The Butterfly Effect

September 1905.

"Now that the signatures are in, let's get our photographs taken, shall we?"

"······."

"······."

"Big smiles, everyone. Cheese."

Pop! Pop-pop! Every time the reporters who had swarmed in like storm clouds cranked their camera flashbulbs, President Theodore Roosevelt of the United States angled himself for the most flattering shot imaginable and flashed his most charming smile.

"President Roosevelt! Does this mean the war in the Far East is finally over?"

"Ha ha, of course it is. The gentlemen from Russia and Japan standing here today have signed on behalf of their two governments to put an end to this terrible tragedy!"

"Ahem."

"H-hahaha..."

"That's right, ladies and gentlemen! The war is over! Go home now, all of you, and offer your prayers of thanks to the Lord!"

The Russian and Japanese diplomats either cleared their throats or hoisted their painted-on grins, smiling with faces trembling at the edges — but the American president spared them not a single shred of attention.

What are you two going to do about it, anyway?

"Mr. President! Your name is being put forward for this year's Nobel Peace Prize — how do you feel?"

"Hahaha! Well, honestly, I'm a little dazed. How should I put it — like being showered with praise for doing what anyone ought to do?

Any faithful Christian, any man possessed of reason and conscience, would never! — never stand idly by while such a cruel tragedy unfolds!"

"Magnificent! Truly, this is the man who marched onto the battlefield itself to save the Filipino people from the wicked Spaniards!"

"Roosevelt! Roosevelt! Roosevelt!"

Much like a certain yellow-haired American president of the twenty-first century, Theodore Roosevelt shoved the Russian and Japanese diplomats off into some corner or other and feasted on the spotlight all by himself.

"Damn it."

"Will you be all right? You handed Korea over to the Japanese."

"Forget it. We kept the railway through northern Manchuria, didn't we? Losing Korea stings, but so long as Vladivostok is standing, Russia will always have a Far Eastern port. It doesn't matter."

Russia did not, strictly speaking, rank this peace treaty as the worst possible outcome. Second-worst, maybe.

After all, ever since those idiot soldiers in the heart of St. Petersburg had opened fire on Orthodox priests and common folk peacefully marching along — 'we're hungry, please, share your bread with us' — there had been no way, no matter how hard you looked, to win this war.

But Japan?

CRASH!!!

With a splintering boom the door of a government office gave way, and the furniture took flight.

"Kill them!!!"

"You sons of bitches! This is what you call victory!?!"

"Stop! If you persist in these acts of violence you will be treated as a mob and subject to emergency arrest— Aaaagh!!!"

September 5th, 1905.

At Hibiya Park in Tokyo, capital of the Empire of Japan, the people who heard the terms of the settlement went cross-eyed with fury and started a riot.

No indemnity.

What's that? Why not, you ask?

Apparently the Russians said that if we wanted an indemnity, we were welcome to march our army all the way to Moscow or St. Petersburg and collect it — which is obviously not happening. Terribly sorry about that, good citizens.

And so the bereaved families clutching their hundred thousand death notifications went home with ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠a survivor's pension of forty-two yen apiece.

Less than a quarter of an average monthly wage.

In twenty-first-century South Korean terms, it was the equivalent of the state handing you eight million won as "compensation" after your son died at the front.

"You said winning the war would make us rich beyond our wildest dreams!!!"

"Fraudulent bastards! Kill them all!"

"Give me back my son, damn you!!"

The enraged mob smashed the government press and the lapdog newspapers, beat down the policemen who tried to bar their way, and set fire to the police boxes.

"Minister of Home Affairs, sir! You must get to safety! This way, quickly!"

"What — what on earth is going on!?"

The mob even torched the official residence where the Home Minister lived, forcing him and his family to flee headlong into the night — a full-blown state of emergency.

The Japanese government, badly rattled, declared martial law on the spot and arrested the ringleaders, and only barely managed to settle Tokyo back down.

"Prime Minister, at this rate there's no telling when the public will boil over again."

"This is all the fault of those Tokyo University professors! Fanning the flames, screeching that we should have wrung three billion yen out of Russia! Are they planning to march to Moscow with rifles in hand, those fools!?"

"...Still, it seems we'll need something clever to placate the mob. Anyone have anything?"

"Then, shall we contact Ito Hirobumi over in Korea?"

"Ugh. That bastard's smug face makes my skin crawl. But fine. Nothing else for it."

And so it was that, on November 17th, 1905, news arrived that everyone — man, woman, or child, scholar or illiterate — could understand at a glance.

The beginning of the end for the Korean Empire. The Eulsa Treaty had been concluded.

The Eulsa Treaty. The Hague secret envoys. And the Jeongmi Seven-Year Treaty stacked on top of all that.

