London at night presents a different scene.
The gas lamps have just been lit, flickering with a faint glow in the fog, illuminating the hurried pedestrians, the clattering carriages, and the small vendors at the corners of the streets.
On the other side of the city, the East End of London is a completely different world.
The streets here are narrow and crowded, the houses are dilapidated, and the air is filled with the smell of decay.
Tens of thousands of people are squeezed into the slums, struggling for a piece of bread every day.
Many of them have never seen the prosperity of London's West End; it is as if they live on two different planets.
The prosperity and glory of the Empire have nothing to do with them; they can only grasp every opportunity to survive.
Michael Lebrun is naturally not one of the slum dwellers, but the predicament he faces is just as severe.
He now lives in an attic of a three-story apartment building on Cohen Street, on the edge of the St. Giles parish.
There are no windows here, and it is cold and damp all year round.
The ceiling height of the house is also very poor; at 1.83 meters tall, Michael needs to stoop to walk inside.
Although the living conditions are very poor, in this era, having a place to stay is already the greatest of misfortunes.
Just as the sky began to brighten, the three-story apartment building became noisy; the crying of children, the cursing of men, and all kinds of discordant sounds filled the room.
Michael was also preparing to go out. He had just put his hand on the doorknob when a heavy sound of footsteps suddenly came from downstairs.
The footsteps were unmistakable.
Each heavy step made the old wooden staircase groan under the weight.
Whoever was coming was clearly a heavyweight.
Michael's hand froze in midair.
Those footsteps weren't simply passing by—they were heading straight for the third floor.
And at this hour, there was no need to guess who had come looking for him.
It had to be the landlady.
"Michael! I know you're in there!"
Her voice easily penetrated the thin wooden door and echoed through the narrow hallway.
As if struck by lightning, Michael jerked his hand back and pressed himself flat against the wall, hardly daring to breathe.
Sure enough, it was Mrs. Mall, the landlady.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
A series of heavy knocks thundered against the door.
The pitiful wooden door let out painful creaks, as though it might collapse at any moment.
"Michael! Don't think staying quiet will fool me into believing you're not in there!"
The landlady's booming voice was startlingly loud.
"I saw the light on in your room last night! Your rent is already two months overdue—two whole months! You're still a student, and I've tried to be understanding, but my kindness has its limits!"
Michael clamped his mouth shut, terrified of making even the slightest sound.
The tiny room contained nothing more than a broken bed and a rickety table. There wasn't even a place where someone could hide.
If the door gave way, he'd have no choice but to face the landlady in person.
"Next week. At the latest, next week. If you still can't pay the overdue rent by then, I'll have no choice but to ask you to leave!"
Receiving no response from inside the room, the landlady delivered her final warning before muttering to herself as she headed downstairs.
Only after the sounds from below finally died away did Michael truly relax. He let out a long, weary sigh.
Of course, he knew that falling behind on rent was wrong.
But he simply had no other choice.
If transmigration came with options, Michael would have gladly settled for a life like that of an ordinary office worker back in London—nothing extravagant, just enough to live decently without worrying about food or clothing.
Instead, he had somehow ended up even worse off than before.
His poverty was simply beyond description.
After all, who would willingly remain so destitute that they couldn't even afford the rent?
No matter the era, being behind on rent is one of the most unsettling situations imaginable.
Because it means you could be thrown out onto the street at any moment.
Back in his previous life, he probably wouldn't have starved or frozen to death. At worst, he could have lived like a drifter, scraping by day after day.
But here, things were different.
This was no joke.
His life was genuinely at stake.
London in 2025 might not freeze a person to death.
London in the winter of 1836 certainly could.
The world was still emerging from the tail end of the Little Ice Age, and winter temperatures were more than ten degrees Celsius colder than they would be nearly two centuries later. Nights dropping well below freezing were perfectly normal.
Without even the humblest shelter, London's winter could chill Michael to the bone with terrifying ease.
Sigh...
The more he thought about it, the more miserable it all seemed.
Recalling everything that had happened since his unexpected transmigration, Michael couldn't help but let out another deep sigh.
