Marvel 1919 : Rise of an Empire

The next day, George returned to accompany Professor Osborn at the academic exchange conference.

The breakthrough in the laboratory had come as a surprise even to the university. The school had only approved George's lab application because he was funding the entire experiment out of pocket. The university's role was mostly to provide the space and a few basic resources. Even the small team led by Professor Osborn had been hired using George's money.

At that time, MIT was not yet the global powerhouse it would become decades later. So when word spread of the significant progress in medical research and the boost to institutional prestige, the university eagerly pursued more collaborative exchanges with neighboring schools.

Other universities saw an opportunity, too. Several reputable European institutions sent invitations, requesting that George and Osborn visit for international academic exchanges.

Still, George and Osborn had no immediate plans for overseas travel. Osborn had already given George a heads-up that they were expected in Britain in April for a scheduled visit to Cambridge University. The early notice wasn't surprising—George was no longer an average student. As a billionaire with considerable business and political engagements, his calendar had to be planned months in advance.

While George continued accompanying Osborn to various conferences, an unexpected call came at the hotel.

"What? A lawyer wants to see me? And it's about an inheritance?" George asked, surprised.

"Yes, sir. That's what the gentleman said," the maid at the New York villa answered. "That's why I contacted you."

"All right, I'll be back tomorrow," George said, still full of questions.

George racked his memory but couldn't recall any relatives on either side of his family. His childhood had been turbulent; his parents never spoke of extended family, and there were no photographs or keepsakes. He'd heard stories from his previous life of relatives appearing only after someone became successful, but this was the first time he'd heard about an inheritance tied to fame.

That evening, he told Professor Osborn about the call, then had his driver take him back to New York. Conveniently, the university hosting the ongoing exchange was nearby, so George had been commuting by car.

The next afternoon, George returned home and received the lawyer's contact details from the maid.

Plaza Hotel, New York — Coffee Shop

There, George met Luke Jackson, the lawyer who claimed to be from Britain.

After ordering coffee, George spoke first. "Hello, Lawyer Luke Jackson. I'm George Orwell. I hear you have something for me?"

"Yes, Mr. Orwell. I represent the estate of your maternal grandmother, Mary Elizabeth Swinton. Initially, I needed to verify that you were Keira Swinton's son, but by now your identity is easily confirmed."

"Honestly, Mr. Jackson, my parents never mentioned anyone beyond themselves, so I don't know much about my grandmother on my mother's side. Can you fill me in?" George asked.

"Of course. Though I only met her in her final days, she shared some family history with me."

For the next half hour, Luke filled in the blanks.

It was a classic story—a wealthy noblewoman who fell in love with a commoner and eloped. George's mother had been engaged to a European nobleman before choosing his father instead. The elopement brought disgrace to both families, which explained why George's grandmother was never able to publicly acknowledge her daughter.

Still, blood ties were difficult to sever. The elderly woman missed her daughter and had sent people to the U.S. to find her, though the aristocratic pride of her family prevented her from reuniting with her daughter. She was, however, aware of George and recognized him as kin.

Before passing away, she had drafted a will leaving her entire inheritance to her only heir, George Orwell.

The Swinton family was an ancient noble lineage in Britain, dating back to around 900 AD. They were Anglo-Scottish and predated the Windsor dynasty by roughly a century.

Luke knew little about George's maternal grandfather—only that he was a European émigré from an old noble family with roots in Eastern Europe. Given the family history, George guessed his grandfather's lineage might have been from the Baltic or Slavic regions, which could explain his golden hair paired with striking dark eyes.

The inheritance included a small town fiefdom called Svente and the noble title of Earl.

Yes, an Earl, complete with hereditary rights and privileges. Of course, the paperwork Luke gave George only confirmed his eligibility. To fully claim the title, George would have to travel to Britain, undergo legal formalities, and be officially invested by the Royal Family.

George was inclined to trust Luke. Having seen enough scams in his life, he knew this wasn't one—scammers didn't usually ask victims to appear in person for tedious bureaucratic steps.

After clarifying a few more details, they parted. Luke reminded him that the Royal Family typically held investiture ceremonies every July. Also, inheritance taxes had to be paid within six months.

Sitting back in the car, George looked at the certificate and smiled faintly. A trip to Europe was now definitely on the agenda.

Since acquiring the three major Texas oil fields, George had set his sights on another prize: the Persian Gulf.

At the time, the region was still under British colonial rule. George had originally planned a gradual acquisition of land there using his powers and influence, but he knew it would be a slow, careful process.

Now, with his new noble identity, the game had shifted. The possibilities for influence and manipulation had expanded significantly.

After a solid night's rest, George received a call from Ryan the next morning—an update on the ongoing investigation.

As expected, Ryan and his team had returned to Reno and captured those involved. The suspects confessed to being bribed. The person behind the bribes had already committed suicide.

According to Ryan's description, the man resembled the mastermind behind the earlier bank robbery—the same individual who had recruited Basini for the Wells Fargo heist and bribed the local police chief to delay their response.

That trail had gone cold. Shortly after the suicide, someone in the shadows received the news and felt a weight settle.

The suicide had been a disposable pawn—a test. If successful, good. If not, the failure wouldn't trace back to the true mastermind.

Rumors quickly spread that George had subdued the Jewish Gang. His power had grown.

The mastermind, now wary, knew future attempts wouldn't be so easy.

George, unaware of the silent chess game unfolding, took no offense at the dead end. Instead, he instructed his team to continue investigating discreetly, tracing the man's background and contacts carefully.

