According to the manager of the telegraph company, in order to stabilize investors and avoid damaging the company's reputation, the transoceanic telegraph connecting the Continent was temporarily unfeasible. They planned to commission manufacturers to produce a more robust insulated protective layer for the cables and re-lay them once again. Thanks to the buzz generated by the high-profile "Wedding of the Century" on the telegraph lines a few months prior, their investment funds were more than sufficient, allowing for multiple attempts if necessary. The only issue was securing a larger ship to accommodate the thickened cables, a task that might take half a year or longer to complete.

  Since the transoceanic telegraph was temporarily unavailable, Edwin had no choice but to continue sending letters via steamship to Dr. Moniz's address. However, as before, there was no reply.

  Due to the underdeveloped state of global communications, Edwin was unaware that Dr. Moniz was currently in Manchester, Albion, delivering a lecture to a gathering of well-dressed gentlemen.

  "To control a man's thoughts is the domain of the Divine Spirit! How dare we intrude upon God's realm?!" At this moment, in the lecture hall, one of the gentlemen permitted to ask questions stood up.

  Manchester was Albion’s most prominent industrial city, and Dr. Moniz’s lecture focused on effectively managing workers’ mental health to prevent them from descending into agitation and violence—a topic of great interest to factory owners. However, as the lecture progressed, Dr. Moniz introduced a radical new method, claiming it could excise a single rebellious thought—rebellion—from the human mind.

  This method was Dr. Moniz’s infamous ice pick therapy, originally developed for the insane. The horrifying procedure had already proven effective in pacifying manic lunatics, rendering them docile and obedient. But now, Dr. Moniz was promoting a new discovery from his long-term experiments, asserting that he had identified specific functional regions in the brain. By severing the connections between areas believed to generate negative emotions with an ice pick, workers could be made less prone to agitation and revolt.

  The factory owners in attendance were currently plagued by endless waves of workers' movements. The Industrial Revolution, driven by steam engines, was at its zenith. Railroads, steamships, sewing machines, and telegraphs had all emerged within the past two to three decades—even the earliest prototypes of the era-defining electric light had appeared. Factories were constantly upgrading machinery, each new production line rendering previous workers redundant, resulting in mass unemployment.

  Thus, industrial cities had birthed a new term for the panicked destruction of machinery by desperate workers: Luddism. Like mold, it spread incessantly through the kingdom. Enraged, the bourgeoisie pushed through Parliament the Preservation of the Peace Act in 1812 and the Destruction of Machinery Punishment Act in 1813, decreeing that workers who participated in machine-smashing would hang. Additionally, the "Society for the Detection and Prosecution of Machine Breakers" was established to handle the matter. Yet, the riots continued unabated.

  Yvette had read reports from other regions—reprinted by the editors—that frequently mentioned machine-smashing rioters sentenced to death. For once, she closed the book, sighed, and muttered in Chinese—a phrase no one in the editorial office understood: "When the people do not fear death, how can you frighten them with it?" (Tao Te Ching).

  Just as no one could comprehend its meaning, so too was it an idea unfathomable to this world. The capitalists, naturally, believed these rioters must be insane or otherwise irrational—why else would they risk their lives for actions that brought no benefit to themselves and only hindered the prosperity of their betters? If there were a true method to pacify them, it would undoubtedly reduce disruptions in production.

  Thus, only a few deeply devout factory owners voiced objections, while the rest sat silently, eagerly awaiting Dr. Moniz’s rebuttal.

  "'God gives us noble thoughts, while the Devil plants negative ones, corrupting us through reason'—this is the 'truth' we have always been taught. Yet in my view, most so-called 'truths' are nothing but unassailable falsehoods, for in the long shaping of history, error ossifies into immutable form." Dr. Moniz gazed at the questioner with pitying condescension. "But is this truly the case? If God loves mankind, why would He permit the Devil to toy with our minds, sowing evil thoughts? The reality is that the Divine Spirit, in its mercy, has granted mankind the freedom to think. But men are not equal—just as the organs of the body differ in function, so too do the minds and hands of men. Some are born to labor with their hands, while others, the gifted, wield their intellects. Now, the hands clamor for the same status as the mind—how can this be?"

