Chapter 19

The War to End Everything

June 28, 1914.

As we, now seniors, enjoyed the dignity of being the top class while watching the freshmen struggle in the mud—

on the other side of the world, in Sarajevo on the Balkan Peninsula, gunshots finally rang out.

[Archduke Franz Ferdinand, heir to the Austro-Hungarian Empire, assassinated!]
[War crisis looms over Europe]
[Another assassination—communist conspiracy?]
[Austria-Hungary to march on Serbia?]
[Will Russia, "Protector of the Balkans," choose war?]

The very next day, June 29, newspapers across Austria began printing frantic special editions.
The power of modern communication carried the news across the Atlantic in an instant, and that same day, American papers—led by the New York Times—splashed the story across their front pages.

Not long after—

West Point erupted.

"Holy shit! Yujin! Where's Yujin?!"
"Ugh, my whole body aches. What is it?"
"Hurry! Get over here, now!"

Calling around Yujin Kim—the soon-to-be graduate, no less—like that?
At this stage, I didn't even want to move for falling leaves, but seeing how desperately they were looking for me, I decided to grace them with my presence.

"Damn it. Look at this."
"What is it… It's started."
"What? Started? What the hell are you talking about at a time like this?!"

These idiots, who always stuck together, looked ready to riot.

Why were they making more of a fuss than me?

"This is obviously a war crisis, right?"
"So West Point's resident psycho is about to become its prophet?"
"Calm down. We don't know how this will turn out yet."

Of course, war would happen.

But it wouldn't explode for another month.
If they got this heated already, their voices wouldn't last when it really mattered. They'd need to shout even louder then.

Still, the way my classmates looked at me had completely changed.

To Americans, a European war was, in truth, someone else's problem.

Why should the United States get involved? Under the Monroe Doctrine, most Americans believed: We won't interfere with you, so please don't drag us into your wars either.

If I were British or French, I'd probably be on a fast track straight to the general staff.

But here?

After four years at West Point, I knew this well—the U.S. Army of 1914 was a rigid, outdated institution. Without something like this happening, I'd probably rot in some obscure coastal artillery unit for years before discharge.

No—scratch that. If I'd been born in Britain or France, I wouldn't have even made it into a military academy in the first place. My loyalty to the United States, which had allowed even a "yellow monkey" like me to attend, surged anew.

In any case, the United States had neither the will nor the capability to join a European great war.

The army lived in constant fear of Congress slashing its budget.

"They say this Wilson fellow from the Democrats is president now."
"A pacifist, right? Think he'll dismantle the army?"

That was the level of conversation among instructors.

Where was the mighty U.S. military that would one day become the world's police?

As underclassmen, classmates, and even instructors all looked at me strangely, a month passed quickly.

Contrary to expectations that Austria, enraged by the assassination, would crush the small nation of Serbia immediately—when no war broke out right away, people began to grow skeptical.

"Knew it."
"He just wanted attention. Wars don't start that easily."
"Even if war did happen, would Russia really start a continental war over a country that assassinated an archduke? Russia? The same one that lost to Japan? That'd be suicidal."
"Poor yellow monkey. Made such bold claims—guess he'll have to refuse his commission now, huh?"
"As an educator, I wouldn't be so harsh. But actions have consequences. I'll make sure he understands that. Hahaha!"

Then, July 23.

Instead of declaring war and crossing the border, Austria delivered an ultimatum to Serbia.

With that, talk of war sank beneath the surface.

Once again, as always, the rational and civilized gentlemen of Europe had chosen diplomacy.

"You okay?"

"What?"

Omar, always the considerate one, came over and patted my shoulder.

"It's fine. Things like this happen. Don't stress—just focus on preparing for commissioning."
"What nonsense are you talking about?"
"They say there won't be a war."
"I never said there would be a war because of this!"

It was unfair.

Yes, the war would begin because of Sarajevo—but I had never once said that out loud.
They were the ones who jumped from "Oh, was he right?!" to "Nah, of course not."

Even in the novel I'd published under a pseudonym, I'd only vaguely described a Balkan conflict—not something as specific as the assassination of an archduke. If I'd predicted that exactly, I'd be called the "Yellow Rasputin" for sure.

"…Come to think of it, that's true."
"Anyway! Don't even think about refusing your commission!"
"I won't. Seriously, you worry too much."

Europe's crises had always followed the same pattern:

Great powers clashed.
Tensions rose.
Fleets mobilized.
They puffed their chests, postured, invoked past glories—
And then a "benevolent mediator" would appear, broker a deal, distribute concessions, and end it.

But this time was different.

The experience of fighting full-scale wars between modern armies had faded.
Instead, what remained was the habit of easily massacring poorly armed colonial subjects.

Ironically, the people most familiar with modern warfare were Americans—yet the United States stood outside it all.

This time, it couldn't be stopped.

If Austria had immediately lashed out in rage after the assassination, it might have crushed Serbia with the world's sympathy.

But that moment had passed.

[Serbia accepts parts of the ultimatum]

The perceptive might have noticed something strange.

Not full acceptance.

And the answer was already decided.

[WAR DECLARED!]

Yes.

I had been waiting for this day.

Now go die in the trenches, all of you white bastards.

For the past few days, West Point had been like thin ice.

July 28—Austria and Serbia went to war.

And soon after, each day's newspapers carried news of how that conflict was growing into a massive blaze.

What I had predicted was not just a war between two nations.

Wars like the Russo-Japanese War or the Boer War had already happened.

This—

was the war to end everything.

