One-Eyed Parrot (3)
Throughout my world tour and the grueling journey back to St. Petersburg, I’d been sketching out plans.
Even with my average brain, I squeezed every bit of knowledge—real or half-baked—onto dozens of pages.
Sadly, I had to scrap it all when I was ordered to enlist.
It’s ironic, but as a crown prince so close to power, my hands and feet are tied. I realized that painfully.
My father, the ministries, the military—everyone tells me the same thing.
Stop meddling and stay quiet.
Focus on the railway duties I’ve been assigned.
The demand was so forceful that I was sent to a world of ranks and orders.
By my father’s command, I was shipped off to the Petersburg Military District, just half a day from the capital.
There, I joined an infantry regiment as a junior lieutenant.
Fine, enlistment’s one thing.
But why commission me as a regular lieutenant?
Three months later, I jumped two ranks to captain.
By winter’s end and spring’s arrival, it was time to swap seasonal uniforms—and my rank changed again, to lieutenant colonel.
“Is this some kind of rank-tasting tour?”
Climbing from junior lieutenant to lieutenant colonel in a year feels absurd…
But, surprisingly, this was standard for royals in this era. Those far from the succession line might stay career soldiers, but even the rest dip their toes in the military.
My military education? Just the basics from childhood tutors. I’m woefully underqualified for field command or staff work.
So what?
“Hey, here comes the Earth HQ’s chief aide!”
“…Lieutenant Colonel Nicholas, what’s with that tone?”
“What? It’s respect for a colonel mixed with a dash of camaraderie.”
Just piling up hollow ranks.
“Seriously, is it a lack of prejudice or…”
“A lack of manners?”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“Ugh, ranks are the real gangsters here, huh?”
“Lineage is the bigger gangster.”
Even in the army, my title of Tsesarevich (Crown Prince) follows me like a shadow.
Meaning? Forget blending in or building camaraderie.
If this life at least helped my future, I’d cope, but this era’s military is just not my scene.
The fact that parade formations—who lines up fastest—fill up officer evaluations is already a mess.
Training’s a hands-on experience, and most of my duties are accelerated officer courses. I spend my days as the regiment’s oddball, parading around for inspections and demonstrations.
“So, what’s up?”
“…You’re being transferred, Lieutenant Colonel.”
“Again? Why?”
“Why? You’re really asking? The best logistics officers in the unit resigned en masse!”
“Oh, that job switch?”
“The whole unit knows you encouraged their resignations!”
Didn’t that end with me confined for a week?
“Why bring it up now? The empire guarantees freedom of occupation.”
“Wow, really…”
“Be honest, you know it. Those talents were too good to rot here.”
“So you sent them all to the Far East?”
“Hey! Post-serfdom, the empire guarantees freedom of movement!”
Rumor has it those logistics guys were all highly educated.
Sure, I just wiggle a finger, and dozens of eyes follow, but not them.
So I actively recruited them. Totally legal, totally fair.
“What, jealous of a colonel’s juicy pension? Wanna resign too?”
“…What about my superiors? Some days I wanna clear them all out.”
“They’re too old to make it to the Far East without keeling over. Mediocre skills, too.”
I’ll admit, I fed those retirees grand dreams about the Far East, but all I offered was my Tsesarevich title and money.
No coercion, no pressure in their decision to leave.
Yet another transfer? How am I supposed to make friends like this?
“There was talk about me too. I’ve only chatted with you a few times, and they’re asking if I’m leaving.”
“Tch, Chief Aide Berin, you’re not that level.”
“That stings.”
“Don’t joke with royalty—mix in some flattery next time.”
“Not like you’d take it well.”
Being royalty, not everyone who approaches me is pure-hearted.
“Anyway, where am I going?”
“This mess reached St. Petersburg. You’re being sent far—word is, to the Vilna Military District.”
“Public opinion’s not looking good.”
Last year, my Far East efforts were just immigrant support, mostly in famine-hit areas. Hardly praiseworthy.
But pulling people out of the military this year? That’s earned some flak.
Let’s see, I stopped counting after a hundred…
If they were competent, not total jerks, and had at least a higher education, I snapped them up and sent them off.
A crowd approaches from the distance, making Berin’s courtesy of tipping me off feel pointless.
“Here come the old farts.”
“Watch your words…”
Their uniforms scream higher rank than Berin. These “general” types are starting to grate on me.
They’re all either rubbing their hands for favors or showing off their supposed brilliance.
One even offered to pick out capable people for the Far East.
“This is the state of our army. If someone’s good, promote them instead of hoarding them.”
“…You’re saying that?”
“It’s patriotism. Totally justified.”
“Wow…”
The generals are close now, so I cut my chat with Berin short.
“Your Highness, you’ve likely heard, but you’ll be transferring due to a promotion.”
“Yeah, I heard. Vilna, right?”
