Moreover, of all places, it had to be England 150 years ago.
The Victorian era, the Belle Époque. The literal fin-de-siècle period just before World War I, when there was a lingering atmosphere of the last peace and prosperity in Europe... but that's not really important.
What's more important is that it was a time when computers didn't exist.
That meant that all the experience I'd built as a web novel writer was completely meaningless here.
No, what was I supposed to do as a web novel writer in a place without the internet or computers?
Moreover.
"Hey, coolie! What are you doing?!"
"If you have time to daydream, keep carrying those things!!"
"Ah, yes! I'm on it!!"
As I said, this wasn't a reincarnation or possession but a trip, a transfer.
"My goodness. To think it was a trip to an outdated past..."
These days, the trend is reincarnation or possession.
And if someone like me, a writer, were to be dropped into a setting, it should be into my own work.
How many of my peers in the industry have been trapped countless times in their own creations?
Actually, it doesn't even have to be my own work.
But if I were to come to 19th-century England, wouldn't it be the rule to be reborn or possessed as the youngest son of a noble family or a wealthy and happy middle-class family?
Being an Asian in the heart of imperialism and white supremacy without any connections or cheats...
What, are they telling me to be treated like a monkey and die as a slave?
The only fortunate thing is that even in this era, some people don't care about skin color if you work well.
And the more fortunate thing was that my employer was one of those people.
"Hanslow! Hanslow, where are you?"
"Yes, ma'am! I'm here!!"
I ran to the call of my name, spoken in a faint American accent. Hanslow was a name that stuck with me when I was friendly with the U.S. military unit during my time in KATUSA.
Hansol, Hansl, Hanslow, Hanslow.
It was a name they came up with, but it was quite useful.
"What were you doing to be so late?"
"I'm sorry, Mr. Miller."
Frederick Alva Miller, a prominent figure from Boston, USA.
His hobby was being an art dealer.
It's not his profession because, no matter how you look at it, this guy seems like a dilettante by trade.
He was leisurely puffing on a cigar as he watched me come running.
"I was helping with carrying the loads, so I was late."
"That's fine. There's no rush to move everything today."
See, that's why I said he doesn't seem like a merchant.
As I smiled faintly, Mr. Miller took the cigar out of his mouth and pointed to a picture he was looking at.
It was a neat Oriental painting on a scroll.
"Rather, could you take a look at this? It looks like Chinese writing, but I can't understand it at all."
"May I take a look?"
"Who else would look at it but you? You have to look at it."
He's certainly a good person.
Maybe because he's born with a silver spoon or because he's genuinely nice? He's pure.
Look, he shows me this expensive-looking painting without hesitation.
I nodded with gratitude to Mr. Miller and checked the painting, or rather the scroll.
It was a typical Oriental landscape painting, depicting large mountains and waterfalls.
If it were just that, I wouldn't have known what it was, but fortunately, the poem filling the blank space was something I could vaguely understand.
"This is a poem by Li Bai... who was a poet active in China 1200 years ago. It's called 'Song of the Emei Moon,' praising the scenery of Mount Emei in inland China."
"Wow, 1200 years ago! That's incredibly old."
Is that right? Honestly, I'm not sure. My knowledge of Chinese characters is mostly from the third-grade level I learned from 'Magic Thousand Character Classic.' The rest is just from watching martial arts dramas.
"Then, is the landscape painting from that era too?"
"It's called an ink wash painting. It's a technique where the outlines of mountains are drawn with ink, and the texture is distinguished by the density of the ink."
"That's amazing. Very unique."
This is also thanks to the research I did while writing about a painter possessed by a modern person.
Although I'm just spouting what I vaguely remember, it's enough to earn my keep.
Long live the systematic knowledge repository, ParaquaiWiki1!
Of course, my knowledge is not even at an amateur level, so there are many mistakes.
But who cares if I'm wrong?
As Mr. Miller said, in the late 19th-century English countryside, Asians are rare. Most of them are Indians, and there are a few Chinese, but most of them are illiterate.
In this situation, no one would notice if I'm a bit wrong. I just need to make it up. The important thing is not the content but the confidence.
"Then what about this? It looks like a very precious porcelain. I bought it expensively from Japan."
"Well, I'm not sure, but this seems to be from Korea, the country next to Japan. The seal at the bottom of the porcelain..."
Like this.
As such things continued, Mr. Miller gradually trusted me more. He entrusted me with all the East Asian furniture, ceramics, and paintings. This meant I was hired as a regular employee from a temporary worker.
And with this trust as an opportunity, I reached out to other areas as well.
