Eve of the Great War (3)

"Are you not Director Stahl, the founder of Stahlism? I hear there has been much controversy in the Balkans lately because of this Stahlism of yours. You must be quite worried."

"Haha, an advanced ideology like the National Revolution could make an excellent alternative, couldn't it? After all, the very birthplace of the National Revolution stands tall and proud in the Balkans."

"You sent a Peacekeeping Force out of concern that the special military operation might escalate. Truly fitting for a Nobel Peace Prize laureate."

"Hahaha!"

"Hahahahaha!"

I had paid a visit to the British Legation to discuss the Balkan crisis with Sir Cartwright.

Ha. Those British bastards. Think they've got one over on me, do they?

For a proper diplomat, the ultimate virtue is to convey their nation's intentions as politely and ambiguously as possible. Having spent so much time dealing with ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the Balkans, I had almost forgotten that simple rule.

Just look at our neighbor, Serbia. In official documents sent to foreign governments, they casually throw around words like "ringleader," "red," "den of thieves," and "rash behavior." Didn't their diplomat even call me a "vile rat" last time?

Conversing in proper "diplomatic rhetoric" after such a long time made me realize just how much of a rogue state Serbia truly was—practically the North Korea of this world.

At any rate, translating what that British fellow, Sir Cartwright, just said yielded the following:

Having traded these jovial little jabs, it was time to get down to business.

"Our Empire, bordering the Balkans, also holds special rights regarding the region. It is about time we discuss bringing this 'special military operation' to an end."

"Strictly speaking, shouldn't the negotiations be held between the actual parties of the special military operation—Yugoslavia and Greece?"

It sounded like a textbook answer, but I ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠could immediately read the hidden meaning behind it.

'Serbia is going to win anyway, so why bother negotiating?'

Wait a moment... How should I diplomatically ask if they could handle the fallout if Serbia swallowed the entire Balkans?

Actually, I was getting tired of beating around the bush. This was all because of those Serbian rogue-state bastards. They made normal diplomacy so damn exhausting.

"Then, even if Serbia occupies Athens, or perhaps even Constantinople, is Great Britain prepared to condone it?"

"That has not happened yet. It seems inappropriate to discuss such hypotheticals here."

"Indeed. It must sound absurd to you. But surely it is worth imagining? What would happen if Serbia became the hegemon of the Balkans."

"Such a thing..."

"Would the British government truly be able to handle Serbia then?"

I cut straight to the chase. Sir Cartwright scowled, clearly displeased. His expression practically screamed, How dare you question the actions of the British Empire?

"This ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠is highly offensive. I shall take my leave."

"This is merely a personal piece of advice. If you do not possess the boundless generosity to embrace Serbia no matter what atrocities they commit, you had best sell them out early."

"A personal piece of advice indeed, dripping with personal feelings. I have noted your counsel. Good day to you. Next time, I hope to have a more in-depth discussion with your Empire's Ministry of Foreign Affairs."

A British diplomat, throwing passive-aggressive insults until the very last second. What did that mean?

'To be frank, you don't even hold a legitimate, official government post, do you? Go fetch a real civil servant.'

I wielded immense influence over Austrian politics. Yet, surprisingly, my only official titles were Co-Representative of the SFW Chemical Company and Director of the Stahl-Ferdinand Research Institute.

He was asking what right I had to discuss diplomatic affairs on equal footing with him.

Why do these people insist on talking in circles? They could just be cool about it and say they don't want to.

In any case, I left the legation.

My advice had been entirely sincere. Serbia was a mad dog that would bare its fangs even at Russia—their virtual parent state, which spared no effort in supporting them no matter what they did.

To use an analogy, they were like Lu Bu, who gleefully backstabbed Ding Yuan, Dong Zhuo, Wang Yun, Yuan Shu, Yuan Shao, Cao Cao, and Liu Bei alike.

Even Liu Bei, who was practically a plague to the warlords of his era, couldn't withstand Lu Bu's betrayal.

