Chapter 20

Golden Calf

After that day of madness—

surprisingly, nothing happened.

What I had "predicted" boiled down to two things:

First, the outbreak of a great war.
Second, the contents of that so-called "Armageddon Report."

And even if I had been right about the first, very few believed the report itself would come true in full.

"So how's the war going right now?"
"Looks like France managed to hold them off for now."

Naturally, every nation involved tried for a quick, decisive victory.

The German army crushed Belgium and advanced toward Paris—but ultimately failed to achieve its strategic objective, and the age of trench warfare began.

What came next?

A desperate effort to control information about the reality of trench warfare.

People were singing of glory and rushing to enlist—but the moment they realized the truth, that they'd rot like meat in no man's land, worse than animals, the war effort wouldn't just collapse—governments might too.

So every European nation lied through its teeth, endlessly promoting trench warfare as something "comfortable and efficient," where one could easily kill the enemy and earn glory.

Of course, at West Point, we studied the American Civil War—the precursor to modern warfare—until we were sick of it.

Anyone who imagined "comfortable trenches" should've been stripped of their uniform and thrown out on the spot.

Even so—

no one wanted to believe that the hellscape described in my report—something that would make even the devil say, "Damn, I learned something from humans today"—would actually unfold.

That evening, I opened the letters that had arrived one by one.

[To Yujin Kim.]

The first letter was from Song Qingling.

I had clearly rejected her father's proposal before, and contact had ended there.
But the moment news of the war broke, that sharp-minded businesswoman reached out again—from faraway China.

The proposal itself wasn't much different, but its nature had changed.

Before, it had essentially been an attempt to buy me.
Now, the balance of power had shifted slightly in my favor.

I decided to put it on hold.

That's the beauty of letters—unlike instant messaging, there's no pressure to reply immediately.

The second letter—the far more important one—was waiting.

[To Jin. Upon hearing that a full-scale war has finally broken out in Europe, I hurried to write—]

Of course, it was Dorothy.

But this time, unusually, the envelope was much thicker.

[To Cadet Yujin Kim.]

Inside was also a letter from Congressman Curtis.

Both letters contained a mix of concern, admiration, and thoughts about the future—though in very different proportions.

Curtis urged me to reach out anytime I needed help, and most importantly, he included a summary of conditions in Washington, D.C., and New York—exactly the kind of information I desperately needed.

Washington was quieter than expected.

While the public craved gossip about Europe, Washington's attention was focused far more on the immediate crisis in Mexico.

Mexico was in the midst of a fierce civil war, and the infamous Pancho Villa was running rampant.
For the U.S. Army, the primary hypothetical enemy was still Mexican raiders—not the German Empire.

New York?

Manhattan was practically in ruins.

The financial markets of Paris, London, and Berlin had all exploded in unison, and the shockwave alone had pushed New York to the brink.

The New York Stock Exchange had shut down.
Financial figures were on the verge of collapse just trying to calculate debts and credits.

After writing my reply to Dorothy, I hesitated for a moment—then picked up my pen again.

To Congressman Curtis, I decided to subtly suggest exploring the military and commercial value of my circular barbed wire.

The U.S. Army? Didn't matter.

All I had to do was quietly pass samples to a merchant.

Our British and French friends crawling through trench lines would personally discover just how effectively that wire could make life even more miserable for the Germans.

If they couldn't recognize its value on the Western Front, they deserved to die.

At this level, Curtis would likely treat it not as a debt, but as a small favor.

Of course, I fully intended to charge a generous commission.

Once its value became clear, I could leverage the patent to secure loans—

expand the business—

or… firearms…

Damn it. It was too hard to let go.

At this point, I had to admit it wasn't just about profit. My brain, corrupted by 20th-century machismo, saw giving up the arms business as a matter of pride.

If I let it go now, everything I'd pitched to Syngman Rhee and Ahn Chang-ho would be wasted.

I briefly considered mentioning the Armageddon Report in my letter—

but dismissed the idea.

It wasn't time yet.

Only when Washington's elites fully realized that Europe had become hell would my value peak.

Tap. Tap tap.

The sound of a pen striking paper snapped me out of my thoughts.

My idiots—no, the newly promoted Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse—were scribbling furiously, deep in thought.

"Damn it. There's no answer."
"You too? I've got nothing."

The question I had posed in my report—the one that would soon face them as junior officers:

How do you break through a properly fortified trench line?

Of course, West Point had taught us the official answer:

Charge forward with enough determination.

But with what I had added—

After charging forward, exhausted, they'd face barbed wire.
Beyond it, enemies firing bolt-action rifles, barely exposing their helmets.
Machine guns pouring out far more bullets than in the Civil War.

Even these future "stars" couldn't find an answer.

Of course they couldn't.

If there had been a clear solution, World War I wouldn't have become such a disaster.

"So what's the answer?"
"How would I know?"
"Damn it."

"…Well, there is one."

Everyone perked up.

"What is it?"

"We defend."

"…I'm an idiot for trusting you."

Sure, battlefields are unpredictable—you might break through somehow.

But if your chance of success is 10% and failure means death, it's not a gamble worth taking.

