One-Eyed Parrot (2)

This spring, staring at the parched farmland, Sergei Witte had a gut feeling.

A lot of gold’s about to flow out of the country.

The famine this year would likely push back the gold standard reform—his top priority—by a few years.

In this era, a collapsing gold standard means getting sidelined in global trade.

So, what’s the most critical thing for internal reforms? Obviously, minimizing external threats.

Sure, Russia’s poking at Central Asia and the Middle East has Britain in a frenzy, but that’s been dressed up as Alexander III’s grand achievement, so there’s no stopping it.

And now, piling Far East ambitions on top of that?

Overreach. Utterly insane overreach.

True to his bloodline, the crown prince, now holding tens of millions of rubles, was dead-set on pouring it into the Far East.

“Finance Minister, I see hope in the Far East. You probably think I’m needlessly provoking China and Japan, don’t you? Especially now, with Bismarck gone and alliances up in the air.”

“If you know that, please—”

“Witte. Minister of ministers, what’s the most important quality for a Finance Minister?”

At twenty-three, Witte had to abandon his doctorate due to family finances. He’d swallowed tears and given up academia for lack of money.

“I don’t know.”

“Closeness to the Tsar. Isn’t that hilarious?”

Yet somehow, every word from this crown prince—who’s never known want—dripped with desperation.

“Are you… saying my loyalty to you should outweigh my duty to the empire?”

“No, no. You know Ivan, my old tutor? The current Finance Minister?”

“Ivan Vyshnegradsky…”

“Why’s Ivan about to get sacked? Just because he’s a liberal? Or because he couldn’t stop this year’s famine?”

Looking back, Ivan wasn’t that critical of capitalism. He gave his all to his role.

The famine worsened by grain exports? He had to sell everything to tackle the empire’s chronic deficits.

Criticized by his protégés, betrayed, isolated by the press and nobles? That’s just part of being Finance Minister.

The crown prince’s reason was simpler.

“Father just let him go. Didn’t give him power beyond Finance Minister, nor a role beyond fixing deficits.”

That’s why Ivan, Nikolai’s tutor and Finance Minister, fell so hard.

His reforms lost the Tsar’s backing.

“It’s a shame, but Father’s quite ill. Weaker than before I left. That’s why people keep coming to me. But I’m here not just because Father likes you.”

Now it clicked—Nikolai wasn’t here for permission or review.

“I just want you to make what I want possible.”

“…I’m not your secretary. I can’t grant such requests.”

“Oh, did that sound like pressure? Don’t misunderstand. I’m not emperor yet. Think of this as a deal, an offer. Help me, and I’ll help you.”

His sincerity shone through the casual words, confusing Witte further.

If Nikolai wanted something, he should’ve gone to the Tsar—faster, surer.

Coming to Witte meant even the Tsar couldn’t solve it.

“…What did you see in the Far East?”

What turned the naive crown prince so radical upon his return?

After a brief pause, Nikolai answered shortly.

“War.”

“…”

The calm reply made Witte realize.

Nikolai was mad. The scar on his forehead may have healed, but his brain was clearly festering.

There’s no sign of war in the Far East.

…He looks like he’s already lost.

This is the same guy who just vowed to pour his personal fortune into Far East development.

War and development.

Defeat in the Far East.

It’s all nonsense, illogical.

Who would defeat the Russian Empire? With the great powers watching, who’d dare dominate the Far East?

Yet Nikolai was convinced, without evidence.

“The choice is yours, bearing the burden of reform. But protecting the empire is mine.”

A warning, no less.

And so ended Witte’s meeting with Nikolai.

Despite his bold entrance, Nikolai left empty-handed.

“…War, war.”

At least his delusion lodged itself in Witte’s mind.

Wilhelm II, starting his personal rule, just rejected renewing the German-Russian Reinsurance Treaty. And now war in the Far East?

“…It won’t happen. It can’t.”

The empire, mid-reform, couldn’t handle such a catastrophe.

Even if war broke out in the Far East, unless it was the empire’s fight…

The empire shouldn’t get involved.

“No dice, huh.”

My plea to use my personal funds for Far East development, backed by state policy and budget, must’ve sounded like “the crown prince’s irrational orders” to Witte.

To him, focused solely on internal reform, external matters were off the table.

It’s probably not just Witte.

My father, aligned with Bismarck’s diplomacy, preaches peace with the West.

The Foreign Ministry’s only known physical annexation, not modern colonialism.

The Finance Ministry pushes reforms with tax revenue alone.

No one gets what I’m pushing for.

But I know.

Even if we’re choking on major reforms and can’t look outward, the empire’s fate will be decided in the Far East.

“Don’t you agree, sir?”

