Leaving the suffocating land of Joseon for Britain felt like salvation—pure, unfiltered relief.
But there was one problem.
What did I want to do from here on?
What did I want to become?
I had never once asked myself those questions seriously.
In Joseon, where my birth as a half-blood slave had shackled me before I could even stand upright, the very act of "dreaming" was a luxury.
But now it was different.
The place I was headed wasn't Joseon—where "Western blood" meant I could never be anything at all.
If I played my cards right, I could have anything.
And if my ability backed it up, I could rise to any position.
So what should I aim for?
Vast wealth?
I couldn't guarantee it, but if I applied my expertise properly, it wasn't impossible.
But if money was the only goal… I'd already lived that life once. In my previous life, I'd handled sums well beyond ten billion won, as naturally as breathing.
And the end of that road had been—by any measure—ugly.
Why?
The answer was simple.
Money alone meant nothing unless you also possessed the social power and standing to defend it. Without that, the limits came fast, and they came hard.
Even in Joseon, the humiliation I'd swallowed hadn't been complicated in its essence.
I had been in a position that invited humiliation.
From that angle, this was a once-in-a-lifetime chance.
Even if I was a bastard, I was still the only blood heir of a titled noble. Depending on how things unfolded, I could climb.
Money and fame were tools—means to an end.
This time, I would rise to a place where no one could shake me.
Of course, even a thousand-li journey begins with a single step.
Which meant I needed to prepare from now—thoroughly.
First, I had to grasp my exact position, then "perform" the best version of myself that fit it.
Up until now, I'd been in the easy role—the one who only listened while others talked around me.
But now I was no longer a bystander. I was involved.
No matter how many languages I could speak, to the people around me I was simply a ten-year-old boy raised in Joseon.
If a child like that suddenly began understanding English—speaking it fluently—wouldn't it look unnatural?
I could force an explanation if I had to, but there was no real advantage to it.
I knew, from long experience of kneading people's psychology into whatever shape I needed, that there was a razor-thin line between looking intelligent and looking abnormal.
What I needed to present was the image of a startlingly bright child.
Nothing more.
In Joseon, I had no room to breathe, so I'd deliberately provoked attention just to survive.
But now I didn't need that.
Being a child came with restrictions.
No one took your words seriously. Any attempt to act required a guardian, permission, supervision.
Yet that very limitation was also armor.
If you carried yourself properly, you could avoid suspicion entirely.
What had my previous life taught me with blood and pain?
Never repeat the same mistake.
Until I reached a position no one could rattle, no one must be able to clearly pin me down as a specific kind of person.
On the surface, I would be nothing more than a slightly clever young lordling of a noble house.
Everything else—every sharper edge—had to be hidden.
As for how to do that… I'd think it through once I arrived in Britain.
As I steeled myself, my eyes naturally tightened with focus.
Perhaps it looked like troubled contemplation.
The middle-aged man who had come to collect me spoke carefully to the interpreter.
"He's lived there for ten years. It must feel like a hometown to him. He looks conflicted. What should we do in a moment like this?"
The interpreter replied smoothly.
"As far as I know, in Joseon, if the mother is a slave then the child is also a slave. After only a few days back in our country, he won't spare Joseon a thought. There is no need to worry."
"I suppose that's true," the man said. "Still… it will be a long journey to London. How should we pass the time? Must we speak the way we did in Joseon—Joseon speech to Qing speech, then Qing to English?"
"That was only possible because an interpreter accompanied us in Qing. I don't speak Joseon at all. But truly, even without me, James—you are fluent in Qing, are you not?"
"I can speak Qing," James said, mildly irritated, "but I don't know Joseon at all. And even if I'm fluent, I'm no professional interpreter like you. If I had known, I would have asked in Qing for a translator proficient in Joseon."
Listening to every word while pretending not to understand was starting to feel like punishment.
But thinking it through, I realized something.
If I was thinking about my footing in Britain, it might be better to reveal some measure of brilliance early.
My father had no legitimate children, supposedly—but I was still a bastard.
If I wanted his attention—his affection—then I needed to be impressive enough that no one could dismiss me as a disposable inconvenience.
If I pretended to know English, I'd cross the line into "unnatural."
But Qing speech was within tolerance.
Modern Mandarin was based on Beijing speech with later refinement. Strictly speaking, the Qing tongue of this era would differ slightly.
