The Shadow of Great Britain

Chapter 1268: Chapter 159: The Pyromaniac of Power

To manipulate the chess game, one must first stoop beneath the chessboard. The true winner lies not in making an excellent move, but in letting the opponent willingly choose the path to defeat amid a complex maze. The essence of power is not in acquiring it, but in keeping others unaware of its existence. When everyone believes they have the freedom to choose, that is the day you control everything.

——Arthur Hastings

Eyelids heavy as if pressed by the Alps, Bismarck’s consciousness like a fish pulled back to shore, struggling to reemerge.

Headache like needle pricks, throat dry as if after a long battle, yet the sound of carriage wheels crunching over gravel continually rings in his ears.

He struggled to open his eyes, vision blurred for a moment before gradually clearing, revealing the gently swaying carriage interior, sunlight filtering through the curtains, casting a dazzling light.

The carriage sways, scenery outside blurs in the morning mist, as it speeds briskly.

He struggled to sit up, fingers probing his forehead, feeling a dull ache.

Last night’s revelry seemed a dream, he tried to recall what happened, but only fragmented images emerged: clinking glasses, noisy laughter, and a few unclear disputing words. Arthur’s face with a sly smile, the hearty laughter of Great Dumas, Heine’s biting satire, and Mottle and other students’ excited expressions. One drink after another, whispers between sips, until finally Bismarck sank into the mire of alcohol amidst the din.

Bismarck mumbled, trying to recall how last night ended, but everything seemed enshrouded by alcohol, buried deep in the mire.

”Damn it.” he cursed under his breath, struggling to sit up, leaning against the window, head still dizzy.

Outside scenery flows by, distant streams and golden autumn harvest landscapes blur and merge.

Bismarck frowned, and after some time, he realized he wasn’t in Gottingen.

”Where are we headed?” he murmured, voice low, tinged with lingering inebriation.

Just as he was sorting his thoughts, Arthur Hastings’ voice came from one side of the carriage, that gentlemanly yet slightly mocking tone, very familiar to Bismarck.

”Looks like our ’Iron-blooded Man’ has finally awoken.” Arthur’s face peered from the other side, mouth curled in a playful smile, ”Last night was quite the spectacle, you were carried out flat on the table by us.”

Bismarck lifted his eyelids, eyes weary, glancing at Arthur: ”You put me on this carriage, where are you planning to take me?”

His voice was hoarse and low, clearly not completely recovered from the hangover.

Great Dumas, holding paper and pen, crafting novel scenes, laughed heartily upon seeing Bismarck awake: ”Seems you’ve had your fill of being the protagonist, last night everyone watched your solo performance, so today it’s our turn to take the stage, and you can sit in the audience.”

”Performance?” Bismarck, one hand holding his erratically swaying head, asked: ”What did I do last night?”

Heine, the old senior sitting beside him, coughed: ”You did quite a bit, of course, what stood out were mostly jokes you cracked.”

”What jokes?” Bismarck apparently hadn’t realized the severity, even curious to know the humor.

Heine counted on his fingers nostalgically: ”Your friend Mottle asked me about my experience studying law at the University of Gottingen. I told him it felt like being locked in a ’Speeches Compilation’ cattle pen. But you disagreed, insisting that studying law at Gottingen was more like being locked in a pigsty. I asked your reasoning, and you said it was based on an analysis of the current Academic Director’s early career.”

”Hmm?” The fresh morning breeze blew through the car window, ridding Bismarck of the alcohol smell, and making him sober up quite a bit: ”I... did I say something like that?”

Arthur, looking at the guilty Bismarck, waved his white gloves indifferently: ”Don’t worry, Otto. Actually, I think you’re right. Being a pig herder and an Academic Director isn’t much different. Oh, no, maybe there are some differences.”

Bismarck curiously asked: ”What differences?”

Arthur responded leisurely: ”As a pig herder, you need to work hard every day caring for them, ensuring they’re well-fed, well-rested, and sold at a good price. And as an Academic Director? You just need to stand on stage, loudly proclaiming that you can provide all pigs a better life, then let others care for them while you enjoy the results.”

Heine almost burst out laughing: ”Isn’t that just having others be the pig herder, while you are the pig owner?”

Disraeli, who had been silent, couldn’t help but stifle a laugh: ”Seems there’s not much difference between being a pig herder and a Member of Parliament.”

To his astonishment, Arthur hastily exclaimed: ”Benjamin, you mustn’t say that, at least a pig herder’s dirty hands never need to be raised in Parliament.”

Arthur’s words immediately sparked a burst of laughter, and Bismarck shrugged in resignation: ”I told you I’m not suited to be a Member of Parliament, I’d be better off as a Diplomat.”