Just as the diplomatic theatre in St. Petersburg was devolving into a chaotic three-way contest—France and Austria now boldly intruding into the affair—a private letter from Berlin arrived at Arthur Lionheart's desk, delivered through the highly efficient Royal Prussian postal system.
The envelope bore no signature, only the wax seal of the Hohenzollern eagle—cold, imperious, and unmistakable.
Arthur instantly recognized what it meant:
the seed he had planted in Prussia had begun to sprout.
He broke the seal. Inside lay a letter written in Bismarck's bold, impatient hand—half pride, half reverence.
"My dear Arthur," he began—he had started calling Arthur by name rather than title—"you were right. Berlin is infinitely more entertaining than our Pomeranian countryside!"
"The funeral of our late King Frederick William III was more dramatic than any stage farce. Those stately ministers wept as though mourning their own fathers, yet their eyes flicked constantly toward the new monarch."
"Our freshly crowned King, Frederick William IV, has no taste for governing—yet he spent an entire week designing his own crown and robes, claiming they should reflect the style of some 'Holy Roman Emperor.' Heaven help us; he has taken leave of his senses!"
"But," Bismarck continued, excitement leaking through his disciplined lines, "this is precisely the moment I have been waiting for."
"I followed your advice. I stopped confronting those idiotic bureaucrats head-on. Instead, I drift among salons and art circles, spending my days with His Majesty—discussing Goethe, Beethoven, even feigning a profound interest in architecture while studying the restitution plans for Cologne Cathedral."
"And guess what? His Majesty now considers me his only 'kindred spirit.' He believes no one in Prussia understands his 'noble artistic soul' better than I do. He has even hinted at making me his… court adviser."
Arthur smiled coldly at that line.
Young Bismarck—this ambitious political beast—had used disguise to seize his first piece of real power.
Then the letter shifted.
"Arthur, my brother," Bismarck wrote, "I know you are the one who truly understands these matters. I've written down some of my recent 'mad thoughts.' Consider it the work of a foolish student seeking his mentor's review."
Attached was a thick political memorandum—over ten pages, incisive and brutally logical.
Its title was simple, sharp, and prophetic:
On the Customs Union and the Future of Germany
Arthur's expression hardened.
This—this was the true gem inside Bismarck's letter.
This was Bismarck's first real "thesis", the opening chapter of the iron-fisted statesman he would one day become.
Arthur read carefully.
In the memorandum, Bismarck's reasoning was far ahead of his era:
The so-called "German Confederation," he argued, was a fragmented mess—over thirty states with divergent currencies, laws, measures, and ambitions. Even mighty Prussia had never managed to unite the German people beyond the surface.
Military conquest? Useless. It would only provoke Austria, France, and the resistance of petty kings.
The only viable path—though slow and insidious—was economic domination.
Prussia, using the existing German Customs Union as a skeleton, must convert it into something more dangerous:
A quasi-state
with unified currency, unified railways, and even a unified foreign policy.
"We shall use Prussian railways as arteries connecting the hearts of every German state."
"We shall replace their inferior currencies with the Prussian 'Mark,' backed by our royal credit."
"Every merchant, farmer, and citizen must taste the benefits of a Unified Market. Let them realize that following Prussia brings prosperity, while clinging to their little kings brings decay."
"When the purse strings of all Germans depend on Prussia, political unity becomes inevitable."
Then, in a flourish of bold hand and audacious spirit, Bismarck ended with the line that would one day shake all Europe:
"The future of Germany will not be decided by parliamentary chatter or majority votes…
The fate of our enemies will be determined by iron and blood."
(But even here, the "iron" was already shifting from guns to railways; the "blood," from spilled gore to the shared lifeblood of a unified nation.)
Arthur sat in silence for a long moment.
He had to admit:
Bismarck was born a political predator.
He had merely told the young man:
A real man should wield a sword a meter long and carve out unmatched deeds.
And Bismarck—brilliant, feral—had chosen an unexpected blade:
the economy as his sword, the railways as his edge, and the unification of Germany by iron and blood as the final strike.
"Extraordinary," Arthur murmured.
He did not need to "correct" this thesis.
It was already precise—dangerously precise.
What he needed now was to add fuel to the fire.
To give his "brother" a graduation gift only a Lionheart would dare to give.
He wrote his reply.
"My dear Otto,
Your 'thesis' fills me with pride. You no longer need a teacher. You have found your road to greatness."
Then his tone shifted—measured, strategic.
"But I noticed a small yet essential flaw in your grand design. You spoke of railways—but have you considered who will build them? With what standards? Can your engineers plan efficient routes, construct bridges and tunnels capable of bearing enormous weight, manage an interconnected national system?"
"You may wait for funding. You may pressure politicians, businessmen, even your king. But technology and talent cannot be purchased overnight. And that, Otto, is precisely the gift I can give you."
Arthur chose the most discreet—and the most radical—form of intervention.
"I can persuade Mr. George Stephenson—the 'Father of Railways' and director of our Royal Association."
"I will send to Berlin a team of Britain's finest railway engineers, personally selected, under the official banner of an 'Anglo-Prussian Technical Exchange,' to help you survey and plan your national network."
"Furthermore, I shall establish the Arthur Lionheart Scholarship. Each year I will select one brilliant young Prussian—gifted in mathematics, physics, and engineering—and fund three full years of study at London's Royal Institution and in my Future Industries Park."
"Otto," Arthur wrote in a firm, icy hand,
"I lend Prussia the mind and hands of Britain's Industrial Revolution.
I help you train the pillars of Germany's future industry."
"I ask for no shares. I do not interfere in Prussia's internal affairs."
"Only one small request."
Arthur paused—then penned the sentence that would shape Europe's future:
"When that greedy Gallic Rooster (France) or that foolish Polar Bear (Russia) threatens Britain's interests,
you will take your iron and your blood, and ensure your king stands on the correct side."
He sealed the letter and placed it among the outgoing diplomatic files for Berlin.
Outside, the sky over St. Petersburg was a cold, iron-grey mass.
Arthur Lionheart watched it with a thin, ruthless smile.
Nicholas I, you dream of conquering Prussia?
How quaint. How small.
While your envoys crawl across Europe,
I have already claimed Prussia's future engineers, inventors, and generals as my own.
With what exactly do you intend to fight me?
This—Arthur thought—is what it truly means to invest in the future.
The piece he had moved today might not matter tomorrow.
But someday—at the decisive moment—
Prussia, the "brother" he had nourished with capital and companionship,
would become the sharpest, most obedient butcher's knife in his hand.
A knife he would use to shape the fate of the entire European continent.