The Twilight of Empire: Starting from Dunkirk

Chapter 126 Mr. Sterling

"Heh—how interesting."

Arthur stood in front of the car door, a playful smile on his lips.

Because on his retina, RTS had marked those well-dressed VIPs on the platform with bright red labels.

As his gaze swept across the crowd, information boxes that only he could see popped up above the heads of the nobles:

[Target]: Sir Horace Wilson [Political Tendency: Extreme Appeasement], [Alliance: Chamberlain's core advisor], [Note: Advocates for peace talks with Germany]

[Target]: Sir Reginald Parker — [Political Tendency: Surrenderist], [Alliance: City of London Corporation], [Note: Not only does he not want war, but he also wants to do business with the Germans]

[Target]: Lord Halifax's representative [Political Tendency: Appeasement/Anti-Churchill] —

At a glance, more than 80% of the people in that glamorous inner circle had labels of "appeasement" or "peace faction" on their heads.

But that's not the most exciting part.

As Arthur's gaze swept over the inner circle of politicians, his sneer and mockery froze, and the expression on his face became even more fascinating—a smile that mixed absurdity and murderous intent.

He saw Sir Reginald Parker.

This powerful banker, who usually looked down on everyone in the City of London, was now bowing slightly, holding a match in his hands, and lighting a cigarette for a greasy, fat man with extreme attentiveness, even a hint of fawning.

The fat man, dressed in a perfectly tailored tuxedo, puffed on his cigarette with obvious enjoyment, accepting the knight's service with complete nonchalance.

Harold Stirling.

Arthur's uncle, a marginalized member of the family lineage, a "senior butler" who could only manage peripheral businesses when the old count was in power.

But at this moment, because his surname is "Sterling," and because he represents the massive industrial behemoth that is forging warships and engines for the Empire, even a pacifist bigwig like Parker has to bow and scrape to him like a waiter.

[Target]: Harold Sterling [Identity]: One of the executive directors of Sterling Heavy Industries / Family "gatekeeper" / Your uncle [Political Affiliation]: Opportunist / Seeking personal gain

[Note]: He is enjoying the power and thrill of being Sterling's "spokesperson." He has leaned toward Halifax's "decent peace" plan, attempting to use your war achievements as leverage to secure his family's security in the postwar European market—and his own political standing.

"Great, that's wonderful." Arthur murmured to himself, his fingers unconsciously stroking the grip of the cold Luger pistol at his waist.

"I see," Arthur understood instantly.

That's the rule in London.

Those bastards.

They were eager to sell the British Empire to that Austrian corporal in Berlin, or to the Americans across the ocean.

They even wanted to draw blood from Arthur and his soldiers at Dunkirk to fuel the cigar in Harold's mouth.

"Ryder," Arthur straightened his pristine white gloves, a chilling mix of amusement and murderous intent in his eyes, yet his voice carried a sinister excitement: "Looks like we're really popular. This bunch of bastards who wanted to sell the British Empire to Little Mustache, along with our dear family members—they're all here."

"Silence! Adjust your military bearing!"

Arthur Sterling did not rush to get out of the car.

He stood in front of the mirror in the private room, straightened his hat brim one last time, and gently flicked away non-existent dust from his collar with his hands, which were gloved in white lambskin.

His voice was deep, yet it was clearly heard by every officer through the open box door.

"Straighten your backs and show London what Sterling's soldiers are like."

"Yes, sir!"

Bang! The heavy car door was suddenly pushed open.

In that instant, the array of spotlights that had been set up beforehand, like anti-aircraft artillery, launched the first salvo.

Click! Click! Click!

A white flash tore through the steam and darkness, freezing Arthur's figure on countless negatives.

He was the first to step out of the carriage. His black military boots slammed heavily on the concrete platform of Waterloo Station, producing a crisp, imposing sound.

He was wearing the brigadier general's uniform custom-made on Savile Row, with a German black leather overcoat draped over it.

He narrowed his deep blue eyes slightly, facing the dazzling "firepower" before him. His face showed no sign of fatigue or fear, only a cold and dignified majesty like that of a sculpture.

