Chapter 17
-----------------------------------------------------------------
Translator: Ace
Chapter: 017
Chapter Title: The Foreknower's Dilemma
-----------------------------------------------------------------
My workload had piled up.
First off, translating classical Chinese texts. From my standpoint, it was pretty much manual labor. Not even doing the actual translation—just proofreading existing ones for errors felt like pure grunt work.
And then there was writing books for our dear Gladstone. I'd committed to two. One was a general primer on the geography and customs of China, Joseon, and Japan. The other? Obviously, it'd be stuffed to the brim with tear-jerking true stories. I'd release one first, then drop the second around the time I came of age.
Gladstone was a sitting MP for the ruling party, and his family was loaded to boot. Among everyone who'd approached me with offers, he was hands-down the top pick.
No downside to strengthening ties with a guy like that, so I happily tossed him one of my sources.
"Have you seen this, sir?"
"Truth be told, I don't know much about the Far East—"
"No, it's something entirely different."
I handed him a newspaper from across the ocean.
"Crop failure in New York, America?"
"Not just any crops—potatoes."
"And?"
"It's distant America now, so who cares. But imagine if it hit Europe? Wouldn't that be a catastrophe?"
"Well... yeah, it'd be bad."
Potato blight. Or the potato plague.
A prime example of how a disease could upend the world without killing a single soul.
"But you're worrying too much, lad. I've already seen how sharp and clever you are—no need to oversell it. Might even backfire. Oh, don't fret. I still hold you in the highest regard!"
"Ah... yes, sir."
"A bit more advice for my future Eton junior: potato crop failure would indeed be serious. But saying we need to prepare now? Voters and taxpayers won't stand for it. Unlike absolute monarchies, our United Kingdom must respect the people's will."
- Didn't seem to land well, did it?
What? Speak for yourself.
You think a freshly re-elected MP like Gladstone's gonna go, "Whoa, we must brace for famine!" and rally Britain against the coming disaster?
They don't even know germs cause disease yet, so quarantine or containment? Forget it—those ideas are fuzzy at best. By this era's standards, my warning sounded like nonsense.
- So why bring it up?
When the real famine hits in a few years, won't he suddenly remember this chat?
If I'd been born royal or into mega-wealth, I'd at least try to avert the famine someday. But an orphaned kid like me? What could I do?
Aside from agonizing over dumping all my cash into stockpiling food.
No way to alter a fixed future—not with my current means. Bitter pill.
Britain's political landscape boiled down to two major parties: Conservatives and Whigs.
Conservatives lived up to their name—staunch traditionalists. Landowners, old nobility, and the Church of England formed their bedrock.
Whigs leaned progressive. Merchants, budding industrialists, non-Anglican denominations, and... Queen Victoria herself backed them hard.
Conservatives pushed tariffs and protectionism. Whigs championed free trade.
- Sounds like Whigs are your pick?
Yeah. Landing a Tory seat means nobility's your golden ticket. And with my dreams of building a trading empire into a chaebol? Free trade suits me fine.
But here's the snag.
I couldn't stand either.
"Reform can't be rushed willy-nilly!"
"These peasants yapping about politics—if we hand out votes like candy, we'll end up like ancient Athens: mob rule!"
Tories? Eh, expected from the aristos' party.
But Whigs?
"Human history and society have always progressed."
"This is our most glorious moment—the pinnacle of human advancement!"
"We noble Anglo-Saxons bear the sacred duty to hasten the world's progress!"
"Liberation from state power! From tyrants! True freedom for all will perfect the world!"
- Urgh...
Not exactly buddy material, right?
Spot on. They treated their "reason and rationality" like gospel truth—the spirit of the age.
- That's modernity for you. What can ya do?
This jar ghost doesn't get people.
Their reason-worship spirals into "We're the evolved humans; the rest are monkeys and chimps," then "Sore losers should've won" imperialism. Ends in endless trenches and gas chambers.
Maybe my grudges from past lives fuel it, but watching empire-building and white supremacy sprout like mold in real-time? How could it not twist my guts?
So yeah. It disgusted me. At first, I figured China and Joseon sucked, so I'd grind them for my goals. But after years there, London felt worse. Kim Ja-geun and his crew wrecked the country as corrupt officials, but at least they never spouted "Superior us exploiting monkey-ki's? What's wrong with that?"