"Hanslow, it's a success!! There's an exhibition of a painter called Van Gogh? Gouw? In the Netherlands! The prices of his paintings are rising!"
"Congratulations, Mr. Miller!"
"This is no time to be congratulating. We must go to the Netherlands and sell all the paintings you suggested! Will you come with me?"
"Of course."
"Good, as promised, you'll get the painting you wanted as an incentive!"
"Thank you, Mr. Miller!!"
In the 21st century, this is common knowledge, but in the 1890s, it was either undiscovered or just mediocre paintings of masters.
In 200 years, these artworks would soar to billions in value, but in this period, they were worth next to nothing.
So?
"But, are you sure that kind of painting will suffice? If you want, you can ask for something more expensive..."
"Oh no, this is the best for me."
"But... a painting with just a sunflower on it? Well, it has a unique charm."
Of course, I went for a full purchase.
Isn't this the primitive cryptocurrency? In a few years, its price will skyrocket.
This sunflower painting alone will be worth hundreds of millions!
"Hehehe."
While steadily collecting legitimate side earnings, I ensured my retirement was well-prepared.
Though I wasn't certain when, I was confident these items would eventually soar in value.
Until then, I just had to wait patiently...
"Han-slo, Han-slo!!"
"Let's play! Give me a piggyback ride!"
"One at a time, Miss Maggie! Master Monty!! Get on one at a time!!"
Suddenly, two kids rushed toward me.
I reflexively caught them.
The elementary-aged daughter of Mr. Miller, Margaret Miller, and her one-year-younger brother, Louis Monty Miller.
Both kids clung to my shoulders.
Mr. Miller ran his art business from his Ashfield mansion.
So, being a full-time employee also meant I was a servant of the Ashfield mansion.
At first, it was nice.
The timing of Mr. Miller taking a liking to me and me bonding with the kids coincided perfectly.
Maybe my experience playing with much younger cousins paid off?
But these kids liked me too much.
Aren't kids in the 3rd or 4th grade big enough to stop piggyback rides? My back was about to give out...
"Just in time. Hanslow, could you look after the kids and the house for a bit?"
Mr. Miller approached me, as I was struggling with the kids.
"Are you going to town?"
"Yes. Clara's recuperation isn't over yet, so I need to be with my wife."
The man was certainly vigorous.
I struggled to see off my energetic employer, who had managed to get his wife pregnant with their third child, despite their older children being this big, and then turned to the kids.
"Okay, let's get up now."
"No! I want more!"
"How about we continue the story we left off?"
"But... Hanslow! Then you have to play more with us today than yesterday!"
"Alright, alright. Everyone hold hands and let's go inside."
"Yay!"
Lately, this kind of thing often happened, so I became a nanny, housekeeper, and tutor, spending more time looking after the two kids.
It was, of course, outside of my working hours, but I didn't mind.
The Ashfield mansion had an extensive estate with gardens that were almost like a forest.
At the edge of the cliff, there was a breathtaking view of the river where yachts floated.
Sitting on the lush green meadow, reading picture books to the kids who laughed and ran around, felt refreshing, blowing away all the complicated thoughts in my head.
If I had kimbap and ramen, it would have been perfect, but I made do with bacon sandwiches and dried fruits.
Simple to prepare and quite delicious, even in England.
Day by day, feeling satisfied.
As the calendar slowly turned in this idyllic life at Ashfield, where everyone was happy...
"Excuse me. I heard Mr. Hanslow Jene is here."
One day, a typical English city gentleman, rare in Torquay, showed up.
No way...
"I'm Hanslow, but... Sir?"
"Oh, oh! Oh!"
At that moment The gentleman, whom I thought was sophisticated, suddenly knelt and crawled toward me as if to kiss my feet.
"What are you doing? This is embarrassing in front of the children!"
And then,
"Sir!! No, Author!! I've finally found you!!"
"… Author?"
What on earth is he talking about? As I stood there bewildered, he looked at me with shining eyes and made exaggerated gestures.
"Yes, aren't you the author of this novel!?"
He soon pulled out a thin book from his bosom. I couldn't help but stare at the title as if it were nailed in place.
"This, this is…"
Given my profession, I could say I knew almost every book published in this era.
But there was no such book in my future knowledge, published at this time.
Of course.
"What on earth is this?"
Because it was a book I had written for the children here to read!
But why is it coming out of that gentleman's possession? And adorned with a flashy, gilded title in fancy script?
As I still stood there in a daze, the gentleman shouted like thunder.
"Why are you asking such an obvious question? Isn't it the most popular novel in London right now, sir!"
"… What?"
What kind of nonsense is this?