The Shadow of Great Britain

Chapter 1062: Chapter 82: The Two Wings of the Dynasty

D’Artagnan thought about how strange destiny was. It manipulated people into killing each other for the benefit of some unrelated individuals who often didn’t even know they existed. Thinking about it, he couldn’t help but sigh.

— Alexander Dumas “The Three Musketeers”

“Sir, why keep such distance? Aren’t we on the same side?”

Arthur stood by the carriage door; hearing the other party’s words, he became more convinced it was a scheme designed by Victor.

Although he would never forget how simple and warm-hearted those Breton peasants were, willing even to share their meager drinks with a stranger like Arthur, he was also quite certain they didn’t genuinely trust him.

Because when they finally decided to seek his help, they refused to reveal their current hiding place, and besides telling Arthur that someone had betrayed them, they were unwilling to provide any more information.

From a logical perspective, these peasants daring to assassinate the King demonstrated they had long decided not to return alive.

So, rather than asking Arthur for help, it was more like they were reminding Arthur that their encounter that night might be revealed by a traitor.

How strange, these contradictions of human nature!

These peasants.

On one hand, they wanted the King’s life, wishing they could blow him to smithereens with a bomb, leaving no trace.

But on the other hand, they were concerned for Arthur’s safety, not wanting to implicate this British diplomat they had only met once.

From their perspective, it might be because Arthur didn’t report them to the authorities after what happened that night, so they were unwilling to owe him a favor.

But from the perspective of the July Monarchy Government, these people were rebels, guilty of treason for attacking the King and colluding with an outside force like Arthur was unforgivable.

However, speaking from a human standpoint, they were quite loyal.

If they could make it through this tribulation, Arthur would be willing to befriend them.

The more reluctant they were to owe Arthur a favor, the more Arthur wanted their favor because the harder something is to obtain, the more precious it becomes.

Even though both the Earl of Dalmo and his old friend Schneider advised Arthur to take the upper diplomatic route, in this profoundly professional field, the newcomer Arthur inevitably went down the wrong path.

For some reason, his entire life seemed destined to be close to peasants, like being reborn into a pig farmer in France still meant dealing with folks from little Britain.

He could dress in a tailcoat, wear a silver ring inlaid with ancient Roman coins, and receive the title of Junior Knight, but the scent of pigs on him inevitably attracted his kind.

Even though he tried to appear only at high-society banquets, he still couldn’t escape this fate. Perhaps this thing is called destiny.

The Red Devil sat on the roof, carefully filing his nails, his gaze meeting Arthur’s eyes glowing red.

The man and the ghost were already in sync; even without Arthur speaking, Agares knew what he wanted to say.

The Red Devil snorted disdainfully, “Don’t ask me questions; I don’t like answering questions that already have answers. Arthur, if you come for advice, either you don’t want to follow it, or even if you do, it’s just to blame me later for giving you the advice. History relies solely on facts to proceed and never on speculation. If you think you’re clever, go ahead, but I remind you once: if you get yourself killed again, I have no remedy.”

The Red Devil had said this much, how could Arthur not understand his meaning.

It’s probably another life-risking choice, but he reached this place not by cunning but by sheer courage and only by this sheer courage.

As a pig farmer, he never had much to lose.

Oh, wait.

Actually, he did have something to lose, he still had his life.

But on that night under the Tower of London, he had already lost even that last thing.

In his life, everything he could place on the gambling table, he had long pushed it all in, and every minute and second he stayed on the board after the rainy London night was a bonus surprise.

Now, he had truly become someone with nothing left.

What more do I have to lose?

I have nothing left to lose.

With this thought, Arthur finally stopped hesitating; he directly raised his arm and pulled the handgun trigger at his opponent.

Click!

Just as Arthur expected, the gunpowder dampened by water didn’t ignite, and the bullet couldn’t be fired.

The so-called Royalist standing opposite him was momentarily stunned, then burst into a round of laughter.

This was the simplest way to prove in front of Victor that he had no ties with the Royalists, though it required some risk. If his assumption was wrong, he would undoubtedly be riddled with bullets by the other party.