But with the initial goal achieved, was everything truly over? Had the contradictions disappeared?
If a group of robbers stole a massive cake from a bakery, would they really sit down calmly and share it piece by piece?
Why share? Even a child understands that with one less mouth to feed, you get more for yourself.
In this world where the strong prey on the weak, it has never been unusual to stab a comrade in the back for a tempting bit of chocolate on the cake, a bright piece of fruit, or even just for one extra bite.
Thus, centered around the spoils of war—primarily the distribution of the Macedonia region—the Second Balkan War broke out almost immediately.
Greece, Serbia, and Montenegro joined forces against an expanded Bulgaria. Romania, which had previously stayed neutral, took the opportunity to enter the fray from behind, and the opportunistic Ottoman Empire also stepped in to reclaim some lost territory.
This war was essentially the collapse of the previous victors' alliance and a bloody settling of internal scores.
The outcome held no suspense; Bulgaria was no match for four opponents and was beaten soundly. Thus, the Second Balkan War ended in Bulgaria's humiliation.
After everyone had a fierce fight and shed enough blood, they would sit at the negotiating table, laughing as they said, "Everyone did their best, let's turn the page!"
Who with even a modicum of political common sense would actually believe such words?
The so-called end of a war often only means that someone has been beaten to the ground, with the seeds of a deeper revenge planted in their heart.
Under the collective assault of Romania, the Ottoman Empire, Greece, Serbia, and Montenegro, Bulgaria was not only defeated but also lost vast territories seized during the first war, including its precious access to the sea.
It had committed the most soldiers and shed the most blood in the two Balkan Wars, yet in the end, it gained almost nothing and was left covered in scars.
But that did not mean the other countries that had feasted on the cake were satisfied.
Serbia, having failed to secure a corridor to the Adriatic Sea, saw its nationalist sentiment soar to unprecedented heights. Along with its brother nation Montenegro, it began casting increasingly undisguised glances toward the Slavic-populated regions within the Austro-Hungarian Empire.
The Ottoman Empire, stung by successive defeats in the Italian War and the Balkans, was gnashing its teeth. Internal forces like the "Young Turks" were restless, eagerly awaiting an opportunity for revenge and revival.
How could things possibly end there?
The Russian Empire, which had once shouted "Slavs are one" and styled itself as the protector of all Slavic peoples, saw its diplomatic layout in the Balkans—cultivated over many years—completely shattered by this series of wars.
It had intended to win over fellow ethnic nations through pan-slavism to counterbalance the Austro-Hungarian Empire and Germany, but the Balkan Wars instead caused these Slavic brother nations to turn their blades against each other, sowing deep-seated hatred.
Russia suffered a total break with Bulgaria, which it had originally carefully supported. To maintain its dwindling influence in the Balkans, it was left with only Serbia—an increasingly unstable single-plank bridge—to rely on.
By any measure, the entire Balkans resembled a massive, hair-trigger powder keg.
Karl soberly realized that there was no true peace in Europe at all; there was only the chill of war clouds hanging low, like the calm before a mountain storm.
He was struck with goosebumps by this icy premonition, subconsciously scratching his arm as he stood up from his seat in the study.
“Karl.”
Just as he was preparing to leave for Schönbrunn Palace, Zita called out to him.
The moment he saw her figure, that chill seemed to be swept away.
She was deeply beloved by the entire Habsburg imperial family, not just because she came from the illustrious Bourbon-Parma family with an impeccable pedigree.
The true reason she was cherished by the Emperor, the Empress, and Karl himself was currently lying quietly in her arms, looking around with large, dark eyes.
“Ee—ya!”
The infant reaching out his fair, tender little hands and struggling toward Karl was the fruit of his and Zita's love, the future hope of the Empire.
Otto von Habsburg.
The hostility and worry in Karl's heart quietly dissipated. A gentle expression naturally appeared on his face as he extended a finger to clasp that tiny hand.
“Pa—pa!”
He couldn't even speak a full sentence yet, but he possessed a presence that could make one temporarily forget all troubles.
Unconsciously, Karl's lips curled upward as he gave his son a gentle kiss on his smooth forehead.
Little Otto laughed brightly. Seemingly tickled, he slapped Karl's cheek with a small hand. The strength was not insignificant, making Karl wonder if he should train him in tennis or fencing in the future.
Just as he let out a chuckle.
“Karl.”
Holding Otto, Zita leaned in slightly, her beautiful face drawing closer.
Those clear eyes were clearly saying: What about me?
Karl immediately did as he had for his son, placing a kiss on her forehead before turning to walk out the door to face the crisis-ridden world outside.
...
“Today's meeting has been temporarily canceled due to His Majesty's sudden indisposition.”
“Oh? That is not good. What is His Majesty's current condition exactly?”
“His Majesty has been feeling somewhat dizzy and fatigued since this morning. The royal physician has already seen him. He is currently resting in his bedchamber and his mood has stabilized. Please be at ease, Your Highness.”
Karl had come to Schönbrunn Palace to attend the routine high-level meeting, only to be informed of its temporary cancellation because the Emperor was unwell.
For the octogenarian Emperor Franz Joseph, even a slight cold or fatigue required extreme caution.
At this age, health is like a candle in the wind; one must even avoid falling withered leaves.
The true winner today was Franz Ferdinand, who hadn't even shown his face.
Could it be that he received word of the Emperor's discomfort in advance while on his way and simply decided not to come?
Since the meeting was canceled, it stood to reason that these busy high officials would disperse immediately to attend to their own affairs.
But this sudden gap left people with nothing to do for a moment, and surprisingly, no one stood up to leave immediately, instead engaging in low-voiced conversations in small groups.
“Your Highness.”
Approaching Karl was the Common Minister of Finance, Count Leon von Bilinski. His face was tightly furrowed as if weighed down by a mountain of worry.
This man had previously served as the Governor of the Imperial Central Bank and had frequent cooperation with Karl on financial reforms; their relationship and trust were not shallow.
“Your Highness, please save me! Reports from every department—the Ministry of War, the Ministry of the Navy, the Ministry of Railways, even the Ministry of the Interior—are flying in like snowflakes. Everyone is asking: how long must we continue to stockpile the strategic material reserves established under your instructions? Should the scale continue to be expanded?”