The end of the Black Sea campaign.
At the same time, news that the naval forces deployed there would be redeployed to the Baltic front naturally reached London as well.
With the sense that this long, drawn-out war was finally nearing its end, the entire British Empire was swept up in a surge of patriotic fervor.
Because of that, Members of Parliament found themselves struggling just to enter the chamber, forced to push through crowds of people shouting about the greatness of the Empire.
Even so, the certainty that those damned Russians would finally be crushed put visible brightness on the faces of the MPs.
"They won't be able to hold out much longer now."
"Do you think we can end the war before summer is over?"
"Ideally, we finish it before the Expo. If we conclude the war and hold the Expo at the same time, the propaganda effect will be doubled."
They had privately concluded that ending the war this year would be difficult—but suddenly, things were moving at a suspiciously rapid pace.
With events unfolding like this, Prime Minister Charles Wellesley and the Conservative Party began praising themselves, claiming this was the result of their united leadership.
Of course, Liberal figures like William Gladstone and Lord Palmerston dismissed it as nonsense—but with the war clearly nearing its end, their objections rang hollow.
Yet from Gladstone's perspective, no matter how he analyzed it, Wellesley hadn't done much of anything.
It was Killian who stirred France and Austria into action.
Killian who brought Prussia into the fold.
The most critical groundwork of the war? That, too, had essentially been handled by Killian himself.
And, absurdly enough, according to the latest reports, even the rapid fall of Sevastopol was somehow tied to him.
At this point, it felt less like the royal consort had participated in the war and more like he had simply gone out and copied achievements wholesale.
The more Gladstone analyzed it, the more it all came down to one conclusion: sheer luck.
But when he said as much, Charles Wellesley replied without the slightest change in expression.
"I was the one who strongly supported His Royal Highness going to war."
Gladstone knew perfectly well it had been Benjamin Disraeli who was scolded by the Queen when Killian left—but arguing further would change nothing.
Regardless of the truth, Wellesley's popularity had already reached a level that could pierce the dome of St. Paul's Cathedral.
Among all nations involved, Russia had suffered the most, followed by France and the Ottomans. Britain, at most, came fourth.
Still, war was war. The scale of naval deployment alone meant the resources spent were anything but trivial.
If they failed to crush Russia decisively and ended with a half-measured peace, criticism would have been inevitable.
In fact, the Liberals had already been preparing to weaponize that argument for the coming election.
But now, within just a few months, the entire situation had completely flipped.
If the war ended like this, the costs Britain had incurred could easily be extracted from Russia.
And casualties? Not even comparable to those of France, the Ottomans, or Russia.
Already, praise was pouring in, calling Wellesley one of the greatest prime ministers in history for demonstrating the Empire's strength.
So the Liberals changed their strategy.
"But to be honest, isn't the true hero of this war His Royal Highness Killian?"
"That's right. Parliament hasn't really done much. As an MP, it's embarrassing to say—but this war is entirely the Royal Family's achievement."
"Now hold on! Supporting the Royal Family wholeheartedly has always been this government's policy."
"In the end, we were just supporting actors. Our Liberal Party intends to award the highest honors to Marshal FitzRoy, Admiral Parker, and His Royal Highness Killian. In fact—why not create a new highest order in Her Majesty's name? And make His Royal Highness its first recipient?"
The Liberals knew they couldn't claim much credit from this war.
So instead, they aimed to ensure the ruling party wouldn't benefit either—by elevating the Royal Family instead.
After all, Killian's contributions were objectively immense.
If they framed Parliament as merely parasitically riding on his achievements, they could prevent the Conservatives from monopolizing the glory.
And to do that, they needed to elevate Killian as much as possible.
If the Liberals took the initiative, it would resonate strongly with a public already intoxicated with patriotism.
"But we already have honors for distinguished service."
"Then let's reorganize them. So many have rendered exceptional service this time. It is Parliament's duty to bestow proper recognition upon those who have devoted themselves to the nation."
"His Royal Highness has already been invested into the Order of the Garter—"
"Considering his decisive role in defeating Russia and his contributions to reforming military medical systems, saving countless soldiers' lives, a new order dedicated to him is entirely justified!"
The debate only grew more heated.
At its core, it was a clash between two positions:
"You're the ones trying to cling to the royal consort for political gain—have some restraint,"
versus
"We absolutely refuse to let you steal credit for this."
By now, the Conservatives were well aware of the Liberals' strategy.
Wellesley and Disraeli exchanged glances, then nodded with smiles.
"Now that I think about it, Mr. Gladstone's suggestion has merit."
"Let us gather Parliament's opinion and propose to Her Majesty the creation of a new order bearing her name. Ha ha!"
After all, Killian was aligned with the Conservatives.
The stronger his influence became, the more the Conservatives would benefit indirectly.
Meanwhile, Gladstone calculated differently.
