The Shadow of Great Britain-Chapter 1659 - 46: British Literature Cannot Be Without "British" (2)

"New Show at Westminster Palace: The King’s Solo Act to Dissolve Parliament, Starring: King William IV, Script by: Angry"

Currently, we don’t know if this new play will be a hit, but someone in the royal box is surely applauding.

"The Ghost of George III Laughs: My Son Learned Well"

We wouldn’t dare call this a coup, but if it isn’t, then what is a coup?

"The 1832 Reform Act Isn’t Yet Three Years Old, but His Majesty the King Has Decided to Send It to the Orphanage"

His Majesty claims he only signed the papers, not responsible for raising it.

"Constitution Unbuttons the Last Button, Exposing the King in the Process"

Although this paper usually doesn’t discuss politics, writing daily about the master and the governess’s affair must tire you out, right?

"Cause of Death of the 1832 Reform Act: Given a Slap by the King After a Flicker of Life"

Sir Arthur Hastings: If I had known... Was my blood shed in vain?

Arthur stared at the newspaper without even flinching, but the crease he pinched at the edge looked as deep as the valleys of the East African Rift Valley.

"Was my blood shed in vain?"

He softly repeated the review printed on the street tabloid, his hand trembling from anger as he held his cigar, "Perhaps His Majesty the King has truly gone mad, but at least choose a good time to go mad... Nonetheless, it’s amusing... Overnight, all these columnists found their backbone."

He sulked for a moment, then thought: perhaps at this moment, King William IV is sitting at the breakfast table in St. James’s Palace, chewing on toast while slapping the newspaper with a silver knife, roaring in anger: "Outrageous!"

Compared to the attacks on the King, his plight as a "cannon fodder" swept up by the reporters’ AOE skills seemed to be less worthy of anger.

A low voice tinged with a click of the tongue echoed in Arthur’s ear: "I shed blood, yet couldn’t attain a definite newspaper headline, such a touching story, almost brought me to tears, if I still had any tears."

Arthur didn’t even turn his head, he could guess who was speaking: "Haven’t you come out for too long? Are you so stifled you’re about to mildew?"

Agares burst into laughter: "Don’t say I didn’t warn you, human society never respects tools, even if the tools once plowed countless acres for them."

Arthur slowly extinguished his cigar in a silver ashtray, "I never expect newspapers to speak for me. Because they’re like toilets: using them is no disgrace, but if you seek their favor by licking them clean with your tongue, that’s simply too low."

"Haha, well said." Agares chuckled mischievously, "Then why are you angry? Isn’t it just a bunch of decorators making a joke out of you?"

"I’m not angry about them writing about me." Arthur enunciated each word, "I’m angry that they use my blood to mask their cowardice, then turn around and stage the King’s absurdity as comedy. It looks like they’re lashing out at power, but in reality, they’re only diverting focus to hide safer. If the newspaper writing about me dared to face the King’s wrath directly, I’d respect their scholarly vigor."

"So what makes you better than them?" Agares dismissed it, "So you swallow your anger, suppress it, and act like nothing happened, to go and curry favor at Kensington Palace with a fifteen-year-old girl?"

At this point, the devil played the good guy: "But I must say, Arthur, you’ve changed, really changed, grown ’mature.’ The Hastings who’d confront superiors’ mistakes or shield against rebellion gunfire, now prefers frowning silently, even recognizes ’teaching at Kensington Palace’ as a decent and harmless self-preservation method. This truly comforts the devil."

He deliberately elongated his tone, the snarkiness almost like a spring tide of the Thames River, with sarcasm seemingly flooding the embankment.

Arthur didn’t respond. He just folded the newspaper neatly, placed it in his bag, doing so meticulously like a laundress handling clothes, "Speaking of change, you’ve changed quite a bit too, Agares."

Agares’s tone was light, "Oh? How so?"

"You were once a mighty figure among the seventy-two pillars, able to fracture nations, drive emperors mad. But now? You’re nestled under a carriage’s leather seat, seeking presence through argument, even practicing mockery on a swineherd like me. Wouldn’t you say you’ve matured too?"

The air suddenly felt like it was caught by a jolting carriage wheel.

Arthur lit another cigar, "But don’t be too sad. When I die, I’ll put in a word for you to Baal in hell, apologize, after all, as hell’s leader, Baal should still have that bit of grace."

The air seemed to freeze momentarily.

Agares was silent for three seconds, then suddenly grunted in disdain, with a fury absent of earlier playful mockery, instead like a snapped string lashing fiercely in the air, "My dear Arthur, don’t push your luck..."

The next second, a cold breeze with a burning smell abruptly brushed the carriage’s interior, making the cigar tip flare briefly.

Arthur thought the devil was about to unleash his prowess, yet blinked his eye and found Agares, who had just finished a string of introductory moves, had vanished.