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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 · Fantaisie
Pas assez d’évaluations
350 Chs

Chapter 114: Escalation of Conflict?

Outside St. James's Palace on Piccadilly, the crowd of protesters was growing steadily.

Today's weather in London was still dismal; after the morning, the sun's face was veiled with a layer of haze.

Now, a cold, solemn drizzle began to fall.

The continual drip-dripping of raindrops on the brick-paved promenade produced mud from the cracks between the tiles, coating West London's usually clean and orderly streets in a layer of grimy gloom.

A pair of nearly transparent square-toed shoes stomped solidly on the muddied pavement, splashing the already ragged trouser legs with half of the muddy water, while the other half seeped coldly through the seams of their coarse hemp socks, stinging their long-numbed nerves.