A massive conflict that would drag in at least three of the great powers: Britain, France, Germany, Austria, Russia, Italy—

And the news from Europe was filled with the thick smell of gunpowder: mobilizations in Russia and Germany.

August 1, 1914.

A day as routine as any over the past four years began.

Wake up. Wash. Morning roll call. Head to the mess hall.

We had long since been freed from the misery of rigid, right-angle dining etiquette.

Bang!

A single instructor burst into the dining hall, his face urgent, a crumpled newspaper clenched in his hand.

Everyone's heads snapped toward him.

He strode toward the other instructors.

And those nearby caught a glimpse of the massive headline on the crumpled page:

[PEACE REFUSED BY FRANCE]

"What does that mean?"
"France and Germany?"
"My God…."

Like a collapsing domino chain, the word war spread from mouth to mouth—from one cadet to the next—until it reached the far end of the hall, and the entire place erupted into chaos.

Normally, instructors and upperclassmen would have crushed the commotion and disciplined the freshmen.

But now—

even they stood there, trembling, repeating like parrots:

"Holy shit… it's really war."

Amid that massive marketplace of chaos,
I calmly put the last piece of bread into my mouth, chewed it thoroughly, and swallowed.

Only I had to remain composed.
Watch carefully, you bastards.

And just as I expected—

starting with my friends, then the cadets, then even the instructors, heads began to turn toward me one after another.

"Why."

"You heard?"
"I heard."

After that idiotic exchange, a few seconds of silence passed.

"HEY!!!"
"HEY! IT'S WAR!!"
"You… you crazy bastard!! You're actually insane!"
"WOOOOOOOO!!"

My friends jumped up from their seats and started pounding my shoulders, and as if triggered by that, the other cadets rushed toward me one after another.

"Me! When do I get married?!"
"Shut up, I'm asking first! What posting do you think I'll get?!"
"What am I, a fortune teller? You'll never get married! And you—you're ranked second, so you're going to the engineers, you fraud bastard!"

As I half-heartedly dealt with their nonsense, the mess hall had already descended into complete chaos.

Some of them even ran outside, shouting at the top of their lungs:

"IT'S WAR!! Yujin KIM WAS RIGHT!!"

Still… when people hear that a great war has broken out, shouldn't there be at least some sense of dread? Some heaviness?

No matter how long I'd lived in the early 20th century, and no matter how much I knew this war was inevitable for my future—

the last remnants of my modern conscience whispered vividly of the hell and tragedy that was about to unfold.

But they were different.

No—this entire era was different.

Just as the cadets at West Point were cheering, young men all across Europe were likely just as intoxicated with the idea of war.

They weren't just celebrating winning a bet.

They were welcoming—truly welcoming—
the storm that promised victory, future, and glory,
a storm that would lift them from a pond into the sky.

And within that boiling madness, the instructors approached, their faces stiff.

Yes. Now things would calm down a bit.

"Cadet Kim."
"Yes, sir."
"How… how did you foresee this?"

Damn it.

Even these guys had that same glazed look in their eyes.

If I said, "It's the mysticism of the East," or "A holy spirit descended upon me in a dream and foretold tribulation," they'd probably believe it. No—definitely believe it.

I had to choose my words very carefully.

"The conditions for war had long been in place. I simply arrived at a conclusion through rational logic, without bias."
"A prediction? You call this a prediction?"

"Of course."

I left the "What else were you expecting?" unsaid.

"Yujin KIM WAS RIGHT!!"
"West Point's Richelieu knows all!!"
"The Jeremiah of West Point has foretold war!!"
"False prophets, bow your heads!!"
"Hey—HEY! Let go of me?!"

Before I could react, a bunch of hulking guys grabbed my arms and legs and lifted me into the air.

Don't throw me! Don't you dare throw me!!

This army of madness—this cult, even joined by instructors—poured out of the mess hall and surged somewhere else.

The instructors who witnessed this spectacle froze on the spot, but when they heard the chants—

"IT'S WAR!! THE PROPHET Yujin KIM LEADS US!!"

—even they were swept along like children enchanted by a pied piper, joining this procession of insanity.

Everyone had lost their minds.

Completely insane.

"There's a nonbeliever over there!!"
"Heretic! Heretic!!"

The march of madness finally halted when we reached the instructor who had made the bet with me.

"You all—what do you think you're—"
"Instructor."

Ike, leading the procession at the very front, spoke calmly.

"Cadet Yujin Kim was correct. The great powers of Europe have fallen into the vortex of war."
"…Yes."
"Then naturally, you will honor your promise, correct?"
"Yes. I'll do what I can—"
"BOOOOOOOOOOO!!"

A massive wave of jeers erupted.

The moment his tone hinted at excuses, the crowd openly rebelled.

"Fine! I'll help! I'll help, so go back! You all want to roll around the drill field or what?!"
"Hey, don't make a fool of yourself. You've been talking about tearing up Cadet Kim's diploma more than once, haven't you?"

Even the other instructors who had followed along began scolding him.

With a scowl, he gave a few reluctant nods and quickly retreated into the building.

"BOOOOOOOOOOO!!"
"Coward!"
"You've got no honor!!"

As the enraged mob fumed, looking ready to start a full-blown riot—

still held high above them, I simply smiled calmly.

I hadn't expected that guy to actually do anything meaningful.

If anything, I'd hoped he would ignore me.

Because a prophet shines brightest when ignored and persecuted.

And here, at West Point—

they would remember me all the more deeply.

The future where I'd be buried in some backwater coastal artillery unit—

vanished completely at this moment.