"All the great men of the British Empire come from Eton."
If the masters of Harrow or Winchester heard that statement, they would foam at the mouth.
But the staff of Eton College sincerely believed it.
In truth, the great public schools were so prestigious that ranking them was almost meaningless. Still, Eton had undeniably become the most celebrated school in Britain in recent years.
Its headmaster, Dr. John Keate, believed that more strongly than anyone.
He had served as headmaster since 1809—twenty-two years in total—guiding countless young men who would one day lead the nation.
At first, his strict emphasis on tradition and discipline had drawn criticism. Some parents complained that his policies were suffocating.
But the results spoke for themselves.
The old aristocracy welcomed Eton's return to rigid traditions and order. Meanwhile, the newly wealthy were delighted simply to gain admission to those same traditions.
There was nothing more valuable than accumulated tradition.
And as long as Eton endured, that tradition must be protected.
John Keate had always vowed that he would never abandon this principle.
And today, he was about to meet a student whose suitability for that tradition he wished to judge personally.
Killian Gore.
Son of Arthur Gore, the 3rd Earl of Arran.
Illegitimate. Of mixed Eastern blood.
Eton admitted the sons of Britain's greatest nobles—as well as the children of rising merchants and distinguished lawyers.
Naturally, every candidate's background was thoroughly investigated.
Which was why Keate had been quite startled when he first read the boy's file.
From the standpoint of birth, the pedigree was hardly elegant.
Indeed, there was little tradition to speak of at all.
Of course, in recent years even students from less established families had entered Eton, and Keate had no desire to oppose that trend.
The real issue was something else.
The boy carried a letter of recommendation from the Duke of Wellington.
Even though Wellington had recently lost the election and fallen into opposition, his name still carried immense weight at Eton.
Keate remembered the moment vividly.
It had been six years after he became headmaster.
When news arrived that the Duke of Wellington had defeated Napoleon at Waterloo, the entire school erupted in celebration.
Even Keate—famous for his strict discipline—had allowed the students to cheer as loudly as they wished.
Later, when Wellington himself visited the school to give a speech, the effect had been enormous.
One line from that speech had become famous.
"The victory of Waterloo was won not on the battlefield, but here in the playing fields of Eton."
The phrase had been slightly embellished over time.
But the result was excellent marketing.
Applications had skyrocketed.
Thanks to that "Waterloo effect," Keate could hardly refuse a request connected to the Duke of Wellington.
That was precisely why he had chosen to personally conduct this interview.
Another surprising detail was that the boy had arrived accompanied by Lord Charles Wellesley, the Duke's son.
Both of Wellington's sons had attended Eton.
Both had gone on to Oxford.
Both had been brilliant students.
Would this Killian Gore prove their equal?
With curiosity and cautious expectation, Keate waited.
Soon an elegant carriage rolled smoothly into the courtyard.
Keate stepped forward and greeted his former pupil warmly.
"Welcome, Lord Wellesley. It feels like only yesterday you were walking these grounds as a student, yet now you've grown into a fine gentleman."
"It's good to see you again, sir," Lord Charles replied with a smile. "I'm glad to see you're still in good health. My father sends his regards."
"I appreciate that. It's always a pleasure when former students return. I suddenly remember the time you competed in the debate contest against Gladstone."
Lord Charles laughed.
"Ah… yes. I lost quite thoroughly, but it's a fond memory. He was brilliant—even then."
The mention of his old classmate naturally brought a smile to his face.
"You still keep in touch?" Keate asked.
"Not directly," Lord Charles said. "We're both rather busy these days. I only hear occasional news. Apparently he intends to stand for Parliament in the next year or two. Even someone as capable as him might struggle in his first election—but who knows?"
Keate chuckled.
"If it's the Gladstone I remember, he might very well win on his first attempt."
"Honestly, I think so too," Lord Charles admitted.
Then he added with a grin,
"But the boy you're about to interview today might rival him. In fact, I suspect he might surpass him."
Keate raised an eyebrow.
That sounded like an exaggeration.
Still, Lord Wellesley was not a man prone to wild claims.
And if the Duke of Wellington himself had written a recommendation for a boy with such a questionable background…
Perhaps the praise was justified.
Besides, Keate had already begun to consider retiring in three to five years.
This might very well be the last time he personally interviewed a student.
He sincerely hoped that Killian Gore would live up to expectations.
"Welcome, Killian Gore. A pleasure to meet you."
"Good afternoon, sir. My name is Killian Gore. It is an honor to meet the esteemed headmaster of Eton College, Dr. John Keate."
Whether because Lord Charles had spoken favorably of me beforehand or because of the Duke's recommendation, Keate greeted me warmly.
From the moment the interview began, I maintained flawless posture.
According to my information, Keate valued tradition almost obsessively.
"Remarkable," he said after a while. "You have only been in London for about a year, yet you've already accumulated considerable knowledge."
"Thank you, sir."
"As you know," he continued, "Eton prides itself on its long history and traditions. May I ask why you chose Eton specifically rather than another school?"
"That is precisely why, sir," I replied.
"Because Eton values tradition."
Keate smiled gently.
"Harrow, Winchester, and Westminster value tradition as well."
