I let out a deep sigh, staring at the screen of my laptop, whose glow was lighting up my small studio apartment cluttered with history books, energy drink cans, and a half-eaten bag of tortilla chips. Outside, Seoul's neon blurred through rain-streaked windows, but my world had shrunk to the pixels of a 19th-century map.

I was a regular young man, Lee Min-jae, 28, a civil engineer by day and armchair historian by night, with an obsession for grand strategy games. Nothing flashy with dragons or lasers, but those where you micromanage wheat production in 1820s Prussia or debate tax reforms as a Venetian doge, my friends called it a glorified spreadsheet simulator. For me, it was time travel.

Most players chose their homeland or a European power—Japan to unite feudal clans, Britain to paint the map pink. The appeal was obvious: dominate history's "winners," flex your empire-building muscles, and bask in the game's meticulously researched events. But I'd always rooted for the underdogs. The Ottomans clinging to their crumbling caliphate. The Qing Dynasty hemorrhaging territory. The Zulu impis charging hopelessly against Maxim guns.

"Your M complex is showing again," my friend Ji-hoon had teased during our last gaming night, watching me restart Victoria 3 as Mexico for the fifth time. "Why not play the U.S. and just annex them?"

I'd shrugged. "Where's the fun in that? Mexico's the ultimate challenge. Lose half your land to the Yankees, survive coups, drug cartels—"

"—and still invent tacos al pastor," he'd snorted. "Priorities."

But it wasn't just the challenge. There was a melancholy in Mexico's story that hooked me—the ashes of the Aztec Empire, the wasted potential of silver and oil, the haunting corridos of revolutionaries who'd died for ideals that crumbled like adobe. I'd fallen into a rabbit hole: Spanish-language Wikipedia deep dives, grainy documentaries about Pancho Villa, even a disastrous attempt at homemade mole sauce that left my kitchen looking like a Tex-Mex crime scene.

Then the epiphany came.

"Let's go to Mexico City," I'd blurted one night, mid-game, as my digital troops evaporated under American artillery.

Ji-hoon spat out his beer. "You? Mr. 'I-get-nervous-ordering-pizza'? Mexico's murder rate is like a Call of Duty lobby."

"It's safe if you stick to the tourist areas," I'd said, already tabbing to flight deals. "Cheap, too. Think of the photos! Teotihuacán, Frida Kahlo's house, luchador masks.

The seed took root. Two weeks later, I'd cashed in my vacation days, booked a hostel in La Roma, and crammed my suitcase with sunscreen, pepto-bismol, and a dog-eared copy of The Labyrinth of Solitude.

The trip was a revelation.

Smog-shrouded skies, the cacophony of blaring peseros greeted me as Mexico City pulsed at a rhythm undetected amidst Seoul's sanitized order. Street food hawkers with steaming grilled corn slathered in chili powder stood next to colonial churches and brutalist apartment blocks. In the Zócalo, Aztec dancers in full feathered regalia spun in rhythm to pulsating drums next to protesters waving signs of desaparecidos.

I spent mornings in the National Palace tracing Diego Rivera's murals about the conquistadors and revolutionaries; afternoons sipping café de olla in Coyoacán, imagining Leon Trotsky drafting the manifesto in his bulletproof study; chapulines munched at evening cantinas to which mariachi rang out across the drunk tourists: "Cielito lindo".

But one sight gave pause, and it was that U.S. Embassy.

A fortress of steel and glass, it loomed over Paseo de la Reforma like a spaceship. Behind it, the Angel of Independence stretched her golden wings toward smoggy heavens—a monument to the country's fractured pride. I stood there, sweating through my denim jacket, and felt the ghost of the 1848 Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo like a kick to the ribs. California. Nevada. Utah. Arizona. New Mexico. Texas. Colorado. Wyoming. A grocery list of stolen land.

"Sixty percent," I muttered, glaring at the embassy. "You took sixty percent, you bastards."

A passing abarrote vendor gave me a wary look. I bought a tamarind soda to seem less unhinged.

My last night arrived too soon.

Backpack full of luchador trinkets and an indecent amount of hot sauce, I entered a dive bar near my hostel—La Última Llorada ("The Last Cry"), its sign creaked. The air smelled of lime and regret. A bartender with a handlebar mustache nodded as I slipped onto a stool.

"Tequila, por favor. Reposado."

He raised an eyebrow. "¿Reposado? Tourist drink. Try blanco."

"I'll… stick with reposado.

He shrugged, pouring a shot alongside a sangrita chaser. I sipped, wincing at the burn.

"First time?"

The voice came from my left. An elderly man sat there, his face a topography of wrinkles, eyes sharp behind wire-frame glasses. He wore a faded guayabera and a bolo tie with a turquoise clasp.

"Uh, sí," I lied.

He chuckled. "No need for Spanish. Your accent's worse than my knees."

I colored. "Was it that bad?

"You said 'grassy-ass' to the waitress earlier. She thought you called her a donkey."

