After the night when Queen Victoria, aflame with the imperial dream painted by Arthur Lionheart, had pledged him her unconditional support, the project of the ironclad battleship started with astonishing speed.
And Arthur, backed by the wife, moved like a general granted limitless supplies.
He purchased a bankrupt shipyard in Liverpool and immediately transformed it into the heart of an industrial revolution.
The finest engineers of the kingdom — Scottish machinists, Welsh ironmasters, French designers — were hired without regard for cost.
The forges burned day and night, casting a red glow upon the sky like a permanent twilight.
Each week, colossal sums poured out from the Royal Promotion Society and from the Queen's own private accounts.
Steel, coal, steam turbines, reinforced docks, temporary workshops erected around the rising hull…
The expense was astronomical.
To the outside world, it looked as if Arthur Lionheart was emptying every reserve of his commercial empire to chase a dream forged in steel.
And while England watched that gigantic metallic structure rise like a slumbering titan,
something began to stir in the shadows.
A silent war.
A war without guns or ships.
A war of paper, numbers, and panic.
It began in Exchange Alley, the beating heart of the London Stock Exchange.
A textile company tied to Lionheart's supply network saw its stock decline—first subtly, then sharply.
Few paid attention at first…
until an anonymous analytical report began circulating among bankers like gunpowder in a damp warehouse.
The document, written with surgical precision, exposed a hidden accounting fraud: their American plantations had produced less than half of what had been declared.
The report was too accurate.
Too detailed.
Too… targeted.
Panic erupted.
"Fraud! Sell everything!"
"This is ruin!"
"We're finished—finished!"
The stock collapsed.
The company lost half its value in a single day.
And when investigators examined the records, they found something even more disturbing:
someone had borrowed enormous quantities of those shares days earlier, selling them at their peak.
Now those same shares were being bought back for a pittance.
A perfectly orchestrated short-selling strike.
The first of many.
In the following two weeks, the same pattern repeated with mathematical precision:
— a South American saltpeter supplier tied to Lionheart was suddenly struck by legal scandals;
— a shipping company linked to the Liverpool shipyards faced accusations of insurance irregularities;
— a chemical manufacturer associated with Lionheart's industrial network was engulfed by sudden doubts regarding safety standards.
Every time, the cycle was identical:
first the scandal, then the collapse… and finally the mysterious buyback at rock-bottom prices.
It seemed that an invisible entity was dissecting every company connected to Arthur Lionheart, uncovering their weaknesses as if cataloguing poisons for scholarly pleasure.
The effect on the City was devastating.
"Someone is aiming at Lionheart!"
"It's a hunt! A merciless hunt!"
"Whoever it is, he knows modern finance like an artillery officer knows his guns!"
The press began whispering of a new predator:
a financial Übermensch, a man of almost superhuman calculation.
A ghost wandering between the marble pillars of the banks.
Henry burst into Arthur's office without knocking, red-faced and breathless.
"Sir! It's a massacre! Every one of our partners is under attack. The supply chains are snapping one by one!"
He waved a stack of documents like a white flag.
"And—and our own Future Industries Group is losing value as well! If this doesn't stop, the ironclad will sink before it ever touches water!"
Arthur Lionheart looked up.
There was no fear in his eyes.
No anger.
Something far more dangerous:
excitement.
"Incredible…" he murmured, leafing through the reports.
"Perfect timing. Impeccable coordination. A mastery of public perception."
"Sir, this is hardly—"
"Oh, but it is."
Arthur rose and approached the window. The city sprawled beneath him, vibrant and venomous.
"Finally, a worthy opponent."
Henry stared as though his employer had lost his mind.
"Worthy?! He's a market assassin!"
Arthur smiled faintly.
"His hand is too refined to be British. Too elegant. I would say… German.
Perhaps Viennese. Perhaps Prussian.
A banker with the mind of a military strategist."
Then he turned, his gaze illuminated by a cold, brilliant determination.
"Henry. Follow the money. Trace every movement, every intermediary, every supporting bank.
I don't merely want to know what he does — I want to know who he is."
"Immediately, sir!"
When Henry left, his agitated steps echoing down the corridor, Arthur remained alone.
Alone with London.
Alone with the Queen's dream.
Alone with the shadow of his new enemy.
He placed a hand against the cold glass of the window.
"So you wish to play with me… on the field of finance?" he whispered.
"Very well."
A cold flash passes through his blue eyes.
"But remember:That you came looking for trouble.
And I have a Queen — and an Empire — behind me."
The financial war had only just begun.
And from the depths of the City, the face of the adversary was slowly beginning to emerge.