“Next, we have the most noble recipient of the Order of the Garter, the Grand Cross of Saint Michael and Saint George, the Grand Cross of the Bath, the Victoria Cross and the lower grades of Knighthood, the leader of the anti-colonial movement, the bell-ringer of the East India Company, the hero of the Crimean War, a Fellow of the Royal Society, a lifelong dear friend of literary giants such as Dickens and Great Dumas, a steadfast supporter of scientific luminaries like Faraday and Darwin, having served as assistant under-secretary, deputy under-secretary, and permanent under-secretary in departments of the Home Office and the Navy Department of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland, the inaugural Cabinet Secretary and head of the civil service, the first graduate and most distinguished alumnus of our school. Please welcome Sir Arthur Hastings to deliver a speech on the occasion of the fiftieth anniversary of the founding of the University of London.”
Arthur's gaze swept across the crowd before him, looking at the young faces and murmured, “Agares, what do you think I should say?”
The Red Devil's wraith hovered behind him, saliva almost dribbling from the corner of his mouth, “Look at these ignorant souls; they still worship you as a hero. Why not say something they'd like to hear?”
Arthur took a deep breath and let out a deafening roar, “Oxford is a bunch of whores' bastards!”
“Oh!!!!”
The audience erupted into thunderous applause.
“Cambridge is the same!” he added immediately.
The applause grew even more fervent...
(The protagonist, possessed by a devil, travels through 19th-century Britain in a world without magic)

I have already mentioned that this summer Paris is unbearably hot, yet this heatwave is not solely from the heavens but from a young man named Liszt.  


Each of his concerts seems like a disastrous fire: grand and majestic, sparks fly, and the audience is filled with vomit and screams.  


The ladies of Paris tremble under his performance as if struck by lightning, then collapse onto their chair backs, covering their faces with handkerchiefs as if they had just completed a martyrdom.  


Ah! If Joan of Arc could be resurrected at this moment, she would probably be ashamed of this hysterical illusion of French women.  


But please don't misunderstand me. I am not denying Liszt's talent. On the contrary, I am willing to acknowledge that his hands can indeed perform miracles. It's just that these miracles resemble the convulsions of a revival meeting more than revelations of art.  


Chapter 2024 - Chapter 190: Hastings, Come to the Streets of Paris—Don’t Let Me See You