Chapter 67: Land Exchange
Chapter 67: Land Exchange
"The Swinton Family's fiefdom holds more value to you, doesn't it?" George asked. "Give me the overseas territory, and I'll handle it myself."
George's proposal sent Duke Mountbatten into a long silence.
What George offered wasn't random. That sliver of desert overseas, near the Arabian Peninsula, seemed worthless to most—but not to him. Mountbatten had his reasons to take this seriously. The Swinton territory had once been part of the Mountbatten family's inheritance, lost only by marriage centuries earlier. If George relinquished it, Mountbatten could reclaim full dominion over all of Edinburgh.
Still, it would require negotiation. The overseas land was technically a colony, not a traditional fiefdom. George's plan would need approval from the Noble Council, and that meant persuading other stakeholders.
Mountbatten weighed the options silently. The council was already looking for a compromise, and George had handed them one on a silver plate. The Arabian Peninsula had grown volatile—nationalist movements stirring, Egypt pushing for independence, British control weakening. It was a liability dressed as land.
Before Mountbatten could speak, George added, "The war in Ireland has been turbulent lately, hasn't it? I imagine the wounded are piling up."
Mountbatten blinked, wary. "Go on."
George reached into his coat and unfolded a small brochure—details on Penicillin. "Penicillin production is already underway in the U.S., with partners like Rockefeller and Morgan. I still hold exclusive British distribution rights."
Mountbatten's eyes flicked to the paper, then back to George.
"With Penicillin, Scotland's wounded won't be dying in muddy beds—they'll walk home."
Mountbatten swirled his wine thoughtfully.
"The price?" he asked.
"About 0.9 grams of gold per 200,000-unit dose. The vial itself weighs only 0.12 grams," George replied.
The numbers made Mountbatten's mind click. He realized the proposal wasn't charity—it was leverage. But the returns could be monumental.
"Alright, George," he finally said, setting down his glass. "I'll present this to the Noble Council. I can't promise anything—but I'll push for it."
George smiled faintly. "You'll succeed. I've made sure of it."
They didn't discuss agency rights again. The conversation shifted to noble gossip, then dissolved. Mountbatten escorted George to the castle gates personally.
On the drive back, Fred noticed George's faint smile but said nothing. He'd seen that look before—victory, not joy.
The next morning, George quietly dispatched his security team to prepare overseas. Power ruled in the Marvel world, and George wasn't going to be caught unarmed. He took every chance to plan.
While waiting on word from Mountbatten, he attended lectures with Professor Osborn. The British press, encouraged by discreet publicity efforts, continued elevating George's status. Headlines now mentioned his full title as heir to the Swinton family. His appearance at Cambridge caused enough of a stir that he vanished after the first day—attention was still something he kept a hand's distance from.
A week later, another message arrived—an invitation from Mountbatten to meet in London. George didn't hesitate.
Traveling 400 kilometers in 1920 wasn't easy. By the time he stepped off the train, his back ached, and his gloves were damp with London fog.
Mountbatten arranged for him to stay at a small private manor. The Duke greeted him briefly—no need for pretense now.
"The council approved it," Mountbatten said. "You're to be invested on May 19th, National Day. You'll share the ceremony with two others."
George exhaled slowly.
The overseas territory? Approved too. Once stripped of its symbolic association with the Suez Canal, the Arabian land was seen for what it was: a dusty political headache. No noble had any serious claim to it, and none objected to giving it up.
George began the paperwork immediately. He also accepted invitations to noble gatherings—unpleasant but necessary. Fred was summoned from Edinburgh to help organize the upcoming banquet after George's investiture. It was important to show the Swinton line still breathed.
Staying at Mountbatten's manor indefinitely wasn't ideal. George had money—plenty of it. It was time to find his own London base.
He had his sights set on Kensington Palace Gardens. It wasn't just a mansion. It was a fortress of wealth and diplomacy. Neighbors would include foreign embassies and heads of state. It would one day be known as Billionaires' Row.
The Crown Estate managed the land. No one owned the street outright—leases ran 90 to 125 years. George requested Mountbatten's help and quietly navigated the bureaucracy.
He found one: a mansion that hadn't yet earned its modern reputation but already sat behind iron gates, cloaked in trees. Once cleaned and stocked, it became his.
And so, on the last day of April, George Orwell moved into his new home.
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How are you doing? So I told you before that I was working on other fan-fic waiting to be released, and also a few of my originals. Now, today I will lay out clearly what fics exactly I have planned for you all.
And what exactly is their premise. While I have more fics today, I will give a basic plot summary of my 1 original fic, and 2 translated/edited fics. I will also give you a Teaser chapter of such fic.
