The Shadow of Great Britain

Chapter 812: Chapter 378: Britain, Do Not Cry for Me (Part 3)_4

This castle, ordered to be built by William the Conqueror after he captured England in 1066, has endured more than seven hundred years of tests, and its internal structures illustrate its importance to the country: housing the treasury, the Royal Mint, the Royal Armory, and the nobility’s prison.

Once it falls, no one knows how many variables will emerge in the already turbulent situation.

The ancient stone walls appear increasingly eerie and solemn under the moonlight, as clusters of ravens carve the ink-colored feathers under their wings while watching the protesting crowd raising torches beneath the walls.

Standing at the top of the Tower of London, the watcher can clearly overlook the city’s pulse, beating violently through weathered stone windows.

In the distance, the crowd flows through London’s streets and alleys like a tide, holding torches and shouting various slogans of reform and rebellion, with emotions of anger and hope intermingling in the air.

The flickering lights illuminate their furious faces, and amidst the sea of heads, old tattered banners can occasionally be seen fluttering in the wind.

On the streets, chaos and order clash, as the rioting crowd collides with the guards trying to maintain order.

According to ancient customs and royal ceremonial regulations, the guards of the Tower of London, still wearing medieval armor, holding shields and long spears, are almost submerged in the sea of rioting people, with stones, beer bottles, wooden sticks, butcher knives, and all sharp or blunt weapons raining down on them.

The guards couldn’t withstand the crowd’s impact, retreating step-by-step while forming a shield wall, but soon, several gunshots were heard, accompanied by flashes, quickly felling some of the guards within the shield wall.

The shield wall broke open, and the solid formation instantly collapsed under the flood of rioters pouring in.

Even though the commander shouted: “Maintain formation, hold the line!”

the collapse in morale had already brought about an irreversible defeat; in this battle with no visible meaning for victory, the guards couldn’t muster the fearless courage they had against the French.

Seeing this, the members of the guard stationed on the Tower of London’s wall glanced at the English longbows at hand, then at the flintlock guns beside them, finally casting their gaze towards the commander.

Everyone understood the meaning of that gaze; they were waiting for the commander to make the final decision.

The Guard Captain, looking at the surging protesters like a flood and those trying to squeeze into the gate amidst the chaos, gritted his teeth and said: “Draw bows!”

Upon hearing this, the guard members felt a mix of relief and disappointment.

They drew their bows, nocked arrows, and aimed at the rioters below.

“Release!”

With the command, the flying arrows rained down like tonight’s storm, followed by the wailing cries of those hit, their blood mixing with the rain, merging into one under the night sky.

Sticks, butcher knives, torches, armor, longbows—all these things seemingly dragged people back into memories of hundreds of years ago, as if today was not the 19th century but the 11th century, and this was not London, but Hastings in 1066, during the battle for the English throne between William the Conqueror and Harold II.

Seeing the rioters’ momentum suppressed, but in an instant, flashes ignited within the crowd, and dozens of black bullets flew towards the Tower of London’s walls, instantly taking many guards’ lives.

Blood bloomed on their faces, the painful screams echoed through the night, and many fell to the ground, clutching their faces in agony.

The rioters cheered loudly seeing this.

And the leading musketeer, while loading powder, encouraged the spirit of the crowd: “Don’t be afraid! Charge in! As long as we get the guns, we can quickly achieve our pursuits and goals in London!”

But before he could finish, another gunshot rang out.

The musketeer felt a tightness in his heart, followed by a mouthful of blood spurting out. In the darkness, he couldn’t see anything, only hearing the sound of galloping hooves and marching boots.

“I am Arthur Hastings, and I command all patrolmen of the Greater London Police Department. The rioting bandits are carrying a large number of firearms, for self-defense, I authorize the police to open fire without restrictions, immediately suppress the protesters here!”