Yes.
Michael was a transmigrator.
The original owner of this body had succumbed to a sudden, vicious illness, allowing the soul of a man from the twenty-first century to take over his shell.
In his previous life, Michael had been an ordinary graduate student at a prestigious Chinese university.
After staying up late reading web novels, he had expected to wake up to another routine day of classes and research meetings.
Instead, he awoke to the acrid stench of smoke drifting from the nearby factories.
That smell...
It was unmistakably Victorian London.
Only after inheriting the original owner's memories did Michael realize, with a bitter smile, that he'd inherited a colossal mess as well.
Not only was the previous Michael behind on his university tuition, but he also owed the landlady a substantial amount of unpaid rent.
The moment Mrs. Mall's patience finally ran out, he could be thrown out onto the streets without warning.
So during the days since his transmigration, Michael had done everything he could to avoid crossing paths with the landlady.
In other words...
He had been pretending not to be home.
Unfortunately, it seemed that trick was no longer going to work.
If he didn't want to die shortly after arriving in this world, he had to earn some money as quickly as possible—at the very least, enough to pay off the overdue rent.
Fortunately, he already had a plan.
Before he could put it into action, however, he first needed to find a job.
At the very least, he had to earn enough to pay for today's meals.
Splat!
Something foul dropped from above, narrowly missing Michael's shoulder.
Commuting through London in the morning fog was never a pleasant experience.
After all, London at this time was anything but a clean city.
On the contrary, the constant influx of people had pushed its already inadequate sanitation to the breaking point. The recent cholera outbreaks were proof enough.
Most homes in the East End had no private toilets. Entire streets of three or four hundred residents often shared a single privy. At times, the overflowing filth would spill several inches onto the ground, forcing people to lay bricks just to make their way in and out.
As a result, many residents simply emptied their chamber pots into the roadside ditches—or worse, straight into the River Thames.
That was why Michael had to keep one eye on the road and the other on the rooftops, lest he be treated to one of his neighbors' rather unpleasant "surprises."
Fortunately, once he reached London's West End, the sanitary conditions improved dramatically.
At last, Michael could stop worrying about what might land on his head.
Following a familiar route, he arrived at the entrance of a Georgian-style townhouse and rang the doorbell.
Yes.
Michael's job was that of a private tutor.
To be honest, this was perfectly ordinary for the time.
The most sought-after private tutors were almost always students from Oxford or Cambridge.
There were no teaching certificates to worry about in this era. Simply being enrolled at one of the prestigious universities was qualification enough.
A truly outstanding tutor was expected to be proficient in Latin and Ancient Greek, as well as mathematics, French, geography, and the history of England.
If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.
The more subjects a tutor could teach, the better.
The pay was quite generous as well, ranging from two to five shillings per lesson.
By the standards of the day, it was considered a well-paying profession—more than enough to cover a university student's living expenses.
Of course, that was the rate for students from Oxford or Cambridge.
For someone like Michael, who attended the University of London, the pay was several tiers lower.
A single lesson earned him only one shilling.
Naturally, the expectations were lower as well.
All he needed was a solid grasp of Latin, Ancient Greek, mathematics, geography, and English history.
Damn this obsession with academic pedigree.
Damn Oxford and Cambridge.
Back in his previous life, he had graduated from an ordinary Project 985 university, looked down upon by graduates from China's elite C9 League and top-tier institutions, while at the same time secretly looking down on graduates from lower-ranked universities.
Who would have thought that after transmigrating, he'd still be trapped in the same hierarchy?
Was this some kind of cosmic retribution?
The thought made Michael let out another sigh.
Still, he quickly pulled himself together and prepared for today's lesson.
Fortunately, despite the desperate situation he found himself in after arriving in this world, his learning ability, memory, and even his physical constitution all seemed to have been significantly enhanced.
His command of Latin and Ancient Greek, in particular, had become remarkably fluent.
Perhaps, with a little luck, he might even land a position tutoring for an aristocratic family one day.
This was also the reason Michael was able to continue making a living as a private tutor.
