Collision (4)
“This is an outrageous demand!”
“…I know, I know.”
Those filthy Russians threw out a number that’d drain the entire national treasury.
“And you just walked away after hearing that nonsense, Foreign Minister?”
Facing Prime Minister Yamagata’s fury, Aoki Shuzo clung to reason.
Is it really just about money? Did this blow up just because the crown prince is pissed?
It’s clear this was the act of a lone delusional maniac.
No guns were used, no co-conspirators have emerged.
Yet Admiral Lomen is hell-bent on escalating it.
The naive crown prince’s anger isn’t the issue. Lomen and those other Russians are the real culprits.
Fifty million? Sixty million? Why else would they so casually toss out such an astronomical figure?
“Prime Minister, this is a pretext for war.”
“So what? With His Majesty already heading to Kyoto, are we supposed to turn him back because we can’t pay?”
“What they really want is war.”
Aoki had stormed out of the meeting with Lomen, incensed by the absurd demand. But on reflection, they know it’s excessive.
“As soon as I mentioned His Majesty going to Kyoto, they threw out that ridiculous number. They never intended to settle this quietly!”
He’d been naive, thinking he could smooth things over. The moment the incident happened, they were already painting a bigger picture.
They’re scared of our empire’s rise and want to crush us while they can.
Or maybe, with the Trans-Siberian Railway still under construction, they know their influence in the Far East is waning.
“…You really think they want war, Foreign Minister?”
“Dmitri, the hardline anti-Japan ambassador, even he backed off at the word ‘war.’ But now the military’s got the perfect excuse and opportunity. The young crown prince is furious, which is enough to sway Alexander III, and it’s a golden chance for them—especially with their endless armored cruisers.”
“You’re saying a mere admiral like Lomen could dream up something this grand? Does that make sense?”
Aoki had mulled this over countless times before meeting the prime minister. No matter how narrow the communication channels or how perfect the pretext, it’s too much for one admiral to orchestrate.
The room was filled with people staring at Aoki—soldiers, politicians, nobles, all high-ranking cabinet members.
No one’s caught on?
That made Aoki’s chest tighten even more. The situation had escalated this far, and still, no one saw the truth.
Why was Dmitri, who’d meddle at every turn, staying silent?
Why was Lomen, of all people, fanning the flames?
And the crown prince’s earlier statements?
The signals were everywhere.
“It seems… our plan to ally with Britain might’ve leaked.”
“What did you say?”
To counter the Russian Empire, Japan had to join hands with Britain.
Last year, as the Trans-Siberian Railway construction kicked off, Japan had quietly proposed an alliance to Britain.
They were lukewarm, so the Foreign Ministry hadn’t pushed further, but they hadn’t given up either. Who’d have thought Russia would catch wind of it?
“Dmitri, here in Japan, probably didn’t know. But someone in Russia’s inner circles did.”
“Do you understand? This isn’t about Lomen’s demanded sum or the crown prince’s feelings. They genuinely want war.”
Aoki thought declaring this would feel cathartic, but his vision only darkened.
“Ha, running around like this makes me feel like a fool. They never planned to end this here. If we fight Russia, our chances of winning…”
“None.”
“Right, not now.”
It was a hair’s breadth. If they’d let Lomen leave? He’d return with a fleet.
Let that happen?
There’s one way to nip this conspiracy in the bud.
Accept the damned offer they’re hoping we’ll reject.
Aoki, the brilliant Foreign Minister, had pinpointed the situation and solution, but…
Damn it…
The bitterness of groveling as the weaker party was unbearable.
As a history buff, meeting historical figures—good or bad—is thrilling.
Bicorne hat, Western-style uniform.
My impression of Emperor Meiji, decked out like a marshal, was… surprisingly underwhelming.
Not just because he was smaller than me, but because the ruler of 100 million subjects seemed oddly timid.
I’m supposed to be the timid crown prince, yet the Emperor outdoes me? That’s almost funny.
Eight days after the May 11 incident, I finally reappeared, prompted by the Emperor’s official apology.
A lot happened in between—over 10,000 condolence telegrams from across Japan, a woman committing suicide to atone, supposedly.
I wondered if Japan was stalling to keep us here, but that didn’t add up. Separately, Interior Minister Saigo, in charge of police, security, health, and local governance, resigned voluntarily, citing moral responsibility.
I don’t care about that.
Vengeance? Nope.
Justice? Nah.
Greed? Oh, yeah.
By that logic, the show unfolding before me isn’t really my concern… but I smiled innocently anyway.
Because I got paid yesterday.
…They’re actually giving it. Why?
Sixty million yen? Did Lomen raise the price?
I-I was planning to negotiate it down…
Four-year installment plan, 15 million yen annually in May.