“Your Highness, that again? Is the Far East as fertile as our black soil, or overflowing with gold like the rumors?”

“Come on, you’re supposed to back me up.”

“I’m too old to want anything. As an economist, developing the Far East before the Trans-Siberian Railway is done is wildly inefficient.”

“I’m saying we need the bare minimum foundation—troop garrisons, a fleet, military district reorganization…”

“Why’s it all military? Sounds like a money pit.”

My childhood economics tutor, now a scholar assisting with practical matters, Nikolai Bunge.

Even Bunge, my closest ally who’s all in for me, balks at my Far East plans.

“Increasing military districts in Eastern Siberia would hinder development, especially financially.”

“Sigh…”

Fine, if the former Finance Minister and empire’s top scholar says so, I guess that’s that.

I’m not confident I can out-logic Bunge.

Not just him—every conversation goes the same way.

The moment I bring up Far East development or reinforcement, it’s a barrage of Why? Now? What about other priorities?

The only thing allowed is using Japan’s compensation to settle immigrants, like a kid buying candy with pocket money.

Even that’s running dry—Tolstoy’s throwing a fit that this year’s funds are nearly gone and will be next month.

“So, I don’t touch my personal funds, but state policy’s a no-go.”

Maybe because of France’s decadent monarchy, the Romanov finances are strictly separate from the government’s.

I get a set amount for imperial upkeep, but that’s not personal spending money.

“Yeah, I knew it wouldn’t be easy.”

It took me three months to get from Vladivostok to the capital, didn’t it?

Pouring resources into such a distant place must sound like colonizing the moon to them.

But giving up’s too soon.

“So, let’s prep for when the Trans-Siberian Railway’s done!”

“I heard Your Highness was pushing for more troops in the Amur Military District—”

“Hey, hold on!”

“Was that wrong?”

“…Word travels fast. What, are you a Duma rep for the people?”

“I’m a peasant rep, not a worker! I’m off!”

“The Far East will overflow with migrant farmers! Hey, don’t run!”

“They don’t vote!”

As the officially recognized next emperor, who’d dare oppose my first big idea?

“Why’s the Far East so vulnerable despite the population boom? I thought it over, and it’s the quality. We need your help.”

“You’re saying it could thrive commercially even without the railway?”

“Exactly! Resources, manpower, active trade—does any part of our empire trade with America as much as the Far East?”

“True, trade with Japan and the U.S. has grown there… but, Your Highness.”

“What?”

“This is the Education Ministry. Local education’s the state Duma’s job.”

“…”

Until the railway’s done, the only option is to strengthen the region itself.

“Witte, you’re my only hope! It’s our land—give it the basics! Education, commerce, security, free trade! Allocate the budget now! Planned cities are the future!”

“Argh! The Tsar won’t approve! I keep saying, there’s no budget!”

“It’s practically lawless out there! Make the settlers restless—turn them into a diaspora like the Jews. Support a migrant brigade. Weren’t the Cossack regiments born that way?”

“Six years mandatory service, nine in reserves—who farms then? Armies eat money. No way!”

Now officials clutch their papers and bolt at the sight of me.

Is it just me, or are fewer people crossing my path in the halls?

“…You’re my last shot.”

“Huh?”

“Lomen Nikolai Nikolaevich.”

“Yes, Your Highness.”

“You know Baron Andrey Koff, right?”

“My father’s close with him. I greeted him in Vladivostok too.”

“Your family’s got five active generals, and with your connections, you reach the whole army, right?”

“Well… yes?”

“Perfect. I’ve got a mission for you. Tell the Far East governor to boost the military district’s forces. I’ll fund it with my personal money.”

“Out of nowhere?”

“I’ve thought it over—whatever else, we need more troops there.”

“Your Highness, the governor boosting forces on his own could draw the Interior Ministry’s Okhrana. Stop putting me in danger. I just want a quiet life.”

Damn it, this won’t work, that won’t work. What can a crown prince do in this country?

Isn’t Russia a centralized autocracy? Why can’t I do anything?

Damn it… If I were forty, maybe.

No matter how loud I shout, it’s just “the inexperienced crown prince’s reckless plan.”

And standing out in cabinet meetings? Not a chance.

Among the empire’s sharpest minds, how much could I shine? I just read my assigned railway reports when it’s my turn.

Everyone’s loyal to my father, not me.

Naturally, the grand plans of a twenty-three-year-old crown prince, unable to wield real power, are just pipe dreams.

Still, my summer-to-fall meddling wasn’t entirely fruitless.

One day, half-protesting about the Far East, my father summoned me.

“Son, I hear you’re keen on the Far East.”

“Yes, Father.”