Stirring Up a Storm by Force (4)

When Grandfather abolished serfdom, he said:

“Better to start it from above than let it rise from below.”

Even now, that resonates.

Back then, it hit the nobility like a thunderbolt, gradually pulling them into the cause. Grandfather traveled the empire, preaching the importance of abolition.

Central high officials, activists, progressives, and landowners joined him. Later called “red bureaucrats,” they became his loyal guard, reforming legal codes and redistributing land.

That’s what I wanted from the Duma.

To play the “red bureaucrats,” fighting nobles who opposed serfdom abolition.

A perfectly fair National Duma, with one group excluded: big landowners and provincial nobles.

“How easy was it for Grandfather? His bureaucrats fought the nobles for him,” I mused.

Navy Minister, Finance Minister, military commanders, central nobles—all backed him. The ultimate loyal force.

The more I read the records, the more I craved that.

So I deliberately included bourgeois, who pay hefty city taxes, in the Duma. They hate traditional landowners.

Liberals and labor advocates were obvious picks—they’d lead the charge against landlords, torches and plows in hand.

And me, young and uneducated, I’d reluctantly order the crushing of big landowners, unable to resist the Duma’s will.

A perfect theatrical script.

“When landowners fall, the foundation for land reform is set, no effort needed,” I thought.

Does the story end there? No.

Once the centuries-old ruling landowners collapse, the Duma will get cocky.

Then my choice is simple. Why keep a hunting dog after the hunt?

“By then, I can push land reform without issue. Prep will be done,” I said.

No opera ends in one act. The Duma’s next.

That was my initial vision for the National Duma.

New dogs kill the old ones, and I feast on the fresh ones.

Strengthened imperial power, faster reforms, reduced rebellion risk, capital growth, agricultural boost, middle-class expansion—the plan’s benefits are endless.

But plans go awry the moment they start.

“Alright, I’ll admit it. I underestimated the Duma,” I sighed.

I planned to let them bicker for three years, but they grasped politics’ pulse in one.

It’s shaping into Democrats-Labor vs. Conservatives-Progressives.

Veren’s just lightning from a clear sky.

Purge the old dogs now?

“The people aren’t fed up with the Duma yet,” I thought.

Now doesn’t feel right. The Duma might even replace the old elite.

Purge or reform, change breeds and grows power.

“Guess I relied too much on others’ hands,” I admitted.

I’ve never truly flexed my power.

Create a department, establish an agency—orders stop there.

I didn’t pack them with loyalists or use them for my gain.

But like this… how long can I stay the kind, youthful Emperor Nikolai?

“Worst case, I ditch Nikolai for Tsar Bomba and take center stage,” I muttered.

A tyrant’s better than a doomed monarch.

For now, let’s see if Veren can handle his new role.

Admit my plan was wrong?

The Duma’s first real achievement, and the proposer denies it?

No, the backlash would be brutal.

Even his diehard fans would ditch him, and he’d never recover.

He might meet the Okhrana on the road back to the Far East.

The Tsar wants more than the proposal’s death—he wants Veren as a Duma mole.

Push another proposal as a substitute?

Something everyone agrees on, getting Veren votes for a majority… like that exists.

An independent hitting a majority was a miracle; he can’t bank on another.

Especially with elections weeks away, parties flaunting their colors.

There’s one way.

“I won’t tolerate a single change to my plan,” Veren declared.

“Veren!” a member shouted.

Pretend unshakable conviction and oppose any revision.

Please, don’t agree. You’ll kill me if you do!

Veren closed his eyes, then erupted.

“You all knew my grand vision had no business plan! Think I didn’t know? But this was about saving suffering peasants and redistributing land—not budgets or profits!” he roared.

“Veren, the bureaucrats’ opposition is heavy. Counter their arguments,” a member challenged.

“What do desk-jockeys know? Ever farmed? Worked 16-hour factory shifts? I’ve done both!” Veren spat, saliva flying.

“Lacking farmland? Increase it! I didn’t cite university papers or teach fancy math. Just expand what’s needed—that’s it. If that’s too hard, what’s my proposal worth? Don’t hide behind feasibility and business nonsense to dodge yes or no!” he thundered.

He sat, arms crossed, yielding the floor.

