Sandhurst Military Academy, in one of the rooms of the cavalry dormitory. Under the blankets.
"Ahem, ahem. So, pardon means sorry, serviette means napkin..."
His father would be furious if he knew.
Even while thinking this, Winston Churchill, the eldest son of Randolph Churchill, the 9th Duke of Marlborough, did not stop his current activity. That is, studying "Cockney" (the East End dialect of the lower classes of London).
The old Winston would have never considered learning such a vulgar way of speaking, something that a noble of the proud British Empire would never do.
But the current Winston was different. In fact, he was studying it actively. And there was only one reason.
"This week's issue of Vincent... was brilliant!"
His respected writer of the British Empire, Hanslow Jin.
Churchill not only read the magazine in which Hanslow Jin serialized, but also bought three copies every week.
Why three copies? Naturally, one for reading, one for collection, and one for proselytising. (T/N: Proletyze = to induce someone to convert to one's faith)
When he first read Vincent, he, like many others, didn't have good things to say.
─Good heavens! A 'pauper' in the body of a noble? What a cuckoo story!
─Trash bins should be properly closed, revealing the disgrace of the nobility like this! Good grief...
─How could Hanslow Jin write such nonsense!! The nobility of the British Empire have always been the loyal swords of the Crown, intellectuals, and the shield that protects the Empire!!
─This isn't right! This isn't the right path!
To defend the East End lower class and criticise the corruption of the nobility was like Judas's betrayal.
Many were outraged, and at first, Churchill was no different.
But no matter what he thought outwardly, the body is honest. He was already buying the next issue.
And the next, and the next.
Until one day, he realised.
─What Vincent criticises is not the nobility.
He had an epiphany.
Just as Jesus Christ purified the temple of corrupt Jews with a whip, Hanslow Jin sought to enlighten the nobility with the whip called Vincent.
─What Vincent criticises are those who, like Gregory Villiers, are parasites not fulfilling their noble responsibilities! We should read Vincent Villiers and relearn our conduct as nobility!
Some might call it escapism, but Winston Churchill found peace of mind.
And once again, with a refreshed spirit, he bought Vincent.
He even began learning coarse language like "Pardon English" to imitate Vincent Villiers and capture the hearts of the lower classes.
Yes, to become a smart, visionary, moral, and competent noble like Vincent Villiers!
Of course.
"Phew, phew..."
From the outside, he was just a student overly immersed in a novel, almost unpleasantly so.
Identifying himself with the character...
As he shivered, dreaming of his brilliant future, it happened.
"W-Winston! Winston!!"
"Wh-What!! Don't you know how to knock, knock!!"
Winston quickly hid his so-called "lower-class language dictionary" in his arms as he shouted.
Fortunately, his roommate seemed unaware.
"L-Look at this!!"
"No way!!"
Instead, Winston's eyes widened. Something important was unfolding before him.
His roommate had brought none other than a smuggled copy of The Strand Magazine.
"No, where did you get this blasphemous thing...! Don't tell me!! Have you been recruited by the Sherlockians, those scoundrels!!"
"N-No! Of course not!! I just..."
"Silence!! Hey! Is anyone there! Drag this heretic out!!"
"Heretic!?"
At that moment, men with black hoods sprang out from every corner of the dormitory.
Originally, Sandhurst.
The prideful academy training the British Empire's army officers, especially the cavalry, had recently been divided into two factions.
Depending on the magazine they read.
─How can the proud cadets of Sandhurst read something like Vincent, which tarnishes the nobility's dignity! The magazine that should be in the dormitory is The Strand, which contains writings of justice and wisdom!
─Nobles by name only! Being arrogant and impractical is why the cavalry were defeated in the Crimean War! It's time to change! The courage in Vincent and the justice in The Strand show the proper path for the British Empire's elite!
Fans of Sherlock Holmes, called Sherlockians, advocated for The Strand.
And fans of Vincent and its hero, Hanslow Jin, called Hanslians, advocated for Vincent.
Choosing between the two most popular magazines in London was a serious matter for them.
The "grey neutral" group who thought, 'Why not buy both?' had already been lynched and disappeared.
Anyway, getting magazines into the dormitory through strict regulations meant choosing one or the other.
Although some exchanged them secretly... pride was at stake here.
Pretending not to see, insisting on their righteousness, was typical for their age.
Anyway, the long stand-off ended unexpectedly.
─Good heavens! Vincent is concluding like this. It's unbelievable!!
─Moriarty, Moriarty!! Where did this rootless scoundrel come from to kill Holmes!? This must be a trick by the Hanslians!
─Pathetic, Sherlockians!! Accept your defeat!!
The conclusion of Sherlock Holmes.
With that, the Sherlockian faction lost its centre and quickly collapsed, while the Hanslians celebrated.
And their leader, Winston Churchill, declared.
─From now on, the official magazine of Sandhurst is Vincent! No objections!!
─But Winston, didn't you initially say that Vincent insulted the nobility and that Hanslow Jin would never commit such a betrayal...
─When did I say that! What are you doing! He's a traitor to the culture! Seize him!
After burying a peer who knew too much about him, Winston Churchill, along with his fellow Hanslians, savoured the tears of the defeated.
But then...
