Building a Conglomerate in Another World-Chapter 294: New Century Dawns
February 1, 1899
Geneva, Switzerland — International Peace Conference
Snow blanketed the rooftops of Geneva's Old Town as carriages arrived one after another outside the Hôtel du Palais. Inside, beneath vaulted ceilings adorned with golden filigree, the world's great powers had gathered—not to wage war, but to formally end one.
The peace conference room was a grand chamber of dark mahogany walls and wide windows that faced the Alps. Delegates from all belligerent nations sat in silence as the final documents were placed before them.
At the center table sat President Matthew Hesh of Amerathia, flanked by two senior aides. Across from him sat Lord Ivan Golenishchev of the Russian Empire and Minister Zhang Mingyuan of the Qing Court. Between them, the table felt longer than it was—filled not just with ink and parchment, but pride, grudges, and unspoken consequences. fгeewebnovёl.com
Also present were observers from the United Kingdom, France, Germany, and even the Ottoman Empire. Though not participants in the conflict, all were watching closely. The shape of the future was being carved in this very room.
President Hesh tapped his knuckle against the polished wood once, then spoke in a calm, even tone. "Let the record show: this peace is not imposed by the barrel of a gun, but earned by the sacrifices of soldiers, the resilience of nations, and the undeniable will of free peoples. It is time to put war behind us—and build something better."
Lord Ivan offered a slow, diplomatic nod. "Russia recognizes its strategic overreach. We accept the terms."
Zhang Mingyuan, weary and visibly aged by months of turmoil, simply replied, "The Qing Empire will sign. We ask only that our sovereignty be respected going forward."
President Hesh met his eyes squarely. "So long as it is used responsibly, Minister, it will be."
At 10:44 a.m., on February 1, 1899, the Treaty of Geneva was signed.
The war was officially over.
—
February 5, 1899
Gyeongseong (Seoul), Korean Empire
In the streets of the capital, celebrations echoed through every district. Korean flags flew proudly from balconies, and schoolchildren marched in formation, waving small pennants and singing patriotic songs. Bells rang from newly repaired towers, and even the old Confucian academies, once hesitant about modernization, had opened their gates for a ceremonial procession.
General Lee Sang-hoon stood at the balcony of the Royal Military Academy, watching a battalion of cadets parade beneath him. Most of them had been too young to fight—but not too young to remember.
"Isn't it strange?" he said quietly to Minister Choi, who stood beside him. "We fought a war to stop being puppets. And now, standing here… we're free. But it still feels like we're only just beginning."
Minister Choi adjusted his spectacles. "That's because freedom is not a trophy, General. It's a task."
The general nodded slowly. "And one we cannot afford to neglect."
King Gojong had declared February 5 a national holiday—Restoration Day. It would be remembered not only as the day Korea's independence was affirmed, but as the birth of the new Korean century.
Inside the palace, the king held a quieter ceremony. Queen Min stood beside him as Amerathian ambassador Charles Eddington, Japanese envoy Mori Kenta, and numerous regional dignitaries each offered formal pledges of cooperation.
There were no more bayonets in the room. Only words, ink, and open hands.
—
February 10, 1899
Tokyo, Imperial Palace
Emperor Yoshihito read the translated copy of the Treaty of Geneva in near silence. Around him stood members of the Genrō and top military brass, including General Okada. When he finished, he folded the document and laid it gently on the lacquered table.
"Japan has proven itself," he said at last. "Not just to the West—but to ourselves."
There was no applause, no cheers. Only quiet nods of respect.
"We fought not as a vassal. Not as a student of foreign powers. But as their equal."
Okada bowed deeply. "The men did not flinch, Your Majesty. They fought with honor."
Emperor Yoshihito looked toward the wide window that faced the rising sun. "Let us honor them not just in ceremony, but in action. Begin the Imperial Reconstruction Program. Railways. Schools. Armories. Use what we have learned. Prepare not for another war—but for permanence."
Minister Tanaka spoke next. "And our international posture, sire?"
The Emperor's gaze hardened. "Amerathia is not our master—but they are our friend. Korea, no longer our battlefield, is now our neighbor. Let diplomacy grow where swords once crossed."
With that, the room bowed as one.
February 14, 1899
D.C., Amerathia — Office of the President
Valentine's Day in the capital was colder than usual, but Matthew Hesh hardly noticed. He sat alone in his office, reviewing a report from the Amerathian Department of Reconstruction.
Thousands of troops were scheduled for demobilization. New aid was being sent to Seoul and Pyongyang. Trade negotiations were scheduled with Tokyo. And most telling of all—Congress had introduced a bipartisan bill to formally establish a Pacific Defense Accord with Japan and Korea.
Collins knocked once and entered. "Sir, General Caldwell is on the line. He's asking about your visit to Seoul."
Matthew looked up. "Tell him I'll be there next month. Quietly. No parade. No speeches. Just… a walk through the city."
Collins smiled. "He'll like that."
Matthew leaned back in his chair. "The people there didn't ask for our help. But they fought alongside us anyway. I owe them more than just paperwork."
"Anything else, sir?"
Matthew paused, then looked out the window at the Amerathian flag fluttering over the dome of Congress. "Tell the press this is the last time I'll speak publicly about the war. The chapter is closed. Let the next President reopen it, if they must."
Collins hesitated. "And if another war starts?"
Matthew stood. "Then God help them. Because we won't fight it with the same boys again."
—
February 25, 1899
Pyongyang, Northern Korea
In the ruins of what had once been a war-torn city, children now played in the shadows of scaffolding and new construction. Vendors lined the streets, selling soup, charcoal, and tiny flags. Electric lines were being installed in the city square. A school bell rang for the first time in years.
Captain Edward Harris had chosen to stay behind as a military advisor—not because he had to, but because he wanted to see the place rebuilt with his own eyes.
He stood at the gates of a new hospital, constructed with Amerathian supplies and Korean labor. Korean doctors trained in Manila now walked the halls. Inside, wounded civilians and former soldiers alike received care, no matter what side they'd once fought for.
"Morning, Captain," said Nurse Park, a Korean woman with a thick accent and a sharper wit.
"Morning," Harris said with a tired smile. "No gunshots last night. I call that progress."
She laughed. "That's because the boys with rifles now wear hard hats and carry bricks."
He looked down the street, where an old artillery crater had been filled in with concrete. A park was planned for that spot, they said. Cherry trees would be planted in the spring.
As he walked the road, Harris passed a memorial wall under construction. At the top, three flags would fly: Korean, Amerathian, Japanese.
"People still argue over who really won," one young engineer commented nearby.
Harris stopped, turning to him. "Doesn't matter."
"Why not?"
"Because nobody lost."
