The Void Left by a Hero

Let's rewind the clock for a moment, back to the day of the Harbin operation.

Bang—!

"Kyaaaaagh!!!"

"A gun! Someone fired a gun!!"

"Run!! Run for your lives—!!"

The welcoming crowd, who had been waving their Japanese flags only moments before, scattered headlong for the station exits, each intent on saving their own skin. Japanese flags rained down onto the platform floor like falling blossoms, and where they landed, the ground beneath the waiting locomotive began to transform—red stains blooming across the white surface like spots on a whale's skin.

"Your, Your Excellency!"

"A doctor! Somebody fetch a doctor!"

"Now see here. He... he can still be saved, can't he? Yes? Please, tell me he can!"

"...I'm afraid not. All three bullets struck vital points."

Coughing up mouthfuls of blood, Ito did not even last thirty minutes before boarding his transfer train from this world to the next.

Pandemonium. No word described the scene more precisely.

And whenever things descend into this kind of chaos, one thing invariably follows.

"You روسکي dogs! How could you bungle your duties so badly that a catastrophe like this befalls us?!"

"What did you say, you insufferable Japanese monkey? The least you could do is speak Russian."

Blame. Who bore the responsibility?

I turned away from the platform and spoke to Jeomsan.

"Jeomsan, pull the men back."

"Ye-yes? But sir, an incident has just occurred! I clearly heard gunshots—"

"And what exactly are we supposed to do about it? If we get involved now, the Japanese will simply pin the whole thing on us."

"That's... true."

Jeomsan considered for a moment, then nodded.

"Understood. But what will you do, Major?"

"I'm going to make sure some people can't go spouting nonsense. Don't withdraw—hold formation where I can see you."

Jeomsan nodded once more, then traced circles in the air with his hand, barking orders. I watched the murmuring soldiers assemble, then turned on my heel and walked toward the Russian contingent with my hands clasped behind my back.

"Cyka. Что это, блядь, такое?"

Ahem.

The Russian officers, deep in conversation among themselves, turned at my cough.

"Can you speak English?"

"...Yes."

No wonder they carried themselves with such unshakable poise even amid this train wreck—they really were aristocrats. And the nobility of this era, as a matter of course, spoke at minimum three languages: their own, French, and English.

I deliberately opened my mouth in a stiff, clipped British accent—one calculated to put them at ease.

"A pleasure. Major Theodore Li, of the Fengtian Army."

"...My, my. To think there was an educated man even among the Chinese troops. Where did you study, may I ask?"

From the Netflix Sherlock. It made the overnight shifts go by surprisingly fast.

"Haha, here and there. If the gentlemen of Saint Petersburg say so, then the money I spent on it was well worth it."

"Haha, quite the charmer, aren't you, Major?"

"More so than the Japanese, at any rate."

"HAHAHA! Well said!"

The easiest way to befriend anyone, after all, is to tear into someone you both despise. And when that someone fought you in a war not long ago, and spent your joint operation spraying dung everywhere?

Oh my goodness gracious! The results were spectacular!

"TheJapanesearrogantpettyandquicktopulltheirswordsoveranythingIcan'ttellwhetherthey'remarket thugsorsoldiers—"

"Ahem. Quite right."

"True enough, they pulled that nonsense with our Russian Army too. I can't even imagine the filth they spewed at the Chinese."

The Russian officers chuckled, then addressed me directly.

"So. What business brings you to us?"

"It would appear the former Prime Minister is dead. May I ask how the Russian Army intends to proceed?"

"Well, it's no trouble of ours. Close-protection duty was a task the Japanese snatched up by insisting on it, mind you. They say the assassin didn't fire from long range with a rifle—he shot a pistol right in front of the man. Then it's hardly our jurisdiction. If the Japanese have an ounce of sense left, they can't blame us."

"I see. But are the Japanese really going to be that rational?"

"What do you mean by that?"

They asked with genuine puzzlement on their faces.

"Think about it. Their protectee is dead, so the Japanese officer in charge of security is probably out of his mind with panic right about now."

"That's his own karma to bear."

"In this world, the people willing to say 'that is my own karma, not your fault' are exceedingly, exceedingly rare."

Which is exactly why Jesus said, "Wow, you people are utterly hopeless. Fine, I'll just carry it all myself," and took every sin of mankind upon His shoulders.

Whether they caught my meaning or not, the Russian officers' faces hardened.

"...You believe the Japanese officers will try to dump the blame on us?"

"Our necks are on the chopping block either way, so why not gamble on that one-percent chance of survival?"

"Hmph. Let them try. ...Incidentally, why are you telling us all this?"

"Why? Because it's useful."

Shall we be temporary allies, you and I?

