The Shadow of Great Britain

Chapter 1774: Chapter 89: The Mystery of Origins (2)

The carriage bumped once more, as if destiny was traversing a mud-filled pothole, forced to stumble.

Arthur didn’t look at Eld; he just stared into the air in front of him and said with a hint of irony, ”The old ’Oliver Twist’—this beginning, this lineage, this story... to put it nicely, it’s called a classic; to put it harshly, it’s trite. Eld, are you trying to tell me that I was the original prototype for Oliver Twist?”

Eld thought Arthur was speaking to him and hurriedly swore to the heavens, ”Arthur, I promise, this time I haven’t exaggerated at all. You may not believe what I’m saying, but every word I’ve said is basically Flora’s original words.”

Eld was clearly being self-indulgent since from beginning to end, none of Arthur’s words were directed at him.

Arthur looked at the scenery outside the window without speaking further.

Eld thought Arthur was angry with him, so he wisely shut his mouth and stopped rambling.

The interior fell silent, the only sound was the wind squeezing through the door crack, like some faint humming. Until the eerie hum became increasingly clearer, exploding in Arthur’s ears.

”♪ Tonight, who hung the rope of destiny in the old barn... oh, who left their lover behind to freeze alone under the snow... ♪”

In the corner of Arthur’s eye, there was suddenly a person sitting beside him on a seat that had been empty just moments before.

A hat with red and white tips, its peak adorned with three copper bells, tinkling slightly as the head moved. Exaggerated white powder was applied to the face, mouth stretching wide to either side, a red nose gleaming, and black tear marks drawn around the eyes.

It was Agares’s clown skin, making a time-limited return.

”Careful now, dear Arthur,” Agares wagged his head, ”The die has been cast, there’s no turning back now.”

Arthur was unsurprised by this apparition; in fact, he had known this devil would come.

After all, the story Eld had mentioned was one of Agares’s proudest creations and the most successful deal he’d made since signing the contract with the Red Devil.

”Agares...” Arthur muttered softly.

”Ah, you still remember my name, how touching,” Agares feigned clutching his chest, pretending to tremble with excitement, ”You weren’t always this polite as a child. Back then, you couldn’t even speak properly, you only knew how to call me ’Gaga Ghost.’”

Upon hearing Agares reveal his past, Arthur simply closed his eyes, holding his breath, and focusing his mind.

In truth, he couldn’t be entirely blamed for calling Agares ”Gaga Ghost.”

Because when Arthur first arrived, his English was already poor, compounded by the thick Yorkshire accent of the locals... And for Agares to make the young boy understand ”how great Duke of Hell Agares was,” he naturally chose what he believed to be the familiar Yorkshire dialect to explain.

And in their initial interactions, Arthur, trying to conceal his secrets from Agares, would naturally speak less, or even remain silent. Had Agares not known that this kid was born a rogue of uncommon caliber, a top-grade scoundrel, he might have suspected there was some intelligence issue with this child.

”Busy day for you,” Agares grinned widely, ”Heard a tale of lineage, the Poorhouse, a singing girl, a hanged ghost, tsk tsk... This script could rival Shakespeare.”

As he spoke, he magically pulled a yellowed death registry from his sleeve, with faded ink words:

Name:——

Mother: Unknown

Date: January 15, 1810

Notes: Infant deceased at 04:27 AM. Body moved to morgue. Witness: Agnes M.

”What a pity,” he gently spread the paper over his knee, ”The real Arthur Hastings was already dead beside his mother’s body five minutes before you opened your eyes. The light you saw was lit for him, not for you. Besides you and me, who remembers there were two newborns in the Poorhouse that day?”

Agares suddenly clapped his hands; the Red Devil laughed heartily, the copper bells clanging, making the carriage seem to tremble along.

”You did great, Arthur, really great! Or should I say, I ought to call you Mr. Anonymous. But, so what? The real Arthur Hastings, just a Poorhouse infant dead beside his mother’s corpse, didn’t even get to cry before being tagged and sent to the morgue. But you? You’re remarkable, my dear Arthur! You took his name and polished it! You let ’Arthur Hastings’ climb from the icy stones of the Poorhouse to the University of London, Scotland Yard, the Foreign Office, the Royal Society, even the British Crown Prince’s lecture hall! You merely borrowed his shell to play yourself.”

Agares paced around the carriage.

”You say you don’t care about your origins?”

”You say you despise noble bloodlines?”

”You claim you earned every inch of power on your own?”

”All true, and all false.”

Agares bit into the word ”power” as if tearing a piece of flesh from a body.

”It’s precisely because you’re not him that you have all this. If you were truly that infant, the real Arthur Hastings, you might become a magistrate managing district budgets or perhaps a priest, safely reciting prayers in some church by thirty. If lucky, perhaps marry a niece of a House of Commons member, living the life of an overfed official.”

Agares snapped his fingers, suddenly halting, leaning forward, staring intently at Arthur with those eyes marred by black tear stains: ”You know your greatest achievement? It’s not the first piece of evidence you reported at Scotland Yard, nor the gunshot you ordered during the parliamentary reform; it’s that, when you first saw that old man coughing blood and calling you ’my nephew’ at the farm, you didn’t run away in fear. You realized even your surname was stolen, so you worked harder, were more cautious, and knew when to lie more than the real Arthur Hastings. You never thought you were naturally entitled to any of this, which is why you’re better at preserving power than any noble.”

Agares’s exaggerated smile drew near Arthur’s face, his red nose touching Arthur’s, ”You recognized yourself to be baser than him, my dear Arthur, that’s your secret to success.”

The Red Devil’s white-painted face lingered beside, waiting with a smile for Arthur to ”collapse.”

But he didn’t, Arthur didn’t collapse.

Compared to five years ago, he had changed significantly.

He didn’t even flinch, just tapped his fingers slowly on his knee, like a judge appraising a play’s quality.

The wind outside ruffled the ribbon of his scarf through the window gap.

”Eld.” Arthur finally spoke, his voice clear, calm, devoid of emotion: ”Can you arrange a meeting with Miss Flora Hastings soon?”

Eld was stunned, almost dropping his pipe, ”Who... did you say?”

Arthur continued looking ahead, ”I want to see her, as soon as possible. In two days, I might change my mind.”

”You’re saying, you finally...” Eld nearly stood up, ”Arthur, you’ve... come around?”

Eld was overjoyed, although he had anticipated such an outcome—a reunion with family, Arthur setting down defenses. But what thrilled him most was that this decision was influenced by his persuasion, highlighting Arthur’s appreciation of their long-standing friendship.

Arthur suddenly lifted his gaze to the window, ”I need to confirm some things.”

”About your lineage?” Eld’s tone carried undisguised anticipation, ”You’re saying... you’re planning to talk with her?”

”No,” Arthur leisurely enunciated, ”Eld, don’t be sentimental. I don’t need relatives. Of course, I hold no ill will towards Miss Flora Hastings, but I owe them nothing. If someone truly believes I belong to some family, let them come to me. If they wish to talk, they should choose a decent place.”

At this point, Arthur seemed to casually set the topic aside, adding nonchalantly, ”If you have the chance to see her, pass this message for me.”