Behind him were Major Ryder, Sergeant McTavish, and the French woman shrouded in shadow with a complex expression.

Further on, there were hundreds, even thousands, of fully armed soldiers. They emerged from the steam, moving in unison, without uttering a sound.

Their helmets still bore the dirt of France, and their eyes still held the lingering warmth of murder.

These aren't children returning home; they're clearly a pack of wild beasts that have just invaded London.

Reporters frantically pressed their shutters, their pens flying across their notebooks, trying to capture every expression of the creator of the "Calamari Miracle."

But outside the red cordon erected by the military police, they could not get close and could only stretch their necks like a flock of hungry ducks blocked by a fence.

Arthur ignored them. He didn't even linger for a second in that sea of ​​flashing lights. He simply glanced at the few black cars along the edge of the platform with the look of someone scrutinizing prey, then strode toward the exit.

Waterloo Station - VIP Passage

As the echoes of the steam whistle faded, the stage constructed by the "artificial daylight" finally opened its curtains.

Just as Arthur had predicted, the London vultures would never wait outside such a cold, damp, and soot-filled station.

That was the treatment reserved for the families of ordinary soldiers.

For these powerful figures who control the lifeline of the empire, they enjoy special privileges—they are born to stand at the very front of the platform, at the innermost part of that red warning line, occupying the best front-row seats in this play called "Triumphant Return".

Arthur had just stepped out of the steamy mist when his boots landed on the hard concrete.

Before he could even give the order to "stand at attention," and before Major Ryder and the group of menacing veterans behind him could fully emerge from the shadows, the "family and friends" who had been waiting for so long had already eagerly surrounded him.

The fat man was the first to be affected.

"Arthur! My God!"

An exaggerated, feigned exclamation instantly drowned out the clicking of camera shutters around him and pierced the cold force field surrounding Arthur.

Harold Sterling.

He was certainly not the head of the Sterling family—that position belonged to the old Earl.

He was merely the executive director of Sterling Heavy Industries Clyde Shipyard, a company owned by the Sterling family.

Although he held second only to the Earl at the family board meeting table, and although he was also respectfully addressed as "Mr. Stirling" in the City of London, in that rigidly hierarchical family tree, the "direct line" possessing the right to inherit the title and the true core legitimacy had always been only the old Earl's lineage.

As for Harold? No matter how influential he is in the business world, no matter how close he sits to the head of the family at family meetings, in front of Arthur, who has the sole right of inheritance, he is ultimately just a distant relative assigned to manage specific businesses, a "high-level employee" responsible for making money for the main family.

But at this moment, "Mr. Sterling," who had just been enjoying the banker's cigarette-lighting treatment and trying to play the role of "family head" in front of politicians, is showing an amazing agility that is completely inconsistent with his size.

He practically sprinted across those few meters. Under the frantic flashing lights of the reporters, and the reserved gazes of the powerful and wealthy, he spread his arms, a greasy and obsequious smile plastered on his face, and even disregarded his expensive tuxedo, now damp with steam, lunged at Arthur.

"Look at you! I knew it! I knew the Sterlings wouldn't die!"

Harold gave Arthur an extremely tight hug.

Those well-maintained, cologne-scented hands, in front of everyone, patted Arthur's trench coat back heavily, even with an exaggerated rhythm.

Pop, pop, pop.

Every movement was precisely timed to the moment the spotlights flashed, and every slap was a declaration to the world.

Harold is using this body language to address all of London, and to the board members hiding behind the cameras.

To those politicians who are watching from the sidelines, I proclaim loudly: Look! How close we are! I watched him grow up! I am his most trusted relative in the world! This is our family hero, and—this is the price we're going to get—and I, Harold, am the one who can control this lion.

But Arthur knew better than anyone else:

At this moment, this old man, who is hugging himself and "weeping bitterly" while thanking God profusely, is probably the first person in all of England who wishes to die forever in the mud of France.

