Chasing Time

“Next, we have the most noble recipient of the Order of the Garter, the Grand Cross of Saint Michael and Saint George, the Grand Cross of the Bath, the Victoria Cross and the lower grades of Knighthood, the leader of the anti-colonial movement, the bell-ringer of the East India Company, the hero of the Crimean War, a Fellow of the Royal Society, a lifelong dear friend of literary giants such as Dickens and Great Dumas, a steadfast supporter of scientific luminaries like Faraday and Darwin, having served as assistant under-secretary, deputy under-secretary, and permanent under-secretary in departments of the Home Office and the Navy Department of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland, the inaugural Cabinet Secretary and head of the civil service, the first graduate and most distinguished alumnus of our school. Please welcome Sir Arthur Hastings to deliver a speech on the occasion of the fiftieth anniversary of the founding of the University of London.”
Arthur's gaze swept across the crowd before him, looking at the young faces and murmured, “Agares, what do you think I should say?”
The Red Devil's wraith hovered behind him, saliva almost dribbling from the corner of his mouth, “Look at these ignorant souls; they still worship you as a hero. Why not say something they'd like to hear?”
Arthur took a deep breath and let out a deafening roar, “Oxford is a bunch of whores' bastards!”
“Oh!!!!”
The audience erupted into thunderous applause.
“Cambridge is the same!” he added immediately.
The applause grew even more fervent...
(The protagonist, possessed by a devil, travels through 19th-century Britain in a world without magic)

The Shadow of Great Britain

The second-floor box of the Astley Circular Theatre, thanks to the theatre's semi-open structure, offered a far superior view than the enclosed boxes of other theatres.


In front of the box was an extended balcony; looking up, one could see the stars and the moon, while looking ahead provided a view of the center of the theatre stage.


There, the theatre staff were busily preparing tonight's performance props: countless tin cans, several copper columns several meters long, and inch-by-inch falling rose-colored curtains.


Inside the box, Lionel Rothschild looked with a hint of surprise at the young man leaning on the balcony sofa, savoring wine, and occasionally vigorously writing down a couple of lines.


He turned his head and asked Arthur, "Arthur, who is this?"


Arthur chuckled softly, "Sorry, Lionel, I forgot to introduce you, this gentleman is the well-known German poet—Mr. Heinrich Heine. You must have seen his 'Heine's Collection of Poems', right?


Chapter 256: London's 800,000 Drillmaster (4K6)