The stormy year of 1837 finally passed, and a new year dawned.
It was a cold January morning, the chill of winter still lingering in the air.
I arrived at Buckingham Palace to receive my official title.
Victoria was still residing at Kensington Palace, but it was far too small for ceremonies of this scale. Buckingham Palace, therefore, had been chosen for the occasion.
For Victoria, this would be the first official state ceremony of her reign held at Buckingham Palace.
For me, it marked the true beginning of my life as a noble of the British Empire.
While I waited in the designated chamber, a herald arrived to inform me that the ceremony was about to begin.
I took a deep breath and stepped before the doors. The herald made one final inspection of my formal uniform to ensure everything was perfectly in place.
Then he announced loudly:
"Killian Gore, Earl of Arran, has arrived!"
The doors swung open.
Brilliant light poured from the hall beyond—reflected by massive chandeliers and gilded furniture that glittered like a palace from a dream.
Ignoring the dozens of eyes fixed upon me—members of Parliament, aristocrats, and acquaintances—I walked confidently toward the throne.
Victoria sat there waiting.
Today she wore a magnificent dark blue velvet gown, smiling elegantly as she watched me approach.
When I reached the foot of the throne and knelt, the locket hanging around her neck became clearly visible.
She looked down at me briefly.
Then she slowly drew a jewel-studded ceremonial sword.
Rising from her throne, she spoke in a solemn voice.
"In the name of our great kingdom, and by the grace bestowed upon us by God, I, Queen Victoria, acknowledge the noble achievements and unwavering devotion of this loyal servant."
With practiced grace, she tapped each of my shoulders with the blade.
"Therefore, I appoint you Baron Sudeley."
Her eyes met mine.
"May your steadfast service to this kingdom serve as an example to all."
With that, Killian Gore, Earl of Arran, had gained the right to enter the heart of Britain itself—
Parliament.
Applause filled the hall.
The royal orchestra began to play, and the ceremony naturally transitioned into a celebratory reception.
After exchanging a few polite words with me, Victoria moved away to greet senior officials.
Almost immediately, people began approaching in waves to congratulate me.
"I knew this day would come. Congratulations."
"So now you'll finally be entering Parliament, my lord—well, you should have done so long ago. It's a national loss for someone like you not to participate in governance."
"That's a bit too generous," I said with a smile. "But thank you."
"Still, it feels strange. I remember telling you once—I'd enter the Commons, you'd enter the Lords, and we'd both rise together."
"Charles," I replied, "we haven't achieved anything yet. This is only the beginning."
Charles Wellesley and Benjamin Disraeli—both newly reelected—laughed beside me.
Their presence immediately attracted attention.
"Is the Earl of Arran close to Charles Wellesley?"
"You didn't know? Arthur Wellesley recommended him so he could attend Eton."
"So does that mean the Earl belongs to the Wellesley faction?"
"Probably. That faction just became much stronger."
"I heard he was adopted by the Duchess of Inverness. Wouldn't that connect the Wellesley faction to the royal household as well?"
The murmurs grew louder.
The British Empire might have been vast, but the world of high politics was not.
Most people knew each other within a few connections.
So when someone like me—a semi-newcomer—entered the stage, it naturally drew attention and suspicion.
What was the best strategy in a situation like this?
Simple.
Attach yourself to a powerful faction.
Specifically, someone like Charles—a young aristocrat from one of the most powerful families in Britain.
That had been my plan from the start.
If I entered politics alone, there would inevitably be plenty of "unsportsmanlike behavior" from British gentlemen.
Charles, of course, heard the whispers around us.
Pretending to sip his drink casually, he glanced at me.
Good.
The stage was set.
I gave him a subtle signal.
Charles burst into hearty laughter, loud enough for everyone nearby to hear.
"Don't worry about a thing! Even in the Lords, my father favors you greatly. Just follow my lead from now on. A young politician like you deserves proper guidance."
"Thank you," I said smoothly. "I'll continue relying on you as always."
"Hahaha! Then leave it to me."
The eyes that had been watching me soon shifted back to Charles.
Which was exactly what I wanted.
After all, if the son of Arthur Wellesley, already a three-term MP, gathered allies around him, no one would find it suspicious.
The information circulating wasn't even false.
So if people continued believing this for the next five years, I'd be more than satisfied.
By then, I wouldn't need to worry about their opinions anymore.
The ceremony ended successfully.
"Congratulations, Killian. Looks like we'll be seeing you in Westminster often this year."
"Not quite yet," I replied. "I can't speak or vote in the Lords until I turn twenty-one."
"That's true. Which is why I arranged another position for you to gain experience."
Robert Peel smiled pleasantly.
Apparently the man had decided to irritate me the moment the ceremony ended.
"I heard Victoria already mentioned it."
"Yes… I did hear about it," I said dryly. "Though it was quite a surprise to discover I'd become Under-Secretary for Foreign Affairs without knowing it."
Peel chuckled.
"My apologies. Things were rather urgent, and I simply forgot to inform you."
Forgot.
