Fantasy Writers 1860

In Lentinion, the first to wake up every day are always the riverboat workers.

Londinion was originally a stronghold established by the ancient Roman Empire on the edge of a river. With the development of the city, the urban area has now expanded to a large area on both sides of the river, which has become the inland waterway of Londinion.

The city’s proximity to the coast and inland waterways has brought it exceptional convenience, but the price to pay is the long hours and hard work of the shipping workers.

Before the first rays of sunlight rise, they must transfer the mountains of goods transported from overseas colonies from the huge maritime warehouses along the coast, load them onto inland barges, and then send them along the winding inland waterways to every corner of Lentinion.

Parker was one of those million shipping workers.

For decades, his life was like the flowing water of this river, monotonous and repetitive.

In his monotonous daily life, his only entertainment was spending 4 guilders each week to buy a copy of the Morning Star newspaper, then heading straight to the political commentary section. After reading it, he would first offer sharp critiques of his fellow workers, and finally write down his insights and suggestions for the Empire in a letter and send it to the editorial department.

Of course, all the letters he sent out have been lost to the sea so far, and he has never received a reply, but he doesn't mind too much. Whenever someone asks, he always gives the same excuse of "keeping his merits and fame hidden".

His coworkers, who listened to his Gillette commentary all day long, gradually began to resonate with his views on politics.

Lately, however, fewer and fewer people have been chatting with him; everyone has gone off to read vulgar novels in other newspapers.

"Vulgar..." Parker muttered to himself as usual, holding a copy of the latest issue of the Morning Star he had bought from a nearby store.

When he returned to the factory, a young apprentice greeted him warmly and then, somewhat unusually, asked, "Uncle Parker, did you read today's Morning Star?"

Parker perked up a little, thinking that the young man had finally come to his senses and was going to join him in offering advice to the empire.

"Not yet." He held up the newspaper in his hand. "Why? Why are you suddenly asking about this?"

The apprentice replied, "This morning, I overheard the boss saying in his office that everyone seems to have taken some kind of 'magic pill' today, and they've all started attacking the magazine he's been reading lately, 'The Million Pound Note,' even 'Time' magazine..."

"I'm a little worried. What are those critics saying? Will it mean I won't be able to watch it anymore?"

The Million Pound Sterling?

Parker found the name somewhat familiar; it sounded like the popular novel his friends had mentioned reading.

He casually unfolded the copy of the Morning Star he had just bought and found that, sure enough, two whole pages were dedicated to criticizing the novel for spreading erroneous values, poisoning readers' minds and bodies, and that the author had been paid by the Republic of the Iris to deliberately deny the Empire's achievements and smear its image...

How did a vulgar novel serialized in an obscure tabloid cause such a stir? Even Time magazine personally stepped in to criticize it?

"I have a question. Do you still have the previous issues of your 'Lentinion Weekly'? I'd like to see what the novel you mentioned is about."

"Uncle Parker, didn't you say you've never been interested in this kind of vulgar work...?"

"That's right, but since Time magazine has criticized it, we have no choice but to read it."

Parker recalled a saying he had heard not long ago: official denials are the only reliable sources, and official bans are the only recommendations.

He also offered some words of comfort to the young man in front of him: "Relax, we're not an autocratic country like Lucia, where all opinions and thoughts are tolerated."

He quickly read the latest part:

[Really? Really? Really? Really? Really? Really! Really!!]

The exclamations coming from the other end of the phone rang with the sweetest of gold. The owner of the Bobbs Luxury Hotel hung up, straightened his tie, and strode confidently into the lobby, looking like a fox that had just stolen a whole turkey—its tail practically wagging in the air.

"My friend," he thought smugly, "is really an honest man! He's willing to send such a wealthy person like this to me!"

Upon reaching the lobby on the first floor, he stood in front of the counter, cleared his throat, and asked in a measured tone, "Are there any suites available right now?"

"No, sir," the receptionist replied.

The shopkeeper's eyes darted around, then around again, and suddenly he remembered something from the past: "Hmm... that Duke of Florafort—how long ago was it when he last paid his bill?"

The receptionist flipped through the ledger: "Nine months, sir."

A smile spread across the boss's face, a smile that was both extremely amiable and extremely dangerous, like the amiable smile of a crocodile before it yawns.

