In the original timeline, the nineteenth-century British Empire entered a remarkable golden age, producing a number of highly capable prime ministers.
From William Gladstone to Benjamin Disraeli and John Russell, along with several others, they were all figures who left their names in history.
But the shockwaves I had caused in domestic politics were so great that events had already diverged far too much from the original course of history.
Disraeli and Gladstone might still have a chance to become prime minister, but Russell or Henry Palmerston might never get the opportunity.
Looking at the current political climate, even Disraeli's chances were beginning to look uncertain.
Charles Wellesley was steadily building the foundation to remain prime minister for an unprecedented length of time—perhaps even ruling until retirement.
Normally, no matter how competent a politician might be, external events would eventually shake his position.
Even the most capable leader could do little when international wars or epidemics struck with merciless timing.
After all, no matter how brilliant a man might be, he was not some reincarnated miracle doctor capable of curing diseases outright.
Originally, cholera should have followed exactly that pattern.
In the real timeline, the third global cholera pandemic would eventually cause a catastrophe in London alone, with nearly two hundred thousand deaths.
I did not remember the exact number, but I was fairly sure it was somewhere around two hundred thousand.
Two hundred thousand deaths in a city of two million meant that one out of every ten people had died.
No matter how solid a prime minister's leadership might be, such a disaster would inevitably invite attacks from the opposition.
They would question the initial response, ask whether the damage could have been reduced, and launch accusations from every direction.
Agitation and outright fabrication would follow.
But now, even the cholera epidemic had instead become a catalyst strengthening Wellesley's government.
"You are truly remarkable, Prime Minister! I hear the Conservatives are expected to win the next election in a landslide."
"Thank you. But predictions are only predictions. We will continue doing our best until the end."
"Then we may assume relations with France will remain unchanged if your cabinet continues?"
"Of course. France is now a valuable ally to our nation."
Wellesley smirked slightly and added,
"We will also share our information actively so that France may avoid further tragic casualties. When combating disease, what meaning do borders truly have? Nations must help one another."
"Haha… thank you."
"Not at all. The British Empire must set an example for the world. Only then will the idea spread that powerful nations should lead by example."
The tone clearly implied that France stood beneath us.
After casually delivering that quiet humiliation, Wellesley spotted me standing alone to avoid the crowd and waved cheerfully.
"Well, well! If it isn't His Royal Highness—the Conqueror of Cholera, the greatest medical genius Britain has produced since Edward Jenner!"
"Conqueror is a bit much. I merely identified the cause. We haven't even discovered a proper treatment."
"Finding a treatment would be far too much. If you did that as well, people might begin to suspect your true identity. They might wonder whether you are a prophet blessed with divine wisdom! Ha!"
"Or perhaps they would say that, being a man with mysterious Eastern blood, I have awakened the powers of some Oriental shaman. Either way, it wouldn't be a particularly pleasant reputation. That said… I am currently testing a method that might help cholera patients."
"…Pardon? I've heard nothing of this."
Naturally he hadn't.
I had kept it quiet, intending to announce it only once it became certain.
This was the inevitable consequence of being a fraud with shallow, scattered knowledge rather than a genuine expert.
I had accumulated a wide range of information simply to sound knowledgeable when necessary, but the depth of that knowledge was barely at the level of a summary article—far below that of an actual university textbook.
Cholera was no exception.
I had skimmed over it once while pretending to be a doctor, but cholera was almost nonexistent in twenty-first century South Korea, so I had never studied it in detail.
Ironically, I had encountered more references to it while pretending to be a history professor.
If I had known it would come to this, I might have studied the treatment methods more carefully.
But even that would have been asking too much.
Still, I did remember one thing: when patients died from severe diarrhea, providing sufficient fluids and electrolytes could drastically reduce the mortality rate.
If that method truly worked, it would represent another enormous achievement.
So I had mentioned the idea to John Snow and Nightingale.
Of course, hearing such a vague concept alone was hardly enough for them to immediately find a solution.
"…Cholera does cause extreme diarrhea and vomiting," Snow said thoughtfully. "Which would severely disrupt the body's electrolyte balance. Providing water and electrolytes could indeed be effective… Perhaps we could use the recently invented syringe to inject fluid directly into the body."
"Perhaps," I replied. "But injecting each patient individually would be slow and expensive. Would it not be better to mix the ingredients into a solution and simply have patients drink it?"
"…That might be worth trying. But who would make such a solution?"
"You would, of course. Who else? Surely you don't expect me to do it myself."
"…."
From that day onward, John Snow looked at me with the expression of an engineer who had been handed an absurdly brilliant design and then told to somehow build it.
Nevertheless, if the method worked, it might save countless lives the next time cholera appeared.
Only then would I feel comfortable accepting the title of "Conqueror of Cholera."
Count Beaufoy, the French ambassador—who knew nothing of this background—had been listening quietly beside us. Now he suddenly jumped into the conversation.
"You mean you are not only identifying the cause of cholera but also developing a treatment?"
"It is not certain. But if things go well, it may prove effective."
"…Good heavens…"
Seeing the ambassador's bewildered expression, Wellesley smiled as though he had discovered a new toy.
