Chapter 174
Chapter 174
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Translator: Ryuma
Chapter: 174
Chapter Title: Knowledge is Power (1)
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Meanwhile, from Russia's perspective in 1758, they were achieving decent results across Europe in the Seven Years' War.
Russia had accomplished the righteous feat of "seizing East Prussia" in January of that year, right when Kim Unhaeng was busy handing out snacks in the palace.
The fascists, having lost their homeland, borrowed money from Britain to resist, but the tide had turned against them.
However, Russia was also plagued by their chronic issues.
Logistics and administration.
People who had crossed the barren Siberia with ease inexplicably starved and faltered in the resource-rich lands of Europe. Perhaps it was because they were a race ill-suited to civilized life to begin with.
The only explanation for their victories so far was that the Prussians were simply terrible at war.
If one had to pinpoint Russia's advantage, it was the empress's unwavering resolve to prosecute the war.
This was all the more crucial considering that four years later, Peter III would ascend the throne and promptly gift all these blood-soaked achievements back to the Germans.
Empress Elizabeth Petrovna of All Russia despised Germans, and Friedrich—the epitome of Germanness—even more.
Yet she had adopted the German-born and utterly dim-witted Peter III as her son and heir for one sole reason: she could not allow the bloodline of Peter the Great to die out—a sentiment any Joseon native would nod at.
At this point, Elizabeth viewed Peter merely as a DNA shuttle. At least he wasn't impotent, judging by his philandering ways.
Thus, what Peter said to his adoptive mother that day exceeded his proper station as a mere baby-making machine.
Peter lifted his face. Beneath his drooping eyelids that half-hid his scant wits, his long, pathetic nose—threatening to drip at any moment—wrinkled upward.
"Your Majesty, why continue this war? We cannot defeat elite troops like the Prussian army. We must sue for peace."
Elizabeth gazed down coldly at her adopted son.
"What do you know of war beyond toy soldiers? Our forces are victorious. Friedrich will soon surrender or take his own life."
"Are you insulting the great Friedrich? I spent my childhood in Potsdam and saw him up close. Your Majesty has never even lived in Germany. So at least now, return the seized territories and..."
Elizabeth cast off the mask that biographers had (reluctantly) described as "generally kind and gentle."
"You brainless bastard who doesn't even know shame! I'd love to toss you to the families of our countless fallen soldiers! Do you not know what my father—Peter the Great—accomplished in this city named after him (St. Petersburg)?"
He didn't even know Russian, so how could he know Russian history? Though older than Kim Unhaeng, Peter's intellect fell short even of that man's son.
Even now, the pampered Peter harbored only resentment toward the empress yelling at him. And that insolent expression only fueled Elizabeth's rage further.
"Go lift the skirts of that ugly chambermaid, or crawl into the arms of that Friedrich you worship so much! Everything you can do, even a dog could manage! Stick to wallowing in your own filth, where you belong! Humans' affairs are beyond you! I'm warning you now—I know you've been prying into military secrets. If evidence emerges, I will not forgive you!"
Peter's face froze in shock. He hadn't imagined his "perfect intelligence" for the "great Friedrich" had been exposed.
Elizabeth hadn't placed her lover in a key military post out of mere favoritism. As with Alexander the Great in antiquity, having a paramour in high command offered a ruler many conveniences. She scarcely needed such measures against this fool before her, though.
In her fury, Elizabeth felt her recent ill health worsening.
A metallic taste rose deep in her throat. She truly wanted to stuff that son of a bitch into a wine crate for eight days.
With superhuman endurance, Elizabeth swallowed her blood and bellowed instead.
"Out!"
Peter scurried away in panic.
Flailing down the palace corridor in a daze, Peter spotted a passing young officer.
The officer bowed to the crown prince and headed for the empress's chambers.
Recalling Elizabeth's tirade, Peter twisted his face into the sourst scowl he could muster.
Peter was greatly looking forward to that evening's banquet. He resolved firmly to gossip there about the "newly discovered empress's lover" to the other nobles.
The officer, returning to St. Petersburg after a long absence, was Ivan Ivanovich Kropotov—former lieutenant in the Imperial Guard and now commander of the Russian Empire's defenses against China.
Of course, contrary to Peter's misunderstanding, he was no lover. Thus, Kropotov first succinctly summarized his failed negotiations with China, as reported in writing.
"The emperor demands that we suppress the Kontai-sha (referring to Amursana) rebellion from behind. If we refuse, he threatens to charge our Beijing missionaries and delegation with 'collusion with rebels,' expelling them—or worse. I was able to return because someone was needed to convey the Chinese emperor's intentions directly to our court."