The family he taught belonged to what would be considered solidly middle class in London.
The master of the house, Robert Hayward, was a cotton merchant who had made his fortune in Lancashire.
Once he'd accumulated a respectable fortune, his attention naturally turned to providing his children with a proper education.
As for Mrs. Edith Hayward, she was frugality incarnate.
Even the tea she served Michael was brewed from leaves that had already been steeped several times.
According to her, the first infusion was reserved for the family's breakfast table, the second for afternoon tea,
and the third was perfectly good enough for guests like Michael.
Once the tea leaves had been completely exhausted, they could still be sprinkled over the carpets to absorb dust and freshen the room.
Nothing was ever allowed to go to waste.
And yet she still boasted that it was the finest tea imported from China...
Give me a break.
Back in my previous life, I probably drank more tea than you've eaten meat.
After that day's lesson, just as Michael was about to ask Mrs. Hayward for his tutoring fee, he noticed that something about her expression seemed... off.
Don't tell me...
"Michael," Mrs. Hayward began hesitantly, "you've been an excellent tutor, but I'm terribly sorry..."
Sure enough.
Mrs. Hayward had uttered those infamous words.
Just my luck.
There went his only source of income.
Fortunately, ever since his transmigration, Michael had learned to take setbacks in stride.
Besides, Mrs. Hayward had been generous enough to pay him for today's lesson in full. One shilling would be enough to keep him going for a little while.
Losing this job also meant gaining a certain freedom.
After all, as the saying goes, where there's life, there's hope. When desperation sets in, people become capable of almost anything...
His current situation was grim, but by no means hopeless.
After spending several days observing his new world and thinking things through, Michael had reached a conclusion.
The best path forward was to return to his old trade—
Writing novels.
Fortunately, he had arrived in Britain at a rather opportune time.
The following year, King William IV, having left no legitimate heirs, would finally pass away, and Princess Victoria would ascend the throne upon reaching adulthood.
Yes—
Queen Victoria herself.
The woman jokingly remembered by later generations as Europe's Grandmother and the "ultimate boss" responsible for wiping out half of Europe's royal bloodlines through hereditary diseases.
During her reign, Great Britain would rise to unprecedented heights, gradually becoming the empire on which the sun never set.
The period would come to be known as the Victorian Era, an age later romanticized as one of Britain's golden ages.
Yet the Empire's greatness and glory were never equally shared by ordinary people.
Instead, they were often the ones forced to bear the cost of imperial prosperity.
Take child labor, for example.
Four-year-olds worked as chimney sweeps.
Eight-year-olds toiled in coal mines.
For many child laborers, simply surviving to adulthood was considered a blessing.
And then, nine years later, came the Great Irish Famine of 1845, a catastrophe in which more than a million people perished in a famine that was, to a large extent, man-made.
It was fair to say that although Queen Victoria never killed anyone with her own hands, the number of people who died under the policies of the governments that ruled in her name might well have exceeded those attributed to many infamous dictators.
On the bright side, however, British authors of this era generally enjoyed a fairly comfortable life. They might not have lived quite as well as their counterparts across the Channel in France, but they certainly had it better than Russian writers, who always seemed one step away from being exiled to Siberia.
Writing books could genuinely make you rich.
There was no need to look far for proof.
Just this year, Charles Dickens had become a literary sensation through the serialized publication of The Pickwick Papers, earning a handsome fortune and moving into a fine townhouse.
The thought filled Michael with renewed determination as he instinctively tightened his grip on the manuscript tucked beneath his arm.
One could say that nearly all of his hopes rested on this single work.
After all, paper, ink, and—most precious of all—time were expensive commodities.
If the manuscript were rejected or lost, there was no telling whether he would have another opportunity.
But becoming a successful author had never been as simple as merely writing a good story.
Talent mattered.
Knowing where—and to whom—to submit your work mattered just as much.
As the old saying goes,
"A man of little worth is treated no better than a rat, no matter where he goes."
It was a lesson Charles Dickens himself had supposedly learned while observing rats in a warehouse during his youth.
There was more than a little truth to it.
