Paris, capital of France.
"Haah…"
François Guizot, who had been loudly praised as the prime minister who led France to victory, slowly shook his head as he took a long drag from his cigarette.
The losses were too great.
Rough estimates put total casualties near one hundred thousand, with tens of thousands dead.
Aside from the Napoleonic Wars, it was hard to recall another conflict where France had suffered damage on this scale.
Of course, the Napoleonic Wars were an exception—France had fought all of Europe for over a decade.
But this war with Russia?
It hadn't even lasted three full years.
And yet, in that short span, the damage was immense.
For now, it was manageable. The government was busy proclaiming victory, boasting that Russia had been crushed and France's prestige restored.
But reality would have to be faced eventually.
Sooner or later, the cost of this war would come due—and how to fill that gap was now the government's most urgent concern.
"Minister, how are preparations for the conference proceeding?"
"Britain has agreed to hold the treaty in Paris. The Ottomans have also consented, and Russia… has no choice but to attend."
"With Britain's approval, that settles it. The conference will be held in France."
"After all, there is no city better suited to host and coordinate representatives from across Europe."
As Foreign Minister Édouard Louis said, Paris had long been a traditional hub for major diplomatic gatherings.
And in terms of accessibility, few cities made travel as convenient for Europe's elites.
"Security must be flawless. Not even the smallest breach can be tolerated. Ensure every detail is handled perfectly."
"Yes, Prime Minister."
"Have all the representatives been decided?"
"Britain will send the Prince Consort, Killian. Russia will send Foreign Minister Alexander Gorchakov. Austria will be represented by its foreign minister, Count Karl Ferdinand von Buol. The Ottomans will likely send Ali Pasha, who previously served as Grand Vizier."
"And Prussia?"
Guizot had expected Otto Theodor von Manteuffel, the recently appointed prime minister favored by King Friedrich Wilhelm IV.
But the answer was unexpected.
"They will send a young diplomat named Otto von Bismarck."
"Bismarck? I've never heard the name."
"Understandable. Our investigation shows he has little formal experience—just a Junker in his thirties."
"A man in his thirties, sent to negotiate a treaty of this magnitude?"
"Prime Minister… by that logic, Prince Consort Killian is also only in his early thirties."
Ah. Right.
Guizot added quickly,
"That man is different. He's already become the youngest minister in British history. His weight comes from his achievements. This Bismarck, on the other hand… sounds like a fortunate upstart."
"Yes. There's nothing particularly remarkable in his record. How he caught the king's attention remains unclear."
"Well, we'll see soon enough whether he's just lucky—or truly capable. Keep a close eye on him."
"Yes, sir."
As the treaty conference in Paris drew closer, Guizot felt an increasing sense of unease.
How should he describe it?
Like walking toward a disaster he could already see coming—yet having no choice but to continue forward.
"No matter what, we must extract as much as possible from Russia."
The only way to recover France's losses was to strip Russia bare and refill the treasury.
The problem?
France wasn't the only one thinking that.
France had suffered heavily—but Britain had dealt the most decisive blows.
Naturally, Britain would claim the largest share.
Then there was the Ottoman Empire, which had fought on its own soil and suffered greatly.
And finally—Prussia.
"Now that Russia has fallen, our greatest future threat may very well be Prussia. I trust you understand that."
"Of course. We'll structure things in a way that supports Austria and keeps Prussia in check."
"Good. I'm counting on you."
"Yes. For now, we'll ensure the reception is flawless. Prince Consort Killian and Minister Gorchakov are expected to arrive next week."
"They're arriving quickly."
The war's true victor and its defeated party—arriving first.
"The king also wishes to meet Prince Consort Killian. Please arrange it. And… no, I'll personally attend the reception. It would look better."
"Understood. What about Russia?"
"Handle them through the Foreign Ministry. But don't make it look like we're slighting them."
In truth, he would have preferred to delegate them to a lower official.
But openly disrespecting Russia would damage France's own prestige.
