I control the AI ​​empire thanks to the geniuses in my group.

Three days later, in London.

"Breaking News! Breaking News! Exclusive!"

A freckled newsboy, waving a copy of the London Daily Mail that reeked of cheap ink, frantically weaved through the thick fog along the Thames.

His voice boomed through the entire street: "His Majesty the King has made an appointment! The Royal Mint welcomes a new master! An Easterner! Mr. Su Zhou from the mysterious Khitan has officially assumed the post of Supervisor of the Mint! For just one penny, you won't lose out, you won't be cheated! Come and see this shocking secret of the court!"

The news was like setting off a barrel full of gunpowder, instantly enlivening the streets and alleys of London.

In a café near St. Paul's Church, countless down-on-their-luck writers, businessmen, and idle rich kids gather.

"Oh my God! His Majesty William III must have gone mad!"

Thomas, the bearded businessman, slammed his overly sweetened coffee down on the wooden table, the brown liquid splattering onto his lace cuffs. He waved the newspaper in his hand, his face full of displeasure.

"An Oriental? Trying to manage the purse strings of our British Empire? I swear, that guy named Su Zhou can't even tell the difference between shillings, pence, and Guinean gold coins! Do those Orientals even know what silver recasting is?"

Sitting across from him was Richard, a self-proclaimed well-informed impoverished nobleman. He pushed up his monocle and sneered, "Don't get excited, my friend. Use your brain. This is absolutely fake news! Utterly fake news!"

"Without a doubt, this is a gimmick created by those greedy bastards from the East India Company. They'll come up with any ridiculous rumor they can think of to promote the Oriental porcelain that will arrive in port next month."

"But it's clearly written in the newspaper that the letter of appointment has already been stamped with the King's seal!" a young man at the next table interjected.

"Newspapers? Ha!" Richard rolled his eyes dismissively. "The integrity of those guys on Fleet Street is cheaper than the prostitutes in the back alleys of Whitechapel. Give them half a shilling, and they'll write that the King of France is actually a cat in boots!"

[Remember the fastest online novel website: 202ᴋᴋs.ᴄᴏᴍ]

"To hand over the Royal Mint to an Oriental? That's more absurd than the Thames flowing backwards."

The knowledgeable guys in the coffee shop nodded in agreement.

In their view, how could the core financial lifeline of the British Empire be handed over to an outsider? This was completely contrary to common sense.

If an Asian can do it, why can't they?

Many people were angry and thought about it.

Meanwhile, the person at the center of the incident was sitting opposite Newton, with the Gibbons case files spread out in front of him. As he flipped through them, he said to Tom, "Tom, I need to trouble you with two things. First, send a reliable person to Yorkshire, Gibbons' hometown, and find out for me how many times he wet the bed since he was a child."

"Secondly..."

"Contact our informants in all areas of London, including pub owners, hawkers, and pawnbrokers. Have them record the number of counterfeit bills they receive every day, down to the time and street they received them, not a single one should be missed."

Tom scratched his head, puzzled, and said, "Sir, weren't you investigating Gibbons? Why are you counting counterfeit money?"

Su Zhou put down the quill pen in his hand: "Tom, there are patterns in the circulation of counterfeit money."

"If you can find the pattern, you'll get closer to the truth. Besides, investigating Gibbons' case and doing this aren't mutually exclusive."

Tom blinked.

Clearly, they didn't understand.

Or perhaps they understood, but didn't believe it.

He opened his mouth as if to say something, but his gaze unconsciously drifted toward Newton, the Mint Superintendent, who sat upright with an indifferent expression, not uttering a word. His gray-blue eyes seemed to be pondering knowledge he did not understand, or perhaps they were not thinking about anything at all.

In short, it's impossible to discern their attitude.

Tom shut his mouth.

But the thoughts in his mind were like an unstoppable tide.

Who exactly is this Easterner?

He was immediately given the position of supervisor upon arrival, and the factory manager not only didn't object but also allocated personnel and resources for him. Could it be that...?

He secretly glanced at Su Zhou's face.

She is young, has smooth skin, and her features are indeed beautiful.

Tom's mind began to race uncontrollably.

He had even already mentally rehearsed the beginning of the story: an Eastern boy travels across the ocean to London, collapses at the mint gate, and is rescued by Mr. Newton…

"Tom."

Newton spoke.

Tom jumped in surprise: "Yes!"

"What are you still doing standing here?" Newton asked suspiciously.

"I'm going, I'm going right away!"

Tom turned and ran, nearly crashing into the door frame.

He turned around in a panic, only to nearly bump into someone head-on.

The newcomer was wearing a rumpled sheriff's uniform with a baton tucked into his waistband.

It was Harold, the parish sheriff.

"Make way, make way." Harold didn't remember ever seeing Tom before. He saw the man's clothes and assumed he wasn't anyone important, so he pushed Tom aside and strode into the office.

"Dear Mr. Newton, I have finished investigating Gibbons' matter," Harold said, taking off his hat.

He pulled a piece of paper from his pocket and slammed it on the table.

"The charred right index finger of the corpse was missing the first joint. I asked the old foreman at the dock. Gibbons was unloading cargo at Thames dock when he was twenty years old. The first joint of his right index finger was cut off by the winch. The foreman still remembers that blood splattered all over his face at the time."

Harold said with certainty, "Therefore, the body has been confirmed to be Gibbons himself."

Su Zhou asked instinctively, "Mr. Harold, how did the fire start?"

Harold waved his hand impatiently: "The drunkard knocked over the oil lamp. His house is a log cabin, it'll catch fire easily. These kinds of things happen a dozen times a month in London, it's nothing unusual."

He didn't even look Su Zhou in the eye when he said that.

He heard the news of the king's appointment: a young upstart from the East, who had somehow gotten his hands on the position of supervisor of the mint.

snort!

I utterly despise this behavior!

But Newton was sitting there, and he could only endure it, no matter how much Newton despised him.

Newton spoke, his tone flat: "Mr. Harold, you came all this way just to say this?"

Harold slapped his thigh, his expression turning serious: "Of course not!"

He lowered his voice and looked around, as if he were about to announce hope Yao's earth-shattering secret.

"To be honest, Mr. Newton, I've found a crucial clue about the rampant counterfeiting in Britain!"

Newton remained seated, his expression incredibly complex, as if he had witnessed a chimpanzee suddenly solve a fluxional equation.

"Mr. Harold."

Newton leaned forward slightly, placing his hands crossed on the table: "You'd better make sure what you're about to say is true."

Harold completely failed to detect the murderous intent in Newton's words.

He straightened his back and said, "Mr. Newton, you can absolutely trust me to handle things!"

Su Zhou's eyes lit up immediately.

He hadn't expected this rugged sheriff to be so reliable, finding a crucial clue before them. He currently had very little information; if Harold truly brought groundbreaking intelligence, many things would connect.

He leaned forward, completely absorbed.

Newton also glanced at him slightly.

Harold slammed his hand on the table.

"I've figured it out! The culprit behind the rampant counterfeit currency in Britain is..."

"The French!"