By the time I returned after bringing the Asian front to a brilliant conclusion, news of my exploits had already spread across Europe.
Admiral Parker, who had secured not only the Black Sea but also the Sea of Azov, greeted me with a wide grin.
"Ha! Your Highness, remarkable work!"
"The real credit goes to our naval officers and sailors. Without overwhelming naval superiority backing us, we could never have neutralized Vladivostok so easily."
"But before that, wasn't it entirely Your Highness's doing—drawing all three Northeast Asian nations into striking Russia? I was truly impressed."
It seemed the exaggeration—that I had moved both European and Asian nations exactly as I intended—had been thoroughly swallowed.
I didn't quite understand why it worked so well, but the results spoke for themselves. The looks directed at me, once close to admiration, were now beginning to resemble those of worshippers beholding a god of diplomacy.
At first, they had only wanted to use me to boost morale.
Now, they were desperate to keep me at naval headquarters 24 hours a day, 365 days a year.
There was, of course, a reason.
Since the start of this war, the Royal Navy had never once struggled. Unlike the army, it had done nothing but relentlessly hammer the enemy.
The concern, however, was that with both the Black Sea and the Sea of Azov effectively sealed, and the Baltic locked in Russia's defensive stalemate, there were no more opportunities for notable achievements.
So when news came that we had gone beyond victory in Asia—completely capturing Vladivostok and planting the Union Jack across Russian territories in the region—it was only natural they would be ecstatic.
Admiral Parker burst into hearty laughter, adding,
"Isn't this the true power of the Royal Navy—fundamentally different from the army?"
Right. The Royal Navy is magnificent. Truly worlds apart from that incompetent army.
When I moved to the next location, Field Marshal FitzRoy—who endured daily jabs from the navy while successfully besieging Sevastopol—also welcomed my return.
"With such a decisive victory in Asia, the morale of Russian forces in Europe will surely decline. Once this fortress falls, Crimea will be ours. They won't be able to hold out much longer. Your Highness's contribution is immense."
"It's all thanks to those like you, shedding blood and sweat here. I've only played a supporting role."
"As expected of Your Highness—a man of character. Admiral Parker never misses a chance to boast that all of the army's success is thanks to naval support. At this point, I'm sick of hearing it. I'm certain he'll come by again to brag about how the proud Royal Navy wiped out Russian forces in Asia and made our position stronger."
Back there, they talked behind the army's back. Here, they talked behind the navy's.
Just keeping both sides satisfied was exhausting.
Still, as I listened to FitzRoy's complaints and asked about the situation, I could understand the army's frustration.
On the Crimean Peninsula, British forces were outperforming even their allies—the French and the Ottomans.
And yet, the navy constantly claimed greater credit.
Of course, strictly speaking, the army's reduced casualties were largely thanks to John Snow and Florence Nightingale, whom I had brought along. Their efforts had drastically lowered the death rate among the wounded.
This went beyond simply returning soldiers to the front—it had an enormous impact on overall morale.
Especially the perception that "only the British army is like this"—that had worked better than expected.
"You told us to spread these figures before you left, to boost morale. It's been incredibly effective."
"Of course it has. Everything is relative."
—The army next to us loses 40% of its wounded. Ours? Barely 2%. That's the difference between the superior British Army and the inferior Russian one!
With words like that circulating, how could morale not rise?
In the end, what matters most to a soldier is victory—and survival.
They could feel that Britain was far stronger than Russia, and with such a stark difference in survival rates, confidence in their own safety naturally followed.
"Marshal, in this situation—if Sevastopol falls—does Russia still have the strength to continue the war?"
"Once we take Sevastopol and secure Crimea, Ukraine will be wide open. For now, we're simply blocking food supplies from reaching Russia, but afterward, we'll be able to take the land entirely. At that point, no matter how much they struggle, they cannot win. They'll be forced to surrender before long. Besides, we've been hearing that Tsar Nicholas's condition isn't very good either. That may have some effect."
"The Tsar is unwell? Is it serious?"
Given that he was fated to die around this time in the original history, it wouldn't be strange if worsening war conditions had pushed him over the edge.
