Consciousness felt like being submerged in a pot of thick, icy porridge.
Arthur had the sensation of having dreamed for an eternity. In that dream there were blinding headlights, the desperate cries of a little girl, and the exhausted faces of his parents. He tried to grab onto something, anything, but his hands closed on nothing—he simply kept falling, plunging into a void without light or sound.
He didn't know how much time had passed when, suddenly, a faint sliver of light tore through the darkness.
A moment later, a monstrous stench—an unbearable mixture of rotten fish, sour milk, and unwashed latrines—invaded his nostrils.
"Ugh…"
Arthur gagged instinctively and snapped his eyes open.
A sharp pain struck him.
Not the pain of the accident that had killed him, but a deep burning in his lungs, as if he were breathing smoke from a clogged chimney. His throat was dry, scraped raw, as though rubbed with sandpaper.
He tried to move his eyes to understand where he was.
A narrow alley. Filthy.The ground was made of uneven stone slabs, filled with black mud and garbage. The air reeked of mold, humidity, and excrement. The brick walls were covered in moss and stains he didn't want to identify.
Large rats burst out of a pile of refuse, scurrying past him as if he weren't even there.
"Where… am I?"
Arthur looked around, dazed. A slum? A dumping ground?
He tried to push himself up, but he didn't have enough strength to clench a fist. He looked down at his body—and froze.
He was wearing rough linen rags, torn and filthy.The body wasn't his—not that of a twenty-two-year-old law student—but that of a pale, emaciated boy with arms as thin as branches and hands marked by chilblains and cuts.
Unfamiliar. Completely unfamiliar.
At that moment, a mass of broken memories exploded in his mind like a collapsing dam.
"Arthur… 15 years old… orphan… East End of London… beggar…"
"Cold… hunger… sickness… beatings…"
The memories of the dead boy forcefully intertwined with his own.
Arthur screamed and clutched his head, feeling like he was going insane.
And then he understood.
He, Arthur—a law student who died saving a little girl—had reincarnated.
And he had ended up in nineteenth-century London, in the body of a teenage beggar… who happened to share his same name: Arthur.That poor boy had been beaten for a piece of bread, then fell ill, developed a fever, and breathed his last in that stinking alley.
And now his body was Arthur's new vessel.
"Damn…"
Despite his burning throat, he managed to swear.
Did God decide his previous life hadn't been miserable enough? And now He rewarded him with Historical Hell Mode, United Kingdom Edition 1836?
Just as despair began to coil around his heart, a voice echoed in his mind.
Cold. Clear. Mechanical.
"Temporal Support System – initialization in progress…"
"Soul connection stable. Host identified: Arthur (new identity: Arthur, 15 years old)."
"Welcome to nineteenth-century England."
Arthur held his breath.
A system?
The legendary "golden cheat" from web novels?
The voice continued, calm and neutral:
"This system exists solely to assist the Host in surviving and progressing in a difficult historical era."
"The system will provide:
• Future technologies in primitive form, compatible with the scientific level of the current age.• Technical blueprints, tools, and knowledge for recreating discoveries that have not yet been invented or spread in this time.• The possibility to purchase resources, items, materials, and enhancements."
Arthur swallowed.
"How… how do I buy these things?"
"Everything in the System can be obtained in one way only: by using real money."
"Pounds sterling. Current currency of the British Empire."
"No points. No mandatory missions. No free upgrades."
"The System is a shop. You are the customer."
Clear. Brutal. Direct.
Capitalism had followed him even after reincarnation.
The voice continued:
"Before we proceed, I am delivering the Initial Gift Package."
"Contents of the package:"
• Physical Restoration Tonic – basic level (x1)Heals light and medium illnesses, restores critical physical conditions, temporarily improves strength and endurance.
• Notes Set – Primitive Antibiotic Fermentation Technology(A rudimentary historical equivalent of future penicillin: explains how to produce purified molds and antimicrobial ointments using tools of the era.)
In his mental space, a small bottle filled with a faint blue liquid and a virtual booklet full of simple yet brilliant diagrams and formulas appeared.
Arthur didn't hesitate.
"Use the tonic!"
A warm flow surged through his body.The burning in his lungs disappeared.His wounds stopped throbbing.His fever evaporated.
Within minutes, he felt… alive.
He rose slowly, trembling at first, then with more certainty. The body was still thin, but no longer fragile. No longer dying.
He inhaled deeply the foul air of the alley.
It was real. He was alive.
And he had a second chance.
London, 1836.The age of factories, coal, pollution… but also inventions, industry, and the rise of electricity.
His mind raced.
Future technologies in primitive form… purchased with real money…If he could find work, money, connections…He could obtain blueprints, inventions, discoveries decades—if not centuries—ahead of time.
If he failed?He would die as a beggar.
If he succeeded?He could reshape history.
Arthur smiled.
"My name was Arthur before… and it's Arthur now…" he whispered. "Maybe it's fate."
He straightened his rags, lifted his chin, and looked toward the light filtering into the alley.
Outside, London was wrapped in morning fog, already bustling with carriages, merchants, blacksmiths, and factory workers.
A new world.
A new life.
"London… here I come."
Arthur stepped out of the alley.The moment his foot touched the main street, the System spoke again:
"Note: To obtain new technologies or blueprints, the Host must accumulate money.""The higher the complexity, the higher the cost.""Your possibilities are limited only by your wallet."
Arthur smirked confidently.
"Perfect. Then I'll earn it."
A new era had just begun.