- Getting sentimental all of a sudden?
Am I?
- 21st-century folks are the same slop. Like a high schooler pitying middle-schoolers.
This damn beast's hitting too close to home.
Think, idiot. Say I reincarnated in Aztec land, munching human thighs. "Eh, era and place—can't be helped"? Laughable.
- But you'd munch, right?
What the hell?
- Your words: no way to stop famine.
That's a ten-year-old orphan—
- Doesn't matter. Claim divine revelation or Eastern mysticism, hit the square screaming famine prep eight hours a day. Better than nothing. But you won't.
My head burned.
They say speechlessness breeds rage. I wasn't immune.
Damn it, how's a guy shorting his own soul supposed to take a lecture from the beneficiary?
If I were God's or Jesus's chosen to avert Earth's tragedies, fine. But round one ended in disaster, round two's mortgaged—what about my circumstances?
- Hey, not preaching righteousness. What power do I have? Just watching.
The Dragon King fumbling to backpedal only dulled my anger. Couldn't really argue hypocrite—he'd nail it. But dodging that means Mother Teresa levels of grit, not for average mental armor.
Conclusion: Do what I can, that's it.
I'm no saint sacrificing my soul for humanity.
Instead... if wealth and power let me do more later, I will.
- Kinda vague timeline?
If I fail, soul's gone anyway. Cut me some slack on this compromise, fucker. Wanna see me suffer daily guilt?
We tacitly agreed: no more on this. Like the army says—just stay middlin'.
Someday, I'll fix these 19th-century savages. Not now.
For now...
Two years later, 1845.
Steadily saving cash, backed by Gladstone and other bigwigs, I smoothly entered Eton College.
Eton!
The elite school even Park In-ho from round one knew!
Cradle of Britain's top talent. Had to be something special.
Yeah.
Special it was.
"How many today, then?"
"Weekend laxity calls for discipline. Line up. We'll beat first, start after."
Thwack! Thwack-thwack! Thwack!
"Aaaagh!"
"Mommy... Mooom..."
"These newbies lack grit. Back in my day, we took three times that."
Eton? Prestige?
What's this brutality? Way more primal than I imagined.
- I... know nothing about it.
This fucking... Me, this age, suffering physical abuse? For real?
Eton College.
Reality: a '08-era hellhole of nonstop violence.
Education? Antiquated rote. Endless cramming. Latin, Greek—endless.
Food was garbage, dorms sardine-packed pigsties or coops. Logic? "Luxury breeds lazy swine."
"Um..."
"Who told you to dawdle like that?"
Pardon?
"Eton boys don't slouch into the staff room all sloppy and unmanly. Down!"
After a merry caning, I finally got to business.
"I need leave for my classical Chinese translation at University College London."
"By whose say-so?"
"Er... it was discussed pre-enrollment."
"Don't make me laugh. This ain't your bedroom! Communal life has rules!"
- Weird. Rules seem looser for noble kids.
Class system's a bitch.
These loons ignored university prof authority too. My furious letter back? "Haha, can't be helped—respect Eton masters. When I was there~"
Eton had "fagging."
Juniors slaved for seniors; seniors protected their "fags." But fagging meant full servant duty: cleaning, laundry, shoe polish, ironing, breakfast prep, tea service, etc.
"Arthur Leigh?"
"Yes, Master."
Not SM play. Actual title: Master. Insane.
"You're one lucky bastard, eh?"
"Yes. Blessed to fagg for such a merciful senior!"
"Damn right. I rarely slap. Pretty kind, huh? Fuck, no clue how many I took at your age. Swore I'd never when my turn came—"
This is straight army.
Army chow, pigsty barracks, seniors devilier than teachers, wasting time on useless crap.
"Dodge that guy."
"Huh?"
"Rumor's he sneaks fags out and fucks 'em. Avoid if you like your ass intact."
Correction.
Worse than army.
Hey, jar ghost.
- ...Why me suddenly?
Still think I shouldn't despise 19th-century pricks? Huh?
I ironed Master's clothes furiously, cursing my Eton choice over and over.
Too hellish for double army duty.