"How about we shove a nice big serving of humiliation down the Japanese' throats together?"

Former Prime Minister of Japan.

Minister of Home Affairs and Minister of Foreign Affairs.

President of the Rikken Seiyūkai and Lord President of the Privy Council.

Member of the House of Peers and its first President.

Director-General of the Ceremonial Research Bureau and first Resident-General of Korea.

All of it—gone. Dead.

Killed by whom? By some vagrant Korean with nothing but a pistol in his hand. And not from some distant sniper's nest—he trotted right up and went bang, bang, bang.

And that wasn't all. Among the others shot—wounded, yes, but shot all the same—were the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Consul General to Harbin, the private secretary to the Lord Keeper of the Privy Seal, and a director of the South Manchuria Railway.

Translated into twenty-first-century Korean terms: the Chief Secretary to the President, a Korail board director, and a senior diplomat had all been shot.

An unambiguous, catastrophic failure of protection—one not even a single syllable of excuse could possibly excuse.

"······."

"······."

The Japanese officers responsible for close protection sat with ashen faces, lips twitching. Not one of them dared speak, but the thoughts firing through their neurons were all variations on a theme.

'Shit shit shit shit shit shit shit—'

'We're fucked we're fucked we're fucked we're fucked—'

'I want to crawl into a mouse hole—I don't care if it's a country mouse or a city mouse, give me the country mouse, PLEASE give me the country mouse—'

At last, the officer seated in the place of honor opened his mouth.

"...So."

His voice cracked, frayed nerves raw.

"What do we do now?"

"······."

"······."

SLAM!

The desk he'd struck shuddered.

"Did you all swallow a mute potion with your breakfast this morning, you imbeciles?!"

"No, sir!"

"Then then then, give me a brilliant solution, ANY solution! Or would you all rather commit seppuku together—?!"

One officer raised his hand.

"In that case, might I suggest we simply dump the entire responsibility onto someone else?"

"Onto whom?"

First Lieutenant Tanaka—the very man who had once barked at Major Lee Tae-oh of a foreign army to hand over his troops—answered with steely resolve.

Evening.

Once a provisional investigative committee had been set up at the Japanese Consulate in Harbin, I attended as the representative of the Qing forces.

It was unavoidable. In name I was a field-grade officer, and there were precious few people in all of Manchuria who spoke foreign languages—fewer still in Harbin.

Three tables had been shoved together into a rough U-shape, and the committee was composed of officers and bureaucrats from the various powers, plus—on the Japanese side—a director of the South Manchuria Railway.

And who was I seated with?

Nobody. Just me and my briefcase.

Harbin was where Japan's sphere, the South Manchuria Railway, met Russia's sphere, the Chinese Eastern Railway. The Qing had long since lost all influence here. They didn't even have a local official left.

"Then let us begin by sketching out the outlines of the incident."

The Russian bureaucrats opened the proceedings, drawing on the testimony they had gathered.

"The assassin: Thomas An Jung-geun. Concealed among the crowd of Japanese well-wishers, he waited for the moment former Prime Minister Ito emerged, then fired three shots. The former Prime Minister died on the spot. The assassin has refused to say whether he has accomplices, but we surmise he was likely a lone wolf."

"A lone wolf? You mean to say he acted alone?"

"The weapon was a modern Belgian-made pistol, but in an age of such frequent international exchange as ours, one can hardly conclude the existence of accomplices from that alone. The cigar I'm smoking right now, for instance, was imported from Cuba—by way of the United States."

Frankly, an "investigative committee" in this era had nothing like twenty-first-century forensic science. It was little more than pooling whatever happened to be collected at the scene.

"For anything more detailed, we will need to send him to the prison at Lushun and interrogate him."

The Russians obviously wanted to wash their hands of the whole thing—any fool could see that. Hadn't it been less than five years since the war ended?

The head of the very nation they'd recently fought was dead? And it wasn't their doing?

That was like walking down the street and having a free bottle of cider fall from the heavens.

And the Japanese?

"Interrogate?! IN-TER-RO-GATE?! If he won't give up information, then seize that vagrant Korean and flog him on the spot! What is this circus?!"

"Hand over custody of that An Jung-geun to us. Immediately!"

What did you expect. Hysterics.

Granted, only the military was shrieking—the bureaucrats and the Manchuria Railway director kept quiet. Why? Because their own necks were on the line, and their feet were suddenly toasty.

The Russian side, measured and calm throughout. The Japanese officers, roaring themselves hoarse. And me, sitting back and enjoying the comedy.

Eventually, one of the bellowing Japanese officers stood up.

That bastard... isn't that the one who picked a fight with me before? Tanaka, wasn't it?

"Everyone's making a racket. Have you nothing to say, Chinaman?"