It was a report laced with the nuance that Emperor Qianlong viewed Elizabeth as a subordinate forced to justify herself after arousing suspicion.
And that was a fact even Qianlong wouldn't deny.
Elizabeth flared with anger once more. But unlike before, this was cold fury toward a rival, not a fool.
"Even if I wanted friendship with China, they make it impossible. Crushing Kontai-sha would mean obeying that Tatar pig."
"A precise judgment, Your Majesty. Moreover, China regards all Europeans as enemies. Friendly overtures seem impossible for the foreseeable future."
"Must we 'truly' support the rebels, then? Dividing our forces would be difficult."
Not difficult—impossible. Kropotov tactfully highlighted this without offending, steering to the proper conclusion.
"Merely tolerating border crossings will prolong the rebellion. If I may offer my unsolicited view, rather than all-out war, we should exploit China's anti-European sentiment to ally with others and contain them. As Your Majesty once said, we must focus on the European front."
"Which others? Among our allies, only France has sent privateers there."
"Not a European power. A closer one, capable of stronger checks. The Chinese emperor fears the eastern kingdom of Joseon, diverting significant forces to it even during this rebellion. In my analysis, that division is one reason the revolt has dragged on."
Elizabeth listened gravely.
According to Kropotov's intel, Joseon was an island or peninsula rich in ice-free ports. Even Russia's European war was half for the Baltic Sea.
A while later, she asked,
"Did they not war with us long ago? No lingering grudge?"
As if awaiting the question, Kropotov produced "proof of Joseon's goodwill toward Russia."
"This was a gift from a high Joseon diplomat as a token of friendship. It's specially concentrated ginseng, said to be several times more potent."
It wasn't entirely a lie. Hong Daeyong, the vice director then, was undeniably high-ranking, and gifts built rapport—even with beggars.
Kropotov's vice, if any, was exaggeration over falsehood. Deeming a single root insufficiently impressive—having received plenty of red ginseng—he bought more from Austrian missionaries present and packed them in an expensive box.
Hardly wild delusion. As Elizabeth stared piercingly at the "red ginseng," Kropotov continued.
"As China's vassal, Joseon risks open enmity with the emperor. But with our 'timely aid,' the balance could shift, and they likely need help. Autocrats who consolidate internally invariably turn their blades outward."
"And perish. Very well. I understand. Good work, Ivan Ivanovich. If the long journey hasn't wearied you, join me for dinner and we'll talk at leisure."
Kropotov bowed deeply from his kneeling position.
"An unparalleled honor, Your Imperial Majesty."
At this time, Jeju in the original history was in dire straits.
Famine worsened nutrition, only for epidemics to prey on the weakened—a vicious cycle.
In such conditions, ships from Qing China and Japan were like rain in drought.
Not that Jeju folk directly traded internationally. Even with liberal Jeju trade policies, that was impossible.
However, the existence of the New Jeju Liberation Brigade—diverted by the Four Directions Garrison to guard the Border Defense Council's direct Sea Customs Trade Tax Office (a name proudly proclaiming its profit motive), or "Customs Office" for short—brought prosperity.
Initially, taxes and transit profits bought grain before luxuries like Kim Unhaeng's sugar or Park Mun-su's copper.
Grain from Qing not only stocked the brigade but paid Jeju laborers.
These were simple tasks.
Some gathered for gunpowder-making or smithing, but such artisans were few. With capital, one sold liquor and rice to soldiers; otherwise, built structures or repaired ships.
Women found ample sewing work. Laundries beside armies always thrived.
And the brigade brought Yeongho-nam sweet potatoes, all the rage there.
Potatoes hadn't spread south yet. But Customs Office adjutant Park Jiwon solved that.
When ordering from Qing, Kim Unhaeng had sweet-talked Park Jiwon into it.
No one wanted the post. Jeju was remote, and folks suspected the Border Defense Council's made-up outfit offered mere sinecures via purchase.
"Didn't you once say you wanted to idly till fields and tend horses and dogs?"
"Yes. Ah, can I even serve as county magistrate there?"
"No, but there's a fine spot where you can hold office and do just that."
Nowhere in the eight provinces beat Jeju for pasturing horses and dogs. With no more assassins targeting Kim Unhaeng, he happily loaned Jdupi and Malbok.
For "farming," Hong Daeyong was involved.
Until then, he'd planted potatoes in the royal demonstration fields (jeon), used for imperial plowing and test crops.
Not from Hong's lack of rank, but Seoul's farmland scarcity.
