Westminster, London — A Whig townhouse
The Whig members of Parliament, who usually gathered here to debate party affairs with endless energy, were unusually quiet today.
Several newspapers lay scattered across the table.
Their headlines were impossible to ignore.
"The Truth Finally Revealed! The Astonishing Birth Secret of Asia's Prince, Killian Gore!""A Shocking Revelation About the Foreign Secretary! What Will This Mean for British Diplomacy?""How Are Asian Royals Different From European Nobility? Experts Explain the Mysteries of the East."
Some articles simply listed facts.
Others were wild speculation.
A few were barely disguised works of fiction.
Watching the other MPs silently flip through the papers, William Ewart Gladstone felt increasingly frustrated.
"We must act first," William Gladstone finally said. "The Conservatives are just as confused by this sudden situation as we are. If we move now, we can seize the narrative before they do."
"In principle, that is correct," someone replied calmly. "But what exactly do you propose we do?"
After the retirement of William Lamb, leadership within the Whig Party had largely fallen to Henry John Temple.
Beside him sat John Russell, another rising figure within the party—though for some reason Russell seemed unusually cautious today.
Even Palmerston himself looked slightly unsettled.
"Lord Palmerston," William Gladstone continued, "the first step is to unify the party's position. Should we treat this matter as a major political issue, or merely a minor curiosity? Until we decide that, the rest of the party cannot speak with one voice."
"That is reasonable," Palmerston admitted. "Then perhaps you could tell us your own opinion, Mr. Gladstone."
Gladstone had already become one of the central figures in the Whig Party.
His recent defection from the Conservatives had helped the Whigs considerably in the election, and his long experience among the Tories meant he understood their thinking well.
For that reason, even senior Whig leaders listened closely when he spoke.
"My opinion," William Gladstone said carefully, "is that we should wait for the follow-up reports. There is still a nonzero chance that the information from Shanghai was misunderstood."
"Hm… Would they really forward something this important without verifying it two or three times?"
"Even with careful investigation, there are limits to what can be confirmed from such a distance," William Gladstone replied. "Perhaps that is why the Conservatives remain silent. Have you noticed how strangely quiet they are?"
Indeed, the Conservative Party—led by Charles Wellesley—was famous for moving faster than the Whigs in any political controversy.
Yet this time they had issued no statement at all.
No reaction.
Nothing.
They simply watched.
Is it because Killian is currently in Canada?
But the leader of the Conservative faction—and Prime Minister—was not Killian Gore.
It was Charles Wellesley.
…Unless my suspicion was correct.
William Gladstone had spent many years inside the Conservative Party.
And during that time, he had occasionally wondered whether the true power behind the party might not be Wellesley at all—
—but Killian himself.
Of course, he had no evidence.
Only intuition.
Yet whenever he spoke with them, that suspicion would quietly return.
However, whenever William Gladstone voiced that theory among the Whigs, it was immediately dismissed.
Most passionately by John Russell.
Russell—normally a quiet man—became strangely animated whenever Wellesley's name appeared.
"Do not underestimate them!" Russell suddenly declared. "The center of the Conservative Party is none other than Prime Minister Wellesley! I guarantee he has already laid two or three traps for us!"
There it was again.
Russell's universal theory:
Everything is Wellesley's conspiracy.
Why he was so obsessed with the idea remained a mystery.
No matter the topic, Russell always repeated the same warning.
"Do not be fooled! This is the Prime Minister's trap!"
William Gladstone sighed inwardly.
"Mr. Russell," he said, "do you truly believe the prime minister has prepared some elaborate scheme? From my perspective, it seems far more likely they are simply waiting for further reports."
"That cannot be the case," Russell insisted. "You served in the Conservative Party for years. Do you not understand how dangerous that man is?"
"I'm afraid not," Gladstone replied calmly. "The prime minister I spoke with was a cheerful and agreeable politician. Not some sinister mastermind."
Russell stared at him in disbelief.
"Exactly! Even members of his own party were deceived. That is precisely why I warned you. He is a man so skilled at hiding himself that even those closest to him cannot see his true nature!"
…What am I supposed to say to that?
If Wellesley was quiet, Russell called it frightening.
If he acted, Russell called it even more frightening.
"Then what do you propose we do?" William Gladstone asked. "If the prime minister is so terrifying, should we simply do nothing and wait?"
"Yes," Russell replied without hesitation. "For now, that is the best course. Do nothing. Watch what he does, and respond afterward."
William Gladstone rubbed his temple.
"I still do not understand why you fear him so much. At least give us a reason we can relate to."
"There are… circumstances," Russell said vaguely. "Did not Lord Melbourne repeatedly warn us to be cautious of the prime minister before stepping down?"
If both Melbourne and Russell were so insistent, then surely there was some hidden story behind it.
Unfortunately, no one in the room actually knew what that story was.
And in party politics, authority mattered.
Russell's voice carried more weight than Gladstone's.
In the end, William Gladstone had little choice but to compromise.
"Very well," he said. "Then let us follow Mr. Russell's advice for now and observe the situation. But once the Conservatives make their move, allow me to devise our response."