Forgot to ask the person involved.
The audacity was almost admirable.
Still, I understood perfectly well why he had done it.
In 1838, who would willingly volunteer to solve the disastrous diplomatic crisis between Britain and Qing China?
Anyone confident enough to take on that task would almost certainly know nothing about Asia.
Peel must have assumed I would refuse if asked directly.
So he simply forced the appointment first.
"Robert," I said calmly, "if I told you I lack confidence, could this decision be reversed?"
"Of course," he said quickly. "Even though Parliament and Victoria have approved it, no one can force you to take a position you don't want."
He paused.
"Though Queen Victoria seemed quite confident in you."
In other words—
Reject it if you dare.
I sighed.
"I understand. Her Majesty has already approved it. But I would like to hear your reasoning."
Peel nodded.
"Lord Wellington mentioned that you understand Chinese language and culture. I also heard you once expressed interest in diplomacy."
"That's true."
But I had meant normal diplomacy.
Not cleaning up a catastrophic mess.
"Do you genuinely believe the current situation can be resolved diplomatically?" I asked.
Peel hesitated.
"It will be difficult. But some believe our previous envoys failed because they didn't understand Chinese customs. Someone familiar with their culture might achieve a different result."
"Many people believe that?"
"Both parties supported your appointment."
Of course they did.
I had already guessed the real reason.
It wasn't patriotism.
It wasn't sympathy for merchants struggling in China.
The truth was simple.
Opium traders were funding Parliament.
This absurd situation was the political reality of Britain just before the Opium War.
Even though I had grown accustomed to this era, one thing remained difficult to accept:
A country selling narcotics abroad—and becoming furious when it was banned.
History would remember this.
Even people critical of modern China would still condemn Britain for the Opium War.
I had no intention of becoming a symbol of that disgrace.
"Robert," I said seriously, "before I do anything, I need to understand Parliament's intentions. Is Britain prepared to go to war with Qing China?"
"War would be a last resort," Peel replied. "But if necessary, Parliament would vote on it."
"So diplomacy remains an option."
"Yes."
"Then let me ask plainly. China demands we stop selling opium. Are we willing to do that?"
Peel shook his head.
"That would cause catastrophic losses for British merchants. If China simply lifted its prohibition, relations could return to normal."
Right.
Of course.
Britain had originally hoped to export textiles to China.
But cheap machine-made goods had failed against China's massive handcraft economy.
Meanwhile British demand for Chinese tea exploded.
The result was a massive trade deficit.
The solution?
The East India Company's opium trade.
But no nation would tolerate another country flooding its territory with narcotics forever.
Since Victoria's accession in 1837, the Daoguang Emperor had intensified crackdowns on opium.
British merchants were once again facing massive losses.
And now Peel expected me to magically fix everything.
Unless I possessed mind control, that seemed unlikely.
Then a possibility occurred to me.
Perhaps this appointment served another purpose.
If rumors spread that the culturally knowledgeable Earl of Arran was now handling negotiations, investors might regain confidence.
Opium company stock prices might stabilize.
And if diplomacy failed?
The government could simply say they had tried everything.
Either way—
My heritage was being used as a convenient tool.
Which meant I was free to pursue my own interests as well.
"Robert, as you know, I was born in Joseon, not China. If the Qing court learns that, they may simply treat me as a curiosity."
"Still, they might feel more familiarity with you than with us."
"There's another issue. To meet the Emperor, envoys must perform the kowtow—kneeling three times and bowing nine times. Our diplomats have always refused."
"Yes, I remember hearing about that," Peel said. "Some barbaric greeting ritual."
From Britain's perspective, it was humiliating.
From China's perspective, it was normal diplomatic etiquette.
And if Britain couldn't even agree on that?
Diplomatic resolution would be impossible.
"If I'm to take this position," I said, "these basic policies must be decided first. Whether we accept their rituals. How far Britain is willing to compromise. Without clarity, I will refuse the post—even if the Queen has already approved it."
Peel laughed.
"You think I would assign you such a task without proper support? Fine—tell me what you need."
"First, I need full authority to review diplomatic policy and protocol before departure."
"Done."
"And when I travel to China, my authority must be elevated. Under-Secretary is insufficient."
Peel frowned.
"You want to become Foreign Secretary?"
"Not exactly. Leave the position vacant and appoint me acting head during the mission."
Peel considered it.
"That might actually be simpler. But if results are poor, the criticism will fall on both of us."
"I understand."
I met his eyes confidently.
"No one in Britain understands China better than I do."
Peel's expression brightened immediately.
"Excellent. I'll revise the cabinet appointments at once."
He laughed.
"The youngest minister in British history—Parliament will certainly be shocked."
Perfect.
If I was going to clean up the mess Britain had created, I deserved a proper title.
And besides—
I never promised to solve the problem in the way the opium cartel wanted.
I would act for the interests of the British Empire.
But that didn't necessarily mean protecting the interests of those who had created the mess in the first place.
After all—
They made the mess.
All I had to do was flush the toilet.
And collect the payment.