The Cause of War (1)
"Ah, what a relief!"
Normally, political issues made me rack my brain in agony. When it came to diplomacy or war, the headaches were even worse. But it had been a long time since I felt this refreshed! Ah, how exhilarating, how clean. Now I finally understood why Great Britain traveled the globe acting like absolute bastards. The sheer thrill of it was immense.
Thanks to my spectacular sword dance, Serbia was left trapped between a rock and a hard place. They wanted to negotiate an armistice right this second, but there was absolutely no path forward for them. The moment anyone even whispered the word "truce," Apis would fly into a violent fit. On top of that, their domestic public opinion was ablaze, and they had zero justification to stop fighting. From Serbia's perspective, they had no choice but to drag this war out as dirtily as possible.
In any case, a long line of trenches had been carved across the Balkan Peninsula, much like the Western Front of World War I in my original history. A sluggish, grueling stalemate ensued across those muddy ditches. The only difference from the World War I of my past? Neither Greece nor Serbia was foolish enough to order any massive, suicidal infantry charges. After all, both sides desperately wanted to end this idiotic war that promised nothing but ruinous losses.
While the trench warfare dragged on, I could just sit back, hum a tune, and make a killing selling explosives, fertilizers, and airplanes.
Whew, 1911 is already coming to a close. A whole year flew by while dealing with all this nonsense in the Balkans.
Now, all that was left was to wait for Serbia to finally lose its patience and commit some reckless, provocative blunder. If they so much as stepped out of line, I would immediately march our armies straight into Belgrade. It was perfect.
No, actually, there was exactly one thing that wasn't perfect. I had a piece of writing that I had been secretly and diligently working on since the latter half of this year. I pulled out a thick stack of manuscripts. Never underestimate the writing prowess of an avid 21st-century web novel reader! I had poured my heart and soul into every single word.
To the Nobel Committee,
I hope this letter finds the esteemed members of the Nobel Committee in good health. The eventful year of 1911 is drawing to a close. Even the war in the Balkans has seen a decline in casualties, and peace is returning once more.
...Thus, the physiological and medical efficacy of penicillin has been completely proven.
...Ammonia, too, has surpassed the price competitiveness of Chilean saltpeter, saving all of humanity from the brink of famine.
Please understand that this is by no means a request for a Nobel Prize. Absolutely not! This is merely to ensure that the Nobel Committee, in its tireless service to humanity, takes these well-documented facts into... careful consideration.
Honestly, getting a Nobel Prize would be nice, but I didn't desperately need it. I was already practically a king in the Austro-Hungarian Empire. Seriously. But still, wasn't I an aspiring chemist in my past life? Of course, the grueling misery of grad school had crushed my dreams and romantic notions, but it was true that when I first stepped onto that path, I had dreamed of a future as a chemist.
Since I'm technically a chemist, I ought to win at least one Nobel Prize.
Especially since I had been dropped into the early 20th century. If I sucked all the sweet nectar out of my future knowledge and still couldn't even bag a Nobel Prize, it would be downright embarrassing. And so, I had been sending a letter every single month. Before I knew it, November had arrived—the very month when the Nobel Committee would be busy making their final selections.
Just then, my secretary burst through the door without warning.
"Lord Stahl!"
"Aaaagh! I told you to knock before you come in!"
I threw my upper body over the desk, frantically covering the letter I was writing. It was too embarrassing to be caught.
But the moment I saw the secretary's bizarre, questioning look, reality hit me. Oh, right. The secretary was the one who actually mailed my letters to the Nobel Committee. I cleared my throat awkwardly.
"C-cough. Yes, well... what brings you here?"
"Chairman Wittgenstein has...!"
My mind snapped to sharp attention.
True to his moniker as the "Steel King of Austria," Karl Wittgenstein was a man of iron. Despite being well over sixty, and even as a malignant tumor relentlessly ravaged his body, he never let his agony show to others. He simply endured, unyielding.
"Chairman Wittgenstein! You must not involve yourself so deeply in politics."
