Another man's misfortune is one's own fortune.
It was a saying that made one question the speaker's character, yet, tragically, in international affairs, it was more often true than not.
Especially when nations across the sea were busy tearing each other apart—few proverbs fit better.
War, by its very nature, devoured money without limit.
As the modern age advanced, the cost of maintaining both navy and army soared to astronomical levels, making the burden even heavier.
Bullets, artillery, food, clean water—then medical supplies, weapons, oil… the list was endless.
A small conflict involving a few thousand men might be manageable.
But once armies numbering in the hundreds of thousands were mobilized?
At that point, it would not be an exaggeration to say that a nation had to pour its entire economic strength into sustaining the war.
Even powers like France and Britain were not exempt.
Britain had committed fewer troops than France, but in exchange, it had mobilized an enormous naval force.
That alone placed significant strain on its resources.
Still, Britain could draw upon its vast empire, pulling supplies from across the globe to compensate.
France, however, was in a tighter position.
And there was no miraculous solution.
They needed supplies. Mountains of them. And they weren't prepared.
So what else could they do?
They bought them.
And Canada, which supplied these vast quantities of materials, found itself in an unexpected boom—crying tears of joy.
The United States, which might have joined in to sell goods, was tied down by its war with Mexico and had restricted exports to Europe.
That was the official reason.
In truth, Britain had agreed to focus on Europe and Asia, while the United States allowed most of the economic opportunities to fall into Canada's hands.
Canada's industrial capacity was still developing, so an unusual situation emerged—America supplying materials to Canada so Canada could manufacture goods.
It was a clear sign of just how serious the United States was about expanding into the Pacific.
In any case, Canada seized the moment.
Factories ran 24 hours a day, seven days a week—relentlessly churning out supplies.
Toronto and Montreal had become cities that never slept.
"Come on! Let's keep it moving! Produce as much as we can today!"
"Hey! Why is Section Five slowing down? I don't care how much it costs—no slacking!"
"Supervisor! We don't have enough workers! How are we supposed to run the machines?!"
"If we don't invent automated machinery, we've already reached peak efficiency!"
Orders piled up faster than they could be fulfilled—even with factories running nonstop.
Some factory owners, driven to desperation, ended up working the machines themselves.
It was a bizarre sight.
But what choice did they have?
Even offering higher wages brought no new workers.
"Chairman James, please! We need more manpower! Even my son is working the line now, and we still can't keep up!"
"We're recruiting from everywhere. Hold on a little longer. Even settlers from frontier villages are being hired—we should see relief next week."
"Next week? Damn it… I guess we work ourselves to death until then."
Who would have thought that booming weapon sales could be painful?
Yet painful as it was—it was also exhilarating.
A joyful kind of suffering.
Sell more bullets. More cannons. More everything.
Cheers to that.
Meanwhile, after suffering disastrous defeats against Russia's new weaponry, the Ottoman Empire urgently sent out an SOS to Britain.
Britain responded by selling off its stockpiled weapons and drawing additional supplies from Canada.
When that proved insufficient, it moved to mass-produce materials directly in Canada.
More precisely, Killian, as Duke of Canada, had made sure things unfolded that way.
Factories incorporating Britain's latest technology were springing up rapidly.
And once the war ended, these would remain as invaluable assets for Canada.
Britain had imposed only one condition:
—Do not sell weapons to Russia or its allies.
Which meant…
There were no restrictions elsewhere.
So selling to Mexico was perfectly acceptable, wasn't it?
Canadian capitalists, intoxicated by profit, embraced this convenient logic and began making contact with Mexico—then at war with the United States.
"Your weapons won't beat the Americans, right? These may be a generation old, but they're British. Want to try them?"
"Oh! Take my money! Take my money! Guns, please! Cannons, please!"
Naturally, the United States protested fiercely.
But this was their own oversight.
They had prohibited troop involvement—not trade.
Morally, siding with America might have been wiser for future diplomacy.
But how could a free nation forcibly restrict the business of its citizens?
