In a private club.
"He's mad. He's really mad."
Baron Sindras, seated across the table, yanked his tie loose and drained his whiskey.
"Who suggested making that man prime minister in the first place?"
In the corner, a veteran member of Parliament asked through gritted teeth.
No one answered.
Because they had all made that decision together.
The mess that fool George III had created had sparked the largest strike in Backlund's history.
It was the first time they had seen the power of the lower classes—people in tattered work clothes, wielding wrenches and hammers.
Every day the factories stood idle, another piece of Backlund's economic lifeline was severed.
The technological revolution Edwin had brought about had sent production soaring, but it had also made them more dependent on workers than ever.
So, to recover their losses and calm the workers' anger, they needed someone popular with ordinary people who was not a traditional noble to serve as a buffer.
And Edwin was the perfect choice.
Because Edwin was a capitalist.
He held hundreds of core patents in internal combustion engines, electricity, and chemical engineering.
He was the biggest monopolist in the Loen Kingdom.
As far as the nobles were concerned, human nature was greedy.
Why would a man worth tens of millions of gold pounds sacrifice his own interests for the poor?
If the Workers' Rights Declaration was actually enforced, Edwin himself stood to lose the most!
"How can someone like that even exist?"
Baron Sindras hurled his glass onto the Persian carpet.
"What does he want?!! Giving his own money to the poor—who does that?!"
"Let's ask the Churches for help."
He stood and straightened the slightly rumpled hem of his suit.
"Send in the Mandated Punishers and the Nighthawks. The Churches can't just stand by."
The rain