Chapter 4

Laudanum.

To someone tasked with stopping the Opium War, this was a situation where wine laced with opium was being handed over under the guise of a headache remedy.

I looked around my surroundings once more.

Dozens of people standing at the pinnacle of power were passing around wine mixed with laudanum to each other, discussing state affairs, designing foreign policy, and mapping out the future of Britain.

‘They drink that stuff without a second thought?’

How can people do such a thing so openly?

Do they even possess an ounce of guilt?

‘No, that wouldn’t be it.’

It wasn’t that they lacked guilt; rather, they likely had no reason to feel any.

Because the common sense of this era must have been shaped this way.

“Your Majesty?”

Lord Melbourne tilted his head in bewilderment. It must have seemed strange for the Queen to receive the glass and not drink it.

“Thank you.”

I accepted the glass.

I held it, but I didn’t bring it to my lips.

The wine inside the glass shimmered, reflecting the candlelight.

The opium was invisible. The scent was faint, too. Perhaps the taste was masked by the wine to the point where it was barely noticeable.

Naturally, that was the essence of opium. It seeps in unseen and consumes a human before they even realize it.

‘If I refuse this glass here… I suppose I would be refusing their world and the common sense of this era, wouldn’t I?’

Lord Melbourne was still watching me with a benevolent smile.

If I drink this glass, I become a part of this era.

I accept their common sense, melt into their world, and become a citizen of a world that calls opium a medicine—but conversely, if I refuse this glass, I remain a stranger in this era.

‘Right, an outsider is the only kind of person who can change the world, isn’t they?’

What is a whistleblower, after all?

Someone who remains inside the organization, yet rejects the organization’s common sense.

Someone who is inside, but looks outside.

Someone who belongs, yet does not assimilate, is they not?

The crystal glass, shining like a rainbow under the candlelight, asked me:

‘Will you assimilate into this empire, or will you remain this empire’s whistleblower?’

I answered the question.

“For Britain.”

My response was to raise the glass ever so slightly.

After all, no subject possessed the right to refuse a toast proposed by the monarch.

The moment Lord Melbourne raised his head and tipped the glass into his mouth, someone tapped him on the shoulder, drawing his gaze toward them.

“Prime Minister, I have a word to say.”

It was Foreign Secretary Lord Palmerston, with his fox-like gaze.

He approached Lord Melbourne, bowed politely, and showed him a letter sealed with red wax.

“An urgent dispatch from Afghanistan.”

Lord Melbourne’s brow furrowed slightly before he asked for my understanding.

“Your Majesty, would you excuse me for a moment?”

“Of course. By all means.”

I smiled and nodded while naturally keeping the glass concealed in my grip.
Lord Melbourne vanished toward the study alongside Lord Palmerston.

-Phew.

I let out a quiet sigh of relief.

I had dodged the crisis for now, but I needed to get rid of this glass containing the unholy beverage.

Right on cue, I spotted a servant passing by with a drink tray.

“Hold on.”

I stopped the servant and slipped the glass I was holding onto their tray.

“I won’t be needing any more of this.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

The servant bowed their head and disappeared into the crowd.

‘That was a close one.’

The moment the tension dissipated, the air in the banquet hall suddenly felt suffocating.

Avoiding the notice of the crowd, I stepped out through the glass doors leading to the terrace connected to the banquet hall.

The air of a summer night rushed in. The crisp yet moisture-laden night breeze of London cooled my flushed cheeks. The noise of the banquet hall faded away beyond the glass doors, leaving only the sound of crickets to fill the silence.

‘The Opium War….’

Up until now, my thoughts had honestly been limited to how I could persuade Parliament and diplomatically avoid friction with Qing China.

Yet to think it was a daily routine for the highest-ranking figures leading the country to mix laudanum into their wine right here in the beating heart of London, Britain?

‘Ha, you’ve got to be kidding me.’

Only now did all the pieces feel like they were locking into place.

Why the British Parliament had voted to pass the Opium War.

With even the noble lords acting like this right off the bat, who on earth would have seriously worried about or feared the harms of laudanum?

To them, laudanum was merely a medicine to clear the head and a fashionable trend of high society.

Whether the people of Qing China became addicted to opium and their country fell to ruin, what on earth did that have to do with them?

If anything, they probably saw it as a grand opportunity to make money.

‘This won’t do.’

Stopping the Opium War was important, but if I couldn’t stop the distribution of laudanum spreading like cancer cells through British society right now, it would all be for nothing.