"Tell him to move out," he said, as casually as ordering someone to throw away the wilted potted plant by the door. "Get that suite ready right away. Remember to replace it with fresh flowers—fresh ones, not those droopy ones."

……

"Good! It should have been done a long time ago!" Lyle Lawrence, sitting on the exquisite leather sofa, couldn't help but hum as he saw this.

He knew very well that this was just a plot in a novel, but seeing this still gave him a strange sense of exhilaration.

"These useless nobles should have been driven out long ago. Each one of them, relying on their so-called noble blood and inherited glory, points fingers at us entrepreneurs who truly create jobs and value for the empire..."

Lyle, a renowned publishing entrepreneur in Britannia, has faithfully contributed a large amount of tax revenue to the empire every year and has recently earned the position of a member of the lower house.

Although he had only been a member of parliament for a short time, he had already witnessed the behavior of many of the hereditary old nobles in the House of Lords.

They are foolish, lazy, inefficient, and pedantic. They do not engage in production, but rely on the merit of their ancestors' crossing the sea with William the Great to occupy the highest power in the House of Lords and have the final say on all decisions of the House of Commons.

A few days ago, the environmental bill, which had been struggling in the House of Commons for almost a year, finally passed. However, it was rejected by the House of Lords in less than a day on the grounds that it "violated the spirit of the Imperial Constitution".

Now we have to go through the process of debate all over again, and the consensus that was barely reached before may now have to be changed again...

Thinking about this, Lyle started to get a headache again. This damn bill would most likely be stuck for another six months or so, which meant that his proposal to promote the new printing press would have to sit in his hands for another six months or so...

Why can't we learn from the Republic of the Iris across the strait and send all these useless nobles away?

He continued reading:

"I assure you, sir, this is all for your peace and quiet—you'll find that the new room is so quiet you won't even hear a mosquito at night." The hotel servant bowed, his face beaming, his words as sweet as honey.

Duke Flonaful didn't even bother to lift his eyelids, continuing to pour red wine into his glass as if he were having a private conversation with it: "No one bothers me in this room at night anyway... to be honest, sometimes I'd rather someone bother me. I'm perfectly happy here, why should I have to move?"

Before the Duke could finish speaking, a loud "bang" resounded, and the ornately carved door, adorned with angels and grapevines, sprang open. Immediately afterward, men and women servants poured in like a river bursting its banks, some carrying flowers, others bundles—a chaotic scene indeed.

The Duke panicked, leaping from his chair and waving his arms wildly in the air as if shooing away a swarm of unruly moths: "What are you doing? What are you doing? Get out! All of you, get out! Who do you take me for? Do you even know who I am?"

The servant who had been so polite to the Duke now had a frosty expression on his face, coldly tossing out only one sentence: "Get to work, stop dawdling."

The dozen or so male and female servants, having received their orders, moved with lightning speed, as if by magic, and in the blink of an eye began carrying flowers into the room and tidying up the Duke's belongings.

"No, you can't do this! I am a hereditary duke appointed by the Empire! How could you take my house! This is simply—this is simply intolerable! Who is behind this?"

"That's absolutely right, that's how it should be done!" Lyle was completely captivated, fully immersed in the story.

These remnants of the old era should make way for the gold pound of the new era.

He could almost see the expression on the face of a down-on-his-luck nobleman who had nothing but glory, standing before his gold pound: a mixture of humiliation and resentment as he looked at this nouveau riche with no real background, yet forced to give up his room because he was too poor to afford it.

That's classy!

He's fantasizing again, fantasizing that he's got that million-pound note, and then he's disguised as a poor boy, showing off that million-pound note when everyone thinks he's a beggar and is about to kick him out...

Although Lyle, as a publishing tycoon, was not short of money—in fact, his entire fortune could barely amount to one million gold pounds—one million gold pounds in cash was simply too outrageous, a huge sum even for an industry giant like him.

In all of Britannia… no, in the whole world, perhaps only Her Majesty the Queen, backed by the royal family, could come up with so much cash at once?

"I must say, it's quite interesting... Is this my son's opponent?"

He then realized that the reason he was sitting here reading the "Lentinian Weekly," a magazine he had never heard of before, was actually to see just how powerful the competitor his son had mentioned who had stolen his clients really was.

"Will this work...?" He recalled the rubbish in the Morning Star and began to worry about his son's career prospects.