"Looks like there's only one real answer."
"Oh, James finally figured it out!"
"We copy the answer after the Europeans kill each other figuring it out."
"You've been corrupted by Yujin after four years!"

Yeah.

That was the answer.

Graduation wasn't far off now.

Winter would come.
Then 1915.

And by the time we graduated—

the value of that report would reach its peak.

So… who should I fleece first?

Knock, knock.

"Is Cadet Yujin Kim here?"
"Yes, sir."
"Report to the superintendent's office."

Right on cue.

The second summons.

"Cadet Yujin Kim, requesting permission to enter."
"Enter."

Just the two of us.

No matter how bold I was, facing the superintendent still made me tense.

"So—how does it feel to have your prophecy come true?"
"…A war has begun. It's not something to be happy about."
"Not something to be happy about? Why not?"
"Because I have to think about all the people who are about to die."

He pondered for a moment, then stroked his mustache.

"So you still believe many people will die."
"Yes, sir."
"To be honest, I never read that report of yours. I only knew it was causing quite a stir at West Point—and I handled it in my own way."

His answer was simple: ignore it.

No—on second thought, maybe that was better.

To be blunt, a "subversive document" had swept through the entire academy. Considering how precarious my position had been, just avoiding negative consequences was already something to be grateful for.

"Think about what you all did. Collective action during duty hours, group insubordination, verbal abuse toward superior officers… What should I even call this? A mutiny? A rebellion? Treason? Do you understand that by not punishing you—the ringleader—I have already shown considerable mercy?"

"…."

Excuse me, but that feels extremely unfair.

No matter how I looked at it, Ike was the ringleader. I was literally being carried around—I didn't even have my feet on the ground.

If anything, I was… right.
Like the golden calf the Israelites made while Moses was away receiving the commandments.

What did the poor golden calf ever do wrong? It was shiny, valuable—what's not to like? It's those idiots' fault, not mine!

"Whether you predict the outcome of an Annapolis game or a war is irrelevant. A cadet of West Point is expected to maintain dignity and order. That report—and the events that followed—clearly exceeded the bounds of a cadet. The final mercy I grant is that I will not convene a court-martial for causing disorder within the ranks. Do you agree?"
"I am grateful for your consideration, sir."
"You may leave. The next time you stand before me may well be in a military court."

Suffocatingly rigid.

His stance boiled down to: "I don't care what you think—just do your duty."

Even so, the fact that he chose to overlook that entire incident was enough to make me want to shed tears of gratitude.

And besides—

it was far more advantageous for me if that report stayed buried in his drawer for another year.

"Kh… heh… hahaha…"

I couldn't help but laugh.

The superintendent had, in his own way, helped me perfectly.

Just like how I hadn't told Congressman Curtis about the Armageddon Report—if it surfaced too early, I might get dragged off to the War Department in Washington.

The general staff? Sitting in Washington pushing papers?

What a joke.

They'd hound me endlessly for more "prophecies," and once they'd squeezed everything out of me, they'd toss me aside. I'd already seen that kind of system before—fall for it twice, and you're just an idiot.

If all I wanted was to build influence through predictions, I should've gone to Wall Street—not West Point.

The power of future knowledge was immense.

Just casually sharing glimpses of the future could make even thinkers like Alvin Toffler look trivial. I could probably go down in history as a legendary intellectual.

But the problem was—

all the knowledge I held about the future was filled with darkness.

The Great Depression.
Fascism.
World War II.
Auschwitz.
The spread of communism and the Cold War.

At this rate, I'd just become some kind of prophet of doom.

As the myth of Cassandra teaches, someone who constantly speaks of disaster—no matter how right they are—becomes unsettling to everyone.

And that was the last thing I wanted.

What I needed was something else:

Exceptional ability.
Persecution and dismissal by the unbelievers.
And despite it all—

a war hero who rises above it.

When the white world buries its rationality and humanity in the trenches and falls into despair—

I will turn my life itself into one grand narrative.
A legend.
A symbol of the American Dream.

That's what it would take to reach the top.

Simply becoming rich through early inventions or gaining fame through predictions wouldn't be enough.
Neither a nouveau riche nor a prophet could truly win people's hearts.

I had to stand against the age of the United States—no, against the age of the white world itself.

And I had a real chance.

The golden calf of the Israelites had been destroyed—

but this Korean golden calf could be worshipped by all for a long, long time.

But there was still one final piece I hadn't tested.

Instead of returning to the dorm, I slipped into a secluded spot.

There was something I had to try—something I hadn't been able to do while constantly surrounded by those idiots.

If this worked—

my entire future plan would change completely.

A single ray of hope in this suffocating gamble.

I swallowed once.

No hesitation anymore.

I'd already come this far, taken risks far greater than this.

"…Status window."

Yujin Kim used Status Window!
But nothing happened.

Damn it. Must've been because I got hit by that wrecked car back then. If it had been a proper vehicle, I'd definitely have gotten a system. For real.

Now that I'd confirmed the harsh truth—

there was no system.

No shortcuts.

Nothing to rely on except my own ability.

"…Status screen."

Still nothing.

Damn it. Seriously.