Single Mother of a Werewolf Baby

Chapter 269: Across the Kingdom

After the success of the rally, Prime Ministerial candidate Baron Anthony Hayward Chapman launched his party’s Bus Tour across the Kingdom... an ambitious campaign designed to secure key seats crucial for a parliamentary majority, generate local media coverage, and, above all, demonstrate that the party was truly listening to the people.

According to the schedule, the tour would take the candidates to schools, where they would meet children and discuss future investment in education; to factories and farms, to speak with workers and farmers about business and agricultural reform; and to town halls, pubs, cafés, and museums across the land.

But the Kingdom was far too vast for one bus, one man, one message. The campaign’s strategists divided the central leadership into four teams. Baron Anthony Hayward Chapman, Baron John Constantine, Baroness Angela Dodson, and Baron Ernest Prentice would each lead their own route, carrying the party’s banner to every corner of the realm.

Four coaches, each emblazoned with the resolute image of Baron Anthony and the bold slogan KINGDOM FIRST, set out in four directions... rolling symbols of determination, each carrying a fragment of the party’s high command toward its own battles, its own constituencies, and its own interpretation of the national creed.

Anthony’s bus, the flagship, soon became a moving embodiment of the campaign’s spirit—a rolling repository of the nation’s hopes, frustrations, and identity. It wasn’t enough for him merely to visit communities; he had to absorb them.

In Newcastle upon Tyne, he stood on the wind-swept Quayside, the arched silhouette of the Tyne Bridge behind him, a monument to the Kingdom’s once-mighty industrial age.

His secretary reminded him quietly to maintain the right pace... to show a little weariness, a touch of exhaustion. Authenticity mattered.

On the road, they made deliberate stops at motorway service stations, roadside parks, and outside bustling shopping centres. Cameras captured him sharing chips with a family at a plastic table, shaking hands with a mechanic, laughing with delivery drivers. They showed the Baron as carefree among the common folk, eating what they ate, speaking as they spoke, humbly asking for their vote.

Every moment was filmed... carefully, but never too carefully. The footage appeared across news channels, the clips spun into campaign reels, and within hours, they went viral across social media.

#KingdomFirst was trending

speech there was one of unleashing potential... of a "Northern Powerhouse not as a slogan, but as a reality," of a Skills Fund that would create not just potters, but coders, innovators, and builders of the digital age. The applause that followed was thunderous, impressive even among the gathered crowd of polished professionals. The same slogan had taken on new meaning...

farm in the Yorkshire Dales, standing in mud-splattered wellingtons beside an elderly farmer fretting over tariffs. From there, he travelled to a university lecture hall in Oxford, debating the ethics of artificial intelligence with a room full of spirited

campaign bus, he would stare at the map on his tablet, watching the little glowing pin that

leafy lanes of the true-blue heartlands. His constituency event in the Thames Valley was less a rally and more an assembly of the established order, held beneath a grand marquee on the manicured lawns of a stately home. The

declared, his voice a deep, comforting rumble that barely needed amplification. "Prosperity. The quiet confidence of a nation that knows its own mind. That is what we

walls... meeting with local association chairmen in wood-panelled clubs, his very presence a living emblem of continuity. In the cathedral close of Winchester, he spoke of heritage and the sacred duty of preservation. In the commuter towns of Surrey, he became a bulwark against the fear of fiscal excess. His

through the places others merely flew over. His constituency gatherings were held in village halls, Legion clubs, and sometimes no more than a small huddle of activists on a windswept street corner in a Northern marginal. He was there for the foot soldiers, the loyal volunteers who delivered leaflets, knocked on doors, and manned phone banks long after the speeches had faded from the

club in a former mining town in South Wales, where the air was thick with beer and nostalgia, he stood before a handful of steadfast loyalists. There were no

talk about the air war," he growled, his voice rough with age and conviction. "But I’m here for the ground war. It’s you... on the doors, in the rain... that wins this. Not the telly. Not the

high. "To the Kingdom. And to getting the job

pride. In a coastal town in

rhetoric, no soaring promise. Instead, they offered something older, steadier... a pledge that loyalty would not be forgotten, that the party’s heart still

ensuring the great machine of the movement remained oiled, grounded, and ready for the long

Her constituency... a tapestry woven from affluent suburbs and post-industrial towns... did not receive a surgical strike of slogans and sound bites, but

she sat with a circle of mothers.

the mothers, the grandmothers, the daughters who hold the fabric of this country together. Our government will put that fabric first. We will respect the work of the home, support the carers, and ensure