Building a Conglomerate in Another World-Chapter 293: The New Race

January 3, 1899

Seoul, Royal Assembly Chamber

The winter sun cast pale beams through the tall stained-glass windows of the Royal Assembly Chamber, illuminating the intricate patterns on the polished floor. Though the war had ended nearly a month ago, the wounds it left—both visible and invisible—still pulsed throughout the Korean Empire. But today was not a day for mourning. It was a day for reckoning. A day for rebuilding.

King Gojong sat on the raised dais, flanked by Queen Min and his most trusted military advisor, General Lee Sang-hoon. Ministers of finance, infrastructure, and defense gathered below, alongside foreign advisors from Amerathia and Japan. Among them, seated with quiet solemnity, was Colonel Grant—left behind by General Caldwell to serve as Amerathia’s military liaison during the reconstruction.

"The war has ended," King Gojong began, his voice strong but worn. "But its shadow remains upon our lands. Villages were burned. Bridges collapsed. Families shattered. And yet, we endured."

He stood, stepping forward. "This council convenes not to dwell on past glories, but to shape the future. Let the memory of our sacrifices guide our hand as we build a Korea that will never again be seen as weak, nor divided."

Murmurs of agreement rippled through the room. Queen Min placed a steadying hand on the king’s arm.

"The time has come," she said softly but clearly, "for a new vision. A modern Korea. Strong, sovereign, and enlightened."

General Lee stepped forward next. "Our army proved its valor, but our equipment was outdated, our industry lacking. The Japanese marched in boots made in Nagasaki. The Amerathians brought rifles from Chicago and steel from Subic. We must have the same. We must build our own."

Minister Yi, in charge of industrial development, nodded. "We’ve already begun plans to reopen the Incheon foundries and expand the Gyeongseong Arsenal. With Amerathian engineers advising, we could produce modern rifles by year’s end."

Colonel Grant stood respectfully. "President Hesh has authorized continued military assistance and industrial advisors. Your sovereignty is unquestioned—but our partnership remains strong. What benefits Korea strengthens the Pacific."

King Gojong offered a slight bow in return. "Then let us begin."

The council continued late into the afternoon—debating, drafting, assigning committees. Roads were to be repaired. A national railway project reactivated. New schools would be built in every province, focusing on both traditional studies and modern sciences. Medical facilities would be established, staffed by a blend of Korean doctors and international partners trained abroad. And above all, the Royal Army would be modernized into a standing, professional force—never again reliant on foreign arms.

Outside, in the streets of Seoul, the mood was cautious but hopeful. Flags fluttered in the breeze, and children played near soldiers returning from the north. In the markets, Korean merchants spoke of investment, of stability, of peace.

For the first time in years, the future no longer felt like a distant dream.

—

January 10, 1899

Port of Vladivostok, Russian Far East

The biting cold of Russia’s Pacific coast did little to temper the fury simmering inside Admiral Alexei Mikhailov. He stood on the snowy deck of the Black Eagle, watching his men load crates of returned supplies—rifles, uniforms, artillery pieces salvaged from the collapse in Korea.

Behind him, a junior officer approached cautiously. "Admiral, message from the Ministry. You’ve been recalled to St. Petersburg for debriefing."

"Debriefing," Mikhailov muttered. "They want someone to blame."

The officer hesitated. "There are rumors… of restructuring. Of demotions."

"Let them restructure." Mikhailov turned sharply, his coat whipping in the icy wind. "But make no mistake—we were not defeated because of the men. We were defeated by arrogance. Arrogance from St. Petersburg, from the court, from generals who thought war was still won with sabers and horses."

He turned back to the sea. "Amerathia fights like it’s already the twentieth century. We fought like it was still 1860."

The officer said nothing.

"They’ll learn," Mikhailov said quietly. "Or they’ll lose the next war before it even begins."

—

January 15, 1899

Amerathia, Chicago Military Parade Grounds

Snowflakes drifted lazily over the crowd, but no one seemed to care. A sea of people stretched along the parade grounds—families bundled in coats and scarves, holding signs, waving flags. Brass bands played triumphant tunes. The victory parade had begun.

Leading the procession were the returning veterans of the 7th and 11th Infantry Divisions, boots polished, uniforms crisp, their faces stoic as they marched beneath the archway that bore the words: "Home From Pyongyang."

Captain Edward Harris marched near the front, his rifle slung neatly across his shoulder. He saw his sister in the crowd, waving frantically from behind the line. For the first time in months, he smiled.

Behind him rolled Amerathian artillery units—once deployed on the Korean Peninsula, now greeted with thunderous applause. At the rear came supply trains, horses, engineers. Not all had made it home. But for those who had, this moment was something to cling to.

From the central platform, President Matthew Hesh watched quietly. He had given his speech already. Now he simply watched his soldiers come home.

Beside him stood several foreign envoys—Korean, Japanese, even a cautious observer from Britain. All eyes were on Amerathia, not as a colonizer, but as a power that had shaped the course of an entire continent without claiming it.

"What now?" one envoy asked quietly.

Matthew didn’t take his eyes off the parade. "Now we wait. And we lead."

—

January 20, 1899

Beijing, Forbidden City

Inside the ancient halls of the Forbidden City, the Qing Court sat in stunned silence. Empress Dowager Cixi looked down at the list of war reparations presented by the Amerathian ambassador.

It was not a punishment. It was a humiliation.

Territory had not been taken—but pride had. The Qing Empire’s influence over Korea was over. Its alliance with Russia was broken. And its army, once feared, had been shown to be unprepared for modern war.

"No more excuses," she said finally, her voice cold. "No more lies. Begin reforms. Tear down the old banners. If we don’t modernize now, we’ll fall behind forever."

Bureaucrats bowed.

The war was over.

But a new race had begun—one that no empire could afford to lose.