Well, well, Lee Wan-yong. So you were taking it step by careful step toward your grand Treason Triple Crown at last, were you?

And you — my dear Gojong, my poor Gojong. Was this the spectacle you wanted to witness, after going and dunking Syngman Rhee and Seo Jae-pil like that?

Truly magnificent, Your Majesty. Once again I find myself with no choice but to heap habitual abuse upon you. The JOAT of Korean peninsula history, ladies and gentlemen.

Roughly one year after the Eulsa Treaty.

By my reckoning, the Korean peninsula of 1906 and 1907 was burning — bright, crackling, and unmistakable.

Though of course, if you crept too close, you'd catch fire right along with it and burn down to ash.

"Read me ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠today's article."

"...Let's see. It says that Ito Hirobumi, Resident-General of the Korean Empire, very nearly lost his life to assassination at the hands of a young Korean named Won Tae-u while out hunting in Suwon."

"Huh. How sloppy must his security detail have been?"

"Th-they say the young man hurled a rock at a moving train and struck Ito square on the head?"

"The hell? How does a man even do that?"

Beats me. Seriously, how does one ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠manage that?

Was it simply that a talent which, born a century later, would have been playing Major League Baseball for hundreds of billions of won, had the misfortune of being born into the wrong era?

In any case, they say Ito Hirobumi took the rock that came flying in through the train window square to the skull, suffering a concussion — and eight separate gashes from the glass shards besides.

Zhang Zuolin lit a cigarette and snorted.

"And what do the Western papers say?"

"That he's a terrorist, sir."

"Ha! A terrorist, my ass. I suppose the bastards are terrified they'll catch a rock to the head themselves someday, walking down some street in India or Annam."

When the cigarette had burned down to the filter, Zhang Zuolin upended his long pipe, knocked the ash loose, and spoke again.

"With the Korean peninsula in the state it's in, I can see exactly why headquarters is prodding at us."

The new order handed down to Zhao Erxun, the General of Shengjing.

More precisely: the General of Jilin had thrown up his hands — ah, screw it, I can't deal with this — and fired off a desperate help-me plea to Yuan Shikai, the minister overseeing negotiations and commerce in Beijing. And Yuan Shikai, mired up to his neck in Beijing's power struggles, had skipped dispatching troops entirely and simply dumped the whole mess down onto the General of Shengjing.

Under the peculiar arrangement of Manchuria, where each general doubled as both governor and military commander of his own territory, there reigned an ironclad don't-tread-on-my-patch-and-I-won't-tread-on-yours division of labor — but that only explained so much.

A combined army of a million men from both warring sides had trampled across Jilin during the war, and Jilin had been left a de facto anarchist's paradise.

And into that vacuum, Koreans fleeing the miserable state of their own homeland were slipping across the Yalu, angling for a second chance at life.

Besides, the General of Jilin wasn't even in Jilin at the moment — he was sheltering in the safety of Fengtian, under the General of Shengjing's wing.

So no one could really blame him for planting his feet and declaring, not my problem.

And frankly? We weren't exactly chomping at the bit to step in either.

"It would appear the General of Shengjing intends to use this as his pretext for restoring some measure of administrative control over Manchuria."

"Not a pleasant prospect."

"No, it isn't."

Frankly speaking, how many times had we done exactly as we pleased across this Manchuria of ours?

If real administration had been alive and kicking, we never would have lasted as a make-believe government force in the first place — our heads would have come off ages ago.

"Damn it. We sweated blood hunting down that Jeon Ok-bon bastard and finishing him off, and not a single copper came back to us. Feeling guilty themselves, apparently, the best they could finally deign to hand us was a promotion for the unit. Mark my words — we'll do all the hard work again and get nothing but lip service for it."

After the Jeon Ok-bon manhunt, our Patrol Guerrilla Battalion had succeeded in being formally incorporated into the central army under the General of Shengjing.

The 5th Yeongtong Unit of the Shengjing Army.

Picture a yeongtong unit as something between a battalion and a regiment in size.

And that was it. That was the whole package.

No reward money. No compensation. Nothing.

Why, you ask? Because right at that moment in Beijing, Yuan Shikai was training six full divisions of troops on an entirely Western model.

Those six fully equipped divisions — the so-called Six Divisions of the Beiyang New Army — armed with the latest German Krupp field guns, three hundred and sixty of them on order, plus bolt-action rifles and machine guns to boot, were in name and in fact Yuan Shikai's personal praetorian guard, the last flame of the Qing government.

And of course — who am I? Owner of a tidy stack of Krupp stock.

The very moment Yuan Shikai's grand "New Army development plan" hit the newspapers and the red bars in my account began their steep climb, let's just say I was a very happy man indeed.