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Original: __TWD: Titans on the Move – Plot Summary
Two years before the first walker ever shuffled out of a morgue, strange satellite signals started appearing across the world. Most people ignored them. But one man didn't have that luxury.
He's not from this world. He's a transmigrator—just a normal guy from our Earth. As a kid, he never talked about it, but zombie movies used to mess him up. Not the gore—the helplessness.
The idea of being trapped in your own house while things claw at your door, knowing no one's coming to help? That fear stuck with him, even as he grew older.
Then he wakes up in The Walking Dead universe—two years before the outbreak—with a system in his head feeding him high-tech blueprints. And guess what he builds?
Titans.
Not superheroes. Not magic. But real, mechanical giants. Mobile fortresses. The kind of machines you'd see digging through entire mountains or mining cities—except now they're souped up with armor, drones, AI defense, advanced filtration, weapons, solar grids, nuclear power cells, and enough living space to keep dozens of people safe and self-sustained for years.
You know those insane trucks and machinery you see on YouTube that make you think, "Damn, I wish I had that in the apocalypse"? Yeah, now imagine that—but actually working, rumbling across America like gods on treads.
This volume follows his rise—from a terrified prepper to the rolling king of survival. No hero speeches. No chosen one crap. Just someone who refused to be powerless ever again.
And when the outbreak begins?
He doesn't run.
He RUMBLES!!
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Now for the Edited/Translated Fics
I told you, baby, I loved Warhammer 40k, so here it is.
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Warhammer: The Emperor's Raven
In the closing days of the Unification Wars, Terra bled, but it did not break. The Primarchs, scattered by forces beyond comprehension, had yet to return. And above the battered ruins of Old Earth, the Emperor brooded—not in defeat, but in calculation.
Then came the Raven.
It did not speak in tongues, nor did it sing of prophecy. It arrived in silence, draped in shadow, a creature forged by time itself. Bound by the threads of fate to beings of consequence, it alighted upon the Emperor's shoulder and whispered:
"Come. The stars alone are no longer enough."
The being we would call the Emperor of Mankind listened.
In that moment, the Great Crusade was born—not as mere reclamation of lost human worlds, but as a conquest of the very multiverse itself. Through the Raven, the Master of Mankind came to harvest the secrets of alien realities, forging them into weapons of divine potency:
🧬 The Gene Engine – Super God Gene Universe
🔮 Protoss Psi-Tech & Phase Crystals – Koprulu Sector (StarCraft)
💀 Death Star Superlaser Array – Star Wars Galaxy
🌌 Etheric Phase Engine – Stellaris Continuum
⚙️ All spark Matrix – Cybertronian Machine-Wars (Transformers)
🕳️ Dimensional Blade Systems – Trisolaris Incident (Three-Body Universe)
From these alien truths, the Emperor wrought a new Imperium—not one of fragile belief, but of absolute power.
Now, across the untold skeins of time and space, the Aquila of Mankind were raised across worlds both known and newly conquered.
The human empire, reborn with stolen fire from alien stars and distant realities, marched as a steel tide across the multiverse.
Worlds fell. Gods screamed. Reality bent beneath the boot of Mankind.
And amidst the chorus of dying galaxies, the Raven — bearer of prophecy, wanderer of fates, tilted its head as warp-light flickered across its feathers.
"I only wanted to show the Golden One the stars," it murmured.
"How could I have known he'd see it as a call to war?"
From the ruins of utopias and the corpses of tyrants, the Emperor declared:
"Let it be known: All that exists shall kneel before the Imperium of Mankind or will turn to dust."
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Chapter 1
Terra.
The final days of the Unification Wars.
The killing fields of the Navian Peninsula.
The Emperor, wreathed in aurulent radiance, strode across the war-ravaged permafrost with measured pace, His countenance a mask of impassive judgment.
His golden panoply turned aside the biting winds that howled across the wasteland, and at His side hung a great longsword in its scabbard. The weapon's power field lay dormant, its sacred circuitry cold and silent in the aftermath of conquest.
Artillery craters scarred the earth like wounds in flesh, and the grey ash of irradiated snow fell from leaden skies. Around the Master of Mankind, the Thunder Warriors moved with ponderous stride, their archaic power armor humming with barely-contained fury.
They swept the battlefield with ruthless efficiency—salvaging the living amongst their brotherhood, delivering the Emperor's mercy to those enemies who yet drew breath.
The Emperor passed amongst the fallen, His attention fixed upon neither the dying who called His name nor the still forms of the dead. His purpose lay ahead, where the Custodian Guard maintained their vigil around a solitary figure.
