Plunkett kicked open the half-closed wooden door, and the gate burst open under the impact. Sea fog instantly poured in, and the old comrades of the 95th Regiment under Plunkett’s command quickly followed, rushing into the backyard of Albion Villa.

The guards of Kensington Palace stationed in the backyard were originally chatting and joking. Seeing the situation, they were momentarily stunned.

After all, no one expected that someone would dare to forcibly intrude into the residence of a royal family member.

But they were carefully selected guards, and many of them, like Plunkett, were seasoned veterans discharged from the army. After a brief moment of shock, their professional instincts and habits ingrained from years in the military suddenly tightened their expressions.

"Stop them!"

Swords were drawn simultaneously, and the cold glint flashed under the dim lights. Accompanied by the rapid scraping of boots on the slippery stones, the guards charged towards Plunkett and his men.

However, the seasoned veterans of the 95th Regiment, who had long been accustomed to the artillery fire of the Peninsular War and the Waterloo battlefield, advanced instead of retreating, dispersing like hunting dogs in an instant, flanking on both sides.

The clash of steel rang out, sparks flying from the blades.

Plunkett raised his copper-headed baton to block a blow, then used the butt of his revolver to strike the enemy’s forearm, following up with a kick to the opponent’s stomach. A scream was heard, followed by the clatter of a sword falling to the ground.

But Plunkett’s victory was actually rather incidental, because ultimately, these retired veterans of the 95th Regiment were all expert marksmen, and in terms of close combat, they were actually inferior to these Kensington Palace guards who had retired from the cavalry units.

Chief Wayne, beside him, was caught in a tough battle. A burly guard wielded his sword straight at Wayne’s chest, but fortunately Plunkett arrived just in time and tackled him at the waist. Together, they managed to pin the guard firmly to the ground.

The guard, breathing heavily with widened eyes, shouted, "You fools, do you even know who I am? I am not just an ordinary guard! I’m a Cavalry Lieutenant of the 15th Light Dragoon Regiment!"

Plunkett and Wayne initially didn’t intend to harm him, but upon hearing his regiment number, they didn’t hesitate to punch him in the jaw: "Ha! The 15th Light Dragoon Regiment? You guys at the Coa Bridge almost sent our entire regiment to meet God!"

The surrounding veterans of the 95th Regiment spat and cursed at that guard.

"Next time, when you attend a retired officer club gathering, ask your retired superiors well — at the Battle of Coa, were they blind, or did they suddenly forget how to use their telescopes!"

"The French artillery first unleashed a volley on our positions, and before we could catch our breath, you damn ’old tailors’ couldn’t wait to come for our lives! What? Just because we wore dark jackets, you mistook us for the French Army?!"

The guards initially kept cursing, but as Plunkett and his men sharply pointed out the unbearable memories of "Coa Bridge," "artillery bombardment," "dark jackets," and other such past incidents, their expressions gradually stiffened.

The Battle of Coa was not well-known in the Peninsular War. In fact, since it left Britain in a sorry state, the war itself was so comical that hardly anyone talked about it domestically.

As for the incident where the cavalry, mistaking the 95th Regiment’s dark uniforms for the French troops and nearly launching an attack on friendly forces, it was a detail unknown to most aside from those who were there.

The subdued guards looked at each other and asked Plunkett, "W-who exactly are you people?"

At that moment, a brief whooshing sound came from the other end of the yard.

Pa!

Arthur’s eagle-headed cane struck firmly on the shoulder of the last guard who was still resisting. The man grunted, and his sword fell to the ground with a clatter as he staggered and fell onto the wet stones.

Arthur retrieved his cane and walked with calm steps into the lit area, looking down at the guards lying on the ground. His voice was as cold as frost: "You are quite loyal. However, your loyalty is misplaced."

"Arthur... Sir Hastings?"

The guards were uniformly stunned: "Why are you here?"

"You have the nerve to ask why I’m here?"

He paused, his tone suddenly deepening: "During a time when the country needs protection, you’re standing guard for a court parasite conspiring to usurp and kidnap the will of the Princess. Tell me, is this loyalty or treason? Do you truly not understand Conroy’s schemes, or are you pretending not to?"

Arthur’s questions left the guards dumbfounded. Although they were also aware that something felt off at Albion Villa lately, as if Princess Victoria was again having a dispute with the Duchess of Kent, refusing to come out of her room for several days to see her mother.

However, the guards were perplexed as to how a mother-son relationship issue had anything to do with treason.

Exchanging confused glances, the guards couldn’t help but ask, "Sir, what do you mean by that? Isn’t Princess just sulking? How have we become traitors?"

Arthur did not explain a word. He turned around, striding directly towards the long door of the villa’s back porch, as if it had never been an obstacle, but rather an open passageway intended for him all along.