Eve of the Great War (2)

Due to its multi-ethnic nature, the Austro-Hungarian Empire had always struggled to foster a sense of national pride. It was similar to how Americans often identified more with their home states—like California, New York, or Texas—than with "America" as a whole. Moreover, unlike the United States, which possessed the unique geographical advantages of a global superpower, Austria-Hungary had never given its citizens any real reason to feel patriotic. That is, until Stahl arrived.

Now, the Austro-Hungarian Empire was bound together by Stahlism. Slowly, the concept of their homeland shifted from "Austria," "Hungary," "Bosnia," or "Bohemia" to "the Empire." They began to search for a collective pride in their imperial identity.

And then, the moment he returned to Austria after his long journey to Sweden...

"Whoaaaa!"

"Long live Wittgenstein, the pride of the Austrian Empire!"

"If you count the Nobel Peace Prize we just won, does that make... five Nobel laureates from our empire?"

"We've definitely surpassed France and Britain, haven't we?"

"Long live the Empire! Long live Stahl!"

It was the first time Stahl had ever witnessed such an explosive outburst of raw patriotism in Austria-Hungary. And why wouldn't they? As mentioned, the Empire had found its new identity in Stahlism. Therefore, the success of Stahlism was the success of the Empire.

"Objectively speaking, our empire lags a bit behind Russia, Britain, France, and Germany, right?"

"True. Germany has colonies, even if only in name, while we have no proper colonies or navy to speak of."

"We're developed, sure, but we've always been a step behind."

When their identity as imperial citizens had been faint, this hadn't really bothered them. But as they gradually embraced the Empire as their true homeland, this lingering inferiority complex became a pressing issue. Consequently, the citizens searched desperately for something else to fuel their national pride. The fact that a Stahlism movement was sweeping through France—a nation they had always considered a step above them—was the perfect catalyst. Thanks to this, Vienna was currently holding a massive parade to welcome Stahl back.

"...You want me to ride this combat tractor ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠through the city streets?"

"A Greek ace pilot has even prepared an air show for us!"

A parade riding a combat tractor, the very symbol of the Hungarian agricultural revolution.

I swear, I have the worst luck with vehicles. What on earth is this...

The combat tractor was the ultimate symbol of Stahlism and the Hungarian agricultural revolution. Naturally, the tractor prepared for the parade retained the exact, bizarre appearance it had during the revolution, complete with a two-hundred-year-old cannon towed behind it.

"Excuse me, but the actual Nobel laureate is Chairman Wittgenstein. Shouldn't the Chairman be the one leading the parade?"

Stahl, utterly mortified by the prospect of riding the tractor, tried to dump the responsibility onto a terminal cancer patient—proposing a ride that boasted a ride quality straight from hell!

"...If Chairman Wittgenstein were to go through with this parade, we would be planning his funeral by tonight."

"Fine, fine. I get it."

Ultimately, swallowing his embarrassment, Stahl rode the combat tractor through the parade. Meanwhile, Margarete, who had become quite the celebrity in the Empire, tore through the skies of Vienna in a fighter plane.

"Wait, hold on. It's been a while since I flew, so I'm a bit rusty! Hold on tight!"

"M-Margarete! Take a deep breath and focus—aaaargh!"

They say drivers who have just passed the novice stage are the most prone to accidents. Margarete, now brimming with a dangerous level of confidence, made a sloppy landing and ended up shearing off one of the plane's wings. Regardless, the parade ended in a resounding success.

In France, a mysterious political entity called the Avant-garde Party had emerged. In Great Britain, the Netherlands, and Spain, the name of Stahlism was beginning to spread, albeit in small pockets. Everything was perfect. Except, if there was one nagging issue...

Why are those Serbian bastards so quiet? I turned the entire world upside down with my Nobel acceptance speech. There's no way they'd be this silent.

It was like that universal law of retail: the moment you utter the words, "It's quiet today," customers swarm in like locusts. Silence always preceded a disaster. Still, since there was nothing pressing to worry about at the moment, he decided to take a breather. Phew.