Oh God.

He flagged the bartender. "Two blancos, Paco. Educate our friend."

The tequila arrived. I braced myself, but the old man raised his glass. "To Mexico. The most beautiful corpse in history."

We drank. The liquor was fire and earth, nothing like the smooth reposado. I coughed; he laughed.

"Name's Ernesto," he said. "Retired history teacher. You?

Min-jae. Ingeniero. De Corea."

Ah, Corea! The other divided country. What brings you here?"

I hesitated. "I… like your history. The revolutions, the art. It's… complicated."

"Complicated." He snorted. "A polite word for 'clusterfuck.'"

Loosed by tequila, I babbled about Hidalgo's grito, Zapata's agrarian dreams, the PRI's dirty wars. Ernesto listened, every now and then correcting my mangled dates.

Then I mentioned the U.S.

"It's infuriating," I slurred. "California and Texas—richest U.S. states, right? Both stolen. Gold, oil, ports… If Mexico had modernized sooner, built factories, maybe…"

Ernesto swirled his drink. "You sound like a porfirista. Progress at gunpoint."

"Not that. But after independence, they had a chance. Instead, it was coups, caudillos, chaos…"

"Ah, the Iturbide Problem.

I sat up straight. "Exactly! Agustín I—hero of independence, then emperor? He dissolved Congress, alienated the army… Ten months, boom! Empire over. If he'd compromised, maybe…

Ernesto's eyes gleamed bright. "What would you have done, ingeniero?"

The question just hung there in the smoke-filled air. For hours-or maybe minutes-I pontificated: secure loans against silver mines, lure British investors, build railroads to integrate the provinces. A naive blueprint, mixing game strategies and half-remembered textbooks.

"Land reforms," I said finally, "but gradual. Education. Disarm the regional militias. And for God's sake, keep Texas."

Ernesto laughed—a dry, rasping sound. "You'd need a time machine."

"Or a dictador ilustrado," I joked.

He leaned forward. "What if you could? Rewrite history. Fix it all."

I hiccupped. "I'd… beg for a guidebook. And better Spanish."

He smiled wryly. "¿Quién sabe? Stranger things have happened."

The room tilted. Tequila, altitude, exhaustion-it hit me like a shovel. The last thing I remember was Ernesto's voice, echoing as if underwater:

"Buen viaje, principe."

Cold.

Dark.

The smell of candle wax and mildew.

I woke to a pounding skull and a canopy bed straight out of Bridgerton. Silk sheets. Gilded mirrors. A maid in a frilly cap gaped at me like I'd risen from the dead.

"¡Su Alteza está despierto!" she shrieked, dropping a porcelain basin.

Su Alteza. Your Highness.

Panic surged. I stumbled toward the mirror.

A stranger stared back: early 20s, fair-skinned, with wavy black hair and a weak chin. Dressed in a ruffled nightshirt. European, but not quite.

The maid babbled in rapid Spanish-now understandable, as if my brain had downloaded Duolingo overnight.

"Your Highness Agustín Jerónimo! Thank the Virgin! We feared the fever had taken you!"

Agustín Jerónimo de Iturbide y Huarte. The name was like a blow. First son of Agustín I, Emperor of Mexico. Born 1807. Died…

Wait. In my timeline, he fled to Italy after his father's execution. Lobbied for the throne until his death in 1866. But this…

The room spun. I was holding on to the bedpost.

"What year is it?"

"1822, Your Highness. November."

Eight months since the coronation. Six months before the empire collapses.

The maid prattled on about sending for physicians, but I waved her off. I was pacing the chamber alone—a lavish tomb of oil portraits and velvet drapes. Through the window, Mexico City sprawled in colonial splendor, the cobblestone streets and baroque cathedrals, volcanoes smoking in the distance.

Real. All real.

Ernesto's words still echoed. Buen viaje, principe. Good journey, prince.

That sly old brujo.

The Plan:

Survive the Court. The Iturbides were nouveau royalty, despised both by republicans and old Spanish elites. Agustín I's reign was a clown car of nepotism—cousins made generals, uncles made governors. I'd need allies.

Stop the Dissolution. In January 1823, Agustín I would dissolve Congress; the Casa Mata revolt would ensue. Stop that, and maybe buy time.

Neutralize Santa Anna. The arrogant young colonel was already plotting. Take him down before he becomes the "Napoleon of the West."

Modernize, But Gently. Force reforms without provoking a gringo invasion or a peasant revolt.

Simple.

If only.

A knock stopped my panic spiral.

"Prince Agustín?" A man entered—mid-40s, uniformed, with a hawk nose and restless eyes.

My gut plummeted.

Antonio López de Santa Anna.

He bowed, all over false humility. "Your Highness, we've missed your counsel. The emperor requests your presence."

I forced a smile. "Of course. Lead the way."

As we strode through marble corridors, Santa Anna's gaze lingered like a wolf sizing up prey.

Game on.