Chapter 13
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Translator: Ace
Chapter: 013
Chapter Title: Project Village Demon Subjugation
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Back in England. Back in London.
But that didn't mean everything wrapped up perfectly.
You could tell just by looking at me, the industry senior—or the 21st-century Robinson Crusoe.
That's not the title.
Who remembers every movie title? Swearing on my grandfather's name, I can confidently say Wilson the volleyball is far more famous than the title. Next up is probably FedEx delivery.
A simple example.
"Is our house gone now?"
"...Yeah. That's how it turned out."
"Aw, come on. These things happen. A house isn't a building—it's your big brother and sister."
The family home had been sold off.
If scheming crooks had swindled us after our parents died, I'd be burning with revenge... but it wasn't anything like that.
With Mom and Dad gone so suddenly, their trading business naturally fell apart.
Collecting what we were owed was tough, and the demands for what we owed came fast and furious. There was insurance, sure, but it wasn't nearly enough to cover everything.
Long story short, the people Dad trusted with our assets had sorted things out as fairly as possible.
Houses and horses in London just rack up upkeep costs, so they sold everything off to pay the debts. The leftover cash was set aside for Daniel's and Violet's remaining tuition, plus big future expenses like dowries.
Pretty... tidy, huh?
Yeah. No ugly mess, so count our blessings.
Still, having nowhere to stay right away was a problem—but once again, mysterious connections came through. The club Dad belonged to offered us lodging.
After a long carriage ride, we entered the clubhouse. Club members in their fancy suits rose as one, clapping.
Tobacco-reeking uncles, sneaking glances at each other before crowding around to pat my head, poke and prod, pinch my cheeks... Clothes or not, uncles are uncles, same everywhere, every era.
"Henry's little one made it back alive."
"The Lord is truly merciful."
"How much this poor kid must have suffered! If our club doesn't step up, who will?"
"Exactly. The Leigh tragedy could happen to any of us."
"Uwaaa."
In a macho 19th-century club like this, kids and women were strictly barred, of course.
But not today.
"Come here, kids."
"This is your father's favorite seat."
A man thought dead had returned alive—no one was griping about rules.
Well, some probably were, but with the press and everyone's eyes on the club, they couldn't act cold. It'd be like begging to be torn apart.
Violet's eyes were red again before long. Daniel was surreptitiously scrubbing at his with a handkerchief.
I.
Slowly ran my hand over the seat where Henry Leigh had sat.
"That day... Rain poured like a hole had ripped open in the sky. Waves towered like church steeples, sails shredded by the wind."
The club members, watching us proudly, straightened up. My brother and sister stared at me, eyes puffy.
"At the very end, Father said a gentleman must stay composed to the last.
So I... I'll stay composed. Gentlemanly."
A kid around twelve, teeth gritted, declaring I won't cry. I'm a gentleman.—who wouldn't be moved?
You little punk. Your eyes are all puffy.
Quiet, you ghost. It's all for the mood. Think I'm gonna bawl like some overgrown owl?
Our siblings' sniffling went on for a good while.
Naturally, word of the day's events spread across all of London once more.
I had to part from my brother and sister soon after. They both attended boarding schools.
Next up: where I'd live.
"Arthur, how about staying at Uncle's place?"
"What nonsense! What about our house?"
"Henry and I already agreed—he'd stay with us! I'll take him!"
"You were the one dragging your feet. Let me—"
This was bad.
What is?
Too hard to tell who was genuinely helping without strings attached.
If I were just a normal kid, no need to overthink. Whoever sent me to Eton would do.
But I needed to prep for Eton and jack up my market value.
One question. What exactly are you planning?
Right.
Let me lay it out.
Bottom line: my role model is Dai.
Diamond tycoon who built a fortune, leveraged it into politics, aided the British Empire's expansion—an imperialist.
Gonna scream about war and expansion? For real?
No, just an example.
What I've got: future knowledge, short-term fame as the "miracle survivor kid," Neo-Confucian crash course force-fed in Joseon, plus minor ties to its power players. Strip that away, and I'm just another orphan.
Decent haul, but... turning it into what? Kinda vague.
Yeah.
Ultimate goal: snag the Prime Minister seat. Gotta enter politics, right?
