Chapter 18
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Translator: Ace
Chapter: 018
Chapter Title: Arthur Leigh and the Mysterious Magic School
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[To my dear benefactor, Chairman of the Gladstone Trade Committee.
Hello, Councilor. This is Arthur Leigh.
Thanks to your generous guidance and unwavering support, I've managed to enter Eton and become your junior.
...
This place is far worse than any slum back in Joseon.
The teachers swing cudgels or whips whenever the mood strikes them, forcing us to parrot back scraps of text like mindless parrots. Class times are mercifully short—a real stroke of luck for me with all my translation work—but outside of lessons, we're at the mercy of the upperclassmen's reign of terror.
The pitiful scraps of meat all go to the seniors, while us freshmen scrape by like slaves. Rats swarm everywhere amid the stench, with barely any heat... but catching them for sport or hurling them like grenades is kind of fun...
I'm mastering fast eating here faster than anything else at Eton. Hesitate, and you get thrashed.
Luckily, I've got a knack for gambling, which covers my errand fees and keeps starvation at bay. But the hapless ones without rich dads, unable to gamble or filch, are learning all about financial ruin right from the first term. I've lent a few mates money at low rates and earned their friendship in return...
...
As my senior, if you could share any tips or hard-earned wisdom on surviving Eton, this eager junior would commit it all to heart with joy. Thank you.
Arthur Leigh.]
[To my dear Arthur Leigh.
Etching Eton's traditions and honor into one's body is a painful process, but one that fosters unmistakable growth. If you're viewing it as some grand ordeal, it's likely because your upbringing diverged somewhat from the norm.
This might sound foreign to a boy like you, but every British gentleman, from a young age, addresses his father with reverence as 'Master' and learns to honor his elders. They receive the loving rod of the whip and cudgel to tame any wayward or deviant impulses. The late Henry Leigh, had he lived, would never have spared you that discipline.
Thinking of a boy who wasn't beaten growing up fills me with regret—perhaps I should have brought you into our home after all. A proper thrashing from childhood would've toughened your hide...
...
If things haven't changed much since my day, I'd advise honing your skills in sports betting over card games—it's far more reliable for a smooth school life without bankruptcy. Train yourself to bet on favorites, not long shots.
And better still than sports betting? Toughening your fists. The word of God is distant, Confucius even more so, but a boy's fist never betrays him. Swing away. When else will you get to rearrange a nobleman's jaw if not here at Eton?
No matter how brilliant you are in studies, being branded a weakling is no honor. It takes three years to earn respect through intellect and character... but a fist wins it in three seconds.
...
That said, I can't deny Eton's conditions are dismal. Looking back now, even prison inmates seem better fed and rested than Eton boys.
But don't fret too much. You're aware many alumni are fundraising for new buildings, yes? Once the new wing is complete, dorms will improve, servants hired for breakfast service—far more comfortable than in my time, I'd wager.
I pray you emerge from Eton a fine gentleman.
Your benefactor.
P.S. The potato blight is spreading rapidly. Have you ever studied Eastern astrology or divination?]
[To my beloved brother Daniel.
Brother, how have you been? I'm busy settling into Eton.
The environment here is indescribably horrific, and the teachers—bored, they don't even bother with bats but just smash skulls with bare fists—]
[To Arthur.
Just thinking that my boarding school days might have ruined your future makes my heart sink in terror.
With Father gone, as the eldest, I should have been the one thrashing you with a stick! How could I let academics distract me while my little brother grew wild like a weed without a proper beating?
It's a relief the Eton masters are sparing no rod...]
"Ah, fuck this for real!!!"
- C-calm down, mate.
Does it look like I can calm down!!
A tale of a boy with a lightning-shaped scar and a magic school.
I'd always figured it was just a well-crafted fantasy novel, but lately, my thinking had shifted.
Maybe it was the collective unconscious 'dreams' or 'wishes' of folks living on this marine thug's island, Britannia, manifesting in story form.
"Kyaaack!"
"Meat! Easily digestible meat!"
"Haha! Jealous? Become upperclassmen yourselves! We got robbed too!"
