While waiting for Victoria's reply, Arthur did not sit idle.
He knew perfectly well that Conroy would not rely on just one trick. Public opinion attacks and lawsuits were the visible threats, but behind the scenes, there would certainly be darker, more direct methods.
As expected.
That afternoon, a group of unwelcome visitors appeared at the factory gates.
Twenty or thirty rough, violent men—armed with clubs and iron chains—swaggered up and blocked the entrance. Each of them had a crooked neck, squinting eyes, a cigarette dangling from their mouths, and expressions full of provocation.
Their leader was a bald brute with a vicious-looking dragon tattooed across his shoulder. He kicked the iron gate of the factory with a loud clang.
"Listen up, all of you inside!" the bald man roared in a hoarse voice. "Where's your black-hearted boss, Arthur Lionheart? Bring him out! We heard you've gotten rich, and we brothers are a little short on cash, so we thought we'd come 'borrow' some!"
The few workers standing guard paled at the sight. They quickly shut the gate and ran to report to the head of security.
This gang was the most notorious group of thugs in London's East End—the "Notorious Extortion Mob." They lived off protection money and dirty dealings, and they were ruthless. Normal businesses never dared provoke them.
And now it was clear someone had paid them to stir up trouble at Arthur's factory.
Arthur was inspecting the factory grounds when he received the news, and a cold smile curved his lips.
"So, they've finally arrived."
He had long expected this. In an era with weak police presence and rampant gangs, the most direct way to cripple a factory was to send thugs to cause daily chaos. If they caused disturbances every day, injuring workers and smashing equipment, the factory would never know peace and would eventually have to shut down.
"Boss, what do we do? Should we call the guards?" the factory manager asked anxiously.
"Call the guards?" Arthur snapped. "By the time Scotland Yard leisurely showed up, our people would already be lying dead. And besides—do you really think there aren't strings being pulled behind these men?"
He turned to a tall, stern-faced, bearded middle-aged man beside him and issued an order.
"Captain Barrett—it's your turn."
This man, Barrett, was the head of the guard unit, personally selected by Arthur from among retired soldiers. He had once been a sergeant in the Royal Navy, having fought real battles in the colonial warfields of India and Afghanistan. His hands were stained with blood, his body covered in scars.
His fifty guards were all veterans like him, all men who had retired from real combat. They might not have known anything about factory work, but in terms of fighting ability and killing intent, ten common thugs could not match even one of them.
"Yes, sir!" A glimmer of bloodthirsty excitement flashed in Barrett's eyes.
After being confined to factory duty for so long, his bones had nearly rusted. Now that some blind fools had come knocking on his door, it was the perfect chance to stretch.
"Brothers! Grab your gear! Someone's offering to donate money to us!"
With Barrett's roar, fifty guards in black uniforms gathered quickly from all corners of the factory.
What they carried were not clubs or iron chains.
They carried solid iron rods over a meter long, custom-made! The front end of each rod had been ingeniously forged—thanks to Arthur's design—into a hammer-like head, capable of both blocking attacks and delivering devastating blows.
Arthur jokingly called this team the "Future Industries Armed Worker Promotion Department," or simply the Armed Workers' Department.
"Open the gate!"
At Arthur's command, the heavy iron gate slowly opened from within.
The bald leader outside, seeing the gate open, thought the people inside had been frightened. A triumphant, sinister grin spread across his face.
"You're smart! Hurry up and—"
His words froze in his throat.
What he saw would haunt him for the rest of his life.
Behind the gate were not trembling workers as he had imagined, but an army lined up in three neat ranks, holding black iron rods in unison, exuding a chilling and murderous aura!
Their eyes were unlike anything he had ever seen on street thugs. These were battlefield eyes—the eyes of men who regarded human life as insignificant. Calm, indifferent, terrifying.
The bald man felt his knees go weak.
Was this really a factory guard unit? No—this was clearly a military squad.
His underlings, normally so arrogant, now stood stiff as ducks with their necks pinned. Their bravado vanished instantly, and the hands gripping their weapons trembled.
Before the killing intent of the Armed Workers' Department, this crude gang looked like a pack of huskies facing down a group of wolves.
Arthur stepped forward unhurriedly from behind the guard unit.
He smiled pleasantly at the bald man, but his words were cold enough to freeze the air.
"I heard you wanted to 'borrow' some money?"
"N–No… no, no! A misunderstanding! It's all a misunderstanding!" the bald man stammered, nearly losing his soul in terror. He immediately threw down his club and forced a smile uglier than a sob. "We… we heard you were hiring and wanted to ask… ask if there were any job openings…"
"Oh? Really?" Arthur's smile widened. "There is one position, actually. But I'm afraid you can't handle it."
The smile vanished from his face, replaced by an icy chill.
"Barrett."
"Yes!"
"Beat them." Arthur's voice was not loud, but it carried an unmistakable order. "Break their legs. Let them learn that my factory is not the place for them."
He wanted to kill the chicken to scare the monkeys.
He wanted to show every hidden enemy, in the bloodiest, most direct way, that he—Arthur Lionheart—was not a soft persimmon to squeeze.
"YES, SIR!"
Barrett roared and charged first!
His iron rod whooshed through the air and smashed into the thigh of the thug nearest him!
Crack!
The sharp snap of breaking bone echoed through the gate.
The thug didn't even have time to scream—he collapsed like a crushed shrimp, writhing in agony.
"Get them!!!"
The fifty guards pounced like wolves and tigers onto the terrified gang.
What followed was a complete, one-sided beating, without the slightest suspense.
The sound of iron rods swinging, bones breaking, and thugs screaming echoed through the entire street.
Arthur's factory workers watched from the windows, stunned by the bloody spectacle. They stared at the same thugs who had once oppressed them now beaten to the ground like stray dogs, sobbing and begging for mercy. A sense of unprecedented safety and pride swelled in their hearts.
So our boss is really made of iron…
In less than five minutes, the fight was over.
The ground was littered with groaning men, each with at least one broken leg. Only the bald ringleader had been deliberately "spared" by Barrett—his wrists broken instead of his legs.
Barrett dragged the bald leader like a dead dog and threw him at Arthur's feet.
Arthur crouched down, looked at the blood-covered man—so terrified he had even wet himself—and lightly slapped his face.
"Go back and tell the man behind you. My people, my enterprise, are right here. Whatever tricks he has, let him bring them all out. Next time, it won't be as simple as broken hands and feet."
"Get out."
With Arthur's sharp command, the bald man scrambled away with his surviving companions, fleeing in terror as if pardoned from death.
Arthur rose, surveying the chaos on the ground and the workers watching him with awe. He knew that from this moment on, no one would dare make trouble in his territory again.
He had defended his dignity and his property in the most primal and violent way.
However, he knew deep down that this was only the appetizer.
The true battlefield would unfold in the solemn, imposing courtroom.
And the thunderous counterstrike he awaited from Her Majesty the Queen was already quietly being prepared at Kensington Palace.