At the entrance of Kensington Palace.
The air was suffocatingly tense.
Sir Conroy had gathered all his loyal guards here, sealing off the entire main entrance of the palace like an iron fortress. He stood on the steps with his hands clasped behind his back, wearing an expression both sickly and triumphant.
He had already received the news: King William IV had drawn his final breath.
Now the entire empire was plunged into a power vacuum. The Prime Minister and the ministers were occupied with the King's funeral arrangements and preparing an emergency meeting of the Privy Council. They had no time—and certainly no expectation—that Conroy would dare to act against the future Queen at such a critical moment.
As long as he forced Victoria to sign that document today, then by tomorrow morning, when the councillors arrived at Kensington Palace to swear allegiance to the new monarch, his position as Chief Private Secretary would be entrenched beyond challenge.
Not even Lord Melbourne himself would be able to touch him then.
"It's all set, sir," murmured one of Martin's scarred men at his ear. "Our men control every inch inside and outside the palace. Not even a fly can get through."
"Excellent," Conroy nodded with satisfaction. He looked toward Buckingham Palace in the distance, his eyes brimming with ravenous ambition.
But at that very moment, the rapid, thunderous pounding of hooves broke the uneasy quiet.
"What is that sound?" Conroy frowned.
Moments later, he and his guards witnessed a sight they would remember for the rest of their lives.
At the far end of the long tree-lined avenue, a black dot was racing toward them—expanding with terrifying speed.
It was a towering jet-black warhorse, and astride it sat a young man dressed completely in black. One hand held the reins, the other rested on the hilt of his sword. His entire being radiated a cold, unstoppable fury—murderous intent so sharp it felt like ice slicing through flesh.
It was Arthur.
And behind him rumbled a formation like distant thunder. Fifty broad-shouldered men, also clad in black, wielded gleaming weapons and surrounded an enormous battering ram so massive that it required eight men to lift.
"Good Lord! What is that?!"
"Are they… an army?!"
Conroy's guards froze in terror at such a savage and visually overwhelming display. They were palace guards—accustomed to catching petty thieves and maintaining order. None had ever faced a formation that looked ready to storm a fortress.
Conroy's pupils shrank to pinpoints.
"Arthur Lionheart!!!" he snarled through clenched teeth.
He had never imagined that this young man would dare to be so reckless—that he would lead an armed force to assault a royal palace.
Had he lost his mind? Was he attempting rebellion?
"Stop him! All of you, stop him!" Conroy shrieked, nearly hysterical. "This is treason! Whoever captures him—I swear glory and wealth for the rest of your life!"
Offered great rewards, several guards rallied, drew their swords, and formed a human barrier to block the charging force.
But their resistance was pitiful—laughable—before the wildfire wrath consuming Arthur.
"Whoever stands in my way—dies!"
Arthur roared like a beast unleashed, not slowing for even a heartbeat. Just before colliding with the human wall, he squeezed the horse's flanks. The trained warhorse reared high, let out a piercing neigh, then crashed downward—
"AH!"
The two guards in the front were struck by the massive hooves before they could react, blood spraying as they collapsed unconscious.
The human wall shattered instantly.
Arthur carved through the defensive line like a red-hot blade slicing through butter.
The "Armed Workers' Division" behind him stormed forward like tigers descending a mountain, smashing into the remaining guards with brutal force.
"For the Chief! For the new Queen!"
Barrett roared. His iron staff whistled through the air, shattered a guard's sword in one blow, and with a backward swing slammed into the man's face.
A burst of blood.
A battle without suspense had begun.
Though Conroy's guards were numerous, they were nothing more than sheep who had never tasted real combat. Barrett and his men were wolves—men forged in violence and hardened by blood.
Skill, strength, momentum—utterly one-sided.
In less than three minutes, the ground was littered with groaning guards. Not a single one of Arthur's men had suffered even a scratch.
Arthur rode up to the foot of the palace steps, dismounted, and in his hand held a longsword he had seized from a guard—still stained with fresh blood.
He pointed the blade at Conroy, who stood trembling on the steps, white as chalk.
"Conroy," Arthur's voice sounded like it rose straight from hell, "where is the Princess? I'm asking you—where is Her Royal Highness?!"
"Y-you madman! You traitor!" Conroy shrieked, his voice fierce but hollow. "You dare storm the palace? You're finished! I—"
He didn't finish.
Arthur surged forward and drove a brutal kick into his stomach.
Bang!
Conroy flew backward like a rag doll, tumbling down the stone steps before landing in a dazed heap.
"I will ask you one more time—where is she?!"
Arthur pressed the cold tip of the sword against his throat.
Conroy felt death breathing on his skin. He looked into Arthur's blood-red eyes—eyes filled with lethal intent—and understood without doubt that this man would kill him without hesitation.
"In… in the master bedroom on the second floor…" he stammered.
Arthur didn't spare him another glance. He turned to the eight men carrying the battering ram and pointed at the palace's massive oak doors, reinforced with iron.
"Open it."
"YES, SIR!"
The eight men roared, set the ram in place, and charged.
"One! Two! Three! RAM!"
BOOOOM—!!!
The entire palace shook. The mighty door, strong enough to withstand small cannon fire, groaned under the impact; its locks and hinges warped instantly.
"Again!!!"
BOOOOM—!!!
With the second strike, the door tore from its frame and collapsed inward.
But at that exact moment—
A voice—shocked, commanding, and unmistakable—rang out from the opposite end of the palace.
"Stop! Arthur! Do you understand what you're doing?!"
It was Lord Melbourne, the Prime Minister, rushing forward with a large group of Privy Council ministers. They had clearly just finished the preparations for the King's funeral and had hurried here to greet the new monarch.
His beard trembled with fury at the war-zone spectacle before him.
But then—almost simultaneously—a messenger behind him shouted with all his strength, delivering news even more momentous:
"His Majesty the King… is dead!!!"
The words froze the world.
An era had ended.
Every gaze instinctively turned toward the depths of the palace—toward the place where the new sovereign resided.
After several long seconds of absolute silence—
Arthur suddenly dropped the blood-stained sword and straightened his slightly disheveled formal attire.
Then, before the Prime Minister, before the ministers, before soldiers on both sides—
He knelt.
He bowed his proud head and, with a voice thunderous and solemn enough to herald a new age, proclaimed:
"Long live the Queen!!!"
"The King is dead—long live the Queen!"
Behind him, all fifty men fell to their knees, roaring in unison:
"LONG LIVE THE QUEEN!!!"
Their cry, like thunder under a clear sky, echoed throughout Kensington Palace—
announcing the dawn of a new era.