"Freshmen are meant to lick the sauce off the plates!"
Ghosts haunting the magic school? At Eton, upperclassmen rampage like specters.
"What'd my asshole ever do to you? Why you picking on it?"
"This prick's showing off like he owns the place. Can't you manage it properly?"
"You keep staring at my ass all day, so of course it's gonna show, you twat. Eat your own."
"You fucking dog. Step outside."
"Think I won't? You're done for today."
Students hurling spells and curses at each other? No curses here, but fists fly aplenty.
"Zazzazzazzan. Open sesame."
"Aaaah!! That's my month's food money!!"
"I even bet my rent!"
"Homer didn't warn you not to bet on sure things?"
Wizard chess swapped for more refined gambling.
"Run! Faster! Hya!!"
"Lose and we're fucked! Drive straight!"
Broomstick races traded for chariot racing straight out of Ben-Hur (rules violation).
Cooldown hits, and one or two drown every time, but no need for magical gills—everyone dives into the Thames anyway.
That's right.
Eton is the true blueprint for that magic school. Swap wands for fists, and you've got real magic.
Behold this madness factory of a marine thug school—no, magic academy. Every bastard here is destined for the British Empire's elite.
In short, a place that turns sane people insane. No wonder psychoanalysis took off later. The ruling class emerges as bloodthirsty barbarians, unleashing chaos on Europe—explains why the powers went berserk.
This is a microcosm of how Victorian-era, 19th-century Europe ticked.
Rules were ironclad, with merciless canings for violators.
But those rules were whimsy at best. Plenty of 'officially banned but everyone does it quietly,' and 'banned but sneak it if you don't get caught.'
Rowing—boating races—was banned as a rules violation until a few years before I arrived. Yet Eton boys had been racing boats furiously for ages, teachers even spectating. Drama's officially forbidden too, but underclassmen performing is tacit tradition.
Tobacco, booze, gambling—if you don't get nabbed, it's fine. Even caught, teachers sometimes look the other way.
In this setup, what do kids learn? The sanctity of law? Or that laws are just excuses for the strong to smack the weak?
- Why're you suddenly a crusader for education reform?
Fuck... getting beaten so much, blood's not even staining my pants anymore. I'm losing it.
No, these guys all think alike—while getting thrashed and wailing, they unite in pity: 'Tsk tsk, no daddy, so he's thrashing about like that.' Cucumbers in sandwiches mixed with Thames shit-water or what?
Eton's daily survival saga rivaled that magic school's epic, but right now, I had something far more pressing than adapting.
The potato blight.
Belgium and Netherlands potato crops were wiped out. Parts of Germany, Denmark, France—major hits.
Eton, full of rich kids or maybe just battle-hardened, saw no change. But the poorer you are, the more you rely on potatoes—so the poor would suffer most. Papers screamed of starvation deaths across continental Europe.
And... Ireland.
England escaped unscathed, so the press tone was vicious.
Scorching hot.
Of course, this was the flashy collab of clueless agitators, vote-chasing politicians, and circulation-mad yellow press. No party openly cheered 'serves 'em right.'
But skim enough papers, and the public mood emerges.
And Gladstone—Trade Committee Chair, modern equivalent of Commerce Minister—started mentioning potatoes and Ireland more in his letters to me.
[Perhaps I should have heeded your warning more closely. Ireland's plight seems dire.]
[No idea what they teach at Eton, but London's buzzing with talk of 'God's punishment for lazy Irishmen.']
[No doubt this horror is God's will. If not divine history, what could be more terrifying?]
[Yet I see it differently.
God seems to have unleashed calamity on Ireland to warn us Britons of our own indulgence and sin.
The Bible shows God sometimes punishes the lesser first as a light warning. If He's so harsh on those Irish, what unimaginable trials await us wicked Britons?]
[I hope you grow into a man who pities their suffering, not mocks it.]
This guy's genuinely conscientious. In pirate haven Britannia, that's top-tier.
But as if mocking collective crisis resolve...
Ireland's 1846 potato harvest collapsed again.
And the British Empire's free trade began herding the Irish straight to death.