While the hall was being prepared for Killian's full discussion with the intellectuals, Karl Marx watched Friedrich Engels, who was still unable to contain his excitement, with an incredulous expression.
"Friedrich, communism is still an idea we ourselves haven't even properly defined yet. Did you suddenly receive some kind of inspiration after hearing that speech?"
"Didn't you? Haven't we said before that communism is the final stage in the development of human civilization?"
"That was something we blurted out over drinks, wasn't it? It's hardly a theory we've properly developed yet."
"No, no. When I heard that idea, it struck me like a revelation."
Recently, Marx had begun forming a theory in his mind: that the world would move from feudalism to a society dominated by capital, and from there eventually transition into an ideal communist society.
But naturally, he had not yet constructed any concrete evidence or theoretical framework. At this stage, it was little more than a vague hypothesis.
In fact, Marx believed the current era should be called capitalism, but his studies of economics were still far from satisfactory.
He suspected it would take more than ten years of serious study to transform the ideas in his head into a coherent academic theory.
If he spoke openly now, any serious scholar would laugh at him.
That said, he never doubted the correctness of his insight.
The problem was simply that the theoretical foundation to support it remained weak.
From that perspective, he could roughly understand what Engels was getting at.
"So you're saying he might be someone capable of sowing the seeds for communism to emerge in this capital-centered society?"
"Exactly. Perhaps this country might even be the first to enter the ideal society we talked about."
"That seems like quite a leap. Even if he sympathizes with workers, isn't he ultimately still the embodiment of capital that exploits them? After all, he's royalty—standing at the very peak of this contradictory class society."
"What someone's current status is doesn't really matter. If we're being honest, neither you nor I belong to the working class either."
That point left Marx with little to say.
After all, both he and Engels were bourgeois by birth, not workers.
In fact, Engels came from a far wealthier background than Marx, with strong ties to aristocratic circles.
Marx himself lived far beyond what his own income could sustain, receiving considerable financial support from Engels.
It wasn't luxury spending, however.
Most of the money went toward study and preparations for revolutionary activity.
"Even so, royalty is different from us," Marx insisted. "Especially the British royal family. I've heard they're wealthier than almost any royal house in Europe these days."
"And because they're wealthy, they're contributing to society," Engels replied. "Building hospitals, training doctors, improving workers' rights."
"Hm… yes, I admit it. He certainly seems fundamentally different from the other royals we've encountered. But that doesn't prove he's truly the person we theorized about."
"Of course we can't be certain. But my instincts tell me so. It's the same feeling I had when I first met you. I knew then that you would bring great change to the world."
"So in the end, it's just a feeling," Marx muttered.
Still, despite his outward skepticism, he could not deny a growing curiosity.
In truth, he wanted to speak with Killian Gore himself.
Why was he so different from the royal families of Prussia or France?
Was it because the British Empire's industrial system differed from those countries?
Was it a difference in political structure?
Or simply the character of the man himself?
The speech alone had left far too many unanswered questions.
But even if Marx wished for such a conversation, Killian was still a royal figure who lived above the clouds.
Why would someone like that meet with German radicals who weren't even citizens of the Empire?
Engels was in much the same position.
Even if he came from a successful bourgeois family, to the Prince Consort they would probably appear equally insignificant.
It was unlikely they would even be given the chance to speak during the upcoming discussion.
Expecting otherwise would only lead to disappointment.
So while Marx suppressed his expectations, Engels enthusiastically pulled out a notebook and began writing down the questions he wanted to ask.
Even if he were somehow called upon, the moment he introduced himself as a foreigner he would probably be told to remain silent.
Still, perhaps that kind of passion was necessary if they were to continue their work.
Marx decided not to discourage his friend's reckless enthusiasm.
"Your Highness, you said earlier that expanding suffrage alone would not necessarily improve workers' rights. But if workers obtain the vote, wouldn't worker-friendly politicians be elected? Wouldn't that naturally improve workers' conditions?"
"That would only happen in a utopian world where all workers stand united," Killian replied. "We speak of 'workers' as if they were a single group, but how aligned are their interests in reality?"
"Your Highness! Are you truly promising to expand suffrage?"
"I am."
"Then Your Highness—!"
The questions during the discussion aimed at winning over representatives of the workers were exactly what Killian had expected.
Most of the Chartists' demands were things that had already been achieved in the modern world he came from.
He knew they were inevitable.