"Nonsense. This is not politics; it is business. As long as we have political backing, our steel empire will endure for a hundred, a thousand years! Why can you not see that?"
"No, Chairman. You are playing politics."
"What?"
"For some time now, you have been pouring money into every single project Director Stahl proposes, without even considering the profit margins!"
"..."
The director, who had served Karl Wittgenstein for decades, cried out as if venting years of pent-up frustration.
"I can let the ammonia business slide! Even if our share was low, the profits were decent. But what on earth is this Agricultural Cooperative? And that aviation company?!"
"...Listen to me. Look at the long term."
"The long term? Ten years? Twenty? Fifty? A hundred? How long are we supposed to wait?!"
"Shut up! Just shut your mouth!"
Karl Wittgenstein bolted upright from his chair and roared at the director.
"Withdraw our investments from the Agricultural Cooperative immediately! Or at the very least, do not invest in the Bosnian Agricultural Cooperative! I beg of you."
"...What do you know?"
"Pardon?"
"I asked what you could possibly know! Get out! Get out of my sight this instant!"
As mentioned, Karl Wittgenstein was a man of iron. Even if the director's words had angered him, he was a man who would normally never let such rage show. Yet here he was, flushed red to the tips of his ears with fury. It was a shock to both his loyal director and to Wittgenstein himself. Unable to utter another word, the director bowed his head in apology and quietly withdrew.
Karl Wittgenstein slumped back into his office chair, murmuring a single name.
"Stahl, Stahl, Stahl..."
His energy was completely spent. In the original timeline, his failing health would have forced him to retire from all business affairs three years ago to focus entirely on patronizing the arts. But in this life, he had gritted his teeth and pushed forward, driven solely by the name of Stahl.
Stahl, a mere politician? Foolishness. Stahl is a businessman. Capital that dominates the state, a monopoly that stands alone in the empire. The moment I saw the Agricultural Cooperative he established, I understood his madness in an instant.
Wittgenstein tried to calm his racing heart by picturing Stahl's face. It was an old habit of his. But today, strangely, instead of bringing him peace, the image stirred a tempest of emotion. For some reason, Stahl's face seemed to overlap with those of his two sons, Hans and Rudolf, who had taken their own lives. Before he knew it, a tear rolled down the cheeks of the man who was supposed to be made of steel.
"Hans... Rudolf... I am so sorry. I am so sorry..."
Working alongside Stahl had rekindled a fire within Wittgenstein that he had thought long dead. Hiding both the cancer eating away at his body and the grief eating away at his soul, he had burned his life force to the ground working.
"F-Father! Are you alright?! Please, wake up!"
"M-Margarethe... is that you?"
Unlike in the original history, Margarethe Wittgenstein had not married. For some reason, her father had been reluctant to marry her off, and watching him burn with renewed passion had quietly kindled her own ambitions for business. Soon, with Margarethe's face as the last thing he saw, Wittgenstein lost consciousness.
I rushed to Chairman Wittgenstein's residence. He was being treated by the most prominent medical minds in the empire, including Dr. Karl Landsteiner.
"Ah, you've come?"
"I heard you collapsed..."
"Oh, it's nothing. I suppose I've just been overworking myself lately."
While resting in bed with an IV drip, Chairman Wittgenstein was still flipping through business documents. To the naked eye, he looked... no different from his usual, slightly stubborn self.
"Are you truly alright?"
"I suppose even I cannot escape old age. But it is a pity I have no successor."
"You should retire and rest now."
"And who else would run this if not me? I must live a little longer."
Of course, I had Archduke Franz Ferdinand as a reliable and wealthy patron. But while the Archduke might have possessed greater raw wealth, he was not in a position to spend his money as freely as Chairman Wittgenstein. From the ammonia project to the recent Bosnian Agricultural Cooperative, if Wittgenstein had not trusted me and invested in these seemingly unprofitable ventures, I would never have reached where I was today.