Two paths in: Burn my own cash, or ride someone's patronage.
Hate the second. Too many leashes.
Earn a massive pile young—build a chaebol group—then politics. That's the power to rewrite history.
All that hassle? Just to be PM?
UK, Japan—cabinet PMs collapsing over one policy? Too many cases to count. Risk of getting booted from PM or MP higher if shaking history. Need chaebol-tier clout to even play.
Got it. To bulldoze policies, your own heavyweight status must be massive—even sans PM gig.
Finally catching on.
Next up. How make the money?
Leverage talent and aptitude, obviously.
Far East trade.
Prove this body MAXes Far East profits. Show these opium-peddling, war-starting Brits the power of a 21st-century Englishman.
Enroll in Eton or Harrow, snag elite networks.
Go public as Far East expert, reel in max investments.
One ship to Joseon or China? Money guaranteed. Invest now! Even young Heonjong would fling open Joseon's doors for me, right?
R-really? Dunno much about human affairs...
Guy who rode the king's shoulders? Doors wide open. "Welcome!" Ginseng, blue pills, gold, silver—all at bargain prices. Childhood bonds last forever.
What if not?
No chance.
I've got connections galore.
King's one thing, but Andong Kim Clan? Ironclad. Scary Neo-Conf titans. Heungseon Daewongun handed me his hat. Proof Yi Ha-eung entrusted the new era to me.
But if Joseon digs in on isolation... you're sunk?
Then...
Then...
Tears in my eyes.
If truly no choice.
Drag my wayward pal back to the straight path—even if I gotta smack him. Toward civilization, opening, free trade.
Yeah. That's the way.
Bro offers a hit? Punch him, stop it forever—that's true friendship. Ignoring or joining? Fake. My Neo-Conf spells out proper scholar behavior!
Hold up. Your logic's veering weird.
Leave Joseon alone? Japanese colony fate.
This 21st-century Confucian warrior, Park In-ho.
To save Joseon from doom? I'll swallow the infamy, tears and all.
Joseon folks!
I'll save you!!
Wasn't always like this. British blood messing you up?
Quiet.
You shorted my soul—ain't my fault.
I've said it before: Brits knew squat about the Far East, China included.
But Britain is Britain.
Insatiable thirst for knowledge. Zeal to probe the unknown. That's the real fuel that kicked off the modern age.
So.
Not even a week in London, I got an invite from the Royal Asiatic Society. Perfectly natural.
"Hello. I'm Arthur Leigh."
"Welcome, little one. First time at the society?"
"Yes! It's amazing!"
Asia Society in name, but their focus was mostly India—Britain's lifeline interests, naturally.
China experts were rare enough in this era.
Joseon specialists?
Not a chance.
"We called you because we're curious about China and Joseon."
"Must've been tough on you, but if you organize your experiences, it'll expand our knowledge hugely. Mind sharing what you saw and heard?"
They wanted my castaway saga.
Fair enough—my journey was pretty outlandish.
I pulled out my prep items: stationery and books from the Joseon bundle.
"Hoo. Inkstone and brush."
"From Chinese scholars, by chance?"
"I studied Confucianism for years under Joseon's top scholars."
"Is that so?"
Check that look.
The adult face: kid's talking, don't quite buy it, but smile warmly to humor innocence. Joseon guys wore it when I yapped about the West.
Kid body ping-ponging East-West fringes? Stuck with that damn expression forever.
Fine by me.
Where'd I study? Under little China's elite Joseon scholars—intensive drilling. Queue-barbarian "learning"? Joseon Neo-Conf reigns supreme.
Just 'cause you crammed it in Joseon...
What? Qing nitpicks characters for purges when bored? Highbrow?
China "experts"? Missionaries and a handful of traders.
Time I showed real Confucian mastery.
Right before dinnertime.
"Wh-what is this?!"
"You really studied all those classics?"
"We need Professor Kidd—Samuel Kidd—now! London Uni?"
"No, retired. Camden, probably. Someone outside?!"
"Sit down. Then what's this—"
No more interest in my driftwood tales.
"Um, could I get into Eton? Dad insisted on it..."
"Of course. Don't sweat it. Focus on—"
"Why not straight to university?!"
Heh heh.
Too easy.