After all, if the German bombs were just a little more powerful, and if the only direct heir of the Sterling family were reduced to ashes, then this "acting steward," who could only sit on the side of the board of directors, could rightfully take over everything and even have the opportunity to touch the earldom he had coveted for half his life.

Unfortunately, he was disappointed.

What came back wasn't a box of ashes, but a mad dog ready to clean house.

So Arthur didn't move.

He stood still like a steel pile driven into the foundation, his hands hanging at his sides, letting the man perform.

His gaze swept past Harold's trembling shoulders, coldly fixed on the group of reporters frantically snapping photos.

The distance was forcibly reduced to zero.

Arthur's nose was instantly filled with a strong, expensive cologne scent—a blend of musk,

The aroma was sweet and cloying, with even a hint of tobacco from the expensive cigar we had just smoked.

The smell was so overpowering, it tried to mask everything.

But it reacted violently with the Calais scent emanating from Arthur—a mixture of trench mud, dried blood, gunpowder smoke, and the stench of corpses crawling out of piles of dead bodies.

That was a collision of two worlds.

One is London's world of vanity and wealth, woven with silk, wine, and lies. The other is France's hell, built with steel, corpses, and blood.

A few meters behind them, Sir Reginald Parker and Sir Horace Wilson stood at the edge of the still-smoldering steam, holding champagne, watching the scene with a reserved yet satisfied gaze.

In their eyes, it was a perfect oil painting: "The Empire's Forgiveness and the Return of the Hero".

Because of the steam, these people couldn't see Arthur's expression. Harold was leaning on Arthur's shoulder, about to let go, when he suddenly felt something—Arthur's body stiffened, and a white-gloved hand was pressing against his chest with an unfriendly, even pushing, force.

Uncle Harold.

Arthur's voice was so soft that only the two people embracing could hear it.

But he did not return the embrace of this enthusiastic elder. Instead, he slowly raised his black-gloved hand and placed it against the chest of Harold's expensive tuxedo.

Although the gesture appeared elegant and restrained, it was a junior politely declining a senior's request.

But only Harold knew that the force from that hand was astonishing, carrying an overwhelming sense of pressure that left him no room to refuse, forcefully pushing him back half a meter.

"Your bow tie is crooked," Arthur said casually.

Harold was stunned.

The mask, plastered with a greasy smile, instantly cracked.

The heartfelt lines he had prepared were abruptly choked in his throat by this indifferent yet extremely cold remark, leaving him almost breathless.

In that instant, Harold felt a chill creep up his spine.

In Arthur's deep blue eyes, he saw something he had never seen before—it wasn't the look of someone looking at a relative, or even at a living person. It was the look of someone looking at a dead person. It was the look of a butcher who had spent a long time in a slaughterhouse, assessing life and death.

This kid—has changed?

The absurd feeling had just risen in Harold's mind when he quickly suppressed it.

No, it's impossible.

How can someone go from a spoiled brat to a murderous monster in just a few months?

It must be an illusion.

I was blinded by that damn steam and the flash.

Look at him, still so concerned about his appearance, still so picky, still the same Arthur Sterling who only knows how to comb his hair in front of the mirror.

"Ha! Hahahaha!"

Harold burst into an awkward, loud laugh, frantically adjusting his bow tie and slapping Arthur's shoulder loudly enough for all the reporters around to hear, trying to cover up his momentary stiffness: "Oh my God! Listen! Listen to what our hero is saying!"

"You haven't changed a bit, kid! Even after coming back from hell, you're still so concerned about your appearance! Still so picky! That's right! That's what a nobleman should be like! That's what Sterling should be like!"

While Harold frantically straightened the bow tie, which wasn't actually that crooked, he quickly regained his shrewd and greedy gaze, rapidly scanning Arthur up and down.

He didn't ask Arthur if he was injured. He didn't ask how many people had died at the front. He didn't ask where the soldiers behind him would sleep that night. He didn't even ask a single polite question about the old Earl's health.