Within their golden circle knelt a grey-haired man, broken and alone. Tattered robes of cloned-flesh hung from his frame, and he trembled beneath the pitiless sky.
Wounds marked his flesh, and his form was hunched with defeat and the weight of years spent in heretical pursuit.
Moransen. Supreme Tyrant of the Moransen Federation. Arch-heretic and devotee of the Primordial Truth. Commander of fanatic legions and architect of blasphemous rites.
He had been but one amongst the many warlords who had sought to deny the Emperor's ordained dominion over Terra. Like all who stood before the coming of Unity, he had been cast down by the inexorable advance of Imperial might.
"So ends all earthly ambition," Moransen spoke, his voice cracked with bitter mirth as the Emperor approached.
The Master of Mankind said nothing. Cold wind stirred His raven hair, and the pale sun caught the edge of His blade, wringing light from steel that had drunk deep of traitor blood.
"Why?" Moransen raised his eyes to meet the Emperor's gaze. "Why visit such slaughter upon my people?"
"Your people shall endure. You and your maddened zealots have forfeited that privilege."
"Lord of Terra," Moransen spoke each word with deliberate mockery, his laughter a broken thing.
The Emperor shook His head. "Nay. Lord of Mankind."
"Ha! All of humanity? Does a single world not suffice your hunger? Will you not spare even the stars themselves? Your hubris knows no bounds."
The Emperor offered no further discourse, His gaze sweeping across the field of victory.
"The day is mine."
"Tyrant. Butcher of civilized realms."
"I bring illumination. I shall kindle new fires in the darkness. Humanity shall ascend, and the galaxy shall know the dominion of our species as destiny intended."
"You bring damnation, cloaked in false salvation. While breath remains in my body, I shall curse your name. All that you build shall crumble to dust and ash."
The heretic's malediction stirred the wrath of the Custodian Guard. One of their number stepped forward, the butt of his guardian spear striking Moransen's skull with contemptuous force.
The blow, though restrained by the warrior's discipline, carried such terrible power that bone and flesh gave way beneath it. The traitor's face collapsed in ruin, his eye bursting in its socket as crimson flowed from the shattered orbit.
"Stay your hand, Sagittarius."
The Emperor spoke the Custodian's name, and the golden sentinel stepped back into formation.
He knew the names of each Custodian Guard—every warrior who stood in His service. This was no feat of memory alone, for they were wrought by His hand. Raised from infancy within the Palace walls, each had been crafted into perfection itself.
Sagittarius bore upon his helm a look of contrition, bowing low before resuming his place amongst the golden brotherhood.
The Emperor gazed upon the writhing Moransen with something that might have been pity. His sight pierced all veils and pretense, revealing truth beneath mortal flesh.
Where others saw only a broken man, the Master of Mankind beheld corruption absolute. Moransen's soul had long since putrefied, consumed by the malevolent entities of the Warp.
Beneath the guise of humanity writhed something obscene—obsidian talons that flexed with hunger, maws that slavered with unholy laughter, voices that shrieked blasphemies into the aether.
"Your essence has been devoured utterly by the Dark Powers, rendered sustenance for those abominations. I counseled you once to spurn the false gods."
"They care nothing for your faith nor your devotion. They desire only that you feed them with acts of madness, violence, and slaughter without end."
Moransen raised his ruined visage, mouth working soundlessly as he sought to speak.
The Emperor heard no more. His blade sang to life, power circuits igniting along the fuller as flames wreathed the sacred steel. The longsword descended in a single, perfect arc, and Moransen's head tumbled into the crimson snow.
The assembled soldiery raised their voices in triumph.
In that moment, the vox-channel crackled with the voice of Custodian-Commander Valdor.
"My Emperor, there is something within the enemy's stronghold that requires Your attention."
The bunker complex lay in ruins. Rubble choked the corridors, and the broken forms of the dead sprawled amongst smoking wreckage.
Companies of the Imperial Army labored to clear the fortress, their work-servitors dragging corpses and charred debris beyond the walls.
When the Emperor appeared, every soul present prostrated itself in reverence.
Custodian-Commander Valdor waited alone within a chamber deep in the fortress heart. The sentries at the portal rendered the aquila as their master passed.
Within, the Emperor beheld what had summoned Him.
Upon a cylindrical plinth of unknown material—half a meter in width, a full meter in height—rested a sculpture wrought in the likeness of a raven. The artifact seemed to drink in the light around it.
Valdor offered the aquila. "Forgive me, my Emperor. I should have attended to you upon your arrival."
"The artifact possesses a most singular property. When one's gaze departs from it, all memory of its existence fades. Only upon direct observation do the memories return."