To someone truly fluent, my accent might sound odd.
But that was precisely why it worked—because I could claim I'd taught myself.
So I spoke.
"Um… hello."
I said it in Qing speech.
"I can speak the Qing language. Could you interpret for me?"
The interpreter jolted.
"Pardon? You just spoke Qing. How—how can you?"
"The household I lived in belonged to a high official connected to the Ministry of Rites," I said calmly. "I heard Qing often. There were many books in the house as well. So I taught myself."
"You taught yourself a language?" The interpreter stared. "At your age?"
"I learn languages quickly," I replied, letting a childlike pride show through. "I can also speak some of the language of the Wa—Japan—to a degree."
The interpreter's eyes went wide.
I'd asked for interpretation to maintain the pretense that I didn't understand English—but James would have caught my meaning even if the interpreter hadn't relayed it.
Sure enough, James was staring at me with his mouth slightly open.
"Language isn't something one learns so easily," the interpreter muttered. "To teach yourself to this level… and not one language, but two…"
"Right?" I said, sounding like the ten-year-old I was meant to be. "Even in Joseon, I never met anyone my age who learned faster than I did."
Shock deepened across both faces.
Not mild surprise.
Genuine astonishment.
"That's… truly fortunate," the interpreter said at last, recovering himself. "It will be a long journey to London. In the meantime, I can teach you the alphabet. If you can read even simple words by the time we arrive, your father will be delighted."
"Yes," I answered brightly. "I've never learned English before, but I'll try hard. I want to speak with people as soon as I can."
That was half true.
I could speak English like a native—but my "native" was American.
The accent used by Britain's aristocracy and educated class—the so-called posh speech, closer to refined London pronunciation—was different. Very different.
If I arrived in Britain rolling my tongue the way I had in my previous life, I'd be rejected at the door of polite society on the spot.
Chinese and Japanese were foreign tongues. A foreigner could be forgiven for sounding imperfect.
But English wasn't.
I had to strip the American rhythm out of my mouth and rebuild it into British speech.
Still, I wasn't worried.
To everyone around me, I was a blank slate learning English for the first time.
Even if my pronunciation was awkward at the start, that would only make it more believable.
And if I "improved" at a frightening pace, they'd call it genius.
If I ground myself into pronunciation alone, I could fix it within a year or two.
James, unaware of what I was truly doing, smiled with warm approval and offered advice.
"I'm not an interpreter myself, so I cannot claim perfection, but the languages of Asia—using Chinese characters and such—and the languages of our side are entirely different families. It will be difficult at first. Still, if there is anything you do not understand, ask me at any time. I will help as much as I can."
"Yes. Thank you."
From that day on, James—who finally introduced his name—spent hours each day with the interpreter, supervising my English.
At first I thought he was simply loyal.
But as we talked, I learned he had reasons of his own.
"When we reach London, it may feel awkward and difficult," James said one evening. "You are the only blood heir, but you are still… born outside of marriage. Even in Europe, the treatment of such children is not kind. It may be worse than the East."
"Is it?"
"Yes. In the past, no matter the circumstances, a child born outside wedlock could not inherit. The law offered them no protection—no guaranteed position."
In the East, there were countless cases where a male child born to a concubine outranked a legitimate daughter in inheritance.
In the West, that was rare.
Even William of Normandy—William the Conqueror himself—had suffered early rebellions precisely because he was branded illegitimate.
"So even if I go to London… will I have no rights at all?"
"No, not quite," James replied quickly. "Fortunately, attitudes have begun to shift. The idea that every person possesses rights that cannot be violated is spreading. If there are no legitimate heirs, and the father publicly declares he will pass things to you, it can be forced through."
He paused, then added quietly.
"However… if you are judged unfit to inherit the title, the relatives will rise in revolt."
"That's not a problem," I said, keeping my expression steady. "It just means I must prove myself, doesn't it?"
I had worried I might become a cold leftover even in Britain—but if this was the situation, it was manageable.
In other words, I simply had to make my father choose me despite the pressure.
I would not show that calculation on my face.
I would look determined. Earnest. A child trying his best.
"I truly believe you need not worry too much," James said. "Even now, you can read simple words. That alone proves your intelligence. And unlike me, you have no brothers or sisters—"
"Were you in the same position as me, James?"
