London is the capital of the United Kingdom, its largest city, and its premier port.
It stands alongside New York, Paris, and Tokyo as one of the world’s leading metropolitan centers.
While the greater metropolitan area is vast, its historical core has served as a global hub of politics, economics, culture, and art since the eighteenth century.
From the dawn of the nineteenth century until the early twentieth, it was the beating heart of the British Empire and the largest city in the world.
Today, it remains a highly diverse metropolis.
Its residents hail from all corners of the globe, bringing together countless races, religions, and cultures.
Over three hundred languages are spoken within its borders.
It is also a world-renowned tourist destination, home to countless historic landmarks and museums.
But above all, London is famous worldwide as the City of Fog.
On August 7, 1985, a relentless, suffocating mist blanketed the city.
Visibility dropped to less than twenty meters.
Drivers were forced to crawl at a third of their normal speed just to avoid catastrophic accidents.
In weather like this, most Londoners would stay indoors or travel strictly on foot.
Vehicle traffic across the city had dwindled to a halt.
Yet, the few vehicles still braving the roads today were exclusively high-end luxury sedans.
They were all driving in the exact same direction.
Their destination was the western outskirts of London.
There, nestled in the quiet suburbs, stood a medical facility known to every aristocrat in the United Kingdom: George Hospital.
The name sounded remarkably ordinary.
However, it was this very unassuming title that made the institution so extraordinary.
The hospital was founded by the House of George, the undisputed premier aristocratic family of the United Kingdom.
Inside George Hospital lay the most advanced medical equipment in the world, surrounded by the most elegant environments and staffed by the foremost medical authorities on the planet.
Though completely unknown to the general public, it was unequivocally the finest hospital in existence.
Only the British elite knew of its existence.
Even then, only aristocrats whose lineages spanned several centuries were privy to its secrets.
Simply put, George Hospital was the private medical facility of the House of George.
It was never intended to be open to the public.
Maintaining the facility cost tens of millions of pounds annually, but to the George family, such an expense was pocket change.
Over the years, the sheer exclusivity of the hospital led numerous noble houses to petition for access.
Not wanting to alienate the entire British aristocracy, the George family eventually relented.
They opened their doors to outside patients, but the requirements remained incredibly strict.
To receive treatment at George Hospital, a noble’s family lineage had to exceed five hundred years.
If a bloodline had only existed for four hundred and ninety-nine years, they were not permitted to step within ten miles of the premises.
Given these impossible standards, the hospital grounds were usually a place of absolute tranquility.
Today, however, that peace was broken.
Dozens of luxury sedans packed the parking lots.
Nearly fifty people gathered in tight clusters outside the main building, waiting with bated breath.
If a reporter had managed to slip past the gates, they would have been paralyzed with shock.
Every single one of the elderly men standing in the fog was a titan of British society.
Even members of the Royal Family were among the waiting crowd.
The old men murmured quietly amongst themselves, occasionally casting anxious glances toward the towering hospital building.
Meanwhile, the entire seventh floor was packed with people.
Tall, burly bodyguards patrolled the corridors with pistols and submachine guns strapped to their sides.
Their eyes scanned the environment with ruthless vigilance.
Anyone could tell at a glance that these men were elite professionals.
Yet, despite their disciplined focus, the guards kept glancing down the hall.
A shared sense of nervous anticipation hung heavy in the air.
At the very end of the corridor was a private surgical suite.
A tall, handsome man of about thirty paced anxiously outside the doors.
His chiseled features were twisted in distress.
He could not stop staring at the closed doors, fully aware that his wife was inside.
When those doors finally opened, he prayed she would not be coming out alone.
“York, stop pacing back and forth in front of me.
Are you trying to make me dizzy?” an authoritative voice snapped.
An imposing, elderly man sat on a bench outside the surgical suite, glaring at the pacing husband.
“Father is right, York,” a younger man chimed in.
He sat beside the elder, looking to be about twenty-five.
“You are making my head spin as well.
Just sit down and rest for a moment.
