The Shadow of Great Britain

100: 60 Chapter The Sacred Oath of the Knights of the Round Table 100: 60 Chapter The Sacred Oath of the Knights of the Round Table Greenwich Police District, Arthur’s office.

Knock, knock, knock!

The sound of knocking echoed.

“Come in.”

Police Superintendent Jones pushed open the door, and what immediately caught the eye was his messy hair, torn and blood-stained shirt collar, and his bruised, swollen eyes.

Arthur, who had been bent over his work, looked up and couldn’t help but open his mouth slightly in surprise.

He asked, “Clayden, what happened to you?”

Jones, clutching his sore shoulder, forced a smile and said, “Nothing, sir.

As you know, in our line of work, we occasionally have bad luck and encounter such incidents.

Just got cornered in an alley and beaten up by some lawless bastards.”

Upon hearing this, Arthur slammed the table with force, turned around, picked up the police baton hanging on the wall, and cursed, “These assaults on police keep happening, it’s outright lawlessness!

Where are those people?

I’ll personally lead a team to arrest them!”

Upon hearing this, Jones shook his head repeatedly and said, “Those guys came prepared; they all wore masks.

I guess it’s because I’ve arrested too many Body Snatchers, so they found someone to take revenge on me.

If you go now, they surely would have vanished.

Let’s leave it, every officer in our district has faced this sort of thing before, it just happened to be my turn this time.

It’s just some superficial wounds; I’ll be healed in a couple of days.

Don’t worry about it, sir.”

Arthur, still somewhat indignant, muttered, “Even though everyone has encountered it, we still need to file a case.

We must crack down on these violent assaults on police.

Jones, you take a break from police work for the next few days.

Don’t bother going to the Liverpool-Manchester Railway inauguration next Wednesday either; just stay home and recover properly.

Don’t worry, I will take care of this assault case for you.

You’ve earned your stripes on the homicide and body-snatching case, and you’ve even shed blood for Scotland Yard; I can’t let you be disheartened!”

Hearing this, Jones quickly stood at attention and saluted, “Sir, I’m fine.

A minor injury; it won’t affect my work.”

Hearing this, Arthur, frowning, walked over and patted his shoulder.

“Jones, I know you are very dedicated to police work, and I have seen the results of your service in the district.

You’ve been on duty for over four months, nearly engaging in patrols every day, and your efficiency in solving crimes such as theft is very high.

Usually, if someone loses something in the morning, you manage to apprehend the criminal within a few days.

Not even the headquarters of the Greater London Police Department can match this speed of solving cases.

As an outstanding young officer like yourself, it’s our job to protect you.

Don’t worry about going back to recover; I will submit a report to headquarters clarifying your injuries and reasons for missing work.

Also, don’t hesitate to see a doctor; the department will cover your medical expenses, rest assured.

Now, follow orders!”

Hearing this, Jones’s heart finally relaxed, a hint of cunning flashed in his eyes.

He thought he hid it well, but little did he know that Arthur, whose eyes had a faint red glow, saw everything.

Jones saluted, “Aye aye, sir!

Serving you is my honor!”

He turned and walked out the door, gently closing the office door behind him.

With a click, the door shut and a shadow fell across Jones’s face.

A sly smile appeared on his lips as he muttered to himself, “The strongest at Scotland Yard?

Just a brainless idiot.

Can’t blame your naivety, just the ruthlessness of the world.

The tenure of Scotland Yard’s Police Superintendent might just end next month.”

He straightened his wrinkled collar and twisted his head from side to side, humming a light tune as he walked out of the police station.

While in the office next room, Arthur’s fingertips also rhythmically tapped on the surface of the desk, following the same cheerful tune as the one Jones was humming—an echo of “The Grenadier March” once played on the battlefield of Waterloo.

Under Arthur’s rhythmic fingertips lay a reply letter from Sir Peel; its content was very simple, and the ideas expressed were exceptionally clear.

Next Tuesday evening, the announcement about the change of the railway ceremony’s security head will be made directly by me to Scotland Yard.

For now, the focus of the Greenwich Police District will be temporarily shifted.

Your district’s recent work target should change to solving this potential international diplomatic crisis with France, which could cause an uproar among the national public opinion, at all costs.

In the office, the sound of Arthur tapping on the table suddenly stopped.

The sky was overcast, and only the pattering sounds of trickling water could be heard; it had started to rain in London again.

In the dim office, Arthur’s face was indiscernible, only a pair of contemplative, pale red eyes were visible.

Thud, thud, thud!

The sound of knocking came from outside the door again.

“Come in.”

The voice was warm yet carried a trace of lethality.

The door was gently pushed open, and in came a transformed Dennis, along with Arthur’s trusted subordinates, Tom and Tony.

As they stepped toward the desk, the dim environment made it impossible for them to see anything.

Under these lighting conditions, all they could see were a pair of eyes shimmering with a ruby-like luster.

The three officers dared not even breathe loudly; the subtle oppressiveness in the air filled them with a fear as if it emanated from the depths of their souls.

That was an atmosphere thick with danger, the calm before the storm.

“Dennis.” The voice was not loud, but it had sufficient deterrence.

“Yes, Sir!” Officer Dennis stood ramrod straight, as if any slight laxity could cost him his life.

“Can I trust you once more?” The voice rose again.

This sentence sounded ordinary, but it unlocked the emotional deadlock Dennis had been under for four months, causing him to tremble and salute most formally towards the direction of the red eyes.

“Your will is my command!”

A lightning bolt flashed outside the window, momentarily illuminating the scene in the room.

The flash of lightning highlighted the dazzling Bath star, lit up the crimson eyes, and also showcased Arthur, with one hand resting on the back of the chair, staring at Dennis and the books laid before him.

It was an old book acquired from a used bookstore; its yellowed pages told of its past experiences.

Perhaps not every Briton had read this book, but whenever its name was mentioned, it evoked ancient memories long buried.

Never tyrannical, never wantonly slaughtering the innocent, and never treacherous or faithless.

Grant forgiveness to the begging enemy, vigorously aid the pleading woman.

Uphold just laws, never fight for money, and the penalty for violation is death.

Agares stood aside; the Red Devil adjusted his newly changed monocular gold-rimmed glasses, his lean and withered fingers resting on the book’s title page, which bore the name—”The Death of King Arthur.”