The Emperor’s reading from a script, with an interpreter quietly translating—apologies, compensation, hopes for good relations.
Beyond Meiji, Aoki Shuzo’s expression looks grim, but it’s an agreed sum, so they’ll pay, right?
A photographer snaps us talking. I nod with a pained smile.
Later, at another event, Lomen received the Order of the Rising Sun, second class—the second-highest honor, with a pension.
“Is it okay to accept this? They were glaring daggers at me.”
“It’s gold, isn’t it? Sell it. Oh, return the pension. I’ll cover you separately.”
I also had to give the rickshaw puller who helped subdue Tsuda a St. Anna medal. But our protocol demanded a 1,000-yen award.
Those bastards. Same rank, and they give 36 yen, while ours is a lifetime pension.
The next day’s papers spun it differently: I accepted the apology, and Japan, ever generous, handed over compensation.
The long show finally closed.
I don’t know how much truth will leak, but I doubt the aftermath will be clean.
Russo-Japanese relations already seem pretty sour.
The morning we sailed for Vladivostok.
Leaning on the deck, eyes closed, feeling the rising sun and sea breeze, memories of three weeks in Japan flooded back.
Good memories.
Painful ones.
Grateful ones.
Takehito sent a gift for my twenty-third birthday while I was resting in the cabin. Porcelain, a sword, all sorts.
I believe he sent it out of genuine joy for my birthday.
My forehead still stings when I touch it, but it’s barely painful if I leave it alone.
There’ll be a scar, but what can you do? It’s over. Time to move on.
I hope my dear Japanese friends learn this positivity.
I left all my emotions in the past.
“…Ugh, stop! Stop!”
“Halt the carriage!”
“Urk!”
We arrived in Vladivostok on June 2.
Today’s August 16.
“Your Highness, stopping only delays us.”
“Tch, I know, I know. But this barely-paved road’s gonna kill me before we get there.”
“Just hold out today. Less than three hours, and people are waiting in St. Petersburg.”
“Ugh, always nagging.”
I thought Lomen would stay with the ships, but no.
He’s been my safety officer from the start, so he’s coming with me to St. Petersburg.
From Vladivostok to the capital by land: three months.
“This country’s insane…”
Three months and two weeks, to be exact.
I wanted the shortest route, but as the crown prince on a “world tour,” I had to attend events like the Blagoveshchensk triumphal arch ceremony or give speeches to settlers in the middle of nowhere. Exhausting status.
The journey back was hell. Now I get why people didn’t travel in this era.
“Lomen, if this was winter, you said it’d take over three months?”
“That’s for a successful crossing. If you’re injured or stuck in snow, it could take four months or more.”
“…”
Now I understand why Gulag laborers were thrown into railway construction. Connecting by unpaved roads is madness—railways?
Never again. I’m not setting foot in the Far East until that railway’s done.
I also felt firsthand why Russia lost the Russo-Japanese War.
Fighting on the other side of the globe would leave you half-dead just getting there. Moving troops is hard enough—supplies? The soldiers probably wanted to die.
But everything has an end. Grinding through months, we reached Europe.
St. Petersburg, the empire’s capital.
“No way, no way.”
“Yes, protocol demands it.”
Ugh, I knew it—the cavalry lined up from the city gates.
This damn protocol torments me to the end.
Citizens came out to gawk, and the carriage cut through the city slowly, aiming to wrap up before sunset.
I don’t know how time passed after that.
Dragged around, doing as told, night fell, and when I came to…
“So, you’re back.”
“…Father.”
Alone with my father for the first time in a year.
“Well, how was it, leaving the palace to see the world?”
“Vast. Much bigger than our empire.”
His voice, rough as gravel, betrayed his poor health.
A giant, as I remembered. Even seated, he towered over the maids, his hand on the chair larger than most faces.
He looked like me but exuded a wild aura.
I knew he valued family, but this father-son talk felt stilted.
“I heard about Asia.”
“Yes, that—”
“You subdued an armed swordsman bare-handed.”
“Well, yes.”
“The you I know would’ve screamed and fled down an alley.”
For a moment, the sick man’s eyes pierced through me.
Cold, direct.
I met his gaze, recalling childhood memories of him.
“…You don’t run anymore. Come here.”
My tense body moved toward him.
He wrapped me in his massive arms.
“Welcome back, son.”
“Oh…”
A strange feeling stirred inside.
The question I’d pondered on the way to the capital resurfaced.
Yoo Ji-chan and Nikolai Alexandrovich. Who am I?
Did two people merge inexplicably, or did one’s memories absorb the other?
I still don’t know, but one thing’s clear.
Both are undeniably me.
Right now, I am Nikolai Alexandrovich.
