At dawn the next morning, a joint announcement from the Royal Promotion Association and the Future Industrial Group—personally approved by Her Majesty the Queen—appeared at record speed on the front page of The Times.
Its contents ignited London like a powder trail.
The announcement proclaimed that the Royal Biological Laboratory, a subsidiary of the Association and directed personally by His Royal Highness the Prince Consort Arthur Lionheart, had—after nights of relentless research—extracted a miraculous essence from a peculiar green mold.
This substance, it declared, could kill "pathogenic bacteria" and treat deadly lung infections. Preparations were already underway to refine it into a medicinal form.
His Royal Highness the Prince Consort had named this miraculous substance—
"Penicillin."
The new term, unfamiliar, scientific, almost occult in its strangeness, immediately became the subject of heated debate across London.
"Penicillin? What on earth is that? Can it really cure the winter fever?"
"No idea! But the announcement carries the Queen's personal approval—and the Royal Association stands behind it. It can't be a hoax, surely?"
"Green mold? Good Lord—like the stuff that grows on stale bread? That can cure disease?!"
The public buzzed with doubt and fascination.
The medical community, however, openly mocked it.
"It is utter nonsense," declared a senior academic of the Royal College of Surgeons. "We all admire His Royal Highness's talent in business and technology, but he has no right to trespass into the sacred field of medicine. This is folly! A dangerous insult to science—and a cruel joke on the lives of patients!"
"Indeed," added another, "some herbs and minerals have medicinal value—but mold? It will only worsen the illness. I wager this so-called 'penicillin' is nothing but a childish experiment."
Arthur Lionheart responded to none of it.
He knew that against such contempt, words were powerless.
Only results would speak.
He would slap all their doubts aside with living proof.
And for that, he finally turned to something he had avoided using since awakening in this world—the system's strange, old-world starter gift:
Notes Set – Primitive Antibiotic Fermentation Technology
(A rudimentary historical equivalent of future penicillin, detailing how to cultivate purified molds and produce antimicrobial broths and ointments using only tools available in the era.)
He had memorized those notes long ago, but had waited for the right moment.
Now the moment had arrived.
He immediately ordered that one of the cleanest, most secluded workshops in his factory be converted into a makeshift "sterile chamber"—as sterile as the century allowed. Then he gathered a handful of his most trustworthy chemists and locked himself inside with them, beginning the secret production of the so-called "miracle medicine."
He carefully scraped selected mold strains from spoiled oranges and aged bread—strains the system notes identified as possessing potent antimicrobial properties.
Using the best fermentation mediums of the era—broths, sweetened water, and crude nutrient mixes—he cultivated and multiplied the molds in glass vessels boiled clean and sealed as tightly as contemporary craft allowed.
Then came the heart of the primitive method: slow filtration, repeated settling, crude solvent extractions using oils and alcohols available at the time, and the careful balancing of acidity as described in the system's archaic diagrams. Through painstaking purification, Arthur produced a pale yellow extract—rough, imperfect, but potent enough to be life-saving.
To Arthur Lionheart, guided by his future knowledge, the process was demanding but manageable.
To the chemists of his time, however, every step—steam purification, improvised sterile tables, makeshift centrifuge drums, pH control using mineral salts—felt like witnessing a god forging the world.
Within days, the first batch of primitive penicillin was complete—a rare, precious medicinal fluid, pure enough to be safely injected.
Arthur did not sell it.
He chose a more electrifying path:
scarcity and spectacle—miracle-making in full public view.
Through the Royal Promotion Association, he sent a notice to every public and charitable hospital in London:
The Association would provide one hundred doses of experimental penicillin for free.
There was only one condition:
Applicants must be children unanimously deemed "beyond recovery" by the hospital's physicians—those expected to live less than 48 hours due to severe lung infection.
Simultaneously, Arthur invited journalists from The Times, The Daily News, and other major papers to form a "joint witness group," granted full access to observe and report every moment—open, transparent, unfiltered.
The announcement exploded across London.
Free!
Reserved only for the gravest cases!
And journalists allowed to observe everything?!
How confident must Prince Consort Arthur Lionheart be?!
Curiosity soared into frenzy.
St. Bartholomew's Hospital—the largest charitable hospital in London.
The pediatric intensive care ward was steeped in despair. Small bodies lay in narrow beds, faces flushed red from fever, breaths shallow and rattling. Parents stood beside them, weeping helplessly.
At that moment, a group escorted by royal guards entered, personally received by the hospital's director.
At its head walked Arthur Lionheart himself, carrying a silver, velvet-lined case of temperature-kept vials. Behind him trailed journalists and their sketch artists, notebooks ready.
"Select ten children," Arthur said, his voice calm yet commanding. "The ten gravest cases—those with no hope left."
The chosen children were barely conscious, their breaths so thin they seemed moments from stopping.
Arthur opened the case, revealing ten glass vials of faintly yellow medicine.
He injected the first child himself.
The journalists scribbled furiously.
"His Royal Highness personally administered the mysterious 'penicillin' to a dying girl."
"No immediate improvement observed…"
Everyone waited, breath held.
One hour passed.
Two.
Three.
Then—before their very eyes—the miracle began.
The girl's burning cheeks slowly cooled. Her frantic breathing steadied. Her tiny chest rose and fell with a growing strength.
By the fourth hour, she opened her eyes—glassy but aware—and whispered, "Mama…"
Her mother collapsed into sobbing disbelief.
"My God! The fever's gone—the fever's gone!" cried the doctor, rechecking her temperature with trembling hands.
And this was only the beginning.
Over the next twenty-four hours, the same transformation unfolded in all nine of the other children.
Ten children—declared hopeless, condemned—were all torn back from death by Arthur's primitive penicillin.
Arthur immediately ordered the remaining doses administered to the rest of the ward, saving as many as possible before the batch ran dry.
The next morning, London's newspapers erupted with breathless, sensational accounts of the "resurrection of the dying," described in prose so fevered it seemed to glow off the page.
London went mad.
This was no longer a medicine.
It was a miracle.
A true, divine miracle.
Every doubt, every sneer evaporated overnight.
What replaced them was awe—pure, overwhelming awe.
People no longer called him merely "His Royal Highness the Prince Consort," nor "the inventor."
They gave him a new name—spoken with reverence, gratitude, and a trembling kind of devotion:
Saint Arthur.
In the hearts of countless common folk, he had become a living savior—
the man who brought light and hope to London's.