……

"Your Grace," the servant began slowly, his voice as flat as reciting a menu, "I guarantee you'll love the new house. Besides, we can even give you a discount."

"A discount?" The Duke's eyes lit up at the mention of the wine, even more so than when he'd seen it earlier. "How much of a discount? Hmm... that's not entirely unnecessarily difficult." He stroked his chin, his tone softening. "Then tell me, which big shot is so determined to take my house away?"

At Evergarden Castle outside Lentinion, sunlight streams through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the three-story balcony onto a large bed piled high with all sorts of plush toys.

This is Aria's room.

She lay on the soft bed, propped up on her elbows, her two slender legs swinging back and forth leisurely like a cat's tail, with a copy of "Lentinion Weekly" spread out in the space beneath her.

"Being so sensitive to discounts, it seems this guy has been strapped for cash for a while," Alya chuckled.

The young maid who came in put down the tray she was carrying and curiously peeked inside.

Alia often instructed her to secretly buy things from outside the castle, such as forbidden books or sensitive newspapers, but she never read their contents.

Alia looked up, her cheeks flushed with excitement, and said to the maid, "Evelyn, look, doesn't this Duke Florafort's face look familiar?"

Evelyn's gaze followed Alia's finger to the relevant paragraph, and she quickly replied without any emotion, "Yes."

"Hey—can't you say a few more words? I was hoping to hear your comments, but you're still so cold." Alya looked at Evelyn, who stood beside her with a cold face.

"I'm just a maid."

"It's boring." Alya pouted and rolled over on the bed. "Don't you think that what's described here is exactly the same as some of the nobles we usually see? Some so-called nobles can't keep up with the times. They've already fallen on hard times, but they still pretend to be doing just fine."

"It's precisely because things are bad that you need to pretend they're going well, otherwise the whole world will know you're not doing well," Evelyn said expressionlessly.

Alia stretched out her arms and rolled around on the bed, finally stopping at the edge of the bed. She looked up at Evelyn, who was standing by the bedside: "How insightful. Nobles are such hypocritical creatures."

Evelyn wanted to say, "Aren't you also a nobleman?"

But in the end, he still couldn't bring himself to say it.

"This story is getting more and more interesting. I wonder how many people it will resonate with when this issue is released." Sunlight shone on Aliya's face, reflecting a playful smile. "No, it might not resonate with anyone at all. After all, these nobles who are unwilling to admit their decline wouldn't read a newspaper of this caliber. They'd only spend their meager savings on the expensive *Time* magazine..."

"Then, in those meaningless chatter sessions at clubs or salons, you prove that you are not out of touch with the times."

Aliya rolled back the way she came, rolled back to the newspaper, and continued reading:

"Mr. Henry Adams, a millionaire." The servant spoke calmly and clearly.

"What?" The Duke nearly jumped up like a cat whose tail had been stepped on. "You mean, the stinking money of a millionaire—a nouveau riche—is more important than the honor of me, a hereditary nobleman of Brittany?"

He stared wide-eyed, waiting for the servant to retort, but the servant only gave a slight bow, a polite, noncommittal smile on his lips.

"My God, this country—this country has utterly fallen!" he said, his hand trembling as he held the wine glass, but ultimately he couldn't bear to put it down...

The novel "The Millionaire List" came into the public eye thanks to criticisms of the Morning Star and other newspapers, as well as Time magazine.

Many people who had never read the novel before, or who had heard of it but never been interested in it, saw critical articles about the novel in their regular newspapers on this day.

Even people who don't usually read newspapers heard rumors from their friends, especially the criticisms from authoritative media outlets like Time, which made the stories increasingly exaggerated.

Naturally, some people, after seeing these critical articles, did indeed consciously resist reading them, just as those articles urged. But many others harbored a rebellious mentality: "I wasn't planning on reading it, but now that you've said this, I have no choice but to."

Suddenly, it seemed like half of the people in Lontinion were talking about the Million Dollar List.

This seemingly simple story began to spread like wildfire, breaking out of the original buyer circle of the Lentinion Weekly and reaching a wider audience.

This far exceeded Dorian's expectations.

Amidst the heated debate surrounding "The Millionaires List," a man named Samuel did not participate in any of the discussions. Instead, he carefully read the story and fell into deep thought.