Arthur Lionheart's quiet pronouncement—
"To be punished for treason."
—fell upon the Governor's residence like a depth charge detonating beneath stagnant water.
The Indian dancers, moments earlier graceful and radiant, collapsed to the floor in terror.
The directors and senior officers of the East India Company turned ashen; some could scarcely stand.
Treason.
In a rigidly stratified Empire, it was the gravest of crimes.
If proven, not only wealth and career but entire family lines could be extinguished.
And with the Royal Marines in the hall, rifles raised with cold indifference, the last trace of defiance seeped out of them like water from a cracked hull.
To oppose Arthur Lionheart—
The victor of the Qing conflict, master of the formidable Queen of Vengeance, and confidant of Prime Minister—
was not merely stubbornness.
It was idiocy of suicidal magnitude.
"Your… Your Highness—mercy!"
The first to fall to his knees was Mr. Dong He—quick-witted, shameless, and suddenly dripping with tears.
"We were deceived! All of us! Auckland misled us—his falsified books, his private schemes—we knew nothing! We are loyal servants of Her Majesty and the Empire!"
"Yes! Yes! Entirely loyal!"
"Your Highness, I beg you—investigate thoroughly! We shall cooperate fully—gladly even absolve ourselves through meritorious service!"
Within seconds, the banquet hall became a pitiful theatre of grovelling loyalty oaths.
The same "brothers" who had feasted alongside Auckland and shared the spoils now scrambled to tear him apart to save their own skins.
Arthur watched the spectacle with cool detachment, a faint curl of contempt touching the corner of his mouth.
With a simple motion of his hand, he addressed the Marine commander behind him.
"Take Lord Auckland and every director who signed his impeccable ledgers. Ensure they are… properly protected."
"Yes, sir!"
Like wolves descending on wounded prey, the Marines surged forward, seizing the half-fainting Governor-General and his trembling associates. Several were so frightened they soiled themselves as they were dragged out.
They were marched straight aboard the Queen of Vengeance, into the temporary holding cells prepared for them.
When the ringleaders were removed, Arthur's attention settled upon the remaining mid-ranking officials—pale, shaking, awaiting judgment.
"Gentlemen," he said calmly, "I have not come to Calcutta to conduct a massacre. My purpose is singular: to restore Her Majesty's jewel of the East to its rightful brilliance—rather than see it hollowed out by termites gnawing from within."
A murmur swept the hall.
"From today, the Special Commission on Indian Affairs assumes complete authority over the Company's administration. Those among you uninvolved in Auckland's accounting conspiracy—and who are willing to cooperate—shall retain your posts and pay."
A chorus of relieved gratitude answered him at once.
Arthur Lionheart understood perfectly: arresting men was not enough.
He needed the entire Company to slip into his grasp—smoothly, rapidly, and without resistance.
To do so, he would perform a precise and merciless surgical purge.
The Next Morning
Calcutta's entire colonial community witnessed a scene they would recount for decades.
Columns of Royal Marines—led by Arthur's trusted aide Hansen, chief of security of the Future Industries Group, and the Marine Corps commander—marched through the city and seized:
the East India Company's headquarters,
all warehouses,
and every private estate belonging to the arrested executives.
They operated with the efficiency of seasoned "house-raiders":
ledgers, contracts, archives, cargo manifests—everything was sealed, catalogued, and shipped.
When the Marines forced open the Company's supposedly impregnable vault, everyone froze.
There was no mountain of silver.
No glittering gold.
No reserve of jewels.
Only opium.
Chest after chest after chest of opium—rotting, stinking, molding.
"Sir," Hansen reported, shaken, "at former market prices, this stockpile would be worth over two million pounds. But now? Worthless. Unsellable. A financial corpse. The Company's cash flow has been collapsing under the weight of this unsold… refuse."
Arthur's expression sharpened—not with anger, but with satisfaction.
"Good. Issue my order: destroy every ounce. Not a single grain is to remain."
Hansen blinked in disbelief.
"Sir—two million pounds! Even if unsellable now, we might—"
"There are no mights."
Arthur's voice carried the steel of command.
"I intend not only to burn this poison but to make certain The Times and Dickens' Daily Mirror devote their largest columns to the act. Britain and the world shall witness that I—Arthur Lionheart—stand as the staunchest anti-opium advocate in the Empire."
It was the perfect moment to sever himself—and the Crown—from the sordid legacy of the opium trade.
To erect a shining moral edifice in full public view.
If the vault was disgraceful, the private residences were obscene.
Mountains of plunder:
gold, diamonds, Persian carpets, Chinese artifacts—loot taken over years, piled like a dragon's hoard.
The total value exceeded even the embezzled £100,000.
"All stolen assets are to be confiscated," Arthur ordered.
"Half shall enter the Treasury as recompense for the Afghan debacle. The other half shall serve as capital for the Special Commission's reorganisation of the Indian administration."
Within one week, Arthur Lionheart achieved the impossible.
He dismantled the East India Company—
a titan ruling two hundred acres of Indian soil—
with surgical precision.
Its leadership destroyed.
Its financial abyss laid bare.
Its assets and authority transferred into Arthur's hands with legal elegance.
And once the destruction was complete…
Arthur turned his gaze toward the construction that must follow.