If the Royal Family's influence surpassed even that of the Conservatives, subtle fractures would inevitably appear.
Power is not something even family can share indefinitely.
At some point, when the balance became too delicate, someone would have to yield.
The great war was nearing its end—
but within the British Parliament, maneuvering only intensified.
Russia had clearly lost—but still refused to admit defeat.
And the effort to corner Emperor Nicholas was proceeding relentlessly.
There are always people like that.
In chess, in board games, in anything.
The kind who refuse to concede even when defeat is obvious—dragging things out, accumulating meaningless exhaustion.
Those who hide a worker unit in the corner of the map and insist, "I'm not surrendering."
People like that must be thoroughly crushed—so they never even think of trying again.
This wasn't cruelty.
It was justice.
—According to the British, Tsar Nicholas continues to refuse surrender, demanding that his pride be preserved.
—If refused, he has threatened total mobilization, warning of massive additional casualties.
—Russian military casualties are already estimated at over 140,000 dead, with total casualties exceeding 500,000. Should further offensives occur, hundreds of thousands more could die—all for the Emperor's pride despite inevitable defeat…
Beautiful.
Once the floodgates opened, it couldn't be stopped.
As expected, the effect was overwhelming.
The Russian press, long suppressed, could no longer be restrained.
No matter how the government tried to dismiss it as rumor and punish those spreading it—it was already too late.
Arrest one, and two more appeared.
Shut down one newspaper, and two more emerged the next day.
Information control is never absolute.
Not when the system itself is already breaking down.
"Die for them? Are you insane?!"
"Shut the hell up!"
"If I'm going to die anyway, it doesn't matter how! I'm leaving!"
In the army—
"Down with the Tyrant!"
"No more conscription!"
"If you want war, you fight it yourself!"
Even in the capital—
Unable to suppress the rapidly worsening public sentiment, even the nobles and the Tsar himself began to realize:
there was no longer any solution.
Push any further, and the army might revolt.
Or worse—revolution, like in France.
In the end, Russia chose the only path left.
"My beloved people! This is all a misunderstanding! There were minor errors in communication—we never intended to continue this futile war!"
They claimed it had always been their intention to surrender—
that everything had simply been misunderstood.
And at last, the Tsar himself declared Russia's intention to surrender.
Thus, Russia's defeat became an undeniable fact.
The worst war of the 19th century, which had engulfed the world, came to an end—
leaving behind the shocking toll of nearly one million casualties.
The war was over.
Not wordplay about ceasefires—
but a clear declaration of surrender.
There was no taking it back now.
"Russia has surrendered!"
"We're going home!"
"Woooooo!"
"Thank God! Thank you!"
The soldiers erupted into madness at the news.
Victory? Crushing Russia? None of that mattered.
"We're going home! We're really going home!"
"I'm burning this damn will the moment I get back… those Russian bastards better not go back on their word."
"If they do, I swear I'll kill them all."
What mattered most was simple:
they were going home.
Freed from fear, anxiety, and suffering, the soldiers embraced one another, shouting, dancing—celebrating in every way they could.
Even the officers, though more restrained, could not hide their smiles.
And yet, even amidst all this—
there were those who continued their duty in silence.
"Nurse, shouldn't you rest today at least?"
"The end of the war doesn't mean the wounded are suddenly healed. If anything, this is when we must be even more attentive—to those who fear dying here, just as they were about to go home."
"…."
Unaffected by victory or celebration—
Florence Nightingale continued her work exactly as always.
No—if anything, she worked even harder, having sent the other nurses to rest.
Beside the wounded, some quietly shedding tears at the sounds of celebration outside—
she remained.
"Nurse… will I make it home?"
"You will."
"…I miss my mother."
"I'll make sure you do. And when you see her, tell her everything—how bravely you fought, how you survived."
Standing close beside her, observing everything, was Robert Gascoyne-Cecil, second son of the Marquess of Salisbury.
To him, it had all been a continuous shock.
Unlike most nobles, he had spent years in military hospitals, watching soldiers brought in grievously wounded.
Day after day, year after year—
something inside him had changed.
So while others celebrated, he remained in the ward, helping where he could.
Only when things finally quieted down did Nightingale, collapsing into a chair, speak.
"What will you do when you return?"
"…I'll enter Parliament."
"So, politics."
"Yes. That's the conclusion I've come to after seeing so many die."
She said nothing more.
It wasn't that her feelings had faded—
if anything, they had deepened.
But now he understood why she had said she had no intention of marrying.
More than anything, he wanted to help her continue her work.
"What I've realized… is that those who don't understand war have no right to speak of it."
"Why?"
"Because on reports filled with numbers… you can't see people."
At his quiet words, Nightingale slowly nodded.
"You'll inherit your father's title one day. I hope you don't forget that."
"Thank you. I'll become… someone like His Royal Highness."
"…Is he even a politician?"
"…Ah. Right. Hahaha."