“Veren has no more to say. Let’s vote on Finance Minister Witte’s amendments,” the chairman said.

Outwardly, he looked like a knight ready to die honorably, but inside, calculations swirled.

Good thing it’s election season—they’ll watch their party lines. I opposed first, so I’ve got decent cover.

Please, oppose it. Just oppose it.

The bigger his hope for rejection, the harder he kept his angry facade, praying they’d follow.

“71 for, 98 against, 31 abstentions. The amendments are rejected,” the chairman declared.

Cheers and soft sighs echoed.

But Veren stood, clapping slowly, signaling agreement with the rejection.

His eyes welled with tears.

His first Duma-passed proposal, hyped to reach the Tsar and be enacted, he had to oppose himself.

Other members, watching, couldn’t make a sound.

Clap, clap, clap…

They rose late, clapping his respect for a result he deemed unfair.

One diehard fan shouted, “Veren, after the election, we’ll pass it again! Don’t lose hope—we’ll help!”

“Enough! This is the Duma’s decision! The National Duma His Majesty established!” another yelled.

Who’d dare call Veren dishonorable? Parties split by ideology, but none thought he was grandstanding.

His un wiped tears kept flowing.

Because…

Fuck, I’m alive! I’m fucking alive! Honey, I’m coming home!

His clapping hands trembled. Relief nearly made him wet his pants.

Didn’t matter.

He survived.

Veren’s opposition was genuine.

Though Nikolai’s been keen on foreign wireless experiments since ’95, and the Ministry of Communications is aggressively adopting tech, the Far East is still practically isolated.

Physically too far, resupply from Europe in a war is unthinkable.

“The Tsar’s endless budget must be for maximizing supply procurement,” Roman mused.

Profitability or future potential of the governorate’s projects was secondary to Roman.

His priority was the war Nikolai foretold.

So, is Governor Sergei right to endlessly expand the military district’s forces?

“…Won’t even hit 100,000 under the governor. Real troops come when the railway’s done,” Roman thought.

No matter the local army size, it’s just for initial defense.

Joseon’s a problem too.

It’s worthless alone, but giving it up means more enemy ports and landing zones.

Lose Joseon, and the Yellow Sea’s gone—obvious.

“Ugh, the terrain’s brutal compared to Europe’s districts, and the climate’s erratic,” Roman sighed.

No matter how he tweaked troop placements or enemy advance routes on maps, the outcome was similar.

The enemy takes Joseon first, then moves north to Liaodong and Manchuria. The empire scrambles to muster troops while they do.

Lose Joseon? Fine. But not Manchuria. Losing the South Manchuria Railway would cripple supply lines.

The Tsar said Japan would pour most of its Sino-Japanese War reparations into military spending.

Meanwhile, the empire spreads funds across railways, projects, subsidies, investments, and urban development.

Yet the Tsar acts like thorough prep makes it no big deal.

“Why me?” Roman groaned.

Three years tackling this in the Far East, and no answers. He felt it deeply.

He’s nothing special—no war medals, no grasp of economics or planned cities.

Why did the Tsar ennoble him and name him next governor?

“All I’m good at… is engineering,” Roman admitted.

His standout moment was the ’79 advanced engineering course.

No, from his commission as a lieutenant in the Caucasus 1st Engineer Battalion, his life was engineering.

Building, breaking.

That experience let him thrive in the Far East’s constant construction, but that’s it.

Is this really enough for war prep?

Shaking off negativity, Roman refocused on the map.

“Gotta ditch Joseon completely,” he decided.

Half-hearted pushes south mean annihilation on retreat.

So, the Far East starts with a defensive war.

What’s his best prep?

“…Right. Build forts,” he resolved.

He’s just a colonel, not commanding millions. The real counterattack comes when Europe’s main army arrives.

He just needs to hold.

This year alone, 40,000 settlers arrived. Distributing land and farming is getting tough for the governorate.

“Frontline at the Joseon border—the Yalu River. Build forts there. Rear forts for retreat, mountain-gap forts, riverbank forts. Concrete, machine-gun emplacements, trenches with sandbag walls…” Roman planned.

Endless budget, ample labor.

Born an engineer, Roman stuck to what he knew best.

Building.