Although my life as a politician was relatively peaceful for now, I still had matters to attend to as Marcus Stahl, the individual.

"How dare you steal my daughter?! Over my dead body will I ever allow this marriage!"

"...Chairman. Honestly, you knew everything and sent us to Sweden together. Why are you bringing this up now?"

"I've always wanted to say that line. When else would I ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠get the chance? That aside... I heard you put my daughter in an airplane."

"She was the one who insisted on flying first—ow! Chairman, stop hitting me! I was terrified too!"

"Terrified? You pathetic fool, I heard you wet your pants on that plane!"

"That was fake news spread by the Serbians!"

In just a few months, Chairman Wittgenstein's hair had turned completely white, and he had aged rapidly. Though he was so weakened by cancer that he could barely move, he somehow found the strength to beat me mercilessly with his cane. In any case...

During this brief window of leisure, I devoted myself to wedding preparations. Aside from my father, who had returned from a pleasant trip to Paris and insisted we hold the wedding in accordance with "Avant-garde Stahlism," the preparations went off without a hitch.

It was an ultra-luxurious wedding attended by all sorts of imperial royals and prominent pro-Stahl figures. Thus, an unprecedented event took place: the Kaiser himself, along with the first, second, and third heirs to the throne, attended the wedding of a commoner. But...

Forget a honeymoon; the international political landscape began to violently shift once more.

Great Britain had begun to needle Greece. For Greece, which claimed to be the rightful heir to the Eastern Roman Empire, Constantinople—or Istanbul—was ancestral land that had to be reclaimed one day. Yet, Britain had just declared the Ottomans to be the true successors of the Eastern Roman Empire.

"Representative Stahl! Public sentiment at home is in an uproar! Please, you must do something!"

"...My apologies. Please do your best to calm them down. The British are just blustering; they'll tire themselves out eventually."

Who in their right mind would consider the Ottoman Empire, a non-Christian state, to be the Eastern Roman Empire? This was merely a petty provocation to test our reaction—a soft declaration of war.

But Britain's notorious malice didn't stop there.

Currently, the Balkan War was tilting slightly in Greece's favor. As a landlocked nation, Serbia could only conduct maritime trade through its blood ally, Montenegro. Therefore, if the Greek navy blocked the sea lanes of the tiny state of Montenegro, Serbia's imports and exports would be completely choked off, save for overland trade through Russia.

In the midst of this, Great Britain joined hands with Italy and deployed battleships to the Adriatic Sea.

"What on earth did we ever do to the British government?! Withdraw your fleet from the Adriatic immediately!"

"I'm afraid we cannot do that."

"Are you trying to start a war?!"

"Aren't you the ones trying to start a war? You aren't even in an official state of war, so why are you blockading the Adriatic and interfering with Britain's free trade?"

"Montenegro is an enemy state! Has Britain sided with Serbia?!"

"Of course not. Besides, are Serbia and Montenegro truly at war? As far as I am aware, they are merely conducting a Special Military Operation to sweep out subversive elements within the Balkan Peninsula..."

Amazingly, Serbia and Greece were still officially engaged in a "Special Military Operation." This euphemism was, of course, intended to prevent Great Britain and other great powers from openly intervening in the war. Consequently, Stahl had also been forced to limit his intervention to the deployment of the Peacekeeping Force and media manipulation.

In any case, the British did not fire a single shell at the Greek warships. They simply sailed right alongside the Greek fleet, using their physical presence to shield the massive shipments of military supplies they were funneling to Serbia at dirt-cheap prices.

For Britain, this was more than enough, and it was their best course of action. If they openly aligned themselves with national revolutionary forces, what would stop an "Indian National Revolutionary Republic" from rising up in their own empire?

On the other hand, what about Greece? Greece was also a maritime nation, heavily reliant on imports for most of its supplies. But with the Royal Navy—the strongest fleet in the world—looming over them and blatantly disrupting their trade, Greek supply lines began to dry up. The tables had turned completely between Serbia and Greece.

