The Tsar's Last Gift

The meeting hall in Jinzhou City sat at the edge of contested territory—a neutral ground where the fate of nations would be decided. I studied the Japanese delegation as they entered, noting the rigid posture and carefully controlled expressions of men who had tasted victory only to find it suddenly threatened.

Ito Hirobumi led them with the dignified bearing of a statesman accustomed to navigating treacherous diplomatic waters. Behind him stood Foreign Minister Mutsu Munemitsu and several military officers whose decorations suggested they had participated directly in the campaign against Qing.

Across the room, Li Jingfang represented Qing as Imperial Special Envoy—a carefully chosen intermediary rather than Li Hongzhang himself. The aged viceroy had wisely remained in the background, allowing his protégé to handle the delicate negotiations while maintaining plausible deniability for the Qing court.

And between these adversaries sat Russia—myself, flanked by General Kondratenko and Governor-General Sergei. The mediator who had summoned 40,000 troops to the border to ensure my mediation would be taken seriously.

As formalities began, I observed the tension radiating from the Japanese delegation. Victory had been within their grasp—Liaodong Peninsula occupied, Qing forces in disarray, and the path to Manchuria open before them. Then Russia had appeared, backed by France and Germany, to snatch away the fruits of their hard-won campaign.

"Imperial Special Envoy Li Jingfang," Ito acknowledged with minimal courtesy, his tone betraying no warmth.

The Qing representative bowed slightly, the gesture containing just the right mixture of formality and restraint. "Prime Minister Ito. We are gratified by your willingness to discuss terms for a resolution to our unfortunate conflict."

I could feel Ito's assessment turning toward me—calculating, wary, trying to determine what exactly Russia sought from this intervention. What orders had Alexander III given his son that would send the Crown Prince himself to this distant border region?

The atmosphere grew increasingly stifled as pleasantries were exchanged but genuine progress stalled. Each delegation seemed determined to reveal nothing while learning everything—a paralysis of diplomatic caution.

"Haha, aren't you tired to talk business right after meeting?" I suggested lightly. "Let's catch our breath a bit first."

No one moved. The suggestion met with silent resistance from men too consumed by national interests to consider something as mundane as comfort.

I rose from my seat and approached Ito directly. "Do you perhaps have cigarettes? Japanese ones would be nice..."

I wiggled my empty fingers with a disarming smile—a gesture designed to break the ice and create an opportunity for private conversation.

Ito hesitated momentarily before producing a silver cigarette case from his pocket. "Of course, Your Highness."

Outside on the balcony overlooking the contested landscape of Liaodong, Ito and I stood apart from the delegations. The cold November air carried the scent of the sea mixed with distant coal smoke from military encampments.

"Asahi cigarettes, first time," I commented, examining the cigarette before lighting it.

"Not expensive but deep taste. Everyone enjoys regardless of class," Ito replied in careful English.

"Your English is skillful," I observed.

"Natural since I studied abroad in England."

His English was indeed polished—educated, formal, revealing his background as one of Japan's most cosmopolitan statesmen. I took a long drag from the cigarette, gauging how to proceed with this man who clearly viewed me with suspicion.

"Huu... First time seeing me alone?" I asked, deliberately casual.

"Heard much in rumors. About the previous incident too."

"Haha, all past things I don't even remember."

Ito turned away briefly at the mention of the incident three years earlier—when Japan had paid an enormous consolation to avoid conflict after my injury. The final payment had been made only this year, a fact that undoubtedly still rankled.

I could feel his wariness and hostility. How to penetrate the armor of a man determined to view me as an adversary?

The strategy that had served me well before suggested itself—let him believe this was all my father's doing, positioning myself as the moderate alternative.

"Two months to Khabarovsk. And another 10 days here. Quite an ordeal coming such long way personally," I remarked.

"Tsar's command, what could be done," I continued, shrugging slightly.

"Right, even I can't oppose Tsar's orders. But can't do anything about my true feelings, right?"

Ito remained silent, waiting to see where this line of conversation would lead, clearly skeptical of my sincerity.

"If... This is really if," I continued, lowering my voice conspiratorially, "if Imperial forces had gone just a bit deeper into Liaodong, I wouldn't be here. Instead Governor-General Sergei and that friend standing behind earlier—friend called Roman—would be here instead. Of course not alone, but leading forces from all our empire's military districts."

Ito's expression remained neutral, but I detected the slightest tension around his eyes. The implication was clear—had Japan pressed further into Manchuria, Russia would have responded with military force rather than diplomacy.

I let the thought sink in before continuing. "But I'm different. Don't know how much you know about me, but I don't view war very favorably."

"This war is to punish Qing trying to oppress Korea and return sovereignty—" Ito began, slipping into explanatory mode.

"Yes yes, well must be detailed circumstances and interests. Though I don't know well," I interrupted, waving away his justification. I didn't need a lecture on Japan's reasons for war; I needed to establish my position as distinct from my father's.