"...Me? You mean me?"

"Yes. You."

I scratched my cheek, deliberately inviting the bait, and answered with perfect composure.

"Nope."

"Hmph. Just as I expected."

The man snorted through his nose and pointed at me for all to see.

"Look at him! Behaving like this even in a solemn gathering such as this! Where do you suppose the cause of this assassination lies? With the Chinamen, that's where! Had the Chinese given their full sincerity to the joint protection detail, could the assassin ever have reached His Excellency Ito?!"

"N-now, hold on, Lieutenant Tanaka. Why this sudden outburst—"

The Japanese bureaucrats opened their mouths, unable to hide their dismay, but their voices were quickly drowned out by a louder one.

"Ahem! Lieutenant Tanaka is quite right! Had the Chinamen done their share, how could such a catastrophe have occurred?! One of our own officers was even struck by the assassin's bullet and wounded!"

The moment a mustachioed Japanese field officer—Kaiser Bill mustache and all—roared his agreement, the other officers joined in like a rehearsed chorus, spewing one accusation after another.

Tedious and pedantic. Nothing worth listening to.

Something about the lazy Chinamen, blah blah blah.

Yeah, I'm Korean, you idiots. Insult Chinks all you like—it does zero damage to me.

I understood their game well enough. Carve up the blame; if they fail, they lose their heads; if they succeed, they escape accountability.

Shall we enjoy your all-out Thelma-and-Louise run, gentlemen?

Not a single inch of this deviated from my predictions. How delightful.

"Very well. So it's all my fault, is that it?"

"It is. Now take full responsibility at once—"

"My, my. Going to such lengths just because you don't want to commit seppuku."

"What did you just say?! Speak Japanese or a common language, Chinaman!"

While the officer shrieked, the Manchuria Railway director—who understood Chinese—simply lowered his head in silence.

Embarrassing, no doubt.

I hoisted my briefcase onto the table and dumped its contents across it in a cascade.

"What... what is all that?"

"A written record of everything the Japanese Army has done under this so-called 'joint protection operation.'"

"A written record?"

That's right. Paperwork.

The Japanese bureaucrats seemed to grasp the implication, and squeezed their eyes shut.

And who am I? A man from the supreme bureaucracy of all bureaucracies, the Republic of Korea Armed Forces, who was once offered the general-officer track. Naturally, my habit was to document anything that smelled remotely fishy or grimy and get it stamped. In a world without Galaxy call-recording, the only thing protecting me was thorough documentation.

I read each line aloud in English, so the Russians could hear too.

"······."

"Where did the assassin fire from? From a distance of no more than five paces, was it not? Close protection was the Japanese Army's assignment. So why are you pinning this on us?"

"Furthermore, the assassin must surely have passed through several stations on his way to Harbin. And who conducted the inspections at those stations? The Japanese Army, was it not?"

"Tell me—do you people have any shame at all? Or did you leave it soaking in Tokyo Bay before you came here?"

Ahh, refreshing.

Against a blame-shifter, the answer is always the same: crawl through everything they've ever written and beat them with the facts.

Bureaucracy and paperwork, greatest combo in history!

"July 15th, 1909. Lieutenant Tanaka of the Imperial Japanese Army subjected Major Theodore Li of the Fengtian Army to abusive language in a private setting. The abuse included a demand for 'command authority' over a battalion, as well as—"

"July 20th, 1909. A private first class of the Imperial Japanese Army picked a quarrel with a soldier of the Fengtian Army. A Japanese officer then assaulted the Fengtian soldier."

"August 3rd, 1909. At a commanders' conference convened to draft the joint protection operation plan, Colonel Zhang Zuolin, commander of the Fengtian Local Brigade, was insulted by a Japanese Army captain. The insult included, among other things, the phrase 'bandit bastards who don't know how to do anything'—"

"Shut your mouth, you Chinaman bastard!"

"Does the Japanese Army have no instruction in courtesy? Other nation's army or not, for a commissioned officer to hurl such profanity at a field-grade officer..."

As I slid my gaze across the Russian officers, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠they too moved to lay down covering fire.

"I sympathize with Major Theodore Li. Despite the war between our two nations, the Imperial Russian Army gave your country every assistance—yet your officers ignored our help or dismissed it as useless interference."

"Quite so. At the request of the Manchuria Railway director sitting right there, we likewise dispatched an entire unit to Caigou Station to stand guard."

"Besides, it was our Russian gendarmes who arrested that An Jung-geun fellow in the first place. ...Just what, exactly, did the Japanese Army contribute to this incident?"

"Contribute? Oh, they contributed plenty! A failed protection detail!"

"HAHAHA!!"

"WAHAHAHA!!"