Meanwhile, word came that representatives from all the gang families had arrived in New York and checked in at the Security Base.

About ten days had passed since the underground meeting—enough time to rally their forces.

George ended the call after instructing Ryan to make the necessary arrangements and return.

Over the next two days, George stayed at the Security Base. While planting Elemental Seeds didn't drain him like before, the sheer number of people made the process time-consuming. With over two hundred individuals, it took two full days of focus.

__________________________________________________________________________

Interlude: The Other Half of the Crest

(The Story of George's Mother)

The name Swinton could open most doors in Britain — and had been doing so for over a thousand years.

Coats of arms faded, fortunes changed hands, but the Swintons remained, steady as stone. Their name was inked in the Domesday Book, whispered in royal halls, and stitched into the banners of ancient wars. Aristocracy ran not just through their blood, but through the foundations of Britain itself.

And Evelyne Swinton — George's grandmother — was born at the heart of it.

The match had raised a few eyebrows.

Evelyne was the daughter of a British countess and heir to one of the most venerable houses in the north of England. Her husband — George's grandfather — was titled as well, but not British. He came from a noble house on the continent, a respected European family with land, wealth, and lineage. But to the old British elite, foreign titles were a different breed. They weren't less, necessarily — just... outside. Exotic. Difficult to place.

Whispers followed the engagement:

"A continental noble? Hmm."

"Well, she could have done better — a proper British line, perhaps."

But Evelyne didn't care.

Her husband — sharp, thoughtful, warm-eyed — treated her like a person, not a prize. He didn't come from a court obsessed with ceremonial precision. His nobility came with expectation, yes, but also freedom. They settled in Sussex, close enough to London for appearances, far enough to ignore them when they liked.

Their daughter — George's mother — was born into that quiet space between worlds.

She grew up surrounded by books, servants, formal dinners, and horses. She wore pearls by thirteen and spoke three languages by sixteen. On paper, she was everything a noble British girl ought to be.

But there were always looks.

From tutors. From the daughters of dukes. From family friends who stopped just short of saying what they were thinking.

"A Swinton, yes, but only half."

Her father's side — though titled and wealthy — wasn't "ours." Not British. Not from the right clubs or schooling traditions. That distinction hung in the air wherever she went.

She endured it for years.

She smiled when spoken to. She curtsied when introduced. But by the time she turned twenty, her patience was wearing thin. England — or rather, the version of it her mother's peers upheld — had made up its mind about her.

So, she made up her mind about it.

America was chaotic, loud, and unapologetically new.

And that's exactly what she wanted.

She crossed the Atlantic alone, financed partly by her father, partly by inheritance. Her mother called it "a phase." But she never returned.

In New York, she built a new life — elegant, yes, but on her terms.

She opened a shop on the Upper East Side that specialized in European antiques — textiles, furniture, and small artworks. Not a cluttered bazaar, but a curated salon. She wore her accent lightly and spoke of her English childhood only when asked. Her clients loved the air of nobility she carried, the grace of someone raised in halls with 200-year-old fireplaces.

Within a year, she was turning a profit. Within three, she had social invitations of her own.

Then, He came in.

He didn't announce himself. Didn't need to. He arrived in work boots, not patent leather, and asked about a set of early French candlesticks — not because they were expensive, but because they reminded him of something on his grandmother's farm.

He was, by all measures, American gentry — a landowner with 4,500 acres, a self-sustaining estate, and hundreds of laborers under his name. Cotton, timber, and horses. His fortune had grown across generations, not overnight. But it was American wealth, respected, but not old in the European sense.

She liked him immediately.

He asked real questions. Not about price, but about age, material, and context. He wanted to know where things came from. How were they made? What kind of hands had touched them?

They had dinner. Then lunch. Then walk in the park.

When he proposed, she said yes without hesitation.

There was no council to answer to, no whispers about bloodlines. He didn't care about coats of arms or ancestral portraits. And he loved her — not because of where she came from, but because of who she had become.

They married in a quiet ceremony in Virginia.

The house was nothing like Sussex — simpler, open, loud with birds in the morning. But it had a steadiness she hadn't felt in years. The workers knew Elijah by name. The land stretched so far that morning fog took hours to lift.

She wrote to her mother. The response was short, formal, and cool. No invitation was offered. She didn't write again.

George was born two years later.

From the start, he was different.

Observant. Quiet, but never passive. He'd follow adults with his eyes, even as a baby, as if storing information for later use. He didn't cry much. He didn't need to.

He spent his early years running barefoot through fields, learning the names of birds, and watching his father negotiate contracts with suppliers. But on rainy afternoons, his mother would pull out books from her London days — leather-bound volumes with faded family crests, history, language, and logic puzzles.

He read them early. Remembered them easily.

She never made a point of telling George where he came from.

He didn't grow up hearing about the Swinton estate, or the lion carved in the great fireplace, or the guests who dined by candlelight on floors older than the United States itself.

But she didn't hide it either.

One day, when he was eleven, he asked her what the family motto meant — the Latin one, etched into the spine of a book he'd pulled from her collection.

"Fides Super Omnia," she said. "It means 'Faith above all things.'"

"Whose faith?"

"Yours," she said simply. "In yourself. In your purpose."

George carried that line forward, though he never quite understood its origin until much later.

By the time he returned to Britain as a man, the Swinton name had become a historical footnote — powerful still, but more symbolic than active.

But George?

George was something new, A man reborn in a different world.

[END]