh heh. This is going to work beautifully.'
Just as the plan from on high intended, he began spreading tea culture — and above all, chocolate — across Europe. For a continent with an incurable sweet tooth, it was nothing short of a fatal blow.
And then, in the council chamber:
"So what they want is simply that we go no further north?"
"That is correct."
"Eh? Why should we be the ones blocking our own road?"
Naturally, he'd pressed the point.
"They say the land is already theirs. If you gentlemen wish for war, I will follow your will. But I must inform the council that no fewer than fifty ships — each twice the size of our warships — are already anchored at the Portuguese harbor."
There was a small misunderstanding in this. Daehan did not possess a single vessel built for actual combat. Every last one was a transport ship. They simply won fights because of their sheer tonnage and superior weaponry — proper warships, they were not. Hadn't even the Whale Shark, the first ironclad, been a freighter?
"Twice the size?"
"Fifty of them?"
"If that's just what's at anchor, how many do they have in their entire fleet!?"
Little misunderstandings piled atop little misunderstandings. And then:
"Besides, do we actually need land in the north? There's plenty of room in the south."
"True. That's the important thing, isn't it?"
"Ah!"
Mediterranean folk who had never lived anywhere cold recoiled from northern land on pure instinct.
"Then let the treaty be concluded on the boundary of the 13th parallel — neither side crossing above it."
"Agreed."
"That sounds reasonable."
Having won over the councilors, Gonzalo now went to see the King. He couldn't help but be nervous — a man who could take his head with the flick of a finger.
"Your Majesty. Your servant Gonzalo begs an audience."
"Raise your head."
"I have come to report on my mission to Daehan."
He told the King everything — how in exchange for not encroaching on Daehan's territory, the reparations had been waived, and gifts had even been presented to them. But the King's expression did not soften.
"I am not pleased. What is our Empire lacking, that it must bow its head?"
He'd been delighted enough with the teacups, the tea leaves, the snacks — was none of that enough?
"If we win the war, all of it becomes ours, does it not?"
"Your Majesty, our navy is strong, but there are too many neighbors who envy us. I beg you to consider that."
Gonzalo felt a creeping unease that things were not going to go well. The King had surely heard the rumors of how dangerous these people were — so why this attitude…?
"Hmm? Neighbors?"
"Yes. The moment our fleet leaves its stations, the Ottomans will surge west, and can you believe Portugal would simply sit still?"
King Ferdinand II of Spain pondered this for a long moment.
"I heard Portugal lost a great many warships?"
"Yes. Exactly as you say — one ship wiped out their entire coastal fleet. But that was only the coastal force. They have many times that number of ships deployed overseas."
"Hmm…."
Of course, Portugal — for the same reasons as Spain — could hardly recall every ship either, but it was true that they retained considerable reserves.
"I am not pleased!"
Before the monarch, whose scowl was now deepening by the minute, one more thing suddenly came back to Gonzalo.
"Ah! And — it seems we can buy gunpowder through them."
"What? Gunpowder?"
That cursed gunpowder was never enough, no matter how much they made. If only there were a mine somewhere for it — but there was nothing of the kind, and all of Europe and the Middle East alike suffered from chronic gunpowder shortage.
"What do they charge!"
"They said bring gold, and they'll sell as much as we want."
"…What?"
A sudden cold sweat ran down the back of Ferdinand II's neck. They would sell gunpowder in any quantity. Which meant they had that much of it — which meant their military power was on that scale.
'Does that mean… if we had gone to war, we might have lost, run out of powder as we were?'
Gooseflesh crawled up his arms. It was only when the sweat had trickled down and soaked his spine that he came back to himself.
'Wait. Does this actually cost us anything right now?'
The treaty, after all, only said: do not encroach on their territory.
"For now, we'll sign the treaty. And we'll watch them."
"Yes, Your Majesty."
A treaty was never absolute, after all. You observed it carefully for a while, and the moment they looked weak enough — you could tear it up as you pleased.
That was how international treaties had always worked: the strong made the favorable terms, and the strong rewrote them to suit their taste.
And so Gonzalo sailed back to Portugal and put his name to the treaty, and the whole affair concluded quite peacefully.
With the treaty with Spain signed, the Portuguese concession zone formally began receiving guests. Its name: Pyeong-an Naru.
Word of mouth spread, and bit by bit it was becoming the finest resort city in all of Europe.
"That bulgogi — I tried making it at home, but it's just not the same. There has to be a secret to it, doesn't there?"
"You think I'd tell you if I knew it?"
"Ha. Fine, I suppose I'll just have to go back again."
"I could go for another whole fried chicken myself."
"Isn't that just deep-fried in oil?"
"But the taste is different somehow!"
Food pilgrims kept arriving in greater numbers.
"Pepper is this cheap?"
"There are so many spices I've never even seen before!"
Crowds came hunting for spices.
"I hear they're selling gunpowder too."
"Yes, sir. How much will you be needing?"
"As much as I can carry."
Even gunpowder buyers joined the throng.
And so an unexpected boom came to Lisbon. Daehan sold its goods, but it did not run any lodgings — so naturally, countless inns and boarding houses began springing up around the Daehan fortress. People would sleep in the establishments outside, then wander into the Daehan salon to sip tea and take their meals.
"What? The tax revenue is this high?"
"Yes, Your Majesty! It is truly fortunate we granted them the harbor!"
What these fools never considered was that their own trade volume had shrunk, and they were quietly bleeding losses year by year. From the state's point of view, the inn taxes were simply the more visible money right now.
The goods brought in from the colonies began going to domestic consumption instead.
"Ha ha ha, I feel marvelous! Bring me chocolate!"
And the sugar addicts of Europe — the Europeans — began buying chocolate by the mountain. It started appearing on the table even at mealtimes.
"They say if you melt this chocolate and eat it with bread, it's wonderfully delicious?"
It was a notion only possible because bread was the staple. With Daehan's potatoes or rice, it would never have caught on.
"Slurp. Ahh. This coffee pairs with it magnificently, doesn't it?"
"I prefer the tea, myself."
The Europeans smeared chocolate on their bread and washed their meals down with bitter coffee or bracing tea.
And then — the liquor.
"Good Lord! What is this fragrance coming off the drink?"
"It's medicinal wine, sir. Brewed with medicinal herbs — it is used as medicine as well."
"What was that!?"
Drinking alcohol and taking care of one's health at the same time?
"Yes! This is not liquor at all — it is a medicine, steeped in Daehan's mysterious herbs!"
The Europeans treated Daehan's medicinal wine like an indulgence, and began drinking without a shred of guilt. Hadn't strict Catholic doctrine forbidden drink all this while? To the people of Europe, it was a cultural shock. Brewing liquor from medicine? To their ears, it meant one thing: drink as much as you like.
More and more people reasoned that since it was medicine and not liquor, it violated no doctrine, and liquor consumption began to climb accordingly.
It was hardly an exaggeration to say that all the gold and silver of Europe was flowing, lock, stock, and barrel, into Pyeong-an Naru.