The triumph of the Factory Act struck the British Empire like an electric current racing through a vast and restless body.
For the first time, the common people saw that their voices could shake the halls of power—those gilded chambers long guarded by gentlemen of impeccable lineage. The *Daily Mirror*'s circulation exploded, and Dickens, with his pen dipped in righteous indignation, became a sudden folk hero, "the man who pleaded for the people."
Meanwhile, the old Conservative grandees of Parliament found themselves hollowed out, disoriented—like a regiment struck by a storm they had never believed possible. Their vaunted "traditions" and "order" now trembled under the pressure of a nation newly awakened.
Arthur Lionheart knew the time had come.
He would not grant these men even a moment to regroup. He would seize this favourable wind—this *mobilised public opinion*—and force through the long-prepared **Victoria Reform**, boldly, imperiously, efficiently. No half-measures. No polite hesitation.
A few days later, Westminster Palace hosted an "extended cabinet session," summoned personally by Her Majesty the Queen, to decide the future course of the Empire for decades to come.
This time Arthur dispensed with briefings, political theatre, and the gentle manipulation of public sentiment.
He placed everything directly on the table.
When all ministers and party leaders were assembled, Arthur—Prince Consort of the British Empire—stepped to the podium at Her Majesty's command. Three secretaries followed him, each carrying a heavy stack of newly-drafted bills.
"**Gentlemen**," Arthur began, his voice stripped of all ceremony, "today we shall not discuss the weather, nor waste breath on pleasantries. On behalf of Her Majesty, I am presenting three reform bills—simultaneously—which are to be passed **at once**."
Three bills at once?
The chamber erupted in astonishment. Parliamentary convention dictated one matter at a time; such a deluge was nothing short of institutional blasphemy.
But before objections could take shape, **the first axe fell.**
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## **First Axe: The Repeal of the Corn Laws — the matter of "bread."**
"The first concerns the Corn Laws," Arthur announced, lifting a document. "For years this legislation has forbidden the import of affordable grain—solely to protect the interests of you, the landed aristocracy."
He swept the room with a cold gaze.
"It has forced the people of Britain to pay extortionate prices for their daily bread. That ends now."
"No! I object!"
Conservative landowners leapt to their feet at once. To repeal the Corn Laws was to strike at their very lifeblood.
"Your Royal Highness," one Earl cried, nearly shaking with panic, "you endanger the foundations of the realm! Agriculture is the bedrock of Britain!"
"Your 'bedrock'?" Arthur replied with a thin smile.
He nodded to a secretary.
A document was placed in the Earl's hands. He opened it—and his face drained of all colour.
"This—this cannot be real!"
But it was real. Arthur had already secured, through quiet diplomatic channels, a secret agreement with the rising industrial states of the American North.
The terms were simple: Britain would open its markets and share technical expertise. In exchange, the vast plains of the American Midwest would become the Empire's newest—and cheapest—granary.
Arthur let the silence stretch, then delivered his ultimatum:
"**Gentlemen, your choice is very simple.**
Either you **voluntarily lower grain prices**, allowing our citizens access to affordable bread…
—or I shall submit for immediate approval this 'Anglo-American Agricultural Cooperation Accord.'"
He tapped the document.
"With American grain at half your prices flooding our markets, your estates will be worth little more than grazing fields. You have **one day**. By this time tomorrow, I expect your unified proposal to abolish the Corn Laws."
He did not spare them another glance.
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## **Second Axe: The Universal Education Act — the matter of "schools."**
"The second bill concerns education," Arthur continued. "The Factory Act addressed only the hours children spend in mills. But what of the hours they do not? Shall they wander the streets until they fall into ruin—or shall they attend school, acquire knowledge, and become the pillars of Britain's future?"
He raised the next manuscript.
"I propose a government-funded system of public schools, providing **free and compulsory education** for all children from seven to twelve."
Uproar broke out once again.
"Free? Compulsory? Has Your Royal Highness taken leave of his senses?!" cried the industrial MPs. "Where shall we find the funds? And the teachers? And who will work in our factories?"
"Finances," Arthur said coolly, "need not trouble you. A rather generous quantity of 'unexpected wealth' has been recovered from certain associates of the East India Company. Enough to build **a thousand schools**."
He let that sink in before continuing.
"As for your fear of losing child labour—perhaps this is precisely the moment to promote *industrial modernisation*."
Another document appeared in the secretary's hands.
"A preferential loan programme," Arthur said, "established by our Royal Promotion Association. Any *conscientious* industrialist willing to comply with the new law and provide evening training to adult workers may apply for funds to modernise machinery—looms, steam engines, the works."
His tone sharpened.
"As for the *other* type of factory owner—those who cling to child exploitation—the *Daily Mirror* would be delighted to conduct investigative tours of their establishments."
The chamber fell into an uneasy, sweating silence.
On one side: generous loans and modern factories.
On the other: public disgrace and political ruin.
There was no choice at all.
Arthur gathered the third and final document.
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## **Third Axe: The London Cleanliness Act — the matter of "sewers."**
"And lastly," he said, "there is the matter beneath our very feet."
An aide unveiled a large painted scene: the polluted Thames downstream—grey, choked, foul.
"This is our proud capital," Arthur declared, "floating upon refuse, industrial waste, and human filth. Tens of thousands die yearly of cholera and typhoid after drinking this water."
"I therefore propose immediate commencement of the first phase of the 'City of Miracles' project: the construction of a modern, city-wide **underground sewer system** for London."
The Chancellor of the Exchequer gasped.
"How are we to pay for this?! We cannot—"
"You need not worry about money."
This time, the voice came not from Arthur.
From the front row of the gallery, Baron Rothschild rose, smiling with impeccable confidence.
"For the health of London's citizens—and so that we need not endure this infernal stench during afternoon tea—our bank, and our esteemed colleagues across Europe, shall supply whatever loans this great enterprise requires."
Of course, he was no saint. He merely recognised a monumental opportunity when he saw one.
The third axe fell.
Silence swept the chamber.
The assembled elites of the Empire stared at Arthur Lionheart as though he had cleaved the very pillars of their world.
American grain for the landowners.
Capital and public opinion for the industrialists.
International finance to bypass the Treasury itself.
Each blow struck with precision.
Each manoeuvre left no path of refusal.
Commanding, relentless, utterly unanswerable.
Arthur surveyed the stunned assembly and spoke his final words:
"**Gentlemen, I am not here to negotiate.**
I am here—on behalf of the Queen and mine—to **inform** you."
"The train of reform has already departed.
Those who cannot keep pace will be crushed beneath the wheels of time."
He gave a slight bow, turned, and in perfect, echoing silence, walked out of the parliamentary hall.
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