"Huu, what's that land mass worth. Ah, making people die and live," I sighed, leaning casually against the balcony rail and taking another drag from the cigarette.

I could practically feel Ito's internal eye-roll at my affected nonchalance. Perfect. Let him believe I was merely a reluctant executor of my father's aggressive designs.

"In my eyes. Like this results are obvious," I stated abruptly.

"What results?"

"War between our Russia and Japanese Empire."

Ito's eyelids flickered slightly—the first genuine reaction I'd observed.

"Liaodong land? Korea? Never particularly interested but just think whatever. Power country's expansion historically natural development and inter-country war something even our Russia has done many times," I continued, deliberately casual about matters of national sovereignty.

"However like this. In my eyes not distant future. So probably high chance huge war predicted between Russia I rule and you all. So I chose mediation though different from father's desired direction."

This was the delicate balance—presenting myself as recognizing the inevitability of Russian-Japanese conflict while positioning myself as the moderate alternative to my father's purported aggression.

"...Strange Crown Prince sent to Far East when thoughts differ from Tsar. Truly strange," Ito observed skeptically.

"Because father is in seriously ill condition. I'm the person who'll be next Tsar."

Ito fell silent, absorbing this information. I was taking a calculated risk, presenting myself as at odds with my father's policy. I would be labeled an unfilial son, but if it delayed the Russo-Japanese War even by a year, it would be worth it.

"I don't want war with Japan. No, any country. Nevertheless won't hesitate if war to protect. So this is neither persuasion nor enforcement but question I truly want to ask. Does Japan want war with Russia?" I asked directly.

"Ah, keep talking idealistic things so don't know what tune to match," Ito replied evasively.

"Haha, really? Then let's change question. Do you think Japan can win fighting our Russia now?"

It was a blunt question, deliberately challenging his national pride while cutting to the heart of the matter.

"That's unknowable, no?" Ito answered diplomatically.

"No, you'll know. Probably know better than any military officer. Must know well if don't want to lose even Korea."

I wasn't playing the naive idealist transported from continental Europe to the Far East. I was demonstrating that I understood the reality better than anyone while still pursuing my ideals.

"Cooperating with Qing forces this chance we could even eat Korea? At least could swallow all Manchurian land as price for driving you out. Even though father wants that and no official would dare oppose. Why has our empire still not directly intervened? Though collision with Japan plainly visible even to mere Crown Prince's eyes."

The truth was more complex—Russia lacked war funds, reforms were ongoing, and the railway to the Far East remained incomplete, making military projection of power to this region nearly impossible with the empire's current resources. But Ito didn't need to know that.

"Anyway since Russia and Japan fighting would be good for no one. If that happens only Britain behind you would be happy, would be good for no one," I concluded.

"That's all thanks to Crown Prince? Treating me too naively—" Ito began, his skepticism evident.

His words were interrupted by the sudden opening of the balcony door and Roman Kondratenko's urgent appearance.

"Your Highness!"

"Roman? Don't you see conversation ongoing?" I replied, irritated by the intrusion.

"The Tsar... has passed away."

"...What?" The cigarette nearly fell from my fingers.

"News just delivered through Communications Department. Urgent report His Majesty passed away this morning while resting in Livadia. Must return to St. Petersburg right now!"

"...Fuck."

The timing was unbelievable. Father's passing at this crucial moment threatened to unravel everything I had worked toward. Dropping the cigarette from my mouth as I prepared to leave, I turned to Ito, who remained rooted in place, processing this dramatic development.

"Previous words should be seen not as mere Crown Prince's empty talk, but will of Russian Empire's monarch Tsar. Hope you agree with me."

Ito remained silent, clearly calculating the implications of this sudden transformation in my status.

"If still can't believe then just leave. I yielded enough too," I added, having said all I needed to say to the Japanese Prime Minister.

Whether he accepted my sincerity or not, the results of these talks wouldn't change significantly, but the future relations between our countries hung in the balance.

"I have no time, let's resume talks immediately," I announced, striding back into the meeting room and taking my seat.

All present must have heard the news, as the atmosphere had shifted palpably in the brief time I had been gone. Every gaze held new weight, new calculation as they regarded me—no longer Crown Prince Nicholas but Tsar Nicholas II, Emperor and Autocrat of All Russia.

The main points had already been established through preliminary negotiations. Now we merely needed to finalize, sign, and conclude. Time was of the essence—my father's funeral and my formal ascension to the throne demanded my immediate return to St. Petersburg.

"The terms before us represent a balanced resolution to the current conflict," I stated firmly. "Japan secures its position in Korea and receives appropriate compensation for its military expenditures. Qing preserves its territorial integrity in Manchuria while acknowledging changed circumstances regarding Korea."