At any rate, in an era where men bled over bread money, where exactly was money supposed to appear from for a provincial ragtag outfit like ours?

Nowhere. Obviously.

What's that? Didn't we haul in loot from the Jeon Ok-bon campaign?

Never heard of it. First I'm hearing of such a thing. In my memory, no such assets exist.

Don't get the wrong idea — I hadn't grown the heart of a bandit.

When paychecks weren't arriving at all, how else was this unit supposed to keep itself running without a little side income?

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Zhang Zuolin drummed the table with his fingers.

"We'd best call a meeting first. This is too big a decision to make alone."

"Understood, sir."

"I don't like it."

"Pardon, sir?"

"Any of it. All of it."

Walking toward the unit commander's office after receiving the summons, Zhang Jinghui spoke to his adjutant with a face twisted like a bitten lemon.

"Do you have any idea how much loot we hauled in when we killed Jeon Ok-bon?"

"I-I'm afraid I don't, sir..."

"Neither do I. That's precisely why I don't like it."

If he had known it would come to this, he would never have led the Baguadao self-defense corps to join Zhang Zuolin. He should have struck out on his own and played the government troop all by himself.

"That insolent Lee Tae-oh. Keeps the unit ledgers clutched in his own two hands and does with them as he pleases — and a runt like that, no less."

"...Surely Staff Officer Lee isn't quite a runt, sir? He stands nearly eight chi tall—"

"Shut it."

He had no idea how much gold, silver, and treasure had been taken, but instead of splitting it among the unit commanders, Lee Tae-oh had hidden the whole hoard away and was doling it out drop by drop under the tidy label of "unit operating expenses." Zhang Jinghui loathed him for it.

How could he do such a thing, you ask?

Because modern people save, invest, and scrimp for tomorrow precisely because there is zero chance they will catch an unlucky bullet the very next day.

How could a man who knew war and a man who did not possibly ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠think along the same lines?

And so, setting aside a chosen few like Zhang Zuolin and Zhang Baochen, nearly every officer in the outfit had little fondness for Lee Tae-oh.

The detestable fellow who stayed out of the fighting, hands clasped behind his back, chirping do this, don't do that.

That was precisely how most of them saw Lee Tae-oh.

And yet.

Well. Staff Officer Lee isn't exactly wrong.

So he wasn't just an armchair coward after all.

The tales of Lee Tae-oh's exploits at the very tip of the spear during the campaign had, before anyone quite noticed, worn down the wariness of many of the officers.

By degrees, his words had turned from meddlesome interference into plain truth, from nagging into counsel.

Above all, at some point the common soldiers had begun drifting about, angling for a place under Lee Tae-oh's command.

He liked it not one bit.

"What I wouldn't give to ship him off somewhere far, far away."

"Now that everyone's assembled, let's begin the meeting."

Zhang Jinghui listened to the proceedings and thought his own thoughts.

"—and that, gentlemen, is the situation as it stands."

The instant my briefing ended, irritated complaints bubbled up from around the table.

"Ha. I never thought much of Zhao Erxun, but the old man certainly knows how to be a nuisance."

"I object. Let's just send excuses — this reason, that reason, whatever sticks."

"I feel the same. Besides, Japanese troops are beginning to filter into Manchuria in small numbers. Stick our neck out toward them now and we'll only turn a scratch into a festering sore."

As expected, the company and platoon commanders were one and all in the opposition camp.

Then one man raised his hand.

Why him, of all people? This bodes ill.

"...Very well. Deputy Unit Commander Zhang Jinghui. Go ahead."

"Staff Officer Lee. In the end, what you're telling us is that unless somebody actually goes to Jilin, we can't rack up any credit with Zhao Erxun. Am I right?"

"That is correct."

"Then that settles it. Faking a field report isn't an easy thing, after all. Send a platoon or so of men to sweep the area casually and come back. Wouldn't that do the trick?"

At Zhang Jinghui's words, Zhang Zuolin leaned forward.

"Sweep it casually, you say? That's not going to be as easy as it sounds."

"Exactly my point, Unit Commander. If nobody travels to the scene in person, won't the field report come out paper-thin?"

"Hmm."

"And to cook up a whole sheaf of reports, it seems to me we'd need someone rather clever to make the trip..."

"Don't stop on my account. Go on."

"Now, our Staff Officer Lee here is a remarkably sharp fellow, isn't he? Speaks excellent Korean, too. So let's dispatch him to Jilin for a short while and have him put the reports together."

What the—? He was actually making sense for once, and now suddenly he's flinging me under the cart?

But Zhang Zuolin nodded.

"Hmm. If it's only a week or two, I don't see the harm."

"······."

Damn it.