He also knew how long it had taken for them to be implemented—and the social and economic upheavals that had accompanied them.
So he spoke smoothly, mixing appealing rhetoric with sharp observations about the weaknesses in the Chartists' arguments.
"Very well," Killian finally said. "It seems we've reached a certain understanding, so let's begin wrapping up."
"Since some of you accuse us of offering nothing but vague promises, I will add one small commitment to demonstrate our sincerity."
"Within the near future—likely within this very month—a law will be passed to protect workers' living conditions."
"To be precise, factories and companies employing a certain number of workers will be required to provide facilities for their workers' welfare."
"Factory owners will never agree to that," someone objected. "Will Parliament really pass such a law?"
"Of course. I've already discussed the matter with the Prime Minister."
"The British Empire does not ignore the voices of its citizens."
"At least not while I still breathe."
"Even if I cannot directly intervene in domestic politics, I can certainly ensure your voices are heard."
Killian had not made that promise lightly.
Recently, new regulations had limited working hours for women and children to fifty-eight hours per week.
There were growing calls to extend similar protections to adult workers.
Industrialists would rage against it, of course.
But in the original timeline such laws passed only a few years later anyway.
So rather than immediately imposing working-hour restrictions, it was better to start with something less controversial.
Improving workers' facilities—sleeping areas and meals—would relieve some of the most unbearable conditions.
If large protests erupted now, the government might be forced to grant workers suffrage earlier than intended.
But if the issue was framed simply as improving facilities, factory owners would likely accept it reluctantly.
Later, when factory laws eventually limited working hours, Killian would receive credit a second time.
Handled properly, the Chartist movement would never escalate as violently as it had in the original timeline.
And even if revolutionary waves swept across Europe, Britain itself might remain stable.
History had proven one thing clearly:
Workers who could visibly feel their lives improving rarely rose in nationwide revolt.
Human nature simply worked that way.
"Well then," Killian concluded, "today's discussion has been most enjoyable. If we have another opportunity in the future, we can speak even more openly."
"Thank you, Your Highness. We never expected the Prince Consort to show such concern for us…"
"How could the royal family ignore the voices of its citizens? Seeing our people live better lives is the greatest joy for both myself and Queen Victoria."
Of course, some would remain dissatisfied.
But now that many supported him, the extremists had effectively lost their momentum.
Movements like these depended on unity.
Once divisions appeared, radical action inevitably weakened.
With nothing left of importance to say, it seemed safe to conclude.
Just as Killian placed his hand on the armrest to stand—
a young man who had been hesitating raised his hand and shouted.
"Your Highness! May I ask one more question?"
"Your Highness must depart now—"
"It's only one question," Killian interrupted. "How long could that possibly take? Go ahead, young man. What would you like to ask?"
"I would like to know whether Your Highness believes the current system—where capitalists employ workers to create social value—will continue to develop in the future."
"…?"
That question had a distinctly red flavor to it.
But this was still a time before The Communist Manifesto.
Surely it was just coincidence.
The term communism had appeared in France before, and young intellectuals sometimes toyed with such ideas.
That didn't necessarily mean they were revolutionaries.
Calming himself, Killian studied the young man holding a notebook densely filled with writing.
Judging by the notes, he had recorded both the earlier speech and the entire discussion.
His bright eyes suggested he had been deeply impressed.
Surely such an earnest student couldn't be some agent of revolutionary chaos.
"Before I answer, I realize I never heard your name. Your accent suggests you're not from England. Where are you from?"
"Well… my friend and I are not citizens of the British Empire. But we were very curious about your speech and hoped to hear it, so when this opportunity appeared…"
"That's perfectly fine. In fact, I welcome visitors from abroad. The values of the British Empire should spread across the world."
"Thank you, Your Highness! My friend and I are from Prussia. We recently arrived in London after traveling through France. You are very different from the royal figures we've seen in Prussia and Paris, so I wished to ask you this question."
"My name is Friedrich Engels."
"Mm, I see. Friedrich Eng—Engels… from Prussia?"
Killian repeated the name automatically—
then his voice rose slightly.
No wonder the question had such a suspiciously red tone.
It hadn't been his imagination after all.
Then that meant the friend standing next to him was—
"And what is the name of the friend you mentioned?"
"He's Karl Marx!"
Damn it.
Not merely a follower of the cult—
but the founding prophet himself had appeared in person.