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  "Unfortunately, they believe it possible, for they are slaves to impulse and sensation, puppets of sensory desire, fools susceptible to deceit—and above all, perfect instruments for political agitators, for they lack the intellect to discern the lies and venom of those who exploit them."

  "They have been poisoned with false ideas, but my research can correct this. With my method, we may instill in workers the necessity of rational thought—freeing them from barbarism and ignorance. By reshaping the moral faculties of their brains with a slender steel probe, we can bring their baser instincts under control. In doing so, we open for them new founts of joy, grant them greater discipline, and equip them with the means to attain prosperity. This benefits not only the individual but transforms him into a more useful member of society. How can this be construed as a challenge to Divine authority?"

  Dr. Moniz spoke with effortless confidence, seemingly unoffended by the blasphemous doubt. His irrefutable logic and masterful rhetoric left his opponent speechless, while his "Division of Labor Theory" subtly echoed the bourgeoisie's deepest desires. The questioner slunk away, humiliated, and the remaining inquiries devolved into sycophantic praise.

  "Dr. Moniz, what compels you to share your research so selflessly? Over the years, your ice pick therapy has cured thousands of lunatics. I first witnessed your demonstration at Bedlam Hospital, guiding the doctors through the procedure. I had hoped to attend more, but alas, the building collapsed—due to structural decay and, ah, the unfortunate habit of medical staff stealing from corpses. How I long to see you at the operating table once more!"

  "It is nothing," Dr. Moniz replied humbly. "I only wish for the light of truth to pierce the horizon of thought, dispelling the miasma of error that lingers even now. Every obstacle—be it ignorance or so-called 'common sense'—must be shattered, so that mankind may at last perceive truth!"

  Yes—all his efforts were in the service of truth.

  The lecture was an overwhelming success. As the audience dispersed, factory owners conversed excitedly, discussing how to lobby Parliament for laws expanding the scope of ice pick therapy—preferably institutionalizing it to "treat" the idle masses in workhouses and streets, molding them into docile, industrious laborers.

  In the long months following, Lord Spencer had made a habit of inviting Yvette—and likely would continue indefinitely—to gatherings within certain circles. Today, they stood by a racetrack, speaking in low voices.

  "Before Parliament reconvenes this year, you must acquaint yourself with influential figures—better still, earn their trust or favor. Each circle has its own tastes; adapt accordingly. You’ve done well thus far, and I expect no less today. Our host, the Earl of Clarendon, is easily understood—he and his ilk crave amusement above all else, disdain tedium, and care little for lineage. Beauty, wealth, wit, or novelty will make you welcome in their midst. You’ll even find actors, artists, and explorers among them. With your looks, gaining their acquaintance will be trivial."

  Yvette marveled at Lord Spencer’s social agility. Over weeks of accompanying him to balls and soirees, he had seamlessly charmed every faction—whether discussing ancestral glory with stiff-necked aristocrats, regaling rakes with tales of London’s bawdiest brothels, or debating philosophy from Socrates to Rousseau among intellectuals.

  Alas, she found herself struggling, particularly in conversations laden with innuendo.

  "Why, if it isn't my dear Yves?"

  A familiar, jovial voice rang out.

  "The Duke of Lancaster." She turned to see the young man riding leisurely toward her on a magnificent black steed. The horse’s appearance drew the admiring gazes of the equestrian elite. It was the third prized mount she had seen him with—the first retired after a broken leg, the second destroyed when Ulysses injected it with stimulants at Windsor. Yet here he was, already astride another peerless beast.

  "Do you like her?" the Duke asked, grinning.

  "Not particularly. Though I must note that serving as your horse appears to be a perilous occupation."

  The Duke feigned dismay. "Yves, since when did you pick up Ulysses’ penchant for mockery?"

  "I merely speak the truth, Your Grace."

  "Hmph. I hear you’ve been mingling rather aggressively lately—uncharacteristic of you. Is there some intrigue afoot among the nobility?" His expression was that of a man eager for scandal.