Methamphetamine or Vitamin? (6)

Dismantling the mir isn’t about smashing them—it’s about creating replacements from nothing. I’m learning that the hard way.

No such thing as clocking out. As long as my eyes are open, they’re drowning in a sea of squiggly letters.

An emperor who’s family-oriented and humane is a good thing?

Bullshit. In this backward autocracy, an emperor spending time on family is just irresponsible and lazy.

The upside? My work pace is leagues faster than my clueless Crown Prince days. But without power’s backing, nothing moves.

Even after sunset, the palace stays lit up like a damn Christmas tree.

Knock knock.

“What, Witte, you still here? Come in,” I called.

“It’s, uh, me,” a small voice answered.

I thought it was an overworked bureaucrat’s feeble knock, but a petite girl pushed the door open.

Carefully closing it, she approached. Olga, my sixteen-year-old sister.

Baby fat still clings, but femininity’s creeping in.

Her unexpected arrival made me rub tired eyes and set down the papers.

“Olga, shouldn’t you be asleep? What’s up?” I asked.

“Mother’s waiting. You promised to join us for dinner, but you didn’t show…” she said.

“…”

Didn’t I say I was swamped? Mother’s still up at this hour?

Is this her protest?

But this isn’t a rebellion I can squash. Still, with papers stacked to my chin, I can’t just waltz off to shove food down my throat.

“That’s it?” I asked, instantly regretting my bureaucratic tone.

Olga squeezed her eyes shut and blurted, “A-and I want to debut in society!”

“…Oh.”

Come to think of it, I haven’t hosted a single social event since taking the throne.

Royal debutantes can’t just pop up at some ladies’ tea party. The Tsar’s supposed to throw a grand bash, and I’ve completely dropped the ball.

Even Father’s social events were for anniversaries or royals. Have I outdone his neglect?

“Hmm.”

Looking at Olga, she’s not the little sister in my memory—small, fragile. She’s grown.

Sadly, despite being siblings, we didn’t grow up together. After Father’s train accident, Olga was raised in Gatchina for safety. By the time she returned to the palace, I was in the army.

“Mikhail said it just needs your approval! He’ll help with preparations!” Olga added.

“Olga,” I said.

“…Are you too busy?” she asked.

“Do I make you uncomfortable?” I countered.

Her fidgeting hands couldn’t hide her trembling. She’s nervous talking to me.

“N-no, I just don’t want to be a burden…” she mumbled.

I sighed. “I’m sorry for neglecting you. Your debut’s your right as a royal. No need to be nervous. Anything else?”

“Mikhail said to find a wife at my debut—” she started.

“Time for bed,” I cut in.

Gently turning her shoulders, I nudged her toward the door, closing it with warm words.

1898. Spain’s getting pummeled by America in real-time.

The final year of Mother’s three-year marriage ultimatum. I have to find a wife.

Right in the middle of mir dismantling?

How does my to-do list keep growing?

When I was a kid, the empire had about twenty grand dukes.

Each got 250,000 rubles yearly; grand duchesses got a million-ruble dowry at marriage. Enough to shake up the wealth rankings overnight.

Naturally, male dukes blew through their 250,000 like it was pocket change. Duchesses burned dowries just as fast.

Did Father, who loathed waste, sit idly by? The man who hated social events for their cost?

In 1886, he limited pensions and dowries to his children and grandchildren, slashing the number of grand dukes and royals.

An infant lost his title nine days after birth. That’s how brutal it was.

He went further, tying all royal power to the Tsar. Debuts, marriages, divorces, titles—all under my control.

That’s why Olga came to me about her debut.

But a bigger issue than her social debut?

“Witte, what if I married a German princess?” I asked.

“…Seriously? I believe Princess Victoria’s five or six,” Witte replied.

“No, any marriageable princess,” I clarified.

“My mind goes straight to France freaking out. Their banks still hold plenty of our bonds,” Witte said.

“Yeah, true.”

Pissing off France, who’s boosting our trade, by closing ports? Bad move.

Since I’m leading reform, hosting Olga’s debut isn’t impossible. Same for my wedding or coronation.

“What about Britain?” I asked.

“With our bloodlines already mixed, a distant branch might work, but direct heirs are tough. Princess Alix was decent, but she’s married,” Witte said.

Britain’s out.

Poland, now leaning toward integration over suppression? No royals left.

Unrelated blood, noble lineage, beneficial to Russia… nothing.

How many kids did Queen Victoria scatter across Europe? Four sons, five daughters?

A woman reigning long with nine kids makes my neglect of Olga’s debut feel pathetic.

“Domestic marriage, then?” I mused.

“You’re finally set on a national match?” Witte exclaimed.

“Gotta do it. Without derailing mir dismantling,” I said.

Mir dismantling will take five years minimum, ten with stabilization.

Cutting out rot and healing isn’t short, but not endless either.

I can’t wait ten years to marry, though. Better do it this year.

“No international events since my coronation, so no candidates come to mind,” I said.

“You skipped domestic ones too. I scheduled, you canceled,” Witte pointed out.

“Count Dashkov, I wasn’t playing—I was busy,” I shot back.