"…You're confident?" Palmerston asked.
"Not confident," William Gladstone admitted.
"But I am certain of the direction we must take."
Better to focus on Killian—the one whose ability they had already witnessed firsthand—than remain paralyzed by fear of an invisible conspiracy.
Especially now that Killian's only major weakness—
his obscure birth—
appeared to have vanished.
Is there some way…
some clever move…
to separate Killian from the Conservatives?
Sowing discord? Impossible.
Conspiracy theories? That would only backfire.
No.
It would require something completely unexpected.
A move no one would anticipate.
While the other Whigs worried about the prime minister, Gladstone's entire attention was fixed on one man alone.
Killian.
Meanwhile…
The world was vast.
And Asia seemed to be filled with lunatics.
At first Killian had assumed the rumors were just empty nonsense.
But who could have imagined they would go so far as to fabricate an entire genealogy and submit it as official documentation?
Japan was one thing.
They had always been prone to bizarre schemes.
But why on earth had Joseon joined the madness?
Had their rivalry with Japan completely destroyed their sense of reason?
Even so, Killian had absolutely no idea how to interpret the ridiculous genealogy now sitting before him.
"Are you sure Britain didn't accidentally send forged documents?" he asked.
"No," James replied. "Our office in London has already confirmed it. The matter is considered settled. You are currently the greatest piece of gossip in the capital."
James laid several freshly printed newspapers on the table.
Killian felt faint.
"So let me get this straight," he muttered. "According to these documents, I am the descendant of a Joseon royal family implicated in treason, a distant relative of the Tokugawa shoguns, and the son of an Irish nobleman?"
"That summarizes it perfectly," James said. "At least on paper."
Killian buried his face in his hands.
What was he now?
Some kind of mythical chimera?
A Joseon royal.
A Tokugawa bloodline.
An Irish aristocrat.
A British nobleman.
Normally this sort of ridiculous mixed heritage only appeared in fantasy novels where the protagonist received every possible special ability.
"James," Killian groaned. "You were the one who came to Joseon to bring me here. You know this is all nonsense, right? When I was living like a beggar they treated me like trash—now suddenly I have noble blood?"
"They included an apology," James said carefully.
"Who asked them to apologize like this?!"
Killian slammed the newspaper onto the table.
"What kind of lunatic came up with this idea? I'd love to dissect his brain."
At first Killian tried to analyze the political purpose behind the incident.
Eventually he gave up.
There was no rational explanation.
Still, he could guess one thing.
At the beginning, someone probably had a clear objective.
But by the time events spiraled this far, the entire affair had clearly been driven by national pride.
Once that kind of rivalry ignited between nations, absurdity often followed.
"So what will you do?" James asked. "You'll need to return to London, won't you?"
"Yes," Killian said. "Charles asked me to come as soon as possible. But before that…"
He smiled faintly.
"…there are a few things we must finish first."
Throughout history, it had been common for families to falsify genealogies to connect themselves with famous figures.
But those cases usually involved attaching themselves to historical figures of the past.
Declaring that a living person belonged to your lineage—
that was something else entirely.
Still, the chaos in London meant he had no choice.
Before boarding the ship back to Britain, Killian needed to calculate every possible consequence.
Once he sailed for London, there would be no turning back.
"James," he said quietly, "I need to meet the governor and give a few instructions. Listen carefully and complete the work as quickly as possible."
His voice had grown noticeably calmer.
More serious.
"This may be the most important turning point of my life."
James immediately nodded.
"I will handle it at once and return to Britain with you."
Good.
Killian intended to meet the governor quickly and quietly.
Give his instructions.
Leave without causing any unnecessary commotion.
Unfortunately—
Governor Bagot had very different plans.
The moment Killian arrived in Kingston, a thunderous roar erupted from the streets.
"THE MINISTER HAS RETURNED!"
"LONG LIVE THE MINISTER!"
"ASIA PRINCE! ASIA PRINCE!"
Governor Bagot had organized an enormous welcome celebration for Killian's successful diplomatic mission in America.
People had flooded into Kingston from every region of Canada.
The crowd roared like a festival.
"ASIA PRINCE! ASIA PRINCE!"
"MINISTER KILLIAN, RULER OF ASIA!"
"ASIA PRINCE!"
Killian wanted to disappear into the ground.
Please stop.
Please just stop.
Who had invented the painfully embarrassing title "Asia Prince"?
Even if he really were a royal relative—
a royal relative was not a prince.
"ASIA PRINCE! ASIA PRINCE!"
Killian lowered his head.
He couldn't even correct them.
The shame alone might kill him.
Was the governor secretly a French assassin sent to eliminate me through humiliation?
If so—
the plan had almost succeeded.
Still…
If the public support was truly this overwhelming, then even the worst political scenario back in London would not destroy him.
That much was certain.
Good.
Embarrassment was temporary.
Political security was not.
Yes.
He could endure this.
Probably.
"WE LOVE YOU, ASIA PRINCE!"
Killian clenched his teeth.
…Actually enduring the overwhelming shame was proving far more difficult than expected.