The royal slaves ignored lesser yangban whims but registered Kim Unhaeng, vice director.
"Incurring Kim Chunsik's ire—think you'll survive in Hanyang unscathed? The fields are far, but Chunsik is near. Behave."
Amazed when truly willful Hong did as he pleased, Kim Unhaeng activated "Scourge of the East Sea" mode. "Manipulating the king" tropes spelled political doom.
Kim uprooted all potatoes, boiled them for a village feast, and restored the fields. Even to the ultra-elites, his law-abiding rigor spread via whispers.
Hong Daeyong wondered how Kim knew potato leaves were inedible.
Rescuing barely a basket of seed potatoes from extinction, the weeping Hong entrusted them to Park Jiwon for safekeeping.
Park Jiwon, nearing his hundredth day, gazed fondly at the summer potatoes folks harvested with gasps. Sweet potatoes, planted in summer and reaped in fall, needed more time.
Jeju governor Jo Wijin also marveled at the potatoes offered in the county office.
"Grown in turnip time, yet incomparable to turnips. Chunsik's wisdom again?"
Park Jiwon hesitated, then agreed. Without Kim Chunsik, Hong Daeyong wouldn't have sent them to Jeju.
"Yes. They grow anywhere but prefer cooler climes. I plan to take them north eventually."
"Indeed. For centuries since the old Tamna lord relinquished his title and returned to commoner life, Jeju relief was a national woe. Now it's finally happening. No fleeing to the mainland or abroad from hardship."
Jo's performance review would soar too.
Even without, his pioneering "transshipment trade" was no small feat.
The international administrator Jo Wijin calmly handled the runner's report.
"Magistrate! Red-Haired Bandits have drifted ashore in the south!"
"What? Real Red-Hairs?"
"Pardon? Are there fake ones?"
Glancing at Park Jiwon, Jo barked,
"How dare you question before the office head? Anyway, keep it quiet from foreigners. I'll go myself!"
"I'll come too. As adjutant, I handle foreigners in reports..."
Curious Park Jiwon stepped up, but Jo shook his head.
"No. Customs worries only Qing and Japanese trade. Red-Hairs are soon bandits—defense command's affair. Return to office. I'll write the report."
Sending Park away, Jo inspected and confirmed: deep-set eyes, big nose—textbook Red-Hair.
Their flag differed slightly from the Liberation Brigade's imitation, but blue and red matched—close enough.
Good enough.
Clean Jeju harbored no Red-Hairs. That justified the trade port; real ones invading threatened its existence.
They were processed as "never having arrived." Likely discovered months later at Red-Hair expert Kim Chunsik's home.
Jeju had long seen foreign castaways. Hamel was the prime example.
This meant easy access via currents—yet treacherous waters and terrain nearby.
Surprisingly few harbors took large ships; even Joseon warships fit only eight ports.
This bolstered security arguments for the Jeju trade plan.
Indeed, nature guarded clean Jeju. The British East India Company's vanguard ship, plunging in blind, wrecked outright. The sea isn't a high-pass highway.
Crew captured, Red-Haired-processed, then secretly conveyed by the brigade—loath to admit missing any. No Chinese guides hired meant no leaks.
James Flint, who sent them, puzzled in Guangzhou.
By distance, they should've returned. No word.
"Attacked by Joseon navy? They traded with Dutch, so shouldn't assault Europeans blindly?"
Flint wasn't muttering. He addressed a panicking European before him, hair 80% gone.
The man grimaced.
"P-Precisely because of that exchange—they attacked for it. They're madmen. No European ship entering their lands has ever returned!"
"Huh. Bolun, I sympathize, but that's exaggerated. Mysterious isle in the sea's midst. None who go return... Sounds like Muslim pepper-route tales."
David Bolun, Nagasaki chief four years prior—fled to Europe after Joseon ruined him.
After ordeals, he reached Europe plotting revenge on "pirate state Joseon" to deflect blame.
But Lisbon's quake shocked Europe (Dutch delighted, no gains), then Seven Years' War left no fleets for revenge or defense.
Imprisoned, escaped, boarded French ship for evidence—plundered en route by British East India, kidnapped. Routine misfortune.
Dragged to St. Helena, Mozambique, Zanzibar, Hindustan—Bolun was a wreck. Ought to curse Britain over Joseon, but minds are strange.
With Bolun's scant intel, Flint patted his shoulder.
"Some ignorant mishap. Next time, know better. Not easy, so we must 'study' more. Knowledge is power."
Outside, Flint stretched.
Then returned to write letters.
To East India Company, Royal Navy—and surprisingly, Royal Greenwich Observatory.