"You must be quite confused. At times even we are frightened by the pace of our own progress."
"Well… if that is truly the case, it would be a tremendous blessing for the entire world."
"I believe so. In truth, this is the result of the government, Parliament, and the Crown working together as one. Perhaps it would be arrogant to say that such unity is something only the British Empire possesses. Haha."
The implication was obvious: You do not have anything like this—and you likely never will.
Even so, the French ambassador could not offer any meaningful rebuttal.
Judging by Wellesley's expression, he intended to enjoy this new toy for a while longer.
It seemed wise for me to step aside.
After offering my excuses, I moved through the party greeting the other distinguished guests.
Normally Victoria would have been hosting the event, but she was currently pregnant with our third child and confined to her chambers under strict medical orders.
As a result, I had to play host in her place while simultaneously serving as the central figure of the celebration.
There was hardly any time to relax.
Even so, I occasionally glanced around to make sure John Snow and Nightingale were not shrinking timidly among so many influential figures.
Fortunately, both seemed to be handling the party quite well.
After all, they were the heroes who had saved London from cholera—and more importantly, they were medical professionals personally supported by me.
Who would dare treat them poorly?
If anything, the nobles were eager to curry favor.
Just like this.
"Ah, Miss Nightingale. No wonder you seem so comfortable in such gatherings—you are clearly a woman of remarkable learning."
"Your statistical charts were almost artistic. You must be quite skilled in mathematics."
"How long do you intend to continue working as a nurse?"
"Have there been any marriage proposals for you…?"
Praise poured in from every direction.
Yet Nightingale did not look particularly pleased.
Most of them likely regarded her simply as a well-bred young lady from a good family who had done something admirable.
Still, although several members of Parliament seemed eager to introduce her to their sons, I saw no one behaving particularly forwardly.
Had the noble Snow mentioned simply not attended the party?
While I was scanning the room with mild curiosity, a familiar face from the House of Lords approached me warmly.
"Your Highness! There you are. I had hoped to find you and pay my respects."
"It has been some time, Lord Salisbury. Are you enjoying the ball?"
"Of course. Ha! It seems congratulations are in order for Your Highness as well. One might almost think Providence itself is favoring the British Empire."
"You mean the third child."
"Indeed. Not only I, but the citizens of Britain would surely hope that Your Highness and Her Majesty will have many children."
By modern standards, three children was already quite a lot.
But in the nineteenth century it was considered rather few.
A family was expected to produce at least enough children to form a baseball team.
Victoria herself had once said she wished for at least five.
But there was one concern lingering in my mind, which made me reluctant to pursue children quite so enthusiastically.
Still, nothing unusual had occurred so far.
And given the high infant mortality of this era, having only one son and one daughter was generally considered insufficient.
Even the Privy Council had begun practically singing hymns about the need for a second prince.
Victoria agreed with them.
What choice did I have?
When I remembered the radiant smile on her face after learning she was pregnant with our third child, all I could do was hope that nothing unfortunate would happen in the future.
"Thank you. But it seems you have been searching for me, Lord Salisbury. Do you have some matter you wished to discuss?"
If someone sought me out these days, the reason was usually obvious.
They wanted a share in the massive reconstruction project for London's water and sewer infrastructure.
Many sharp-eyed businessmen had already begun visiting me with sacks of money and various investment proposals.
Of course, ninety-nine percent of them were complete nonsense, and I had rejected them without hesitation.
"Yes. There is a matter I wished to discuss with Your Highness, though I feel rather embarrassed bringing it up."
That was unusual.
Anyone seeking investment would normally speak much more directly.
Curious though I was, I did not press him.
Lord Salisbury was an important figure within the Conservative Party, and maintaining good relations with his family was something I considered valuable.
More precisely, I intended to recruit his promising son for my future political network.
"Please, speak freely. Is this about your son's studies? I heard he had some difficulty at Eton."
"Ah… yes, it is about my son. But not his studies. The boy… well…"
The marquess glanced behind him.
His gaze settled on Nightingale, still surrounded by nobles.
Then he shook his head slowly.
At that moment, something flashed through my mind like lightning.
…Wait. Could it be?
"And what about your son?"
"He was once treated at Your Highness's hospital. Apparently Miss Nightingale cared for him there. Ever since then… he has fallen completely in love. He keeps asking her to accept his courtship. But there is a ten-year difference in their ages. I simply do not know what to do. Since Miss Nightingale is part of the medical staff personally selected by Your Highness, I thought it best to consult you…"
"Ah, I see. I had heard that a young nobleman was courting Nightingale. So that was your son?"
"Yes… my unfortunate son."
What a strange twist of fate.
As I looked between Lord Salisbury and Nightingale across the hall, I was reminded once again how terrifying the butterfly effect of history could be.
After all, the young man Lord Salisbury was complaining about—
Robert Gascoyne-Cecil, the future Marquess of Salisbury—
was someone I had already marked as one of the potential prime ministers who might one day succeed Wellesley.
And yet here he was.
Seventeen or eighteen years old, already chasing after a woman ten years older than himself.
Perhaps the boy needed a taste of Nightingale's hammer before he came to his senses.