"That is true," I said calmly. "However, my father—the Earl of Arran—has always said that Eton is currently the school most devoted to preserving and strengthening those traditions. Lord Wellesley also told me that this spirit has grown even stronger since you became headmaster."
Keate nodded approvingly.
"That was indeed my intention. But tell me—does such an atmosphere not feel burdensome to someone your age?"
"On the contrary," I said confidently.
"It helps me greatly."
"I believe that creating tradition is even more important than preserving it. But tradition cannot simply be invented. It must be earned over time."
I paused deliberately.
"To be honest, my own background is fragile. Even if people treat me politely to my face, it would not surprise me if they speak of my lack of pedigree behind my back."
"There are no such people at Eton," Keate said firmly.
"Perhaps not," I replied. "But the world outside is less generous. That is why I wish to study in a place where tradition is respected above all else—so that I may build traditions for myself and for my family."
For over an hour I answered his questions.
I praised Britain's traditions.
I praised Eton's traditions.
And I made it clear that I was eager to assimilate completely into them.
By the end of the conversation, Keate seemed entirely convinced.
"Official results will be announced in a few months," he said at last, "but since you carry a recommendation from the Duke of Wellington, there is no reason to keep you waiting."
He smiled.
"After speaking with you, I must say I am impressed. Major Wellesley judged you very well indeed."
"Thank you, sir!"
"I hope the knowledge you gain here will help reconcile the long-standing tensions between Ireland and England."
He stood and extended his hand.
"You are accepted."
For a moment I was stunned.
Was it really acceptable to say that so directly?
The nineteenth century truly was a romantic era.
Modern admissions committees would never be so transparent.
Still, I quickly bowed and thanked him.
Now I could prepare for Eton with peace of mind.
At least, that was what I thought.
"Now then," Keate said suddenly, "before you leave, I should explain the mindset expected of an Eton student. These are important lessons. Ah—but first I must begin with the history of the school."
"…Pardon?"
"Eton was founded in 1441 by His Majesty King Henry VI…"
"…."
I decided right then that after enrolling, I would avoid meeting the headmaster whenever possible.
Lord Wellesley, who had been waiting outside, eventually grew bored and left.
Meanwhile, I endured three full hours of lectures about Eton's history and traditions.
Naturally, I shed a few tears.
From overwhelming emotion.
Certainly not from boredom.
Perhaps I should have chosen Harrow instead…
"Truly the greatest school in the Empire!"
"Magnificent Eton!"
Of course, throughout the entire ordeal I relied heavily on the technique I had mastered in my previous life—
Separating what I said from what I actually felt.
"Ha! Did you hear that, James?" my father exclaimed. "That's practically a declaration of acceptance!"
"Indeed," James replied dryly. "If a man spends an entire afternoon explaining the duties of an Eton student and then rejects the applicant, he would be insane."
"Excellent! The official announcement will come soon, so we should accelerate our plans."
My father laughed with obvious pride.
"Next year my son will be an Eton student! After that, Oxford or Cambridge. No one in this country will dare question your education. And with the Duke of Wellington's recommendation, even our relatives won't dare claim you lack legitimacy."
"Relatives?"
"Yes," my father said calmly.
"Originally my heir was my nephew, since I had no children. But now you are here. Naturally everything must be corrected."
He waved his hand dismissively.
"I have already consulted lawyers and spoken with our allies among the nobility. You need only trust me."
"Thank you, Father," I said carefully. "Though I worry this may cause conflict with our relatives."
The truth was obvious.
From their perspective, this decision would feel outrageous.
Replacing the designated heir with an illegitimate half-Asian son would naturally provoke resistance.
Even I would have been furious in their place.
"Don't worry," my father said confidently.
"We are holding a family gathering next week. I intend to settle the matter once and for all."
He smiled.
"Everything will be done legally and properly. You only need to focus on preparing for Eton."
"Understood."
If I could secure the Irish earldom, it would become a valuable political asset in the future.
If my father was willing to resolve the matter himself, I had no reason to refuse.
After all, I was his legitimate blood.
I was not stealing anything.
With Eton secured and Wellington's endorsement behind me, no one could seriously question my qualifications.
Both my father and I were confident.
No matter what happened, we were prepared.
However—
The topic we expected to dominate the family gathering was suddenly overshadowed by a scandal of historic proportions.
A scandal that shook British high society in 1831.
Prince Augustus Frederick, the Duke of Sussex and sixth son of George III, had announced his intention to marry a woman from an Irish noble family.
If it had merely been a marriage announcement, it would have caused surprise.
But this marriage violated the Royal Marriages Act of 1772.
Legally, it was invalid.
Naturally, newspapers and society exploded with gossip.
At first glance, the scandal seemed unrelated to me.
But the problem was this:
The Irish noble family in question was none other than the Gore family.
And the woman Prince Augustus intended to marry—
was Cecilia Gore.
My father's half-sister.
Which meant…
My aunt.
The head of the family planned to pass his earldom to a half-Asian illegitimate son.
Meanwhile his sister had fallen in love with a prince and was attempting an illegal royal marriage.
Yes.
I could already imagine the atmosphere at the upcoming family council.
It was bound to be a wonderfully warm and harmonious gathering.