Arthur Lionheart's swift and decisive seizure of the Company's wealth shattered the corrupt façade of the East India Company in Calcutta.
But Arthur was under no illusions.
What he had removed were merely the largest termites and the most rotten branches.
The roots of the Company—deep, tangled, poisonous—lay far away in London.
In the lavish boardroom on Leadenhall Street, opium magnates like George Martinson were the true masters.
The Earl of Auckland had never been more than a gilded steward sent to supervise their plantation.
Did they truly believe the entire East India Company of Calcutta could be transformed by a single royal decree?
Absurd.
The London board would resist first.
Then MPs beholden to Company interests would accuse him of overreach, of undermining the "sacred commercial traditions" of the Empire.
Arthur, of course, had never planned to become the "Indian CEO."
His ambitions were sharper, more direct, far more suited to the authority that now naturally gravitated toward him.
He did not seek an office.
He sought dominion.
Not a chairmanship.
A day after Auckland and his associates were locked away inside the iron cells of the Queen of Vengeance, Arthur gathered the remaining middle- and upper-ranking Company officials in the Governor's House.
The men trembled as though awaiting execution.
Arthur announced three "temporary jurisdictional directives"—simple in wording, devastating in effect.
Article I: Military Control
"Effective immediately," Arthur Lionheart said in a controlled, unhurried tone, "in order to restore discipline and address the crisis in Afghanistan, I assume supreme command of all East India Company forces in Bengal."
The room froze.
"This includes the three Bengal infantry regiments, the Bengal cavalry regiment, and all artillery units. No transfer of men, officers, or supplies shall occur without my written approval."
The officers' faces drained of blood.
None dared object—not with Royal Marines stationed outside, nor with the man who had won a continental war standing before them.
Opposing him would have been lunacy.
Article II: Financial Interception
"Given the systemic corruption and catastrophic financial discrepancies," Arthur continued, letting his gaze settle upon the newly installed financial officers, "all Company treasuries and bank accounts in Calcutta are hereby frozen."
Gasps.
"No transfer exceeding one thousand pounds shall be permitted without the authorization of the Royal Financial Oversight Team—headed by Mr. Hansen."
He had severed the Company's purse strings with a single sentence.
Several men looked as if they had been personally bereaved.
Article III: Personnel Reconstitution
"And finally," Arthur said with a polite, almost pleasant smile, "to stabilise operations, I shall assign experienced managers from my own industrial group as temporary consultants in key Company departments."
It sounded benign—cooperative even.
In truth, it meant surveillance, replacement, and the slow insertion of Arthur's loyal network into every vital organ of the Company machinery.
When he finished, silence swallowed the mansion.
Everyone understood.
Arthur Lionheart had no interest in charters, nor in the London board's delicate traditions.
He was dismantling the Company's rule with three blades:
the gun, the purse, and the pen.
The Governor might still hold the title.
But the true authority in India now stood in that room—an unannounced guest, unstoppable.
"Gentlemen," Arthur asked lightly, "any objections?"
No one dared breathe.
One wrong word would send them to the same cell as Auckland.
"Excellent," Arthur said, nodding with satisfaction. "Then we are agreed."
In the month that followed, Arthur he did not hide in the luxurious Governor's mansion.
Instead he travelled the breadth of Bengal—tea plantations, cotton fields, ancient weaving mills—escorted by armed guards, engineers, and accountants.
He saw brutal exploitation, suffering, and poverty bordering on slavery.
But he also saw potential—vast labour reserves, abundant resources, and the raw material for an empire greater than London had ever dared imagine.
He enacted no grand reforms.
Not yet.
He simply observed, measured, and memorised.
Then he did something that startled everyone.
Arthur allocated a portion of the confiscated wealth—worth hundreds of thousands of pounds—to establish free porridge stations and temporary medical posts in the slums of Calcutta, distributing quinine and basic medicine.
For the lowest classes of India, who had long viewed the British as demons, it was the first glimpse of benevolence.
Within days, whispers spread:
"The foreign prince is the incarnation of Vishnu."
"The fair-faced lord brings healing."
His name—Arthur Lionheart—began to take root in the soil of India.
He knew the truth:
force could conquer land, but only goodwill conquered nations.
Even if such goodwill was bought cheaply.
When his preliminary reorganisation was complete, Arthur prepared to sail back to London.
He carried with him a massive dossier—evidence so damning it could bring the entire London board to the brink of ruin.
He had laid the groundwork:
military authority,
financial control,
political leverage,
and the beginnings of popular support.
The moment he arrived in London, he would confront the true masters of the Company.
He would not return as a guest.
He would return as the man holding the dagger at their throats—and the keys to India in his pocket.