There was no legal basis.
And then, James—the head of the James Group, operating between Canada and the United States—offered a brilliant solution.
"If you don't want these goods going to Mexico… then the United States can purchase them instead."
If you don't want your enemy to have them, buy them yourself.
It was a shameless proposal.
The Americans were left stunned—but they had no alternative.
No matter how much they protested, the answer remained the same:
"To restrict exports, legislation must be passed in Britain, or authorized by His Grace the Duke. We've sent word to London and will act as soon as we receive a response."
In other words—nothing could be done quickly.
Crossing the Atlantic took time.
Passing legislation took even longer.
And Killian himself?
He was already in the Balkans, having gone to war.
With no other option, the United States begrudgingly bought the weapons meant for Mexico.
After all, if they crushed Mexico quickly, there would be no need for further purchases.
Profit either way.
And so, while Europe burned in war, Canada rode a tidal wave of wealth.
Yet almost no one fully grasped the scale of what was happening.
The main course was still the war between Russia and the Anglo-French alliance.
Canada, a mere colony, was seen as nothing more than garnish.
Europe didn't notice.
The United States didn't notice.
Not even Canada itself.
They were all simply swept along by the storm of this chaotic age—chasing profit wherever it appeared.
Since beginning my second life in the 19th century, I had not exactly avoided war.
I had earned the title of war hero in the conflict against Qing China.
I had even intimidated my way into gaining land during the American-Mexican War.
But this—this was different.
A true great war, with hundreds of thousands clashing.
Even I couldn't help but feel a slight tension.
Fortunately, I wasn't personally commanding troops, so I attended the meeting with a relatively calm mind.
***
"Your Highness, you've arrived."
"Admiral, am I the last?"
"No, Field Marshal FitzRoy hasn't arrived yet."
Admiral William Parker, commander of the Royal Navy, glanced at the empty seat and smiled faintly.
"The army does tend to lack punctuality."
"Or perhaps negotiations with the French are delayed."
"That's also possible. The French are even worse than the army."
It was rare for the navy's commander and the army's field marshal to meet like this.
But with the front so wide, coordination was necessary.
And since British and French forces were gathered nearby, I had volunteered to act as the intermediary.
"I didn't expect this place to become our forward base."
"Really? With Ottoman cooperation, there's no better location."
"I see. I'm not exactly an expert in military matters."
"Even so, Your Highness's presence alone boosts morale tremendously. I've never seen soldiers so inspired."
That much was obvious.
A royal figure fighting alongside them?
Of course morale would soar.
Still, I found it surprising that this location was considered ideal.
"Admiral, is there any chance Russia might attempt a landing here while our navy is away?"
"A landing at Gallipoli?" He laughed. "That's a good joke. No one would attempt something that foolish."
"…I see. Thank you for the insight."
No one would be foolish enough to land at Gallipoli.
Right. I should make a note of that for my memoirs.
Just in case some fool in the distant future proved otherwise.
As we spoke, the door opened.
"Apologies for the delay."
Field Marshal FitzRoy James Henry Somerset entered, composed and imposing.
Parker glanced at his empty sleeve—the result of Waterloo—and said nothing.
"Field Marshal, was there an issue with the French?"
"No. There's been a cholera outbreak in the camp. Seventeen infected. Fortunately, it's contained—no fatalities."
"Cholera again?"
I knew it.
Gallipoli and Britain simply didn't mix.
"At least it was handled quickly."
"Yes. Thanks to the medical team you brought. With proper hydration, the patients are stable."
John Snow and Florence Nightingale.
As expected.
But then…
Why the uneasy smile?
I quickly found out as I read the report.
—Cholera outbreak: 17 infected, 0 dead.—Damage: Warehouse lock and door destroyed. No other losses.
"…."
My eyes lingered on that line.
FitzRoy gave a wry smile.
I quietly set the report down.
Good.
Nothing to see here.
Everything was proceeding smoothly.
A perfect start.
Surely, the goddess of victory was smiling upon us.