His gaze was greedily fixed on the gold brigadier general's badge on Arthur's shoulder and the violent Luger pistol from a German officer at Arthur's waist.

That was a language only an opportunist like him could understand:

That's not a military rank; it's a passport to power.

That's not spoils of war; it's a catalyst for stock price increases.

This is a huge political asset.

With this, he can stand taller than anyone else at tonight's banquet, in front of those powerful figures who want to make peace.

“Listen, Arthur. There’s no time to go back to the manor, and no time to the barracks.” Harold leaned closer, lowering his voice, his tone urgent as if he were discussing a multi-million pound deal: “Tonight, right now, at The Dorchester. Lord Halifax, yes, the Foreign Secretary—is hosting a charity dinner just for you.”

"For me?" Arthur raised an eyebrow and glanced at his watch.

23:00, midnight is just one hour away.

At this time, in this deathly silent city shrouded in air raid sirens and blackouts, normal Londoners should have long since retreated to air raid shelters or been shivering in their cold apartments wrapped in blankets.

But Arthur knew very well that those were rules made for the poor.

For another London—the one encompassing Mayfair and Soho—nightlife is just beginning.

Behind those heavy black velvet curtains, in those underground clubs with reinforced concrete ceilings, chaos was raging.

Gin is flowing to the rhythm of jazz, strippers are taking off their last piece of underwear in the basement of SoHo to the sound of air raid sirens, and nobles and politicians who don't have to get up at this hour to go to the factory to make artillery shells are numbing their fear of war with alcohol and flesh.

It was a kind of pre-apocalyptic celebration.

A morbid hedonism of "live for today, for tomorrow we die under a bomb."

"Hold a charity gala—" Arthur muttered the words over and over, his eyes full of amusement.

It's really fun.

At midnight, amid a group of politicians arguing over whether to surrender to the mustache, a welcome banquet is held under the guise of "charity".

This doesn't sound like a celebration of victory; it sounds more like a celebratory banquet to drive nails into the coffin of the British Empire.

"Of course! You're a hero of the British Empire! You're a miracle!" Harold, completely oblivious to the sarcasm in Arthur's tone, waved his arms, spittle flying in the beam of the searchlight. "The entire London high society is here! Sir Parker, Sir Wilson, and all the bankers, newspaper magnates—everyone wants to see you, Lord Stirling, who's returned from Dunkirk!"

"This is a great opportunity to bring honor to the family! If your father were here, he would beg you to go."

Sterling Heavy Industries' stock price desperately needs this shot in the arm! We need to show strength, Arthur, show influence!

Arthur looked at his uncle coldly.

He knew, of course, that this wasn't well-intentioned.

Halifax? That's the leader of the appeasement faction.

Horace Wilson? That was Chamberlain's chief advisor, that old dog who wanted to surrender, that schemer who championed "peace above all else."

These people gathered not to celebrate a victory, because there was no victory at all.

This was a trap.

Or rather, it was a political show designed to package him—Arthur Sterling, the newly returned war hero—as a "peace envoy."

They wanted to use Arthur's mouth, amidst applause and flowers, in that warm hall filled with champagne, cigars, and high-class prostitutes, to utter the nonsense that "the war cannot be won."

"Stock price." Arthur repeated the word softly, his eyes cold. Hundreds of miles away, soldiers were still bleeding, while here, this group only cared about stock price fluctuations and midnight parties.

"For the sake of the stock price, of course I have to go."

Harold was overjoyed. He hadn't expected Arthur to be so "sensible." Just as he was about to reach out and pull Arthur into the car, his own light passed over Arthur's shoulder and he saw the person standing in the shadows.

Lieutenant Jeanne.

At this moment, she is no longer the crazy woman with a face covered in grease who roared inside the tank.

To adapt to the London environment, or rather, to avoid being noticed, she changed into a neat and well-fitting British military uniform.

Although it wasn't tailor-made, the khaki fabric tightly hugged her agile physique honed through years of combat, and the weapon belt around her waist accentuated her stunning curves.

