Arthur's reincarnation—quiet, invisible, unrecorded—had triggered a chain of events that reshaped the balance of global trade. In less than two years, his innovations transformed Britain into a furnace of wealth. Factories roared night and day, ports overflowed, and even the old nobility grudgingly acknowledged the rise of the industrial aristocracy.
Money flowed outward as swiftly as it flowed in.
Imports from the **Qing Empire**, especially commodities prized by London's elite, increased by nearly a third. The imbalance was no longer an inconvenience—it was a political threat. Silver drained from the British treasury with alarming speed.
Arthur's inventions enriched the Empire.
But across the ocean, merchants of a different nature also intensified their operations. Under the leadership of George Matheson, the East India conglomerates accelerated their shipment of opiates toward Qing territories. Their logic was simple: if Britain could not sell enough legitimate goods, it would sell something irresistible, addictive, and utterly profitable.
Arthur built prosperity.
Matheson built dependence.
And the Qing court, strained by economic hemorrhage and internal unrest, eventually decided it had endured enough.
Then came the decree that shook the globe.
A royal commissioner of the Qing government, empowered with absolute authority, issued an unprecedented order:
**all foreign opiates were to be confiscated, impounded, and destroyed**.
Merchants were detained.
Cargo worth a fortune was seized.
The foreign concessions erupted in panic.
By the time the first fast Courier-ships reached London, carrying documents from desperate traders, the Empire reacted as if struck by lightning.
Parliament exploded.
The newspapers ignited.
Public outrage soared like a storm-fed fire.
"An affront to British dignity!"
"An assault on free trade!"
"A humiliation no Empire can tolerate!"
The *Times*, under subtle financial influence, crafted editorials dripping with patriotic rage. They depicted the Qing Empire as obstinate, isolationist, and barbaric in its disregard for diplomatic norms. The destruction of British-owned commodities was framed as a direct insult to the Crown.
War, once a distant murmur, became a chorus.
When Parliament convened in an emergency session, the House of Commons resembled a furnace. The air itself vibrated with shouting.
Lord Palmerston—hawkish, silver-tongued, and undeniably formidable—claimed the center of the chamber like an actor stepping into his spotlight.
"Gentlemen!" he thundered. "Let us speak plainly. The Qing have not merely confiscated contraband. They have seized British subjects. They have destroyed British property. They have undermined the authority of our Empire."
He let the silence linger—one of his most practiced weapons.
"This, my friends, is not law enforcement. It is tyranny. And Britain does not negotiate with tyranny."
A wave rippled through the benches.
"With the permission of this House," Palmerston continued, "I propose the assembly of an expeditionary fleet. Not to conquer, but to instruct. Not to subjugate, but to secure justice. If the Qing court has forgotten the obligations between civilized states, then we shall remind them—by the voice of our cannon."
The war faction erupted in applause—loud, coarse, triumphant.
The anti-war faction remained silent, calculating.
The vote had not yet occurred, but the outcome already loomed like a cresting tide.
In his private study, Arthur Lionheart read Palmerston's full speech with calm detachment.
No raised voice.
No curse.
No visible concern.
He folded the newspaper with careful precision and placed it back onto the polished mahogany desk.
"He knows how to play the stage," Arthur murmured. "To turn aggression into philosophy, personal ambition into patriotic duty. Remarkable talent, if morally questionable."
Victoria, seated near the window, glanced toward him. Sunlight spilled across her brown hair, the light catching her features in a way that reflected both monarch and woman. Her voice, though steady, carried the faintest tension.
"Does this mean war is inevitable?"
Arthur looked at her—truly looked—and saw not fear, but calculation wrestling with conscience. She was the Queen of Empire; she could not appear weak. Yet she was also his wife, loyal to him in ways that transcended politics.
He approached her with measured steps.
"We will not allow emotion or Parliament's clamor to dictate policy," he replied. "If war comes, it will come on our terms. And with limits."
His hand brushed hers. Victoria's expression softened only slightly, enough to betray a private trust hidden beneath her public steel.
Arthur turned away, mind already shifting to strategy.
He knew he could not oppose the war openly. A prince consort challenging Britain's righteous fury would be torn apart by the press and sabotaged by the nobility. Even Victoria could not shield him from that.
He could not halt the war.
But he could shape it.
Economically.
Diplomatically.
Militarily.
He would decide its scale.
Its tempo.
Its outcome.
Arthur Lionheart did not intend to become the Empire's moral compass.
He intended to be the mind steering its hand.
"Is Lord Melbourne here?" Arthur asked the footman.
"Yes, Your Royal Highness. The Prime Minister awaits in the reception hall."
Arthur exhaled slowly, as though adjusting the weight of a crown he did not wear but very much controlled.
"Excellent. It is time to discuss the budgetary realities with him. War is an expensive luxury."
Victoria rose, the faint rustle of her gown marking her decision.
"I will accompany you," she said. "A Queen should hear what her ministers intend to risk in her name."
Arthur met her gaze—a union of affection and political alliance.
"Then let us educate them together," he replied.
They exited the study side by side, two figures crowned not merely by title, but by the quiet, formidable knowledge that **the fate of an Empire now rested on their strategy—not Parliament's fury.**
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