Do not forget that George Hospital is the finest medical facility in the world.
Anna is going to be perfectly fine.”
Both York and his younger brother, John, had inherited their father’s towering physique and sharp, handsome features.
Hearing their words, York stopped and offered a miserable smile.
“It is easy for you to say, John.
That is your sister-in-law in there.
She is my wife, and she is carrying my child.
How can I not be anxious?”
York then turned to the older man.
“And Father, do not forget that this is not just my child.
This is your grandchild.
The eldest heir to the House of George.
Are you truly not worried?”
These three men were the masters of George Hospital.
York was the current patriarch of the House of George, the most powerful family in Britain.
Yet, despite his absolute authority over the country’s underworld and elite, he still maintained a deep, fearful reverence for his father, Hammond.
Hammond’s eyes bulged.
He pointed a finger at York.
“What do you mean, I am not nervous?
Anna is carrying the sole heir to the House of George!
If you say I am not nervous again, I will beat you senseless!”
The old man shot up from his chair.
John quickly stood to support his father, pulling him back before he could march over and cane his older brother.
John could not help but sigh.
If he had not been so fiercely competitive in his youth, he never would have suffered the crippling injury that left him permanently infertile.
An ordinary family might have simply adopted a child to carry on the name.
But for the premier noble house of Britain, adoption was strictly forbidden.
No true aristocratic family would ever pass their legacy to someone outside their bloodline.
John knew his father was just as terrified as York.
The entire future of their ancient family rested on the child currently being born.
Every member of the George household had been praying to God for a boy.
A look of quiet sorrow flashed across John’s face.
True aristocrats rarely lacked offspring.
Some reckless nobles had so many illegitimate children they could not even name them all.
But the ancient houses permitted into George Hospital were different.
To maintain the absolute purity of their bloodlines, the elite heirs rarely engaged in casual affairs.
They took only one wife, carefully selected from a family of equal historical standing.
Because of this extreme exclusivity, ancient families naturally had fewer children.
But none were quite as sparse as the House of George.
Hammond raised his walking stick and brought it down hard on York’s head.
York stood perfectly still, taking the blow in silence.
John smiled faintly at the sight.
There was perhaps no one else in the world, not even the Royals, who would dare strike the patriarch of the House of George over the head with a cane.
Just as the old man was preparing for a second swing, the surgical suite doors clicked open.
A nurse rushed out.
Spotting the elder, she hurried over and bowed deeply.
“Lord Hammond, congratulations.
The House of George has a new young master.”
The fury vanished from Hammond’s face instantly, replaced by rapturous joy.
“A boy?
It is a boy!
Bring him out, quickly!
Let me see him!”
Before the words fully left his mouth, two more nurses emerged from the room.
One of them cradled a newborn baby wrapped in a pristine blanket.
The hospital staff fully understood what this child meant to the family, and they wasted no time bringing him out.
Hammond reached out with trembling hands and carefully took the child.
He gently parted the swaddling blanket to see for himself, his eyes lighting up with unbridled joy.
“It is a boy,” the old man laughed, his voice cracking with emotion.
“I finally have a grandson.”
“Father, let me hold him,” York pleaded, stepping forward with eager eyes.
“Let me see my son.”
“Get away from me!” Hammond barked.
“Cannot you see I am holding my grandson?
You dare try to snatch him from me?
If not for the joyous occasion, I would teach you a real lesson.
Go outside and tell the others.
Do not keep them waiting.”
“He is my son, you know,” York muttered under his breath.
But one sharp glare from his father sent him hurrying down the hall and out toward the main entrance.
When York finally emerged from the hospital doors, the crowd of elderly aristocrats immediately swarmed him, their faces taut with anticipation.
York broke into a brilliant smile.
“Thank you all for waiting.
It seems God has heard our prayers.
He has gifted the House of George with a boy.”
A collective cheer erupted from the crowd.
These men represented bloodlines older than half a millennium.
They knew exactly what a male heir meant for a family of such standing.
They had worried right alongside the George family, and now, they shared in their overwhelming triumph.