Building a Conglomerate in Another World-Chapter 290: The Cost of Peace

November 15, 1898

Seoul, Kingdom of Korea — Royal Plaza

Three days after the official proclamation of peace, the capital still buzzed with celebration. Banners waved from windows, bells chimed across the palace grounds, and laughter returned to the streets. Yet beneath the surface of joy, a quieter truth lingered: the war was over, yes—but it had left scars that no treaty could erase.

King Gojong stood at the royal balcony of Gyeongbokgung Palace, flanked by his ministers and military officials. Below, a massive crowd had gathered—civilians, soldiers, merchants, farmers, even schoolchildren. Many held paper flags bearing the new symbol of Allied unity: three swords crossing beneath a rising sun.

The king raised his hand, and the plaza fell into a reverent hush.

"My people," he began, voice solemn yet resolute, "we have emerged from fire and shadow. From the moment foreign banners flew over Pyongyang, our very future stood in question. But today, we stand not as vassals or victims—but as survivors. As a free people, among friends, forging a path no longer under foreign threat, but of our own choosing."

Applause rippled through the crowd. Yet Gojong didn't smile.

"We have paid dearly," he continued. "Thousands of our sons and daughters—soldiers, laborers, civilians—have perished. Towns burned. Fields ruined. But we have endured. Let us now remember the dead not with sorrow alone—but with commitment. Commitment to rebuild. To learn. And to never allow ourselves to be caught unprepared again."

Behind him, General Lee Sang-hoon stood silently. His eyes scanned the crowd and then turned skyward—where white doves were released into the morning air, their wings flapping softly as they vanished beyond the palace walls.

November 15, 1898

Kaesong — Forward Amerathian Encampment

Captain Edward Harris sat alone on a wooden crate outside the makeshift mess hall. His uniform was worn and stained from weeks of continuous fighting, though now it carried the dust of travel instead of blood. In his hand was a tin cup of coffee—lukewarm and bitter. The taste didn't matter.

Nearby, Korean and Amerathian engineers worked to dismantle temporary fortifications. Others were burying empty shell casings, clearing scorched debris, and repairing water systems. The sounds of hammers and shovels had replaced gunfire. It was oddly peaceful—and eerily hollow.

A young soldier approached and saluted.

"Message for you, sir."

Harris took the folded note and read quickly. It was an official reassignment—he was to return to Seoul within the next 48 hours for debriefing and commendation. After that, a likely redeployment back to Amerathia.

He lowered the paper slowly. Commendation. For what? Killing? Surviving? Outlasting the dead?

Sergeant Davis sat beside him without speaking for a moment.

"Feels strange, doesn't it?" the sergeant finally muttered. "We won, but…"

"But it doesn't feel like winning," Harris finished.

Davis nodded. "Half the men are still sleeping in their boots. I hear one of the privates wakes up screaming every night. Had to move him near the med tent."

Harris rubbed his forehead. "We'll all carry this home."

November 16, 1898

Tokyo, Empire of Japan — General Staff Headquarters

General Haruto Okada stood before the Emperor's military cabinet, presenting a formal after-action report. His demeanor was respectful, precise, but laced with a noticeable edge of fatigue.

"Our objectives have been met. Pyongyang has been returned to allied control. The Qing forces have retreated beyond the Yalu. The Korean Peninsula is secured."

"Your losses?" one of the cabinet ministers asked.

"Significant," Okada replied without hesitation. "Our 3rd and 5th Divisions suffered 47% total casualties during the defense of Seoul and the counterattack from Chuncheon. We have begun repatriating remains."

There was a moment of silence.

The Prime Minister finally broke it. "And the Americans?"

"Reliable," Okada said. "Efficient. And dangerous, if ever opposed."

"And the Koreans?"

"Resilient," Okada replied with respect. "Braver than we anticipated. Their leadership has matured significantly under pressure."

The Prime Minister nodded slowly. "Good. Then we move forward. Japan must now ensure its seat at the negotiating table remains permanent."

Okada said nothing, but inwardly he wondered if the next struggle would be one of diplomacy rather than gunpowder.

November 17, 1898

Pyongyang — Chinese Military Field Hospital

General Yuan Shikai walked slowly through the medical tents, his hands clasped behind his back. The war was over, but the moans of the wounded remained. Nurses moved between cots, changing bandages, spooning rice porridge into mouths too weak to chew.

A young soldier—no older than sixteen—reached out with a bloodied hand as Yuan passed.

"Sir… did we win?"

Yuan paused. The question stabbed deeper than the boy could imagine.

"No," he answered softly, kneeling beside the cot. "But you fought bravely."

The boy smiled faintly before losing consciousness again.

Yuan stood and looked around the crowded tent. This wasn't victory. It wasn't even honorable defeat. It was a reminder that strategy on a map always ended in broken bodies.

Behind him, a Russian officer stepped forward. "Reinforcements have arrived from Vladivostok. Orders are to consolidate the border and wait for further instructions."

Yuan nodded. "Then let them wait. I'm done spilling Chinese blood for imperial pride."

November 18, 1898

Amerathian Naval Base — Busan, Southern Korea

President Matthew Hesh stood on the deck of the HMS Resolute, surrounded by naval officers and engineers. The harbor below was bustling with reconstruction efforts—new docks being laid, warships repaired, supply lines rerouted. The treaty had brought peace, but rebuilding the logistical backbone of an entire theater was a war of its own.

An officer approached with a clipboard. "Sir, the final logistics report for the withdrawal of our 7th Division from Seoul. We can begin partial drawdown within two weeks."

Matthew reviewed the numbers. "And the Korean defense infrastructure?"

"Progressing. General Caldwell recommends continued presence of Amerathian advisors for at least another six months."

Matthew nodded. "Approved."

He handed the clipboard back and turned toward the sea.

Behind him, Admiral Hughes spoke quietly. "Sir, may I ask—do you think it was worth it?"

Matthew didn't answer immediately.

"Ask me again in five years," he said at last. "When Korea is standing strong. When our men are home. And when no child in Pyongyang fears the sound of marching boots."

November 20, 1898

Seoul — Memorial Garden, Gyeongbokgung Palace

A black stone monument had been erected in the palace's newly planted Memorial Garden. It bore no grand statue, no soaring pillar. Just the names—rows upon rows of names from all three nations who had fallen in defense of the peninsula.

Beneath it, a simple inscription in three languages read:

"In honor of those who gave their lives, so that others may live in peace."

Families gathered silently, placing white chrysanthemums at the base. Queen Min herself stood quietly among the mourners, accompanied by palace guards. Tears streaked down her face, but she didn't hide them.

Nearby, Captain Harris stood with General Lee and General Caldwell. None of them spoke. Words were hollow here.

And still, the wind carried birdsong above.

As the sun dipped low, casting long golden shadows across the stone, the three generals turned to leave.

The war had ended. The healing had begun.

But none of them would ever forget the cost.

And they would carry it with them—always.