Not a regular transfer—Vilna’s in Lithuania. Father’s basically banishing me to the German frontier.
I’ve got maybe six months left in this life, and he sends me to the place farthest from the Far East.
I aced officer training.
Lived impeccably as a soldier, not just a Tsesarevich.
But Father probably wants me out of Far East matters entirely.
Maybe he’s pissed that I’m still singing the Far East tune in the army, after pulling talent, when he sent me here to snap out of it.
“You going?”
“Yeah. Oh, Berin?”
“Yes, Lieutenant Colonel?”
“If it gets tough, write to me. You’re a bit below my standards, but your experience isn’t total garbage.”
“Your Highness!”
“Let’s go.”
Last shot. A commoner who climbed to colonel, not too rigid—I toss out the bait.
But I’m done pulling people. Any more, and this could blow up.
“Ugh, I’m gonna waste away in Vilna.”
Broad but shallow knowledge.
Zero experience.
Lacking talent.
The more this average crown prince tries to do something, the deeper Father buries me in the military.
[Nicky, my beloved son,
Though life may be hard and unbearable now, your mother always believes in you. … I ask for nothing but your safe return. Your father wishes the same.]
“Tch, even Mother’s been roped in.”
Fine, I admit it. The empire’s not crumbling yet, and I’m the one raging about a future that doesn’t fit reality.
Maybe staying quiet and obedient is the real filial duty.
So in Vilna, I’ll drop the antics and revert to the timid Nikolai—
“Welcome, sir! I’m Colonel Roman Isidorovich Kondratenko, chief aide for the Vilna Military District, assigned to guide you!”
“Right, hello. You probably know who I am, so—wait, what’s your name?”
“Colonel Roman Isidorovich Kondratenko!”
“Chief aide?”
“Yes, sir!”
Roman Isidorovich Kondratenko…
Roman.
Isidorovich.
Kondratenko.
“…Graduate of the Nikolaev Engineering Academy?”
“Yes, sir!”
“Current role?”
“Chief aide and logistics officer overseeing the district!”
After dealing with so many dud generals, the familiar name threw me off.
He seems stiff at my reaction, but he’s not as shocked as I am.
The empire’s history boasts hundreds of great commanders, but only a handful are remembered in this era.
One of them: Roman Isidorovich Kondratenko, hero of the Russo-Japanese War.
The Japanese, who lost tens of thousands to him, even built a monument in his honor as a master of defensive warfare.
“…Roman, ever thought about going to the Far East?”
I couldn’t help myself.
“Your Highness shows remarkable talent in officer training. I noticed it at the last cabinet meeting too—he’s changed. He clearly distinguishes praise from criticism on specific issues.”
“Even if it’s just proposals, not actions?”
“It wasn’t a decision based on personal liking.”
“Did the world tour turn him into a study machine?”
“No, sir. Professor Bunge, his economics tutor, was stunned by his knowledge.”
“Ha.”
Weak, inadequate Crown Prince Nikolai.
Unable to leave his mother’s side, trapped in the palace’s narrow world, I sent him to see the world—and he came back with more than I expected.
Alexander loved his son dearly but judged his heir as Tsar with cold clarity.
My father told me as a child I wasn’t emperor material.
Blood doesn’t lie. Nikolai, like me, grew up ordinary—neither outstanding nor exceptional.
He doesn’t rule with conviction like me or shine with versatility like his late brother.
But what can I do? He’s my beloved eldest son.
“Still, I didn’t expect this much change…”
Alexander looked at the papers in his hand.
Reports from the Okhrana, detailing Nikolai’s rants to everyone from Interior Ministry security chiefs to deputy palace officials before enlisting.
Far East development plans.
Five-year Eastern Siberia economic strategy.
Military reinforcement proposals.
U.S. trade expansion plans.
The old Nikolai, burdened by minor duties, wouldn’t have dared suggest such things.
“Not just hot air…”
“But his obsession with the Far East is concerning.”
“Agreed. I was once fixated on ships, but this is excessive. We’re barely out of deficit, pushing reforms.”
My great-grandfather tried noble reforms but was assassinated in five years. My grandfather undid those efforts. My father, the previous Tsar, abolished serfdom and vowed to improve workers’ lives but was assassinated, and his plans faded in my reign.
“…Ugh.”
“Are you alright?”
“Huff, I’m fine. Still holding on. The accident’s aftereffects linger.”
I just wanted Nikolai to inherit a safe empire, but somehow, I see seeds of a reformist monarch.
I can’t keep him buried in the army forever. As a father and Tsar, what should I do?
Even sending Nikolai to the frontier doesn’t stop my worries about him.
“Is Nikolai doing well in Vilna? I heard he got along with everyone, regardless of rank.”
“Well… the moment he arrived, he tried sending a colonel to the Far East.”
“…”
I just hope the empire doesn’t fall in my son’s era.
