Reality is cruel, and whether the French are willing to accept it or not, what is meant to happen will happen. Since the war has already begun, it is no longer something the French government can control. In this world where the strong prey on the weak, nations speak with their fists. That is far more convincing than any lofty principles. If France can defeat the Russians on the battlefield, there will still be room for negotiation. But if they are defeated again, then from this day forward, France will have to settle for being a powerless third-rate country. For the sake of the nation’s future, the French have no choice but to fight to the death. If they wish to regain the world’s respect, they must earn it back with their blood and steel on the battlefield. The French government has no retreat left, but neither does the Russian government. The mighty prestige of the Russian Empire that once shook the world was built on sheer stubbornness. If they cower at the first sign of hardship, what right do they have to make the nations of Europe fear them? This war between France and Russia was started by the Russians themselves. If they cannot even handle a weakened, defeated France, then the Russian government’s dignity will be trampled into the mud. Losing face is one thing, but losing their deterrent power abroad is something they can never allow. A glance through the history books of the Russian Empire reveals nothing but a record of wars and expansion. Yet in the process of expanding, Russia has managed to offend nearly all its neighbors. A strong Russian Empire is one no one dares provoke, but once it starts to decline, everything changes. The First Prusso-Russian War was the best example. The moment the empire showed signs of weakness, enemies from all directions pounced. If the Austrian government had not reached out and pulled them back from the brink, the Russian Empire as it exists today would have ceased to be. The lessons of history are clear, and the Russian government cannot afford to ignore them. Moreover, the times have changed. The Holy Roman Empire no longer needs to huddle together with Russia for warmth. If it happens again, the chances of Austria kicking Russia while it’s down are far greater than lending a helping hand. Both sides had every reason to win, and as soon as the Franco-Russian War broke out, it descended into a bloodbath. To cleanse the regions and avoid endless guerrilla ambushes, the Russian army stationed in Paris resorted to the simplest and most brutal method despite international outrage. Whenever guerrilla attacks occurred, if the residents within five kilometers failed to report the culprits, the entire area would be punished. Even in a metropolis like Paris, if a guerrilla assault took place, the entire street would be held accountable. Although there were no outright massacres, the punishments imposed by the Russian army were scarcely different. Exile to Siberia to dig potatoes may have seemed merciful on the surface, but in truth, it was merely a slower death than being sent straight to heaven. Everyone knew the Russian bureaucracy’s reputation. They were notorious for exploiting and mistreating their own people, so their treatment of the enemy needed no imagination. Shortages of supplies were inevitable. The old, the weak, the sick, and the disabled were all crammed onto ships without medical care. Anyone who came down with a fever or cough was thrown overboard and fed to the fish. The exiled French rarely made it far. By the time they reached the borders of the Russian Empire, nearly a third had already perished along the way. Those who managed to march all the way to Siberia were one in ten at best. Even for the few lucky enough to reach their destination, survival was never guaranteed. The Russian government often “forgot” to distribute essential supplies. Poorly clothed and empty-handed, the exiles had to battle both the merciless Siberian wilderness and the hunger gnawing at their bellies if they wished to live another day. As Leo Tolstoy once remarked, the greatest purpose of the Russian government’s exile policy was to provide “fertilizer” for the Russian Empire’s vast lands. Fortunately, it was winter. The bitter cold of the empire kept disease at bay; otherwise, with how the Russian government handled things, a plague would have spread long ago. If only the viruses of this era were as evolved as those of modern times, like COVID or SARS, the Russian government would never have dared to act so recklessly. Of course, given the state of medicine back then and the sheer emptiness of the Russian frontier, even if an epidemic had broken out, few would have noticed. A death rate of a few percent among the infected would hardly draw attention, since it was little different from catching a cold. Only a plague capable of wiping out entire villages or towns could truly strike fear into people’s hearts. The hatred between France and Russia deepened once again, that much was certain. And as always, the bystanders who loved to watch chaos unfold wasted no time adding fuel to the fire. They took to their soapboxes, pretending to speak from the moral high ground while condemning both sides with equal passion. The restless writers and poets were no different. They poured their outrage and sentiment onto paper, their open letters flooding the newspapers one after another. Whether or not the French or Russian governments ever read them hardly mattered, what mattered was that the writers felt inspired. The news media was quick to fan the flames. One day they condemned the Russians for their brutality, the next they criticized the French for their defiance. In the end, both France and Russia became the villains in everyone’s eyes, the perfect targets for collective outrage. It was clear that political correctness still mattered deeply on the European continent. The one-sided public sympathy the French government had expected never came. Among the member states of the anti-French coalition, public opinion even turned against them. No matter how excessive the actions of the Russian army were, they could never withstand the artful polish of rhetoric. Take the Holy Roman Empire, for example. Its newspapers deliberately ignored the miserable fate of the French civilians during their exile. News was supposed to be impartial, but journalists had their own loyalties. France was the enemy, Russia the ally, and the bias was obvious. Their conscience stopped them from outright falsifying the facts, but selective reporting was something everyone knew how to do. History, it seemed, had repeated itself once more. In another time and another world, a similar scene had played out, the only difference being who the victims were. In the name of political correctness, any crime could be whitewashed. Identity determined allegiance, and the suffering of the French civilians now was seen as nothing more than payment for their nation’s earlier acts of aggression. When an avalanche falls, not a single snowflake is innocent. And just like that, no snowflake can escape the punishment that nature brings. … In the blink of an eye, 1895 was drawing to a close. The flames of war that had begun early in the year had spread without pause, from the Philippines to the Far East, then to Cuba, followed by Morocco, and finally to France itself. Wars breaking out across four continents at the same time were rare in human history. The scope of the conflict and the number of people involved were no less than those of the great European War before it. It was Christmas once again. Though the world outside burned with chaos, Vienna remained as prosperous and lively as ever. After hastily concluding the evening’s celebration banquet, Franz made his way alone to the highest tower of the imperial palace and gazed out at the distant horizon. Age had a way of softening even the hardest hearts. Having lived two lives that together spanned more than ninety years, Franz could no longer deny that he had grown old. Even though he had taken good care of himself, time spared no one. Now in his sixties, Franz could no longer find in himself the fiery spirit of his youth. “Perhaps it’s time to retire,” he thought quietly. There was no fighting it anymore. This was not an age of myths, after all, and the only trace of the extraordinary in this world was himself, the one unscientific soul who had crossed over from another time. Even if he wished to imitate the emperors of ancient empires and chase after the impossible dream of immortality, there was no path to follow. When a man grows weary and tired, he naturally longs for rest. Franz was no exception. In recent years, he had been focusing on training his sons, preparing them for the day he would eventually step down. But now was not that time. The Holy Roman Empire was simply too vast, and with its size came endless problems. Some issues could be left for future generations to handle, but there were others that only a strong emperor like him could resolve. If left unchecked, they would fester into chronic afflictions that his successors would struggle to cure. Before anything else, however, there remained one final obstacle that stood in the way of the empire’s stability, and it had to be removed. Until the world order was steady and the sources of unrest eliminated, Franz dared not carry out sweeping reforms at home. His sense of caution and reverence for fate had been key to his long and steady reign. Having made up his mind, Franz felt an unexpected lightness settle over him, as if a great weight had finally been lifted from his shoulders.
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