"Impossible." The Emperor's rejection was immediate. "You possess absolute recall. Nothing witnessed by your eyes can be forgotten."
"I have tested this, my Emperor. When I first departed this chamber, all knowledge of it vanished from my mind. Only when I returned and looked upon it once more did remembrance resurface."
The Emperor turned His gaze aside.
At once, He felt the memory of the sculpture drain away like water through sand.
First, the fine details dissolved, then its general form, until only a vague sense of something important lingered at the edge of consciousness. Before total oblivion claimed it, He fixed His eyes upon the raven once more.
Memory flooded back in perfect clarity.
Even He, the Master of Mankind, could not retain knowledge of this thing when His sight was turned away.
"The sculpture may be touched, yet when I attempted its destruction..."
Valdor drove his guardian spear forward with killing force. The weapon's energy field crackled as the blade passed through the raven as though it were naught but shadow.
Yet even as the spear found no purchase, Valdor's gauntleted hand rested solid upon the sculpture's surface.
"It exists simultaneously as corporeal matter and immaterial phantasm—a paradox given form."
The Emperor approached the raven effigy, His hand extending unbidden toward the enigmatic artifact.
[PRIME SUBJECT DETECTED. INITIATING REVIVAL PROTOCOL.]
Light erupted from the sculpture's obsidian surface, coruscating energies that banished shadow from the chamber's corners.
When the radiance faded, the carved raven had become flesh and blood—or something approximating such. Its plumage was black as the void between stars, yet its eyes burned with intelligence that seemed to mock the laws of physics themselves.
It stepped from its perch into empty air, gravity holding no dominion over its form.
"Would you forge a compact, mortal? Pledge yourself, and I shall grant you dominion absolute—power beyond measure, wealth beyond counting, authority without limit."
The Emperor's countenance remained unmoved, no flicker of surprise disturbing His imperial composure at the sculpture's metamorphosis.
"A denizen of the Immaterium. Such artless subterfuge lacks even the merit of originality."
The raven studied the figure before it with newfound interest. Black hair, obsidian eyes, towering nearly four meters in height. Golden armor that seemed to drink in light and cast it back transformed. A circlet of thorns crowned His brow like some ancient king's diadem of suffering.
Its gaze shifted to the Custodian-Commander beside Him—resplendent in auramite plate, guardian spear crackling with lethal energies, the very image of Imperial might.
"Golden giant. Auramite armor. Guardian spear. Power weapons. Human. Terra is your jurisdiction. Such psychic might as to dwarf worlds..." The creature's voice trailed to a whisper as comprehension dawned. Its eyes widened with something approaching terror.
"By the infinite cosmos... You are the Emperor of Mankind."
The Emperor's blade sang as it cleared its sheath, golden flames racing along the fuller as the weapon's machine-spirit awakened. The very air grew heavy with the promise of annihilation.
The raven spread its wings and retreated, talons scrabbling for purchase on nothingness.
"Peace, Brother PEACE! Watch your hand! I have connections across the dimensional barriers—the risk is considerable, but the rewards are beyond your imagination. You might as well treat me as your equal."
"I treat not with daemons." The Emperor's voice carried the chill of absolute zero.
"I am no daemon, Lord of Humanity. I am a wanderer between realities, fundamentally distinct from the parasites that infest your Warp."
The creature's words gave the Emperor pause. His blade remained raised, yet He did not strike.
"Realities? Your Warp? Do you claim origin beyond this entire universe?"
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How was it? Did you like it? I tried to capture that Warhammer 40k novel vibe, with the only difference being our MC, who will speak in 2K Millenia's way of speaking. As time goes by, he will also use 40k speech more, but still retain his 2K manner of speaking.
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Now for another fic.
1960: My Uncle is the Director of the FBI
Synopsis
"My uncle is the director of the FBI."
"What?"
"You want to know who I am?"
"Hoover. My last name is Hoover."
In the early summer of 1960, a brilliant modern-day profiler wakes up in the body of a rebellious youth in an America that hasn't yet seen DNA forensics, criminal profiling, or even modern crime scene tape.
But he's not just anyone—he's now the nephew of J. Edgar Hoover, the most powerful man in American law enforcement.
Armed with future knowledge and a mind sharpened by psychology and technology, he sets out to change the course of crime and justice—one criminal at a time.
From cold-blooded killers to mafia kingpins, they'll soon learn:
The future has arrived—and it's watching.
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Please share your thoughts on this. I have a few more fics in my workspace, and soon I will also release them. But I wanted to ensure you like what you read.
So I will release up to 10 or 15 chapters of each fanfic, then you can vote on which one you would prefer to read, so I can properly work on them.
Oh yes, original fic will take time. I am still working on it.