Chapter 2
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Translator: Ace
Chapter: 002
Chapter Title: Potato Heads
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1832.
London.
"Hey, why are your hands shaking like that?"
"Hmph. Let's just play the cards."
"Not your first time, and you're acting like a nervous groom."
Henry Leigh chuckled as he lit his cigar, took a sip of liquor, and drew a card.
But the trembling in his hands wouldn't subside easily.
'Should I have stayed home?'
He could never say that aloud. If he did, the dreadful rumor that Henry Leigh was like a simpering girl would spread through the clubhouse that very day.
His wife had endured four births. Still few compared to his peers.
Of them, the firstborn son and daughter were growing up healthy, but the two born later hadn't survived past a few years.
Perhaps the Lord wanted to tell this couple: have just two and raise them well?
If they tried for more, wouldn't something happen to his wife too?
While his mind and cigar alike burned away...
"Excuse me."
"News from home?"
"Yes."
"Prepare the carriage. I'm going right away."
Maintaining a gentleman's poise, he moved as quickly as possible to board the carriage.
Eons seemed to crawl by.
Facing the door, he straightened his clothes once more, about to step inside...
"Hm?"
Something heterogeneous, different from the usual.
What could it be?
Though he needed to see his wife right away, he paused and carefully scanned the surroundings of his house.
Soon enough, his sharp mind pinpointed the 'anomalous' element.
'Animals?'
Yes.
Animals.
The crow perched on the roof.
The cat slinking along the wall.
Why were they all staring piercingly at his house?
"Sir, you're here?!"
"Ah, yes. Come on in. How is everything?"
"A healthy baby boy! Madam and the young master are both safe!"
"Oh, Lord. Thank you. Thank you...!"
His musings cut off there.
As Henry strode into the house, the children rushed toward him as if they'd been waiting.
"Daddy!!"
"Daddy, hurry!"
"Daniel. Didn't Daddy tell you to act like a gentleman? Should Daddy instruct the tutor not to spare the rod?"
"So what if I get hit. Hurry and see!! The baby's super wrinkly! Wow!"
Before the servant could arrive, his eldest son Daniel snatched Daddy's hat at lightning speed, plopped it upside down on his own head, yanked off the coat, and shoved his back repeatedly. The oversized hat engulfed the boy's face like a helmet, but Daniel navigated the stairs as if he could see perfectly.
And finally.
Henry met his child.
A wrinkly little bundle, swaddled tight and cradled in his mother's arms.
"Mary? The mother?"
"No problems."
"The baby's healthy?"
"Yes. A very healthy boy. He bawled so loud I thought the windows would shatter."
The midwife prattled on about the baby's health and sturdiness, but not a word reached Henry's ears. Nor did his wife Mary's faint murmur that choosing a midwife over a doctor had been the right call.
Ever the gentleman, he praised his wife's heroic efforts with utmost refinement (Mrs. Leigh cut him off midway: "I'm tired, save it for later."), then slowly took the baby into his arms.
"Thank you for being born healthy."
"Baa."
"Oh my. Did you hear that? He said Daddy. He said Daddy."
"Just babbling, right?"
"Baa."
"He said Daddy! He said Daddy! Oh my. A genius has been born into our family."
"Daddy..."
"What about being a gentleman?"
Son and daughter eyed the scene dubiously, but in Henry's head—where he'd been forcibly reining himself in to stay gentlemanly—champagne corks popped in a frenzy of joy.
"Eton. Eton material. Yes, indeed. Damn. Need a tutor first. A tutor."
"Daddy, calm down. A tutor for a newborn?"
"Right. Wet nurse. Need a wet nurse fluent in Latin and Greek."
"Daddy's lost it."
Regardless, with all restraints shattered, Henry kept bursting into laughter as he brought his face right up to the baby's.
"Our genius, say Daddy one more time!! Even if Daddy has to hawk words door-to-door, you'll go Eton to Harrow to Oxbridge—Oof!"
The baby thrust out a hand and jabbed Henry's nostril.
"Our little sibling really is a genius."
"Guess even the baby hates the idea of a Greek-teaching wet nurse. Lullabies in Greek incoming."
"Khahaha! Such a firm grip—a born general! A genius in letters and arms! How about Arthur for his name?"
No objections arose, so the baby's name became Arthur.
Park In-ho had once pondered this while reading webnovels.
Human memory resides in the brain. So with soul transmigration, body swap—how do past-life memories even work? Does the baby suddenly develop an adult brain?
Why drag science nitpicks into fantasy, you lunatic?
Regression, possession, reincarnation are already magic/occult, not science. Why nitpick science? You reincarnated or what?
I'm a regressor—brought my 1st round memories on a floppy disk.
Troll dealt with—now let's safely discuss the novel!
Regrettably, those steeped in modern Korean internet culture rarely listened to others, opting instead for one-sided rejection. But Park In-ho, the rational and logical pillar of society, knew how to learn even from such violent, base types.