Furthermore, ever since Britain became a global superpower, they had carried themselves like the aristocrats of the world, their noses held high. Yet, when it came to sheer, underhanded malice, they had humbly studied my methods like eager disciples. Perhaps that was how Britain managed to maintain its superpower status for so long.

Britain actively benchmarked the Peacekeeping Force I had created, utilizing it in the exact same manner I had.

"The front lines are favoring Greece, aren't they?"

"Yugoslavia could push them back, but... the casualties would be too high."

"Shall we step in?"

"Hold on, there! We are a Peacekeeping Force ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠from far-off Western Europe! No fighting allowed, none at all~"

Sending in military advisors and deploying troops would normally trigger a diplomatic catastrophe. But what if you rebranded those military advisors as a "Peacekeeping Force"? What if you intervened in the war under the guise of "humanitarian aid"? The British diplomatic corps was utterly spellbound by Stahl's genius methodology.

"...So this is Stahlism?!"

"Why on earth did we never think of this before?"

Even Stahl, who usually craved validation, would have preferred to go unrecognized this time. Deeply impressed by Stahl's Peacekeeping Force, the British diplomatic and military establishments immediately began scattering their own "peacekeepers" across the globe. Even in colonies like India, the colonial garrison was rebranded overnight as a "Peacekeeping Force." The Balkan Peninsula was no exception.

"I hear Serbia is pushing the front lines back with unstoppable momentum!"

"Archduke, have you heard from Stalin?"

"Yes. He said he has deployed every last member of the Bosnian Revolutionary Guard."

For now, as a desperate ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠measure, we ramped up our usual border provocations to the maximum. Running the Revolutionary Guard in circles along the border should have at least slowed down the speed of the Serbian advance. However, Stalin sent back a highly shocking telegram.

Sigh...

The Serbians had read us like an open book. No matter what kind of circus Stalin put on at the border, they threw every single one of their reserve forces straight into the front lines.

Just as the situation between Greece and Serbia had flipped, the dynamic between Serbia and us had also reversed the moment Britain stepped in.

If you've got a problem with it, what are you gonna do? Hit us! Come on, hit us!

They won't dare start a war anyway!

Serbia was pushing the front lines forward with the reckless abandon of a nation that didn't care if its house burned down, so long as they won.

"Representative Stahl, what is your move? If we enter the war now, we can catch Serbia in a pincer movement and erase them from the map entirely."

Archduke Franz Ferdinand urged for intervention, pointing out that Serbia had foolishly left its borders completely undefended. His reasoning wasn't entirely wrong.

Serbia had already bled far more national strength in this Balkan War than they had in my original history, leaving them severely weakened. Yet, with their primary enemy right before their eyes, they had charged headlong toward Greece without looking back.

Wait. Should we actually go for it?

"Wait, forget I said anything. The look in your eyes just now... you looked exactly like Chairman Hitler."

"...Ah! That was close. Thank you, Archduke."

They say if you gaze long into an abyss, the abyss also gazes into you. In the twenty-first century, if you messed with the United States, you'd be sent back to the Stone Age. The same applied to Great Britain in the twentieth century. Though they lacked the absolute dominance of the modern US, they were still an undisputed superpower. One wrong move, and our sea routes would be choked off, bringing a devastating famine to our doorstep.

"Great Britain will be fine. We need to think about finding a compromise and stopping the war here."

"What? Weren't we trying to prolong the war to weaken Serbia? If we stop now, won't Serbia walk away with all the spoils?"

"All they have left to their name is sheer spite and desperation anyway."

"But Britain has sided with them. They can easily raise the stakes."

I offered Archduke Franz Ferdinand a confident, knowing smile.

"How long do you think Britain will tolerate Serbia's antics? It won't be long before they wash their hands of the Balkans in sheer disgust."

The Balkan beehive was mine to poke. Mine, and mine alone!