Autumn of 1838 settled over London like a copper-tinted veil, its air filled with coal-smoke and the restless pulse of an empire shifting beneath its own weight. Months had passed since Arthur Lionheart had broken the speculative assault on his industrial empire and risen from the financial battlefield stronger than ever. With the Queen's promise of unlimited investment at his back, the great ironclad project advanced at breakneck pace in Liverpool, its steel skeleton rising in the docks like the ribs of some titanic creature dredged from myth.
In London, the telegraph line to Liverpool—his newest gamble—had finally sparked to life. When the first commodity price flickered across its wire and arrived in the City within minutes, men who had mocked Arthur only months earlier now whispered his name with a reverence normally reserved for saints and tyrants.
Yet the greatest change occurred behind the high stone walls of Buckingham Palace.
Queen Victoria, after a long and painful labor, had given birth to a daughter—a small, perfect creature with sapphire-blue eyes and soft blond hair, unmistakably her father's.
Arthur stood beside the bed in a state of uncharacteristic bewilderment as the royal physician handed him the infant. The man who could stare down financiers, industrialists, and ministers without flinching suddenly moved with the stiff caution of a soldier handling a bomb.
"She's… impossibly small," he murmured.
Victoria, pale but radiant, let out a soft laugh. "Most babies are, my love."
They named her Victoria Eleanor Sophia Augusta—though in private, the Queen whispered Vicky as she held the child against her chest. The palace filled with a warmth that had nothing to do with fireplaces or gas lamps. And while Victoria basked in the glow of motherhood, Arthur felt something subtler, heavier, settle across his shoulders.
Responsibility.
Legacy.
The future of a dynasty he had helped forge.
But the world did not slow to allow him peace.
Shortly after the princess's birth, a sealed dossier arrived on Arthur's desk. It had crossed oceans and empires to reach him, authenticated with the highest level of encryption his agents used.
It was the first operational report from his private fleet, commanded by the seasoned Captain Hopkins.
Arthur broke the seal and read.
Hopkins recounted the fleet's arrival in the South Seas. As anticipated, their presence near Pontianak startled the local authorities, who had never seen foreign warships flying such a curious, deliberately neutral banner. For a moment tension ignited—men reaching for weapons, officers shouting contradictory orders.
But Hopkins followed Arthur's instructions perfectly.
He delivered a formal letter asserting the fleet's role in ensuring the safety of commerce in dangerous waters—piracy, instability, and competing colonial interests had long plagued the region. The letter was accompanied by diplomatic gifts, a gesture that soothed suspicion without revealing intent.
What Arthur had predicted occurred almost immediately:
caution turned into cooperation.
Cooperation into hospitality.
And hospitality into the quiet opening of every door Arthur needed.
Hopkins and his men were granted access to ports, labor, and supplies. After a brief period of rest, they sailed to a secluded island near the Malacca Strait to establish a discreet supply station and begin live-fire exercises.
Arthur's strategy—subtle, indirect, but unmistakably imperial—had worked flawlessly.
But the next section of Hopkins's report was far more intriguing.
During weapons drills near the strait, the fleet encountered a patrol from the Dutch East Indies. Three Dutch vessels approached, suspicious of the unfamiliar flag and the presence of foreign warships in contested waters. With typical colonial arrogance, they signaled for identification and commanded Hopkins to submit to inspection.
Hopkins, a hardened veteran who had never held the Dutch in particularly high regard, responded with a stark message delivered by signal flags:
"Military exercises in progress.
Unidentified vessels are to withdraw."
Predictably, the Dutch bristled.
Their ships shifted into battle formation.
A confrontation seemed inevitable.
Hopkins acted first.
Under his command, Arthur's fleet opened fire—not to destroy, but to demonstrate. The result was immediate and overwhelming. The Dutch flagship was struck hard, forced into disarray; the two remaining ships panicked and fled, unwilling to face a second volley.
Hopkins, adhering to Arthur's doctrine—
deter, humiliate, but do not sink—
allowed them to escape after a final warning shot.
The skirmish ended as quickly as it had begun, leaving the Dutch shaken and Arthur's private fleet baptized in its first taste of power.
When the Dutch lodged an official complaint in London, the government dismissed it with polite indifference. No one would ignite a war with Britain over a handful of damaged patrol ships.
Arthur read the final lines of Hopkins's report with a slow, satisfied exhale.
His gambit was working.
Piece by piece, the East was becoming his chessboard.
But then another message arrived—this one carried by a swift East India Company courier, stamped with urgency.
Arthur unfolded the document.
His eyes narrowed.
"Guangdong Province, Qing Empire.
Imperial Commissioner appointed.
Absolute prohibition of opium declared."
He rose, almost involuntarily, and crossed the room to the enormous world map mounted on the wall. His gaze fell upon the sprawling mass of the Qing Empire—vast, rigid.
He touched the parchment lightly with his fingertips.
So it begins.
The turning of a great wheel.
The first rumble of a storm neither side could avoid.
A storm that would redraw the fate of nations—
and one Arthur Lionheart intended profit from it.