I deliberately omitted explicit mention of Russia's gains—the railway concessions through Manchuria and the lease of Port Arthur. Those details were contained in separate agreements with Qing, not part of the formal peace treaty between the belligerents.

"I must depart for St. Petersburg without delay," I continued. "The question before us is whether we conclude these negotiations now, with terms acceptable to all parties, or whether alternative arrangements must be made in my absence."

The implied threat was clear. If Ito rejected these terms, I would leave immediately for my father's funeral, and whoever replaced me at the negotiating table would likely present far less favorable conditions—conditions backed by the military force that Governor-General Sergei had assembled on the border.

The decision now rested with Prime Minister Ito, the man who had started this war. Would he accept these terms and shake hands to conclude peace? Or would he face Russia directly, according to what I had implied was my father's more aggressive policy?

I sat ready to leave at any moment, prepared to abandon the negotiations if necessary. The scratching of pen on paper filled the tense silence as documents were reviewed one final time.

Then, with deliberate care, Ito Hirobumi lifted the pen, dipped it in ink, and signed his name to the treaty.

"Japan accepts these terms in the interest of regional stability," he announced formally.

Li Jingfang followed suit, signing on behalf of the Qing Empire. "The Great Qing likewise accepts these terms and looks forward to peaceful relations among our nations."

As mediator, I signed last, my first official act as Tsar of Russia not in St. Petersburg surrounded by ceremony, but in a modest meeting room in distant Jinzhou City.

"The treaty is concluded," I declared. "May it bring lasting peace to the Far East."

The formalities of conclusion proceeded with remarkable efficiency—all parties motivated by the extraordinary circumstances to dispense with the usual diplomatic delays. Within hours, the treaty was finalized, copies prepared for each delegation, and arrangements made for public announcements.

As I prepared to depart, Ito approached me one final time.

"Your Imperial Majesty," he began, using my new title with careful precision, "Japan will honor this agreement fully. We seek stability to consolidate our position in Korea and develop our nation."

"Russia likewise seeks stability, Prime Minister Ito," I replied. "Though our interests may diverge in future, perhaps this moment of cooperation may serve as a foundation for understanding rather than conflict."

Ito's expression remained carefully neutral. "Perhaps. Though I must observe that your father has given you a remarkable final gift."

"What gift would that be, Prime Minister?"

"The chance to establish your reign with a diplomatic triumph rather than military confrontation," he answered. "Few monarchs receive such an opportunity at the moment of succession."

I considered his words. He wasn't wrong—Father's timing, however painful personally, had been diplomatically perfect. His death had transformed me from special envoy to sovereign at the precise moment when that transformation carried maximum weight in negotiations.

"I shall endeavor to honor his memory by using that gift wisely," I replied simply.

The journey back to St. Petersburg stretched before me—days of travel during which Russia would formally enter mourning for Alexander III while preparing for my coronation. As my train departed Jinzhou, I stood at the window of my private car, watching the contested landscape recede into the distance.

In just three weeks, I had accomplished what three years of advocacy had failed to achieve. Port Arthur would soon be Russia's, connected to our heartland by a railway through Manchuria. Japan had been checked, temporarily at least, and relations with Qing restructured to our advantage.

Most importantly, I had established the foundation for a new imperial policy—one that recognized the Far East not as a distant frontier but as a vital theater for Russia's future security and prosperity.

General Kondratenko, who would remain to oversee military aspects of our agreements, offered a final assessment as he accompanied me to the train.

"Your Majesty has achieved a remarkable diplomatic success," he acknowledged. "But Japan will not forget this intervention. They accept these terms, but will prepare for the next confrontation."

"As shall we, General," I replied. "Your work at Port Arthur now becomes even more critical. Transform it into a fortress that will make even the most ambitious Japanese admiral hesitate."

"It shall be done, Your Majesty."

As the train gathered speed, carrying me back toward the world of court politics, imperial ceremony, and the heavy burden of ruling the world's largest land empire, I reflected on Father's final, unintentional gift.

He had opposed my Far Eastern obsession for years, burying me in military service and dismissing my concerns as eccentric. Yet in his final months, he had granted me the opportunity to act, and in his death, he had given me the ultimate authority to conclude those actions successfully.

Was it possible that, despite our differences, he had come to recognize the wisdom of my concerns? Or was it simply that, facing his own mortality, he had chosen to give his son this chance to prove himself before assuming the awesome responsibility of the throne?

I would never know. But as Russia's landscape flowed past the window, I silently thanked him for this final gift—the chance to begin my reign not with words but with accomplishment, not with plans but with achievement.

The Far East had been secured, at least for now. Japan had been checked without bloodshed. And I returned to St. Petersburg not as an eccentric prince with unfulfilled visions, but as a Tsar who had already demonstrated his capacity to advance Russian interests on the world stage.

Father's last gift—perhaps the greatest he could have given.