"Similar," he admitted. "My father is the current Earl of Westminster—he holds a seat in the House of Lords. But I am born outside wedlock, and above me there are six legitimate children. I never once dared to dream of fair treatment."
"Yet you serve as my father's representative."
"That is only because I carry noble blood, and because my father judged my abilities favorably." James gave a small, rueful smile. "And as I said, matters are better than they used to be. You need not fear too much."
A steward who managed an estate and a noble household could not be "just anyone."
That was obvious, if you thought about it.
Who would entrust the management of lands and accounts—of an entire family's lifeblood—to a madman with no standing?
To become a steward of a noble house, one typically needed blood and pedigree of at least some weight.
Just as those who attended a king directly were often granted titles of their own.
So James serving as an earl's agent told me something important:
Even bastards, if capable, could still receive at least the minimum recognition of the nobility.
Which meant I had even less reason to fear.
And anyway—
Even if Britain treated me poorly, it would still be heaven compared to being a half-blood slave crawling through Joseon.
On the voyage to London, I spent most of my days studying English with James.
In truth, I poured nearly all effort into correcting pronunciation, and only pretended to struggle with the rest.
James, ignorant of the truth, stared in open disbelief at my "growth," and more than once raised his thumb in approval.
Still, I had no intention of spending this precious time on language alone.
While studying, I also worked tirelessly to win James's trust.
Given my status as a bastard, I needed at least one reliable ally in Britain—someone who would stand on my side regardless of my father.
In that sense, James was the perfect candidate.
A steward managing an earl's house and a scholar fluent in Qing speech was rare.
And more importantly, he understood the pain of being shackled by the same label: born outside marriage.
If I wanted to build emotional intimacy with someone, where could I find a better target?
Once the conditions were right, forging a deep relationship was easy for me.
After all, what was the most important thing in a swindle?
First, second, and third—trust.
No matter how sweet the offer, if the other party didn't believe you, it was worthless.
A top-tier con man's most vital skill wasn't the precision of his scheme.
It was the ability to win a target's trust completely.
And in that field, I was a master.
Over a span that was long and short at the same time, I alternated between drawing sympathy, offering empathy, and mirroring emotion—until James's goodwill became firm.
That was one solid ally secured for my life in London.
Then, as the ship rounded into the Strait of Dover and reached the lower Thames, the panorama of the nineteenth-century British Empire rose into view.
"Wow…"
I had been to London a few times in my previous life.
Even then, I'd thought it was a splendid city—old-world and modern at once.
Compared to the London I remembered, this one was undeniably rougher. The air was dirtier. The streets looked grimy.
And yet—
Somehow, it felt far more overwhelming than the London I knew.
It was probably because of Joseon.
By modern standards, Seoul and London didn't differ drastically in infrastructure.
In fact, London's foundations were so old that it was often less convenient than Seoul—but that wasn't because Seoul was "better."
It was because London had modernized early, and the city carried centuries of accumulated layers.
The proof was right in front of my eyes.
The living scene of industrialization.
Compared to the images of Hanyang still vivid in my mind, the gap struck even harder.
Beyond the steamship gliding up the Thames, I could see London Bridge rising—newly built, nearing completion, its full form already visible.
James stuck close to me, pointing excitedly and explaining everything he could.
"This is the River Thames. It passes through Oxford, cuts through London west to east, and empties into the North Sea. It used to be relatively clean, but the pollution now is severe. You must never bathe in it, and never drink from it."
"Just the smell tells me it's not normal."
"They say salmon used to return in great numbers from the North Sea," James went on, "but the number is decreasing every year. Ah—and that tall building there is St. Paul's Cathedral. State funerals for those who have made great contributions to the nation are held there. Strictly speaking, only the area around the cathedral was once 'London,' but now most people call the surrounding regions London as well."
As he spoke, I felt the ship begin to slow.
Then it stopped.
The deep, majestic groan of the steam engine sounded like a signal—
The true beginning of my second life.
We had arrived.
London.
Capital of the British Empire—the strongest nation in the world.
"Welcome to London, young master."
Before I could even drown in awe, James offered his hand with a gentle smile.
"Come. The earl is waiting."
I took his hand without hesitation and gripped it tightly.
So this would be my father in this life.
What kind of man was he?
My chest lifted—half anticipation, half exhilaration.