Politics demanded smiles in public—and knives behind the back.
"Prime Minister, Russia's foreign minister is attempting to make contact with the British."
"…?"
"It seems they're trying to minimize their losses before the negotiations."
"That makes sense. They won't want to lose everything. Has Gorchakov ever been to Britain?"
"No. He was appointed after Nesselrode was dismissed when the war began."
"I see. Then we don't need to worry."
"You mean we should leave them alone?"
Guizot smiled faintly.
"Let them try."
He knew better than anyone.
He had crossed the English Channel countless times—for one reason only: to speak with Killian.
And he knew exactly what would happen.
Anyone who tried to bargain with that man would end up being played instead.
Meanwhile—
In the original timeline, Russia had lost the war but still managed to salvage a relatively acceptable outcome.
But now?
The situation was far worse.
The losses were greater.
Public trust in the emperor and nobility had collapsed into the abyss.
The military leadership remained alive—but deeply resentful.
Journalists openly defied censorship, publishing papers and pamphlets daily.
The people now clearly saw how broken their country was.
And just before entering Paris—
At Russia's desperate request, Foreign Minister Gorchakov came to meet him.
Curious to see Russia's position firsthand, Killian accepted—on one condition:
This would be an official meeting.
With no leverage left, Russia agreed immediately.
And so—
Gorchakov now sat before him, looking like a walking corpse.
"Russia never wished to damage its relationship with the British Empire."
"…."
"This entire conflict was caused by Ottoman and French provocations—designed to drive a wedge between our nations."
"Ah. So that's why your predecessor came to London, digging so aggressively into our military readiness."
"…What?"
"You didn't think we wouldn't know?"
Silence.
"So the moment you concluded Britain wasn't prepared for war—and would never fight Russia—you rushed headlong into this conflict. And now you're talking about 'misunderstandings'?"
"W-wait—this is a misunderstanding—"
"This war has cost us nearly ten thousand casualties."
(Actual number: around six thousand—but rounding up never hurt.)
"W-we also suffered—"
"You suffered from your own actions. We are victims dragged into your aggression. Don't lump us together."
"…We will fully compensate Britain. With interest, if necessary."
"Oh?"
Interesting.
He hadn't even pressed yet—and they were already offering concessions.
There had to be a catch.
"Russia's economy is on the brink of collapse," Gorchakov continued. "Even if we're asked to pay, we have nothing left. But we will prioritize compensation to Britain."
"So you want us to support you—so you can minimize payments to others?"
"…We ask for your understanding."
In other words:
If pushed too far, they'd default anyway.
Better to compromise—and ensure Britain gets paid.
Clever.
But flawed.
"Very well," Killian said calmly. "Pay us ten times our war expenditure."
"…What?"
"With interest included. That's a 900% rate."
"That's impossible!"
"Then we're not interested in negotiating separately."
"If you push too hard, the entire treaty could collapse!"
"Then we go back to war."
He smiled.
"And next time, we take Ukraine's black soil region instead. That alone would cover our losses."
Then—
He pulled aside the tent curtain.
Behind it, clerks were recording everything.
"If I show this to France or the Ottomans… they might abandon negotiations entirely and carve up your territory instead."
"W-wait! This meeting wasn't supposed to be recorded—"
"This is an official meeting. Did you think I invited you here for a private chat?"
Gorchakov froze.
"…Then I request this meeting be annulled."
"Of course. One condition."
"…Name it."
"No more threats involving grain exports from the black soil region. We formalize supply terms—separately from the main treaty."
In short:
Russia's biggest leverage—gone.
"…I cannot authorize this alone—"
"Then I'll share this conversation in Paris."
"…Wait!"
"Deadline: before we arrive in Paris."
Gorchakov ran out.
And exactly one hour and fifteen minutes before entering Paris—
His acceptance arrived.
Who told them to try cheap tricks?
Negotiation should be done properly.
Fairly.
Like this.
Sometimes, you even get a little bonus before the real talks begin.
In the end—
It pays to be a good person.