Arthur Lionheart left the fervent, ink-scented office of the Daily Mirror without returning to Buckingham Palace. The meeting with Dickens had set in motion the political machine he had spent months assembling, but there was still one final gear to turn before dawn.
He changed clothes, abandoning his expensive suit and donning a modest bourgeois outfit: simple fabrics, no insignia, no sign of royalty. Then, after dismissing his royal carriage, he boarded a regular hired cab that carried him silently through London's dimly lit streets toward the lower Thames.
There, concealed behind the tall shadows of abandoned warehouses, lay a discreet private pier, owned by the Future Industries Group—though no sign or registry declared it openly. This secluded dock had one singular purpose: to serve as Arthur's hidden gateway to the distant Fleet, now entrenched somewhere in the southern seas.
A small tender boat awaited him, flying a Dutch flag and appearing, to any passerby, like a simple merchant vessel. In truth, the crew consisted of men sworn to absolute discretion, trained to deliver messages, supplies, and orders halfway around the world without leaving a trace.
Arthur stepped aboard quickly and entered the captain's quarters, where he opened a coded metal safe containing the latest intelligence report from Captain Hopkins. The document smelled of salt and foreign winds, as though it had been carried by the ocean itself.
As he read, a slight smile brushed his lips.
Hopkins had exceeded expectations.
In recent months, the so-called Fleet—a growing private military force—had become an influential presence in the turbulent waters near the Strait of Malacca. Hopkins had mastered the art of displaying strength without overstepping his authority: intimidation masked as courtesy, ambition masked as service.
Outwardly, they maintained cordial, almost ceremonial relations with the leaders of the small Republic of Lanfang in Pontianak. Hopkins diligently delivered the innovations produced by Arthur's workshops: mechanical music boxes, hand-crank coffee grinders, and other modern conveniences that dazzled the local officials, unaccustomed to European industrial craftsmanship. Governor Liu Gan had learned to see Hopkins's men as benevolent foreign allies.
Behind that polite façade, however, the Fleet was becoming something altogether new.
Under the pretext of protecting Lanfang's merchant routes, Hopkins had fortified a deserted island, transforming it into a secret naval base. From there, his men charted the dangerous currents of the Strait, patrolled contested waters, and from time to time "accidentally demonstrated" the devastating range of their modified rifled cannons to pirates and overly curious colonial vessels.
Rumors had spread across the southern seas of a mysterious fleet flying a black-and-gold lion banner. The tales described the fleet as ruthless yet disciplined, a force that did not seek quarrels but tolerated no interference.
Even the Dutch—usually arrogant masters of the region—now preferred to steer clear of those ships.
Hopkins had consolidated Arthur's influence like a splinter driven deep into a chaotic maritime chessboard.
"Well done, Captain," Arthur murmured.
Satisfied, he cleared the small desk and prepared two letters: one political, one military.
He laid out a smooth parchment, dipped his pen, and wrote the first missive—a diplomatic letter addressed to the Governor of Lanfang. The tone was formal, written without sentimentality but with a palpably crafted respect that any European statesman would recognize as calculated diplomacy.
"Governor," he wrote, "receive my cordial greetings from across the ocean…"
The letter inquired about the governor's health, acknowledged the cooperation between their respective interests, and subtly reinforced the idea that Lanfang benefited from the technological support of Future Industries. The message was courteous, deferential in tone, yet aimed at strengthening Arthur's influence without revealing the depth of his strategic intentions.
Once sealed with wax, Arthur set the diplomatic letter aside and moved on to the second, longer and far more dangerous one.
It was an encrypted directive addressed to Captain Hopkins.
The tone shifted immediately.
"Captain Hopkins," he began, "when this letter reaches you, I will already be sailing eastward with the Royal Navy. War is imminent."
He wrote rapidly and precisely, outlining the operations that would define the coming year.
"You must bring the escort fleet to full readiness."
He listed three main missions.
First: exploit the chaos of war.
He deliberately underlined the phrase.
"When the conflict between Great Britain and the Qing Empire intensifies, the Dutch will withdraw their forces from the South Seas to protect their colonies. This will be your opportunity. Should Governor Liu request it, you are authorized to carry out punitive strikes against minor Dutch outposts and ports known for harassing Lanfang's merchant ships."
He clarified the limits with meticulous care.
"Strike only the small strongholds, never the larger ones. Destroy, but do not occupy. Our aim is to reshape control over the trade routes, not to found a new empire. Pressure them, drive them from the Strait, but do not give them a public casus belli."
Second: gather intelligence.
"Use your reputation as a friendly fleet to establish discreet contacts with private merchants along the Guangdong coast. Seek conversations with lower-ranking officers of the Qing naval forces. I need the clearest available information on their coastal batteries, army firing ranges, fleet numbers, and the condition of their warships. Acquire these details by any means except blatant espionage."
Third—and most critical: secret expansion.
Arthur's pen pressed harder into the page, leaving grooves.
"I am sending additional funds, weapons designs, and technical personnel through Future Industries channels. Use Lanfang labor and resources to build at least ten more gunboats—larger and faster than the current prototypes, with superior firepower."
He continued:
"Recruit and train at least one thousand reliable local sailors and marines. Loyalty is essential. Choose men who value stability and opportunity over tribe."
This hidden fleet, Arthur knew, would one day become a decisive instrument.
He concluded with one final instruction:
"This year, in my absence, will be your golden window. Expand your influence silently but relentlessly. Let your fleet become a shadow stretching across every corridor of the South Seas."
He paused only once before writing the closing line:
"When I return with the victories of the Royal Navy behind me, I will need a second navy—yours—unofficial, undeniable, formidable. Together, they will decide the future balance of power in the region."
He sealed the letter with reinforced wax, then entrusted both documents to the tender ship's captain, who saluted silently before preparing for departure.
Arthur returned to the pier and stood there as the disguised vessel set sail, its dark silhouette receding into the night until it vanished into the mist above the Thames.
Two chess pieces were now in place, on opposite sides of the world.
One was visible: the Royal Navy's expeditionary fleet, carrying the power and legitimacy of the Crown.
The other was hidden: the Fleet, answering only to him, capable of actions no official navy could ever undertake.
The prospect of how these two forces—one in the light, the other in the shadows—would intersect in the grand game to come, and the storms their alliance might unleash, stirred something electric in Arthur Lionheart's chest.
The night wind blew, crisp and salty.
"This world," he murmured to the empty pier, "is becoming more interesting by the hour."