The miraculous, life-saving discovery of penicillin spread through London like a warm breeze piercing the bleakness of the long "Black Winter."
Production was still limited—too limited to reach every corner of the slums—but hope itself had a weight beyond measure. People whispered that they had a compassionate Queen on the throne, and a Prince Consort—Saint Arthur—who could invent a "miracle medicine." Sooner or later, they believed, brighter days would come.
Inevitably, the prestige of Arthur Lionheart and the Royal Society for the Advancement of Science and Industry rose to an almost sacred height.
The old-guard nobles and bishops, who had once eyed his association with suspicion, now fell utterly silent. Who would dare question an institution that could "bring the dying back to life"? Even the most conservative lords began presenting themselves at the society's doors, eager—almost embarrassingly so—to claim they had always been "enlightened benefactors."
Arthur's office soon became a hive of activity once more.
But this time, the visitors were not merely industrial magnates or opportunistic politicians. Talented minds from every discipline flocked to him, drawn by his reputation and the hope of earning the recognition of the Prince Consort himself.
That afternoon, his secretary presented him with a rather unusual calling card.
A simple card, neatly engraved:
Charles Dickens
Reporter of the Morning Post – Novelist
"Dickens?"
Arthur's lips curved with unmistakable interest.
Of course he knew the name. In the quiet evenings of his former life, he had read Dickens's serialized works by candlelight. The man who would one day be celebrated as one of Britain's greatest writers was, at that moment, merely twenty-five—recently catapulted to fame by The Pickwick Papers, while Oliver Twist continued its serialized publication, shaking society with its raw depiction of the poor.
Arthur had always admired Dickens. He simply had not expected Dickens to seek him out.
"Let him in," Arthur said.
Moments later, a slender young man with a carefully kept beard and sharp, perceptive eyes stepped inside. He carried himself with a certain scholarly sensitivity, though he appeared momentarily startled upon seeing Arthur Lionheart in person—so young, so composed, and utterly devoid of the aloof arrogance often found among royalty.
"Your Royal Highness, forgive my presumptuous visit," Dickens said, bowing politely.
"Please, Mr. Dickens, take a seat," Arthur replied warmly, gesturing to the sofa opposite him. "It is I who should be honored. Truthfully, I am an avid reader of your work. I follow every installment of Oliver Twist."
"Truly?" Dickens's eyes lit with astonishment.
He had never imagined that a royal prince—this particular prince, no less—would pay attention to a novel that dragged the darkest parts of society into the light.
"Of course," Arthur continued. "Your work wields deeper influence than most parliamentary speeches. With your pen, you expose the shadows behind the Empire's glittering façade—shadows we, in high places, often overlook deliberately or by convenience. That courage deserves respect."
The sincerity of Arthur's words bridged the distance between them instantly.
Dickens felt his initial stiffness melt away.
"Your Highness… I am humbled," he murmured, visibly moved. "In truth, I came today because I believe you possess the same—perhaps even greater—power."
"Oh?"
"Yes!" Dickens rose, pacing with rising intensity. "The penicillin you developed has saved countless poor children. And your proposal for a 'City of Miracles' shows a brilliance and humanity entirely unlike the factory barons who exploit the masses. In you, I see a new spirit—one that could change the destiny of our city."
"So," he continued, voice aflame, "I hope you might grant me a deeper interview. I want the people of Britain to understand the compassionate, visionary leader their Prince Consort truly is."
Arthur regarded the impassioned young writer with a faint, knowing smile.
The moment he had been waiting for had arrived.
"An exclusive interview is certainly possible, Mr. Dickens," Arthur said. "But before that, I have some… narrative material you may find compelling."
"Narrative material?"
Dickens's curiosity sharpened.
"Yes." Arthur's gaze darkened, like a candle casting light into a cellar. "In Oliver Twist, you exposed the horrors of the workhouses. But since Parliament passed that wretched New Poor Law last year, the cruelties inside the new workhouses exceed even your descriptions—tenfold."
He stepped closer, speaking quietly, almost coldly.
"Do you know what happens to the child labourers in textile mills? Fourteen hours a day with no rest. Their fingers severed by flying machinery. Their wages insufficient to buy a single loaf of black bread.
"And the miners? They live underground like moles, choking on dust and darkness. Many never reach forty—their lungs turn to stone long before."
Arthur recited these truths with unnerving calm—truths gathered through his quietly efficient intelligence network.
Dickens listened, pale and trembling, fists clenched at his sides. He had sympathized with the poor, yes—but he had never witnessed the raw brutality Arthur now laid bare.
"Are… are these true?" Dickens whispered.
"Every word," Arthur replied. "And these are precisely the truths Parliament wishes hidden. Many of those gentlemen hold shares in those very factories and mines."
Arthur leaned in.
"That is why I need you, Mr. Dickens. Your pen is sharper than any sword. I need you to write these stories—tell them as novels, as reports, as whatever form reaches the widest eyes. I want the entire nation to see."
"I want your pen to become the sword of Damocles hanging over the wicked."
Dickens swallowed hard.
"But I… I am only a writer. I own no newspaper. And publishers often refuse material that is too 'radical' or 'inflammatory'."
"Who told you that?"
A shrewd smile touched Arthur's lips.
He opened a drawer and placed a document before Dickens.
"I will personally fund," Arthur said, enunciating clearly,
"the creation of a completely new newspaper—entirely yours, Mr. Charles Dickens."
"I already have a name in mind."
He tapped the page.
"The Daily Mirror."
"I want it to be a mirror that reflects every corner of this Empire—its light and its darkness. And I want you to be its editor-in-chief, its heart and soul."
A faint smile crossed Arthur's face.
More precisely, he thought,
I want your pen to serve as my trumpet.
Arthur knew direct political confrontation would only yield resistance. But shaping public opinion—by empowering Dickens—was a masterstroke.
Quietly, steadily, Arthur Lionheart was laying the foundations for the social reforms he intended to build: the workers' bounty he had long envisioned, and the broader labor and welfare reforms forming in his mind.
He was planting the Empire's most powerful fifth column.