As a former philosophy undergraduate, I was well-acquainted with the life of Ludwig Wittgenstein, who reigned as an absolute idol in the field of philosophy—especially in Korea. And I had heard of his father, Chairman Wittgenstein, as well. If I recalled correctly... didn't he die in the early 1910s? Even if he looked fine on the outside, the Chairman was now past sixty. There was no telling when his health might take a sudden turn for the worse.
"Have you found a successor?"
"Ludwig is off studying philosophy, and my other son is utterly obsessed with music."
"Then..."
"Indeed. Without a proper successor, my company will be merged, split, and eventually vanish without a trace."
Come to think of it, while I had heard that the philosopher Wittgenstein was born with a silver spoon in his mouth, I had never heard of a company bearing the name "Wittgenstein" in the future, unlike Volkswagen, Peugeot, or Morgan. Even U.S. Steel, founded by Carnegie, still existed. The massive capital Wittgenstein had amassed would likely dissolve entirely through the turbulent upheavals of history.
"Perhaps it was a stroke of heaven's luck... meeting a swindler like you, Stahl. I am glad I invested the inheritance that would have been shattered upon my death into the Agricultural Cooperative and the chemical company. That money will remain, and a part of my legacy will endure, will it not?"
"Don't talk about dying. Please don't say such things. You haven't even recovered half of the capital you invested in the Agricultural Cooperative. You should at least get your money back before you go."
"Are you telling me to live to be two hundred?"
Making a rare joke, Chairman Wittgenstein smirked with a mischievous glint in his eye and handed me a letter.
"Ah, by the way. I heard you were absolutely desperate to win a Nobel Prize?"
"That is fake news spread by those Serbian bastards. Believing such ridiculous rumors is clearly what's taking a toll on your health, Chairman."
"Haha, is that so? I wonder if you will still think that after reading this."
I opened the letter the Chairman had handed me.
This year's Nobel Prize in Chemistry has been awarded to Karl Wittgenstein for his successful industrialization of ammonia synthesis.
Why on earth him?!
"Isn't this a bit much?"
"Did I make the decision? The Nobel Committee did. They originally wanted to give it to you, but didn't you reject the Nobel Peace Prize last year? I suppose they had no choice but to award it to me as a detour."
I stared at the letter from the Nobel Committee for a long time. Wittgenstein, quite uncharacteristically, watched my reaction with eyes full of mischief. A Nobel Prize, a Nobel Prize...
"I don't need a stupid prize like this anyway. You need to get well quickly so you can go to Sweden and claim it yourself."
"Really? And here I was, writing a letter to suggest they give it to Stahl next year."
"Actually, I want it more than anything. So please, go over there and give a speech telling them to give me one."
"Hahaha! You want an old man who can barely walk to travel all the way to Sweden? I am far too busy with the construction of the ammonia plant in Bosnia."
"But still, you should go in person..."
"Should I just reject the award then?"
The Chairman kept smiling, seemingly finding the whole situation immensely amusing.
"Accept the prize on my behalf. Go and see what it feels like to win a Nobel."
"But shouldn't your children..."
"Well, surely you didn't think you'd go alone? The only one of my children with any talent for business is my daughter. She is three or four years older than you, but... ah, if only she weren't a woman, I would have named her my successor without a second thought. Go with my daughter."
"Yes, I understand."
"Normally, I would have opposed such a thing. A female entrepreneur? It sounds absurd, does it not? But looking at you, I began to think that perhaps it is not so absurd after all."
And so, I began preparing to depart for Stockholm with Margarethe Wittgenstein. Proving that the Chairman's praise had not been empty words, Margarethe displayed a fierce, entrepreneurial aggressiveness during our travel preparations.
"I understand my father's company has invested a massive amount of capital into airplanes."
"That is correct."
"And is the 20th century not the era of marketing and public relations?"
"Yes, but... why do you ask?"
Having witnessed all sorts of madness in the political arena, my internal crisis-detection sensor had become highly developed. And right now, that sensor was blaring like a siren. S-something felt incredibly ominous.
"We are going to fly from Vienna to Stockholm."
Ah. My crisis-detection sensor had not malfunctioned after all!