"Betraying such history, and daring to bring The Strand Magazine into this sacred dormitory!?"
"I cannot forgive you, even if you are my roommate!"
"Heresy is punishable by burning! Burn him!!"
"W-Wait!! Please listen! I have a reason for bringing it!"
Bound by his comrades and about to be crucified, Churchill's roommate desperately pleaded.
"I have no choice; you were once my roommate. I will listen."
"Once? I'm still your roommate..."
"Enough talk! Hang him!"
"Look at the cover! Look at this issue's cover!!"
The cover?
Winston Churchill looked at the cover. And seeing the proudly shining name, he was astonished.
"... Hanslow Jin?"
"Yes! Hanslow Jin has started serializing in The Strand Magazine!"
"W-Where? Let me see!!"
The title was The Crimson Night.
Winston Churchill quickly began to check the content.
It was a gothic action story about a fallen one-armed noble tracking incidents in the back alleys of London, protecting the city from criminals, vampires, and werewolves.
"Good heavens!"
"This is unbelievable!"
"How is the content?! How is it?!"
Opening the magazine in astonishment, Winston Churchill was even more shocked.
It was more aristocratic than Vincent Villiers, and as thrilling as Peter Perry.
A noble hiding his identity, solemnly protecting the Great City of London from the shadows.
The one-armed noble gentleman leapt from the high Big Ben, looking down on the night streets of London.
How could one possibly resist this!?
But the problem was.
"Why on earth is this in The Strand Magazine?!"
Vincent being serialized in Vincent Magazine.
The Crimson Night being serialized in The Strand Magazine.
Which one should he buy now?
The winds of war were blowing again in Sandhurst.
***
"Huff, huff, huff...!"
A night where even the stars were barely visible.
A lonely lantern flickered in the intensely dark London. A woman was running through the streets of Whitechapel.
She had no destination.
Even if she did, she had forgotten it.
All she wanted was to escape. To get far away from this street. That was all she could think about.
The further she walked, the more she felt like she was on the verge of falling off a cliff, unable to see even a step ahead. It was like being in the depths of a murky underwater abyss.
But.
─Growl...
"Eek!"
At the low, cave-like growl, the woman caught her breath.
No matter how far she ran, ran, and ran.
That growl followed her.
As if it would chase her to the ends of the earth... and sink its teeth into her neck.
'No, that can't happen.'
She couldn't die in such a place.
Already, three were gone.
First, Janet from the basement next door was ripped apart.
Then, the wandering gypsy, Tana, was bitten to death.
Even the flower-like maiden, Bella... Oh, she didn't even want to think about that scene.
Anyway, she didn't want to die like that.
She would somehow survive and embrace her beloved son... But strangely, she couldn't escape the street.
The pitch-black darkness only changed its hue to a murky one.
In the pitch-black cave-like night, the woman, with a face turning pale, looked up and gasped for breath.
─Thunk.
"Eek!"
"Madam, please calm down."
A soothing voice pierced through her screams and tickled her ears.
A low, warm baritone, with a pleasing timbre, reached out to her.
"Are you alright, Mrs Canis?"
"E-Edmund, Lord Edmund?"
"Yes, indeed. It's Edmund Earhart."
Hearing that name for sure, Mrs Canis felt a warmth as if she had returned to her cradle.
The most famous libertine in London, a fallen noble whose name was nearly forgotten but who was endlessly wealthy.
Her husband would be jealous if he knew, but at that moment, Lord Edmund was the most reassuring figure for Mrs Canis.
"P-Please help me, Lord!"
"Oh dear."
Edmund offered an attractive, sardonic smile.
Mrs Canis felt a bit better just from that, but her spirits plummeted again after hearing his next words.
"I'm sorry. That won't be possible."
"W-What do you mean by that?"
"I came here to help."
Not as a monster.
The moment Edmund uttered those words, the night sky that had obscured the light opened up.
At the same time.
─Grrr!!
Mrs Canis, or rather the werewolf that resided within her, swung its massive furry arm.
With just one swing, the monstrous arm that could shatter stone walls struck down upon the Baron's left arm like a thunderbolt.
However.
"I'm sorry— this left arm has already been taken by someone else."
The left arm, exposed after the tailcoat was torn, was no longer a creation of God, made of human bone and flesh.
It was a creation of man. A metallic prosthetic arm made of steel and gears.
The werewolf, growling, stepped back and glared at Edmund.
[Hah...! So, what can a piece of meat do!]
"Hmm, so the will has already been eroded."
In that case, there was no reason to hesitate.
Edmund said this as he input the alchemical formula into his left arm.
And then.
"Transform."
Clunk, clunk!
The armour plating of the prosthetic arm opened, and the gears unfolded.
The unfolding gears covered the tailcoat, creating a detailed mosaic-like outline.
Kiiiick— clunk!
As threads interwove.
As magic and science intersected.
Gears connected with gears, and the mechanical apparatus swept over him like a single living creature.
And in the blink of an eye, as everything was completed.
Whooshhhhh—
As if to blow away the surrounding filthy dust in one go.
A storm of steam swept through, and what appeared in its place was.
[Behold.]
The culmination of the research hidden by the great scientist and alchemist Newton, to guard the night streets of London.
The Dawnbringer.