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Arthur Lionheart was having the time of his life at the Royal Promotion Association, chatting about "electricity" with Faraday and "binary systems" with Ada.
He felt like a gamer with god-mode enabled, casually nudging historical geniuses forward and personally speed-running the era's technological tree. It was better than making money—or charming the Queen.
His company, **Future Industries **, had become the Empire's favourite treasure. Bankers and investors waved chequebooks at him like desperate pilgrims, all fighting for a chance to buy into the golden goose.
Arthur turned every single one of them down.
He knew capital came with strings—or chains. He hadn't built a new industrial empire just to let strangers pull the levers. The company belonged to him, and to Victoria. End of story.
Just as he was enjoying life as the Empire's unofficial "Intellectual Godfather," the problem he had been avoiding finally came knocking.
The **East Dominion Trading Company** sent someone.
The visitor was **George Matheson**, a Scottish magnate and one of the Company's most powerful directors. Immaculate gentleman's suit, monocle, polished accent—the kind of man who looked like he lectured philosophy at Oxford.
But Arthur knew: every drop of blood in that man's veins smelled like profit. He and the massive bloc behind him were aristocratic leeches, draining European border regions dry in the name of "commerce."
Today, Matheson's attitude was nauseatingly humble.
"Your Royal Highness, Prince Arthur," he said, bowing deeply in Arthur's office. "On behalf of the East Dominion Company's board, allow me to express our profound respect for your extraordinary contributions to the Empire."
"You flatter me, Mr. Matheson," Arthur replied with a light smile—while mentally rolling his eyes.
No one bows this low without wanting something.
After a barrage of useless pleasantries, Matheson finally dropped the mask.
"Your Highness, your Future Industries Group leads the Empire's light-industry market… but, if I may, sewing machines and soap bring only modest profits."
His voice softened, eyes gleaming with hunger.
"Our Company has an enterprise far more lucrative. So profitable that your factories' combined earnings over the next ten years would pale in comparison to a single year's return."
Arthur knew exactly where this was going, but he played his role, leaning forward with interest.
"Oh? And what sort of enterprise yields those numbers?"
Matheson leaned in, speaking low, conspiratorial.
**"L'oppio."**
No hesitation. No shame. If anything, he looked proud—like a man sharing an investment secret worth millions.
Arthur stared at him, suppressing the urge to break his nose.
He wasn't a saint—he was a strategist. But he knew what Matheson represented: not a single villain, but an entire parasitic network built on destabilization, corruption, and back-alley markets stretching across Europe.
He *could* order Barrett to drag Matheson out and "accidentally" break both legs.
But Arthur was Prince British now.
His wife was the Queen.
And politics required precision, not theatrics.
Killing one Matheson would only make room for ten more. The danger wasn't the man—it was the machine behind him.
He didn't need to condemn the darkness.
He needed to **control it**.
"L'oppio…" Arthur repeated, letting his expression show the perfect mix of curiosity, temptation, and moral hesitation.
"But… isn't that an industry with a rather questionable reputation?"
"Reputation?" Matheson scoffed. "My dear Prince, reputation is worthless. When crates of silver arrive in London—used to build palaces, fund political societies, and strengthen armies—does anyone ask how it was earned?"
He smirked like a fox who'd already stolen the whole coop.
"The rich are praised. The powerful are admired. History is written by those who can afford the ink."
Disgust rolled through Arthur, but he kept his mask on.
After a long, thoughtful pause, he sighed—like a man reluctantly seduced by profit.
"Perhaps you have a point," he murmured. "Very well. This does sound… tempting. But you know my habits—I'm cautious with investments."
He steepled his fingers.
"So here's my condition: prepare a complete report for me. Accounts, shipping logs, distribution routes, and the names of every political or military partner across Europe tied to this trade. I need to evaluate the risks."
Matheson lit up like a man who'd won a fortune.
"Of course! Absolutely! You will have everything—real, complete, and detailed—within three days!"
"Excellent." Arthur rose and shook his hand. "Then I look forward to reviewing your proposal."
Matheson left practically glowing.
The moment the door closed, Arthur's smile evaporated.
His face hardened into something cold.
Sharp.
Predatory.
He stepped to the window, watching Matheson's carriage roll away.
He had never intended to invest.
He didn't want to join the shadows.
He wanted **every last piece of incriminating evidence** behind the East Dominion Company. Their accounts, their partners, their smuggling routes—**the entire chain of corruption**.
He would take those documents…
and at the perfect moment…
drive them straight into the heart of the machine Matheson served.
He didn't want to join their game.
He wanted to **end it**—and own whatever came after.
"Enjoy the ride home, Matheson," Arthur murmured.
"When I'm done with you, your entire syndicate will crumble… and I'll be the one rewriting the map you once controlled."
"And as for that inevitable conflict brewing…"
His eyes narrowed, cold and calculating.
"It's time I redesign the entire war."