Fortunately, although the original Michael had left behind an enormous mess, he had also left behind a few valuable connections.
One of his professors, Professor Joseph, happened to have a good relationship with a newspaper editor and might be willing to provide an introduction.
Professor Joseph had already arranged a meeting with an editor at a newspaper.
They would have a chance to talk in person, and the editor had even agreed to review Michael's manuscript on the spot.
I wonder just how influential Professor Joseph's connections really are...
Lost in thought, Michael made his way toward the newspaper office.
With every step, he was not only approaching the press—
he was also walking toward the dawn of the Victorian Age...
and the beginning of a legend.
After spending more than forty minutes successfully dodging countless "surprises" from above, Michael finally arrived at his destination for the day—Fleet Street.
Named after the nearby River Fleet, Fleet Street would remain the heart of Britain's newspaper industry until well into the 1980s. Nearly every major newspaper in London had its offices here.
Before him stretched rows of printing houses and typesetting workshops. Newspaper boys shouted the day's headlines without pause, while the unmistakable scent of fresh printer's ink lingered throughout the entire street.
(Fleet Street in the 1890s, with St. Paul's Cathedral rising in the background and a crowded horse-drawn omnibus passing by.)
For the British newspaper industry, 1836 was a truly pivotal year.
It was this very year that the infamous Stamp Duty—a tax on newspapers that had burdened the press for more than a century—was finally reformed. The duty was slashed from four pence to one penny, a reduction of seventy-five percent.
The policy sent shockwaves through the newspaper industry.
Publishers rushed to cut their prices, readership expanded dramatically, and newspaper circulation soared. For many papers, sales more than doubled almost overnight.
It was, without question, the year Britain's newspaper industry truly took off.
Before the reform, a single newspaper in London cost as much as seven pence, making it far beyond the reach of ordinary working people. Its readers were overwhelmingly drawn from the upper classes, and its pages were dominated by political news and commercial commentary.
In effect, it was a form of monopoly over knowledge.
The upper classes controlled both information and access to it.
But people's desire for news could never be completely suppressed.
Where there are restrictions, there are always those who find ways around them.
Since the law required only regularly published newspapers to pay the Stamp Duty, many radical publishers exploited the loophole by disguising their publications as irregular pamphlets, essay collections, or political tracts. Selling for as little as one penny, these unofficial papers found a thriving market among London's working class.
It was no coincidence that the dramatic reduction of the Stamp Duty and the rapid spread of the so-called "unstamped press" went hand in hand.
As newspaper sales exploded, so too did the demand for quality content. A compelling story could dramatically boost a paper's circulation. If Michael remembered correctly, Charles Dickens' serialized The Pickwick Papers had ridden this very wave, selling more than forty thousand copies and earning him a considerable fortune.
Standing on Fleet Street, Michael took in the bustling scene before him, deep in thought.
Now, he too stood at the center of this historic opportunity.
Perhaps he could ride the tide and make a name—and a fortune—for himself.
After all, when the wind is strong enough, even a pig can fly.
But those were plans for the future.
Right now, what mattered most was meeting the editor Professor Joseph had arranged for him, convincing him with his manuscript, and earning his first payment—enough, at the very least, to keep himself from freezing to death on the streets.
Pulling himself back to the present, Michael quickened his pace through Fleet Street's maze of newspaper offices in search of his destination—
The London Courier.
Compared with the magnificent headquarters of The Times, the offices of The London Courier looked decidedly shabby.
The newspaper occupied nothing more than a rented three-story Neoclassical building, and the neighboring alley still carried the lingering stench of urine.
Michael took out the still-warm letter of introduction from inside his coat and handed it to the porter.
After confirming his identity, the porter allowed him inside.
"Editor Jack is waiting for you," the porter said. "Second floor, third room on the left."
Michael thanked him with a nod and stepped into the building.
The interior was every bit as crowded and chaotic as he had expected.
Stacks of manuscripts and newspapers were piled everywhere, rising almost to waist height.
Carefully picking his way around the obstacles, Michael finally arrived at the third room on the left of the second floor.
