Arthur let the chalk fall from his fingers.
A soft tap echoed in the stunned silence of the chamber. He brushed the white dust from his hands, then turned toward the sea of faces below the podium—faces frozen, breathless, transformed into statues.
Outwardly, his expression remained calm and composed.
Inwardly, he was sweating.
Thank God I picked "History of Urban Development" as an elective, he thought, half laughing at himself. Professor Edward, the old tyrant who took attendance every single day—I owe you my life.
For someone born in the 21st century, everything he had just drawn on the board—functional zoning, three-dimensional transport, sewage networks—was basic knowledge. The foundations of any modern metropolis.
But here, in a London still choking on the soot of the early Industrial Revolution, those concepts were nothing short of sorcery.
He ran a hand through his blond hair, feeling a faint tremor beneath the poise he showed the world. Then he glanced at Prince Albert.
The prince looked as if struck by lightning—pale, shaken, struggling to stand. Arthur even felt a flicker of pity.
It isn't your fault, he thought. Between us lies—not a difference in talent—but an entire century of information.
When he finished speaking, the Speaker of the Commons did not speak.
No one did.
It was as though time itself held its breath.
Ministers, nobles, old lords seasoned by decades of politics—all stared blankly at the sprawling, impossible blueprint on the chalkboard. In their minds, Arthur's shocking phrases echoed again and again:
"Functional urban zoning…"
"Three-dimensional transport network…"
"Public health infrastructure…"
Each concept cracked open centuries of rigid thinking.
For the first time, they saw that a city—and an empire—could be shaped not merely by charity or morality, but by science. By structure. By deliberate design.
Prince Albert's expression twisted from confusion, to disbelief, to a dead, white stillness.
He stared at the chalkboard.
His carefully prepared "three pillars" of education, charity, and morality—polished for weeks and blessed by bishops—looked pitiful beside Arthur's vision.
A child building sandcastles on the shore.
While a steel-clad dreadnought roared past and shattered everything.
This wasn't a difference in debating skill.
Nor a gap in perspective.
It was a difference in dimension.
His pride, his royal confidence, his inherited sense of superiority—crumbled silently inside him.
He had lost.
Completely.
Without suspense.
Without even the strength to respond.
He sensed the shift in his supporters' eyes—the conservative lords and churchmen who had encouraged him mere hours earlier. Their expressions had turned to embarrassment… then to disbelief… then to something far worse: pity.
"I… I…" Albert opened his mouth.
Nothing came out. His throat had dried to stone.
Then—somewhere in the chamber—a single person began to clap.
A crisp, decisive sound.
A signal.
Another joined. Then another.
Within seconds, applause erupted like cannon fire, exploding through the hall.
"Applause—applause—applause—!"
Nearly every lord, MP, noblewoman, industrial tycoon, and journalist rose to their feet in a sweeping, unstoppable wave. Their hands struck together with raw conviction, filling the vast chamber with thunder.
All of it was for the young man—with blond hair catching the light and cold, brilliant blue eyes—standing calmly beside the chalkboard.
This was no longer politeness.
It was reverence.
Awe.
A submission born from witnessing a mind decades ahead of its time.
They felt—deep in their bones—that they had just seen the dawn of a new era.
In that storm of applause, Prince Albert became nothing more than a blurred shadow, forgotten at the edge of the stage.
Every clap struck him like a slap.
He could not bear it another heartbeat.
Head bowed, back hunched for the first time in his life, he slipped down the opposite stairway of the podium. Avoiding every gaze, he moved like a defeated man, slipping out through a side door without a single word.
His exit was quiet.
His defeat, absolute.
No one noticed him leave.
All eyes were fixed on the victor.
From the royal gallery above, Queen Victoria rose, unable to remain seated.
Her hands trembled against the railing.
She looked down at Arthur Lionheart—the man surrounded by admirers, the man whose ideas had ignited the empire—and her eyes shone with a radiant glow.
Pride filled her chest.
Vast, blazing, overwhelming.
This was the man she had chosen.
A man whose brilliance could mesmerize an entire empire.
"Lord Melbourne…" she whispered, breath trembling. "Did… did you see all of it?"
"I did, Your Majesty."
Even the Prime Minister's face showed lingering shock. He gazed at the scene below, voice hushed.
"What I witnessed today was not simply a victory in debate. It was the revelation of the path this empire will walk for the next century…"
He turned to her, expression solemn.
"Your Majesty, you possess a treasure far more valuable than the Star of India itself. Hold on to him—tightly."
Victoria nodded fiercely.
She didn't want to merely hold him.
She wanted the world to know that this treasure—this unparalleled mind—belonged to her, and to her alone.
That night, news of the debate spread across London like wildfire.
Arthur's breathtaking "City of Miracles" blueprint seized the public imagination. His name soared to unprecedented heights—no longer just a successful magnate, but hailed as "Father of Urban Planning," "Architect of the Empire," even "Prophet."
Prince Albert's reputation collapsed like rotted timber.
His noble theories—once admired—crumbled into irrelevance before Arthur's overwhelming vision.
The empire understood, clearly and irrevocably, that the balance in the battle for the title of Prince Consort had shifted.
Decisively.
Irreversibly.
And for Queen Victoria, the time had come to end the competition herself.