But FitzRoy scratched his head with an odd expression.
"Not exactly… It's said he's developed severe hair loss. There's apparently a large bald patch at the crown of his head."
"Ah…"
So not physical collapse—mental.
A brief silence filled the room before FitzRoy struggled to hold back laughter.
"He was already receding at the front, and now the crown has joined in—pfft!"
"Pfft—Ahem. Still, let's not laugh too much, Marshal. So what, the Tsar's gone bald? I know Russia's symbol is the double-headed eagle, but calling him a 'bald eagle' seems a bit much, don't you think?"
"I never said that. Isn't that what you want to call him, Your Highness?"
Nonsense. I was merely reacting to his vivid description.
Still… receding hairline and a bald crown? The image is just too easy to picture.
"Ahem. In any case, the key is capturing that fortress and raising the Union Jack over Crimea."
"Indeed. But the way you're asking… do you have some kind of plan?"
Sharp. His instincts had improved.
"How much supply is Russia pouring into defending Sevastopol? With the capital under pressure, support must be decreasing, correct?"
"Yes. That's why we thought if we maintained the siege for about a year, we could take it without much difficulty."
"That would minimize casualties, but a year is too long. Maintaining a siege costs money every single day."
War was like a massive construction project—every passing day meant mounting losses.
If we could take Crimea even a day sooner, it would be worth it.
More importantly, this could influence not just Crimea, but the entire Russian army—and even our allies.
If we were going to do this, we needed to make it grand.
If nothing else, when it came to talking big, no one could match me.
And that wasn't arrogance—it was fact.
"So, Marshal—would you care to hear my plan?"
After securing FitzRoy's approval, I immediately began preparations for a propaganda campaign.
Naturally, in the 1850s, the Geneva Convention didn't exist yet. There were no formal rules for prisoner exchanges.
Still, there were unwritten customs—officers were treated with respect, and high-ranking prisoners were often treated more like guests.
Gennady was no exception.
Though the Asian front was small compared to Europe, he had still commanded an entire region.
For Russia, having such a man captured was a humiliation they could not tolerate.
And if left alone, Britain would surely exaggerate his capture for propaganda.
So when I offered to repatriate him, Russia eagerly accepted.
Which meant—the operation could begin.
"Commander, how have you been? You look well."
"…Hardly."
"You still look much better than when we first met."
"At the time, I couldn't even stand due to my back injury. Of course I look better now. In fact, I've fully recovered—but being forced to stay bedridden here is driving me mad."
Gennady Nevelskoy answered obediently, though clearly uncomfortable.
He had been isolated during the journey from Asia, deprived of conversation.
Ordinarily, this might be considered mistreatment—but officially, he was still a critically ill patient.
"Just a little longer. If it's discovered that someone supposedly near death is strolling around the base, it could cause trouble."
"…Understood. It can't be helped. But… wasn't Russia suspicious?"
"Not at all. We reported that you were gravely injured from a fall. We said if anything happened to you, it would damage Britain's honor—so it would be best if they took you back quickly. They agreed immediately."
"...I see. If someone like me were to die in captivity, there would be consequences."
Exactly.
If a commander died while being transported? There would be talk of torture—or worse.
So the logic held.
"And we've arranged for their medical officers and several others to accompany the exchange—along with journalists from both sides, to verify that no mistreatment occurred."
"…So the stage is perfectly set."
"Exactly. Which means everything depends on how convincing your performance is."
After all, he'd spent the entire journey practicing.
Gennady smiled confidently.
"No problem. But Your Highness—you must keep your promise."
"Of course. I always honor my deals. The better you perform, the more money you'll receive in Canada. Enough to last a lifetime."
"…Understood. If this war drags on, only more of our people will die. So this isn't betrayal—it's a noble revelation to save lives. You agree, don't you?"
"Absolutely. If your revelation shortens the war, countless lives will be saved. Commander Gennady—you will become a hero."
If he needed rationalization, I'd gladly provide it.
Blind agreement like this was one of my specialties.
With the lead actor ready, and the stage set—
all that remained was to gather the audience.
Operation: Superconductive Propaganda.
It begins now.