A weathered plaque reading "Editor's Office" hung beside the door, though the faded lettering had become difficult to make out.
Just as Michael was about to knock, voices drifted out from inside.
"Jack, fancy grabbing a cup of coffee later?"
"Not this time. I've got an appointment with a writer at ten."
"The student Professor Joseph recommended?"
"That's the one. I think his name's Michael or something. Sounds French to me." The speaker sighed. "The French... besides bragging, what else are they good at? Can they even write? Other than catching that blasted French Disease... Good Lord, and he's still a university student. This is going to be a complete waste of time."
Michael's hand froze in midair.
So... this is what nineteenth-century ethnic prejudice feels like?
He wasn't entirely surprised.
The name Michael Lebrun was common enough in France but rather unusual in Britain.
The original Michael's grandfather had been a French Huguenot. After Louis XIV revoked the Edict of Nantes in 1685, countless Protestant refugees fled France for England, and his grandfather had been among them.
Though the family had long since become thoroughly British in appearance and manner, they had kept their distinctly French surname.
As a result, Michael had attracted more than a few curious—and sometimes unfriendly—glances while growing up.
After waiting a moment, he finally knocked gently on the door.
"Come in."
A young assistant editor opened the door, carrying a stack of manuscripts in his arms.
"Excuse me," Michael asked politely, "is Editor Jack available?"
The editor's office was just as cramped and cluttered as the rest of the building.
Piles of manuscripts and newspapers covered nearly every available surface, and a lingering smell of tobacco hung stubbornly in the air.
At the sound of his name, a middle-aged man poked his head out from behind a desk buried beneath towering piles of manuscripts.
His face was covered with stubble, and his features were ordinary enough. What stood out most were his sharp, penetrating eyes—though at the moment they were bloodshot with exhaustion.
"You're the student Professor Joseph recommended, aren't you?" he asked. "Where's the manuscript?"
Jack gave the young man a quick once-over.
The lad was undeniably handsome—tall, with refined features, chestnut-brown eyes, and slightly curly hair. Whether he possessed any literary talent remained to be seen, but he certainly looked like someone who belonged on the stage.
Then again, this was a newspaper office, not a theater.
Here, only the writing mattered.
Jack casually held out his hand, not even bothering to ask Michael to introduce himself. It was obvious he expected very little from the manuscript of a university student descended from French immigrants.
Had it not been for Professor Joseph's recommendation, he wouldn't have spared the time to meet Michael at all.
In fact, Jack had already imagined how the conversation would end.
He would skim through the manuscript, offer a polite smile, and say something along the lines of:
"Your writing shows promise, but the plot is far too conventional. Go back and polish it some more, young man."
Young writers were always the same—brimming with confidence.
The last student Professor Joseph had recommended had been exactly like that: full of himself, while his manuscript had been utterly mediocre.
Suppressing his irritation, Michael withdrew the neatly stacked manuscript from inside his coat and handed it over.
Jack accepted it with one hand and casually flipped it open.
"Just so we're clear," he muttered, "I'm only reading this as a favor to your professor. I can't promise it'll be published..."
Then his eyes fell upon the handwriting.
"Hmm..."
"This penmanship is surprisingly pleasant to look at."
"It resembles Italic script, yet it's not quite the same."
"It may lack some of Italic's elegance, but it's far more orderly and practical—easy to write in large quantities, and even easier to read..."
"For handwriting like this alone, it's worth taking a closer look."
As soon as he opened the manuscript and saw the elegant script, Jack's expression softened with approval. His interest in the submission immediately grew.
In truth, the handwriting was simply the result of years spent practicing the neat, standardized style required for Chinese college entrance examination essays.
Back then, Michael's teachers had always said that good penmanship could earn you extra marks, so he'd forced himself to master it.
Michael merely smiled and offered no explanation.
Jack, meanwhile, turned his attention to the manuscript itself.
The Last Leaf?
Another sentimental essay praising the beauty of nature?
The moment he read the title, Jack frowned slightly.
His original plan had been to skim through the story in a minute or two.
Instead, what followed drew him in before he even realized it...