Because if I just stopped the war, I would ultimately be leaving British people to rot away slowly while drowning in laudanum.

Of course, it could turn out to be a dangerous path.

The moment I touched the nerves of the heavyweights involved in this, my life might be put at risk.

Weren’t things just the same back then, though, when I blew the whistle against my company?

As much as my own life mattered, the lives of other people whose names and faces I didn’t even know were precious, too.

I looked up at the night sky.

Whether I die here or die there, life is only lived once anyway.

‘Right, let’s do this.’

Clutching the cold marble railing tightly, I steeled my resolve.

The following afternoon, I summoned Lord Melbourne to the drawing room.

“Yesterday’s party was truly delightful, Lord Melbourne.”

“I am overjoyed to hear that Your Majesty enjoyed it.”

“However, toward the end of the party, it seemed everyone was quite intoxicated.”

At my words, Lord Melbourne chuckled as if it were no big deal.

“Haha. Well, isn’t a party inherently a place for such merrymaking, Your Majesty?”

“That may be so. But it seemed many people were intoxicated by… something other than wine.”

When I dropped the hint while looking straight into his eyes, Lord Melbourne’s gaze flashed sharp for a split second as if trying to probe my intent, before softening once more. He let out a light sigh.

“Ah, you must mean laudanum.”

The word slipped from his lips far too easily.

I felt a momentary jolt of surprise, but forced myself to nod with an air of nonchalance.

“Indeed. A most unfortunate fact.”

…Eh?

I doubted my own ears.

What did he just say? An unfortunate fact?

It was an unexpected reaction.

I had assumed Lord Melbourne was completely unaware of the harms of narcotics, or that he knew and was willfully turning a blind eye.

Yet he already knew.

Even to the extent that taking laudanum was an unfortunate fact.

“You… knew, then.”

“Of course, Your Majesty. How could I not?”

A bitter smile settled upon Lord Melbourne’s face.

“While laudanum serves as a medicine that grants many people a temporary escape from their agony, in the end, it is a poison that eats away at the soul.”

He wasn’t unaware of the harms of laudanum?

And before that, knowing full well what it was, he had handed me a glass yesterday calling it a miraculous cure for headaches!

Was this supposed to be British chivalry? Smiling to your face while pushing poison from behind?

‘Well, turns out I didn’t fall into Britain, I fell into the Sichuan Tang Clan. That must be it.’

My head was instantly filled with utter confusion.

‘Or is this some kind of test for me? Or does he want me to get addicted to laudanum?’

All sorts of suspicions blossomed one after another, but Lord Melbourne’s ensuing words once again missed my expectations by a wide margin.

“As Your Majesty knows, there are currently no proper painkillers in Britain. To subjects suffering from tooth-rotting agony, coughs that keep them awake all night, and diarrhea that feels like it’s tearing their bodies apart, opium is practically their only salvation.”

“Salvation…?”

“Indeed. Because it stops pain faster and more reliably than any other medicine. To doctors and patients alike, this opium is truly regarded like a miracle drug.”

Continuing his explanation, he stated that at the time, opium wasn’t simply a recreational indulgence in Britain.

Back in an era without proper anesthetics or antibiotics, opium was nothing short of a godsend to patients suffering from agonizing pain.

Hearing it out, it wasn’t entirely wrong, either.

Even in the 21st century, painkillers extracted from opium were like a last ray of hope for those suffering from extreme pain, such as terminal cancer patients.

“Because of such powerful efficacy, people relatively lightly brush off the dangers of addiction or overdose.”

“However… if it’s a drug that powerful, it must surely be dangerous. For instance, addiction symptoms and the like.”

To my question laced with concern, Lord Melbourne smiled faintly.

“Your Majesty, addiction is not a disease.”

What on earth is this nonsense?

Addiction isn’t a disease…?

“Of course, overusing it can cause problems. But Your Majesty, this is not a problem with laudanum; it is a problem of the person using it.”

“A problem with the person?”

“Indeed. Addiction is a symptom that appears only in those with weak wills or moral depravity. To noble gentlemen and ladies of high standing who know how to control themselves, it is merely a bad habit.”

‘Good grief.’

I couldn’t close my mouth.

In 21st-century South Korea, addiction was recognized as a brain-related disorder and treatment was encouraged, but to people in the Victorian era, addiction seemed to be regarded merely as weak willpower or moral corruption, drawing nothing but pointing fingers.

It was baffling, but Lord Melbourne’s explanation didn’t stop there.