Being able to legally humiliate Japan without lifting a finger—there was not a single reason on earth for the Russian officers, whose pride had been ground into the dirt by the war, to pass it up.

"...Let us adjourn today's session here for the time being."

In the end, the Japanese bureaucrats presiding over the meeting, having sold their dignity at a fire-sale price, could only sigh and dissolve the session.

"Chikushō. What a mess, thanks to those idiotic uniformed fools."

"You're telling me. If only they'd kept their mouths shut and stood quietly."

They had grown thoroughly sick of it too.

Ever since the Russo-Japanese War, the soldiers' arrogance had soared higher than Mount Fuji, and the diplomats and South Manchuria Railway staff alike had been at their wits' end. This incident was, beyond any doubt, a blunder of the Empire itself—and on top of it, this circus.

Assassinations happened often enough in Europe; alone, it might not have been a disgrace. But thanks to the morons in uniform, it had become one in a single afternoon.

"All that talk of bushidō, and it seems they have no stomach for seppuku."

"What, you expect a man with the head and the guts for it to be posted in this backwater Manchuria instead of the Imperial General Headquarters back home?"

"Fair point."

With that, the bureaucrats filed out of the conference room.

"Well, things seem settled for now. We shall take our leave as well."

The Russians followed them out.

"From now on, make a habit of putting things in writing, Major. The Japanese officers we met during the war were sharp enough, but the ones left behind in Manchuria afterward are a sorry lot."

The Chinese officer too muttered something or other in Chinese, and then he was gone.

The empty conference room. Only the Japanese officers remained, standing dumbfounded, waiting for something.

"Major, how did it go?"

"How did it go? It went well. All settled."

"Phew."

Jeomsan swept a hand over his head in relief.

"The men?"

"We gave them dinner and put them to bed for now."

"Good. Their health better hold up until we're back in Fengtian."

I adopted the most insufferably arrogant, slouching posture imaginable—both hands buried in my coat pockets.

"Hey. You two lieutenants."

"Ye-yes? You mean us, sir?"

"Come here. Кэм."

"...Kem?"

"Кэм. It means 'come here' in Russian. Over here."

Du Lisan, standing behind Jeomsan, stepped forward wearing the expression of a man thinking, where the hell ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠did that foreign gibberish come from?

"Take it."

"Sir?"

The moment I pulled something from my coat pocket and tossed it over, Du Lisan's eyes went wide as saucers.

"Th-this is—?"

"I looked for something better, but it's not on the market yet. Give it a year or two and it'll be out. Until then, what I just gave you will do fine."

Du Lisan picked up the Colt M1903 Pocket Hammerless, turned it over in his hands, slid it into the holster and drew it out again, and finally let an awed breath escape him.

"This is... this is art. Whoever made this had to be a genius."

Well, obviously. John Browning designed it.

Once a few refinements are made to this model down the line, it becomes the legendary M1911. How good is that? A masterpiece that milked a full century of service, well past the 2020s.

I slung an arm around Du Lisan's shoulder.

"Now then. You're coming somewhere with me."

"Sir? Where on earth are you going in the middle of all this chaos?"

Jeomsan's mouth fell open in horror.

"There's something I need to do. If the Japanese come asking, just play dumb—tell them you don't speak Japanese. I'll be back by tomorrow."

"This is driving me insane, honestly."

Leaving Jeomsan clutching his head, I shifted my gaze to Du Lisan.

"You in?"

"Yes, sir!"

Attaboy.

Just in case, I checked my ammunition pouch and the revolver at my hip, then mounted my horse. Jeomsan hurried over and stuffed jerky and other odds and ends into my saddlebags, muttering all the while.

"Damn it. If you must go, at least tell me where."

"Caigou."

"Caigou? Caigou Station? Why there, of all places?"

"Because there are people there I need to go pick up."

"Sir? Aren't all our soldiers right here?"

I pulled several documents from my briefcase—ones I'd set apart from the rest—and handed them to Jeomsan.

Personal record forms, with the identity sections left blank.

"What are these?"

"Fill them in for me. Make something up. Two men, late twenties."

"...God, this is insane."

Rather than argue back and forth, I looked Jeomsan dead in the eye and spoke quietly.

"Ma Jeomsan. Do you trust me?"

"Sir? Of course I do."

"Then that's enough."

"...Damn it. Understood, sir."

I nodded, then took up the reins and hauled them hard.

As far as I knew, the one arrested at the site of An Jung-geun's operation was not An Jung-geun alone.

I could not twist the death of Ito Hirobumi. History was far too heavy for that.

But neither could I stand by and let patriots' blood spill across this world for nothing.

So I would save them. That much, I owed them.

I wheeled my horse's head toward the south.

"Hyah! Let's go!"