I can say with confidence: I haven’t rested a day since taking the throne.

Anyway, a candidate beneficial to me and Russia. If none exist, pick someone noble but with no maternal power.

Balkans? Marriage alliances there just stir ethnic trouble.

Half-assed international marriages scream, “Yes, Russia’s ready to dive into the next world war and lead the charge to ruin!”

Better stick to a domestic match, avoiding anti-reform nobles.

“Guess I’ll scope out Olga’s debut,” I said.

“How scandalous—” Witte started.

“Your Majesty! Eyeing sixteen-year-old girls—” Dashkov gasped.

“At the attendees, damn it!” I snapped.

They think I’m some pedophile? Fourteen years’ age gap is too much. My 21st-century sensibilities still linger.

Anyway, Olga’s debutante ball will be grand, I decided. Then I raised the real issue.

“So, when should we start the purge?” I asked.

Reform’s progress demands a cleanup.

Even as Manchuria becomes Russia’s front yard, building fortresses on nominally foreign soil raises eyebrows.

So Roman pulled the best sleight-of-hand he could.

First, secure “concessions” from Qing China to start construction, with management and operations delegated.

Then, under the era’s classic excuse—military training—train a few Qing soldiers while drilling Russian troops in the fortress.

Everyone knows Manchuria’s falling under Russian sway—Qing and the Amur Governorate included.

Construction costs come from the governorate’s purse; Qing gets free training.

But four years in, Roman felt unease creeping back before building another fortress.

“Major fortresses are nearing completion. We could lock down the Yalu River soon… Now what?” he muttered.

The Trans-Siberian Railway’s construction has sped up lately. It might open by the next century’s start.

Then the main European army could reach the Far East quickly.

Eight years since the Far East’s upheaval, including the Tsar’s Crown Prince days.

The Far East still swims in cash, sucking in endless labor.

Immigrants flooded in, overwhelming the governorate, which gave up and let them settle, reclaim, and farm freely, focusing only on basic control.

Manchuria’s population is seven million. What can you do?

Especially Joseon—hit by political chaos and two consecutive famines—saw an immigrant surge.

With the railway connected, it’s beyond the governorate’s capacity.

“After the British détente, I heard part of the Black Sea Fleet’s moving to the Far East. Admiral Romen’s busy,” Roman noted.

To prove the Bosphorus and Dardanelles abandonment, Russia agreed with Britain to shrink the Black Sea Fleet, boosting Far East forces instead.

The Tsar’s clearly still wary of Far East wars.

This is General Sergei Dukhovsky’s final year as governor—a lieutenant general serving this long is surprising enough.

Back to Roman, he pondered his role in this barely-controlled Far East.

Stability, economy, governance? The governorate’s chairman, too weak to lift a spoon but full of energy to point and curse, handles that.

Assimilating Asians into Russia? Impossible short-term, beyond enlisting them.

As the next governor, a soldier, what must he do to protect this land?

“…I only know how to shovel dirt,” Roman admitted.

When the Communications Ministry tested wireless communication this year, Roman reported the Far East’s status to St. Petersburg.

It took four days, but the reply was, “You’re doing well.”

Is that what the Tsar expected? At least it’s not wrong.

“If there’s a problem… our fleet’s all in Vladivostok. The Yellow Sea’s Japan’s if they push,” Roman said.

“If the enemy breaches deep into the Yellow Sea, the Yalu forts are useless—our rear’s exposed,” an aide replied.

“Build coastal forts. Cover all Liaodong—no landing spots. They wouldn’t land at Shandong, right by Qing’s capital,” Roman decided.

Endless funds, surplus labor, easier material supply, better tech, and know-how.

Surveying candidates, Port Arthur (Lüshun) stood out—surrounded by hills, a sheltered bay, a natural harbor, and fortress site.

Roman, who studied Far East history, knew Goguryeo valued this spot, building Bisaseong fortress there.

“This land was made for fortresses,” Roman declared.

Active coal mines meant coal generators for electric barbed wire, with marked minefields and safe paths.

Pack in machine-gun nests, front-line trenches, rear concrete forts, and hilltop trenches.

Coastal guns for sea defense—big ships, big guns, the era’s military spirit.

“But prepare for the worst. If the railway fails, the main army’s delayed, the Yalu’s breached, and the enemy storms Liaodong, fighting sea and land battles?” Roman mused.

Can’t ignore that. A one-in-a-million chance, but prepare.

Long sieges demand detail—fortresses’ strength lies in hidden specifics.

“Design for retaking front trenches. If concrete forts fall, we’re screwed, but the front’s recoverable,” Roman said.

Make concrete forts capable of hitting front trenches.

“What else? Oh! Backup for broken fixed guns or machine-gun replacements. A second’s firepower gap, and a fortress is just rubble,” he added.

The enemy will overwhelm with numbers. Communication’s key to avoid concentrated attacks.

Manual positioning and light machine-gun coordination are musts.

“And another—” Roman started.

“Oh, right!” he exclaimed.

“God, how’d I miss that!” he gasped.

Roman’s Port Arthur fortress plans poured out endlessly.

With overflowing funds and labor, building’s no issue.

Roman just needs to defend.