“Of course, the lower classes using laudanum is a slightly different matter. Unrestrained use of laudanum driven by untamed instincts, like that of the lower classes, must be viewed as an abuse or vice.”

A bad habit when nobles do it, but a vice when commoners do it?

The exact same action gained a different name depending on social standing. That vulgar 21st-century joke—“If I do it, it’s romance; if someone else does it, it’s a scandal”—wasn’t a joke in 19th-century Britain; it was law and custom?

A hollow chuckle escaped me at the double standard applied according to class, but I received an even greater shock from what followed next.

“And… laudanum is an indispensable medicine for noblewomen.”

“…Pardon? Noblewomen?”

“That is correct.”

Nodding as if sharing some proud cultural heritage, Lord Melbourne continued.

“Because there is simply nothing quite like laudanum when it comes to medicine for women.”

‘Laudanum is a… medicine for women…?’

What kind of nonsense was this?

“Why is that?”

“First, because of the numerous ailments that manifest exclusively in women.”

Lord Melbourne’s explanation transcended my imagination.

First, medicine at the time lumped countless symptoms occurring in female bodies into vague diagnoses like hysteria or nervous breakdown.

Excruciating menstrual cramps, postpartum pain and depression following childbirth, all kinds of suffering during menopause.

The screams of the female body were unheard by the medicine of this era. No, they chose not to hear them.

Because women’s pain was not treated as a disease worthy of serious study, but rather as an inherent flaw embedded in the existence of womanhood.

The prescription for that flaw was simple.

Laudanum dissolved in wine. If it wasn’t enough, take more.

After all, the Briton’s friend laudanum stopped pain reliably and swiftly.

‘Are you out of your mind? You’re prescribing laudanum just because they say they hurt?’

Second, noblewomen of the Victorian era had to live suppressing all emotions under suffocatingly strict social norms.

The physical and mental stress coming from managing a massive mansion, hosting endless social parties, and bearing and raising numerous children was beyond imagination, and laudanum was said to be the easiest and fastest way to escape all this pain, anxiety, and depression.

Finishing his explanation, Lord Melbourne wore a bitter smile.

“Your Majesty, it is an unfortunate reality, but it is also true that there are no clear alternatives for now.”

Listening to his words, I recalled the hardships hidden beneath the glamorous lives of nobles I had seen in British period dramas.

Parties and tea times continuing day after day, managing dozens of servants, down to the education and marriage prospects of their children.

Their lives were probably no less demanding—and likely far more so—than the life of a 21st-century working mom.

“So isn’t laudanum in itself the easiest refuge from endless pain, anxiety, and depression?”

After Lord Melbourne’s explanation concluded, I couldn’t say a single word for a while. Only the drawing room clock ticked away. That sound felt unusually loud. Time was flowing. Three years until the Opium War. Everything had to be changed within that timeframe.

However, the meaning of “changing” had completely transformed between just a moment ago and now.

It wasn’t a problem that could be solved by simply crying out, “Laudanum is bad, so let’s stop selling it!”

Because the entire medical, cultural, and social structure of this era was interlocking like giant gears, making laudanum an essential commodity of society.

There are no painkillers, so opium is needed. Women’s pain is not recognized as a disease, so opium is prescribed. Addiction is viewed as moral corruption rather than a disease, so pointing fingers replaces treatment.

Addiction among the lower classes is a vice, while addiction among nobles is a habit, so nobody feels the necessity for regulation.

One gear turned the next gear, and that gear turned another.

Stopping this machine wasn’t enough by just pulling out a single gear. The very design of the machine had to be changed.

‘Now I finally get it.’

Why the difficulty level written in the diary was Impossible (EXTREME).

Because rather than just stopping a war, it was a task akin to a revolution that required overhauling an entire era’s common sense and conventional wisdom from the roots up.

To prevent the Opium War, Britain’s very perception of opium had to be changed first.

Medicine had to be changed, social perception had to be changed, laws had to be changed, and culture had to be changed.

Stopping the war was a subsequent consequence, not the starting point.

The clock in the drawing room kept ticking.

After Lord Melbourne withdrew, I sat alone in my chair. Outside the window, the afternoon of London overlooked the streets. Carriages passed by, pedestrians walked, and street vendors sold their wares. It was a peaceful landscape, but at the very bottom of that peace, laudanum was eating away at this society little by little.

‘Darkness lies nearest the candle.’

I repeated that proverb once more. And I realized. To illuminate the darkness beneath the candle, you must lift the candle itself. Unless the position of the candle is changed, the darkness beneath it will remain darkness forever.