If they behaved that way toward Russia, their fellow Slavs, would they spare the Anglo-Saxon British?

And looking back at the long arc of history, Great Britain would never tolerate such a rabid beast.

They would eventually bring out the club, and the rabid Serbia would only lash out with greater frenzy.

Even if Serbia suddenly regained its senses and halted its madness, the British would inevitably return to put them in their place.

Besides, in diplomacy, it's standard practice to push hard in the first negotiation and play hard to get.

More importantly, if Serbia actually looked poised to seize Constantinople, could Great Britain really afford to sit idly by?

Regardless, I had no intention of just waiting around. Heaven helps those who help themselves.

Though the ruthless Serbian intelligence agency was arguably the most skilled in Europe, our Austro-Hungarian Empire possessed its own intelligence capabilities.

Specifically, the massive network of exiles residing in Vienna. I immediately began tracking down refugees who had fled from Serbia.

Belgrade's National Spirit Re-education Committee, commonly known as the "concentration camps," went by various euphemisms such as "communist clinics" and "national spirit reformatories."

While rumors ran rampant throughout the Balkans, their true nature had never been made public.

This was because the Serbian regime maintained strict secrecy, and the ongoing war prevented information from leaking out.

Even so, whispers persisted that once you entered the camps, you would never leave alive.

Yet, as rare as rain in a drought, one or two individuals had managed to make a miraculous escape.

I invited them to the headquarters of the Social Democratic Workers' Party to hear their testimonies.

"Your crime was... what? You were drinking late at night and fell asleep on the street, and when you woke up, you were in that 'camp'?"

"Yes. They kept asking what I was doing out at night, demanding to know if I was an Austrian spy, and beat me half to death with that National Spirit Injection Rod."

"And what did you do?"

"At first, I just took the beating. I was actually an ardent supporter of the National Revolution! I am a proud Slav! How could I bear being treated like some Germanic dog?"

"Did they know that?"

"They didn't seem to at first. But then they dug through some files and confirmed that I was a registered member of the National Revolutionary Party. Naturally, I thought I would be released."

"And then?"

"They ripped the document to shreds right in front of me and called me a vile traitor. I... I couldn't take the beatings anymore. I had no choice but to confess to being a spy. Then... they demanded I name my accomplices, so I gave them my friend's name. After that, they made me chant, 'I am a dog who sold out his friend,' three times."

He began to shudder violently, drool escaping his lips as if triggered by a sudden wave of PTSD.

I sent the interviewee on his way with warm words of comfort and read through the compiled record of testimonies.

Merciless beatings and psychological degradation were merely the baseline. It was a place where all manner of horrific torture was routine.

Two details appeared consistently across all the testimonies.

First was the National Spirit Injection Rod—a wooden club studded with sharp spikes used to beat prisoners to within an inch of their lives.

Second was the forced memorization of Apis's Analects, a two-hundred-page book. If a prisoner failed to recite it word-for-word, they were subjected to torture.

Their entire daily routine consisted of studying Apis's Analects. But in truth, that study time was nothing short of torture.

The moment they got even a single letter wrong, they were subjected to waterboarding and electric shocks. They were denied even a wink of sleep until they could memorize it perfectly.

"Is... is all of this true, Director Stahl? These people are exiles. Perhaps they harbor a grudge against their homeland and are exaggerating on purpose."

"No. Even if there are exaggerations, they are born of sheer terror, nothing more."

"What? How can human beings do such things?"

The secretary of the Social Democratic Workers' Party, who was transcribing the interview, asked. Indeed, this was a concern of mine as well. How could humans be so cruel? Was this not just malicious slander? A fabricated tale? It was only natural to harbor doubts.

But it was highly unlikely to be fabricated. Because this was exactly the kind of atrocity that humans had committed, and were entirely capable of committing.

"If... if this is all true, why on earth is Serbia doing this? That is why it is so hard to believe. How does this help them win a war?"