After her "meticulous grooming" before getting off the bus, her dazzling blonde hair was neatly styled into a bun, revealing her long neck and a face that exuded French arrogance yet was stunningly refined. She stood there in the shadows behind Arthur, her imposing presence even without a gun in her hand.

Harold's brow furrowed instantly.

In the eyes of this old-fashioned, conservative, and prejudiced aristocrat, a woman wearing a military uniform was an offense in itself, let alone a complete stranger who was French.

"Arthur, who is this—?"

Harold didn't lower his voice; instead, he looked Jeanne up and down with an extremely arrogant and critical gaze, as if she were a servant.

"Tonight's banquet is of a very high standard, Arthur," Harold said sternly, adopting the serious tone of someone instructing a naive junior. "Lord Halifax attaches great importance to this gathering; even Mrs. Anne Chamberlain..."

Chamberlain will also be there. That's our old-school social circle; we don't tolerate the slightest imperfection.

Arthur knew who he was talking about: Anne Chamberlain—the wife of the former Prime Minister.

Harold pointed to Jeanne's ill-fitting ATS uniform, his face full of disdain: "We probably can't bring our female officers into the main banquet hall, that's too—unseemly. You know how picky those ladies are, they'd think it's a desecration of the banquet."

Harold waved his hand dismissively, as if shooing away an unimportant servant: "The attendant has a private lounge downstairs. There's free tea and sandwiches; she can just wait there."

The air froze in that instant.

Jeanne's eyes turned cold in that instant.

That wasn't the look of an ordinary woman when she was angry; it was the murderous aura honed in the ruins of Calais, the look of someone about to pull the trigger.

Her right hand instinctively reached for the Luger pistol holster at her waist—a SS trophy that Arthur had given her.

Her lips twitched, and the most vulgar French curse ("Allez vous faire foutre, espèce de porc anglais"—fuck you, you British pig") was already on the tip of her tongue, almost swirling around in her mouth.

She wanted to argue.

She wanted to pull out a gun and press it against the forehead of this fat, pig-like Englishman, to tell him that she was a French lieutenant, a combat commander, the one who blew up German tanks in Calais, a warrior a thousand times more noble than this good-for-nothing who only knew how to wear a tuxedo.

But the next second, she saw Arthur's profile.

That profile, appearing particularly cold and expressionless in the mist.

Reason extinguished her anger in an instant.

This is not Calais, this is London.

This is Arthur's territory, the core of his power.

Although this person is annoying, his surname is Sterling, he is Arthur's elder, and he is a part of this game of thrones.

If I were to lose my temper now, it would only cause trouble for Arthur, embarrass him, and even ruin his plans.

So she swallowed back the filthy words that would have given Harold a heart attack.

It felt like swallowing a handful of shards of glass.

She bit her lip until it turned white, her fingers gripping the hem of her uniform tightly. Her face was full of resentment, yet she lowered her head with immense restraint, like a lioness with a muzzle on, forced to hide her fangs.

A soft chuckle.

Arthur keenly sensed Jeanne's emotional fluctuations and saw through her restraint.

He suddenly smiled, a smile that carried a hint of amusement and a touch of reassurance.

So he reached out and, quite naturally, put his arm around Jeanne's shoulder, pulling her to his side.

This gesture was full of protectiveness and possessiveness; it was a declaration to the world that this woman belonged to him.

"Uncle Harold, you've misunderstood." Arthur looked at Harold, his tone relaxed, but the aura he exuded in that instant made the hairs on the back of Harold's neck stand on end: "She's not some kind of accompanying officer."

He turned to look at Jeanne, his deep blue eyes filled with amusement, his fingers lightly tracing her epaulettes: "Didn't Mademoiselle de Valois keep insisting on becoming Master Stirling's personal maid? I was still considering whether to hire her."

Jeanne paused for a moment, then looked up at Arthur with a look of shock in her eyes.

"Tonight is your trial period, darling." Arthur squeezed her shoulder, a little harder, and whispered, his tone full of implications: "Do your best. If you don't, I'll throw you back to Calais to feed the Germans."

>