As Arthur's powerful voice echoed through the courtroom, the entire Old Bailey descended into unprecedented chaos.
"Catch him!"
"Don't let him escape!"
The court guards blew sharp whistles, forcing their way through the panicking crowd as they charged toward the direction in which Scarface Martin was fleeing.
The journalists, like sharks smelling fresh blood, pushed forward frantically, desperate to get a clear look at the face of the "criminal."
Some spectators screamed in terror; others stood excitedly on their chairs, craning their necks, afraid to miss this once-in-a-century spectacle.
Martin had never imagined he would be exposed so completely.
His heart—steady even during countless alley fights—was now consumed by overwhelming fear.
He was like a trapped beast, shoving aside anyone in his way as he desperately rushed toward the exit of the courtroom.
But standing before him were well-trained court guards.
Before he took even a few steps, two heavy batons struck his knees simultaneously, one from the left and one from the right.
"Ah!"
Martin let out a suppressed cry of pain as his legs buckled beneath him and he collapsed heavily to the floor.
Immediately, seven or eight guards surrounded him, pinned him down and snapped cold handcuffs around his wrists.
On the other side, the girl named Anna, after her mental breakdown, had begun confessing everything in a chaotic stream.
She screamed that the scarred man had found her, given her mother a large sum of money, told them how to stage the scene, and taught her to use pigeon blood and special potions to simulate terrifying "wounds."
The truth—ugly, dramatic, and shocking—had been fully revealed.
The judge's face was pale as he hammered his gavel and shouted hoarsely, "Order!"
But it was already useless.
On the defendant's bench, Arthur watched the chaotic scene with calm, deep blue eyes. His expression remained composed and unshaken.
But inside, he exhaled a long breath of relief.
He had won.
Not only had he cleared his name, he had publicly severed one of Conroy's claws.
Even if Martin didn't directly implicate Conroy, his capture would inevitably lead the investigators to new clues.
More importantly, this grand spectacle had made something perfectly clear to everyone: Arthur Lionheart was not someone to be trifled with.
Anyone who moved against him had to be prepared to face the consequences.
An hour later, the chaos finally subsided.
The final verdict held no suspense.
Arthur was acquitted of all charges and released on the spot.
Anna, her family, and Martin were detained awaiting trial on charges including fraud, perjury, and malicious damage to corporate reputation.
Even the tailor shop owner was arrested for his involvement.
When Arthur stepped out of the Old Bailey, the entrance was packed with journalists.
"Mr. Lionheart! How did you uncover this shocking conspiracy?"
"Mr. Lionheart! Is it true your deductive skills are unparalleled?"
"Mr. Lionheart! Who do you believe is the mastermind behind this attack?"
Camera flashes burst like falling rain, illuminating his face in harsh white light.
Arthur did not answer a single question.
He simply offered a slight bow to the cameras, then, under the protection of his guards, stepped into his carriage and left.
He didn't need to say anything.
What had happened in that courtroom was the best advertisement he could ever receive.
Indeed, the very next day, every newspaper in London reported the astonishing reversal with unprecedentedly large headlines:
"The Old Bailey Enigma: The Brilliant Entrepreneur's Daring Counterattack!"
"Triumph of Science and Logic! Arthur Lionheart Delivers a Spectacular Deduction and New Methods for Jurisprudence!"
"Behind the Conspiracy: Who Is the Dirty Black Hand?"
Arthur's name resonated throughout London.
He was no longer just a lucky young businessman; he now carried the aura of wisdom, justice, and even mystery.
His company, Future Industries, soared to new heights—orders for sewing machines didn't drop but doubled.
Everyone understood now: attacking his company's product quality was simply impossible.
Kensington Palace
In Sir Conroy's study, a loud crash echoed as fine porcelain shattered violently against the floor.
"Useless! A bunch of hopeless incompetents!"
His hands trembled with rage; his distorted face looked almost monstrous.
The deadly trap he had so carefully constructed had been dismantled completely by a sixteen-year-old boy in a way he couldn't even comprehend.
Worse still, he had lost one of his most capable henchmen: Martin.
Although he believed Martin would keep his mouth shut, the incident had already turned him into a laughingstock among London's high society.
Everyone in their circle knew he was behind it.
Not only had he failed to destroy Arthur, he had actually boosted his prestige instead; it was like trying to steal a chicken and losing the very basket he carried.
What terrified him most, however, was Arthur's terrifyingly sharp mind.
It was as if the boy could see through everything.
Conroy felt like a naked man standing before an enemy holding a microscope—every thought, every scheme, potentially laid bare.
A shiver ran down his spine.
"Arthur Lionheart…" he growled, teeth clenched, his eyes filled with venom—and a faint, imperceptible hint of fear.
While Conroy raged, Arthur's company received an unexpected—though not illogical—visitor.
Baroness Frances, once again representing Princess Victoria, arrived on a secret visit.
Her attitude this time was more respectful than ever.
"Mr. Arthur," the baroness said, bowing deeply, her voice filled with admiration, "on behalf of Her Royal Highness the Princess, I extend her sincerest congratulations. Your performance in court was… simply extraordinary."
She handed Arthur a delicate wooden box.
"This is a gift from Her Royal Highness. She said it is a well-deserved reward for her brave knight after winning his battle."
Inside were no gold or jewels.
Instead, Arthur found a bottle of fine French brandy, a box of premium Cuban cigars, and… a drawing by the Princess herself, depicting Arthur during his impassioned speech in court.
His eyes in the portrait were bright and resolute.
Though the technique was naïve and unpolished, the emotion behind it was sincere.
A warm current flowed through Arthur's heart.
He knew that after this incident, his relationship with Victoria was no longer a simple political alliance of mutual convenience.
They had become companions—capable of sharing danger and standing together against common enemies.
"Please convey my thanks to the Princess," Arthur said solemnly. "And tell her that although the hyenas have retreated for now, they will never give up. She must be very careful."
"I understand," the baroness replied with a nod.
Then, as if recalling something, she added: "Ah, and Mr. Arthur… Her Royal Highness asks me to tell you that Lord Melbourne—the Prime Minister—greatly admired your performance in court. He told the Princess that he hopes to have the opportunity to dine with you soon… 'the most educated and insightful man in all of London.'"
A meeting with the Prime Minister.
Arthur's eyes lit up instantly.
He knew that, after this victory, he had stepped into a new stage—one in which he could truly influence the political landscape of the Empire.