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The Shadow of Great Britain

“Next, we have the most noble recipient of the Order of the Garter, the Grand Cross of Saint Michael and Saint George, the Grand Cross of the Bath, the Victoria Cross and the lower grades of Knighthood, the leader of the anti-colonial movement, the bell-ringer of the East India Company, the hero of the Crimean War, a Fellow of the Royal Society, a lifelong dear friend of literary giants such as Dickens and Great Dumas, a steadfast supporter of scientific luminaries like Faraday and Darwin, having served as assistant under-secretary, deputy under-secretary, and permanent under-secretary in departments of the Home Office and the Navy Department of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland, the inaugural Cabinet Secretary and head of the civil service, the first graduate and most distinguished alumnus of our school. Please welcome Sir Arthur Hastings to deliver a speech on the occasion of the fiftieth anniversary of the founding of the University of London.” Arthur's gaze swept across the crowd before him, looking at the young faces and murmured, “Agares, what do you think I should say?” The Red Devil's wraith hovered behind him, saliva almost dribbling from the corner of his mouth, “Look at these ignorant souls; they still worship you as a hero. Why not say something they'd like to hear?” Arthur took a deep breath and let out a deafening roar, “Oxford is a bunch of whores' bastards!” “Oh!!!!” The audience erupted into thunderous applause. “Cambridge is the same!” he added immediately. The applause grew even more fervent... (The protagonist, possessed by a devil, travels through 19th-century Britain in a world without magic)

Chasing Time · Fantasy
Not enough ratings
270 Chs

Chapter 98: Gorgeous Gray

London, Tower Hamlets.

Dusk had arrived, and the setting sun cast its glow on the yellowish wastewater flowing from the tannery, gilding it with a golden edge that stretched to the horizon, giving the illusion of a road of gold leading to the heavens.

As night gradually fell, the little taverns in the brick alleys of Whitechapel began to buzz with life.

They were packed with merchant sailors seeking fun, dockworkers, or the brick kiln stokers from nearby brickworks, among others.

The air was thick with the sour stench of sweat, the steam from freshly baked food, and the sounds of rowdy patrons boasting and beer glasses clinking, interspersed with the occasional angry retorts of the female servers being harassed.

The female server pointed at the sailor's nose and cursed loudly, "You uncultured beast! Dare to pinch me again, and see if I don't chop off your hand!"