"...Indeed. But now that we have secured multiple identical testimonies, we cannot simply stand by. I shall report this to His Majesty."

I recalled the Yugoslav Wars of the late twentieth century. Back then, unspeakable ethnic cleansing had taken place.

Now, a violent extremist group like the Black Hand—practically the ISIS of this era—had swallowed the country whole. There was no way it would be any less horrific.

After all, what was the reason I had been brought to Central Europe? Perhaps it was to keep figures like Adolf Hitler and Joseph Stalin in check, preventing them from committing the atrocities they did in my original history.

That was why I kept dangerous men like Hitler and Stalin close to me.

Now that I possessed the power, I could not simply sit back and watch such horrors unfold.

"Then, will you declare war on Serbia?"

"Of course not."

The horrific massacres taking place in our neighbor's backyard provided an excellent *casus belli*. But war was still war.

Even if we crossed the border for a humanitarian cause, it would invite international condemnation, and Great Britain and Russia would inevitably be dragged into the conflict in a chain reaction.

And then? The Serbian atrocities would be downplayed and forgotten, buried beneath the geopolitical interests of the other Great Powers.

"Contact Greece. Tell them it does not matter if the front lines push back. They must prioritize securing the concentration camps above all else."

"And what about the war?"

"Once we crush Serbia in the court of public opinion, our opportunity will surely come."

"What if, as you feared, Director Stahl, Serbia crosses the Greek border and marches all the way to Athens or Constantinople?"

I shook my head. Given the way those Serbian bastards operated, that possibility was certainly on the table.

But the moment the Serbian army crossed that border even by an inch, Great Britain would have no choice but to launch a punitive expedition against them.

Granted, it was a classic British trait to wreck the global balance of power and then wash their hands of it, which did worry me.

But even in that scenario, our Empire could step in as the firefighter with Britain's tacit approval, so it wouldn't be a problem.

Leaving aside the fact that Britain claimed all of Europe's seas as its sphere of influence, there was no way they would hand over a core interest like the Adriatic Sea to a minor nation like Serbia.

"Do you think there is even a shred of truth in these testimonies?"

"Oh, please. It must be a complete fabrication from start to finish. Surely, no such mad country could exist in this world."

"That fellow Stahl of Austria will resort to any trick. Only those ignorant continentals would fall for his propaganda."

The British gentlemen conversed as they read the *Testimonies of the Serbian Concentration Camps* published by Stahl.

Of course, they completely forgot that Great Britain itself fit the description of "such a mad country."

Having starved tens of thousands of Boers to death during the rebellion in South Africa, Great Britain could rightfully claim to be the pioneer of the concentration camp.

Yet, the Liberal MPs felt entirely righteous. After all, the Irish Famine and the South African camps were the faults of the Conservatives, weren't they?

Had not Gladstone, the venerable elder of the Liberal Party, opposed the Opium War as the sole conscience of the Empire?

And the role of the opposition was to oppose everything the ruling party did.

When the Liberals allied with Serbia, the Conservatives immediately dedicated themselves to bashing Serbia, printing copies of Stahl's testimonies by the truckload.

However, even the Conservatives harbored doubts about the authenticity of these testimonies. To them, it was merely fodder to throw to the yellow press.

Spreading such absurd slander against the opposing party as naturally as breathing was, of course, also the role of the opposition.

"Even with all his schemes, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠what can Austria possibly do? Greece has already lost all of its occupied territories in the Balkans."

"Haha, quite right."

Thus, the Liberal MPs enjoyed their tea time, gloating over having dealt Stahl a blow. Just then, a secretary burst into the room.

"M-Gentlemen! We have a major crisis!"

"What is it? What on earth has happened?"

"Those testimonies... they are true!"

"What?"

"The Greek army reportedly raided one of the camps during their retreat! They have piles of photographic evidence and witnesses!"

"Is it not simply a prison?"

"The Yugoslav army was in the middle of burying the prisoners alive to cover up the evidence!"

Once again, the British political sphere was thrown into utter chaos.