If science can't explain it, then it's unscientific occult. If it could be proven, everyone from dogs to cats would reincarnate. Wouldn't Bill Gates or Musk summon a reincarnation truck before croaking?
In that vein, having undergone the full-body occult experience of the Dragon King snapping his fingers to hurl him into the past, he humbly chose to accept reality.
What did trifling modern neuroscience matter?
"Waaah!! Waaah!!"
"Oh dear, young master. Just a moment, please."
He opened his eyes to not that hellish Chinese detention center, but an entirely different ceiling—and white people in period-drama attire straight out of a movie.
Baby starting.
He had become a baby.
"Waa."
Translation: Fuck.
A life where mere breathing racked up airline miles. The cash he'd blown on webnovels just to kill time could probably buy a compact car.
By his foreknowledge, baby starting meant the ultimate easy mode—you could flaunt genius before even grabbing toys at your doljabi ceremony.
'A baby not even one... learning to talk?'
'My god! The kid's walking already!'
'Solving sums at two—this child's a genius!'
"Waaaah."
Heh heh heh.
Was life meant to be this easy?
Race-wise, definitely not wuxia.
That lunatic jar Dragon King had ordered him to reshape history, so high odds it wasn't fantasy—probably Earth's past. Very likely alternate history genre. Couldn't rule out dragons-still-around Earth or magic academies, but...
Confirming the hunch: people speaking English.
Massive honey pot.
Starting point's importance? Just play StarCraft as Zerg at lost temple 6 o'clock once. Imagine life's agony.
English speakers meant high chance UK or US.
Seasoned webnovel reader Park In-ho clocked the clues.
Midwife and maids all white. US? Black slaves. Colony? Indians or other POC servants. Maybe Australia or Ireland, but landing prime Anglo-Saxon stock warranted a thumbs-up to the Dragon King.
Exact era and spot TBD, but a 21st-century guy like him could lord over this age's greats with minimal effort.
Not dropping E=mc² to make 'em kneel, but snagging pre-Marx catchphrases like "before the bearded Marx is born" would rewrite history in a snap, right? Just like the Dragon King wanted.
One task left.
What to do to guzzle the honey and hit that history-change endgame.
For the terrifying grand task of altering humanity's future, not a second to waste. So he needed to ponder and reflect even harder—
"Baaa..."
Fucked.
This frail baby flesh couldn't handle high-dimensional brainwork. Holy shit.
Calories burned—time to refill. How?
"Waaah!! Waaah!! Waaaah!!"
At first, adult male pride kept him from bawling much.
But why do babies cry? 'Cause it's the ultimate hack. Sadly, baby mouthparts weren't advanced enough for "Pardon, but food please?" or "Need the loo."
He surrendered.
Embrace baby duties, and the world lightened up.
"There, milk time—"
Positive thinking's a miracle.
Hungry? Fed. Dirty? Bathed. Sleepy? Snooze. They even patted for burps. From corporate dog to flawless freeloader—how could he not rejoice?
Suck wet nurse's milk.
Post-feed pat, massive burp.
Prep world-shaking history-twist meg plan... conk out from exhaustion.
Crave activity? Wiggle toward grand strides: "standing" and "toddling."
To savor this flawless freeloader bliss, In-ho's sole duty?
"Kyaha!"
"He smiled! He smiled at me!"
"Nonsense! At me! Arthur, you smiled at your sister, right?"
One gummy grin, and they lost their minds. Hollywood A-lister perks? How adorable was he that everyone writhed in delight?
Behold.
Even the house pooch Hector stared, slack-jawed by his overwhelming cuteness. Animals smitten too—meant he was a nation-toppling pretty boy—
—Bullshit.
Arthur jolted in shock. Heart hammering, tiny body quaking—frail as it was, not even a year old.
—Not embarrassed prancing, shitting, and suckling at your age?
"Tte... tte..."
Cursed baby mouth—couldn't even spit "Fuck, who?!" Blame the ghost piping up direct-line.
—It's me!
"Tte...!"
Voice-phishing specter, begone! Exorcism template devolved to babble.
—Told you, Dragon King—not ghost!
Message received, somehow.
Oh yeah, that jar spirit.
As the thought hit the long-forgotten jar ghost, the house pup padded over to Arthur's cradle.
—Yup, me.
Ghost gong.
How'd you end up a beast?
—Not a beast, ugh, damn it. Fucked initial settings—got dragged along. Bodiless, so crashing in beast bodies. This one's no better—
Thud.
Hector flopped like a drained robot.
'Dead?!'
In-ho scraped every baby ounce to wail bloody murder—when the pup whimpered upright, bounced gleefully circling the cradle. Cute, sure. But intellect? Zero.
Then it clicked.
Ah.
Just like me.
As ever, full-throttle 21st-century brainpower proved too much—In-ho drifted off.
Baby and pup snuffled off to dreamland.