Even after I'd gotten a rough sense of what London was like, there was still only one thing I could realistically do right now.
"Right then, young master—shall we start with energy again today?"
"Yes! Please take care of me."
"You learn incredibly fast. At this rate, we'll be able to begin other subjects soon. I've been a tutor for over ten years, and I've never seen anyone absorb lessons as quickly as you do."
"Thank you. I think it's because you teach so well."
In the end, the most essential tool for surviving anywhere in the world is language.
If you enter a society where you can't understand what people say—and can't speak back—then no matter how intelligent you are, you become deaf and mute by default.
So I had to pretend to master English as quickly as possible. Only then could I mingle naturally and shake off the worst restrictions.
It wasn't even entirely an act. I did need pronunciation training, and plenty of words in this era differed from modern usage.
So I studied with real focus, and as the days passed my tutor developed a habit of praising me at every breath.
"My lord! The young master is a genius! A genius!"
"Hoho… is he?"
"I've never taught a child like him in my life. In just a few months, he's reached basic conversation, reading comprehension, and he's grasped grammar properly. You must be incredibly proud to have such a son."
"Hahahaha! I've never been called dull myself, but even I wasn't this sharp. Whoever he takes after, he's got a frighteningly good head on his shoulders. Then… would Eton or Harrow be possible?"
"More than possible! They admit boys as early as twelve—usually thirteen. The young master still has nearly three full years. That's plenty of time. I'll be at his side and see it through."
So my father had been aiming for Eton this whole time?
I stared, wide-eyed, and the earl laughed brightly, patting my shoulder.
"Ah, you're hearing this for the first time, aren't you? Eton and Harrow are among the finest schools in this country. A school is where boys your age gather, live together, and study together."
"Then… I'd live there with friends?"
"That's right. Only the brightest boys go. If you make friends there, they'll help you in the future. The exams are difficult, but if your tutor says you'll manage, then I suppose I can tell you now."
Maybe he'd held it back out of consideration—afraid I'd feel pressured.
I was startled, sure, but I felt nothing negative.
If I could wear the name Eton, it would only benefit me.
And just as Father said, those elite schools were crawling with sons of powerful families.
Nineteenth-century Britain wasn't like the modern world. This was a society built on networks.
If I gathered the right connections early, I'd gain something you couldn't buy even with mountains of gold.
So if I could enter, I should enter.
"Alright," I said, playing the earnest child. "I'll study hard and get into Eton. I want to be a son you can be proud of."
"Good, good. Whose son is he, to speak so sweetly? If you need anything, I'll provide it. Don't carry burdens alone—just tell me."
"Yes. Thank you. I'll work hard."
And honestly, if you thought about it, Father was an Irish peer with an estate back home.
He was staying in London for my sake now, but he couldn't leave his lands empty forever.
If I entered Eton or Harrow, I'd be in boarding school—meaning Father could return to Ireland with a lighter heart.
That was still years away, but planning ahead was how you avoided scrambling later.
From that day forward, I stayed diligent under my tutor's instruction, and I began proper lessons in other subjects.
But this was still the curriculum of a ten-year-old trying to catch up.
Latin was a little annoying.
Math and music, on the other hand, were almost too easy—so easy it made me uneasy.
What if my tutor or Father convinced themselves I was some once-in-history genius and started pushing me toward being a scholar?
I didn't want to be "the world's respected academic."
I wanted to climb.
Still, even at this pace, I could keep both my tutor and Father in a constant state of admiration.
"My goodness, young master! You can already solve problems like this?"
"...."
"To grasp multiplication in a single day!"
"...."
"And division—in one day! Are you truly… a genius?"
It was one thing to be praised.
It was another thing to be called a prodigy for solving arithmetic any ten-year-old could handle.
My cheeks nearly burned.
The tutor took my silence as "the virtue of humility," and praised me even more, which only deepened Father's trust.
Recognition earned through multiplication and division.
Wonderful.
Also… kind of mortifying.
Still, good was good.
Bathed in Father's affection and now comfortable with London's layout, I started to feel unstoppable.
Of course, I was still ten, so I couldn't go out alone.
James always accompanied me, but thanks to Father's order—let the boy do what he wants—James bought me anything I wanted to eat and took me anywhere I wanted to see.
Then one day—
as I walked with James through a lively district, my attention snagged on a building with a peculiar atmosphere.
I stopped without thinking.
"Young master—why are we stopping here?"
"Nothing. I just wondered what this place is."
"It's not somewhere you need to know about. If we go that way, there's a street with excellent food. Shall we—"
"What? Is it a place I'm not allowed to see?"
For a moment I wondered if it was one of those places I'd passed in Soho.
But no—this was too grand, too expensive-looking to be that.
James's reaction felt like a parent trying to stop a child from buying sweets.
And humans, unfortunately, only want things more when they're told no.
"If we just leave, I'll be curious the whole day. If you tell me why it's 'not good to know,' I'll understand faster."
James exhaled, defeated.
"…You're right. Fine. This is, in one word, a gambling hall. Gambling means wagering money on contests and wasting your life. It's a place where people throw away their days doing something useless."
"I know what gambling is. We had it in Joseon too. But this building looks… big. Fancy."
"London is full of private gambling halls. In the past, high society clubs filled that role—cards, wagers, even racing—but now the market has grown, and halls like this have begun to thrive."
So that was it.
No wonder it smelled familiar.
I'd heard somewhere that Britain cracked down hard in the nineteenth century—eventually banning almost all gambling except horse racing.
Every result has a cause.
If gambling was this rampant, of course it would lead to a crackdown.
If my memory was right, the real clampdown would come around the mid-century.
Meaning these halls were dancing their last dance.
And suddenly I wanted to see it even more.
Soon enough, I might never be able to step inside.
So what kind of world was hidden in here?
Since ancient times, gambling and fraud had been called two sides of the same coin.
And in my previous life, I'd wandered plenty of tables myself.
Sometimes as a player.
Sometimes as the dealer—the one who decided who laughed and who bled.
I wasn't a typical cardsharp, though. I was the irregular—the one who hunted the hunters.
"James," I asked, "can we go in just once? Just to look around?"
"I told you—it's a world you don't need. Yes, gentlemen at clubs wager on cards and on races. But that's for true men with self-control. Most people lose everything and fall to the bottom."
"That's why I want to see it with my own eyes. So I can learn. And if I go with someone like you—someone who'll tell me clearly what's wrong—won't that help me develop the right values? Better to see it safely once than be tempted alone later."
"It sounds reasonable…" James narrowed his eyes. "But you don't simply want to 'learn a lesson,' do you?"
…He wasn't wrong.
Why else would my feet stop here out of all buildings?
A sparrow doesn't pass a mill without sticking its head inside.
Something inside me had reacted.
A certain instinct.
James realized he had no real alternative, sighed, and opened the door.
A middle-aged man inside spotted us and strode over quickly.
"What the hell? Children aren't allowed—"
He waved us away, then noticed my neat clothes and instantly changed his expression.
"…Are you nobility, sir?"
"Can't you tell?" James replied coolly. "The young master showed interest. I thought I might let him observe. But if children are forbidden, we'll leave at once."
"Nobility are future valued clients," the man boomed, laughing. "Age is nothing! Please, come in—take your time and look around. Hahaha!"
He ushered us inside, and the hall opened up like a stage.
Despite a child entering, no one paid us much attention.
All eyes were locked on cards, dice, beads—people shouting, laughing, groaning.
James clicked his tongue, disgusted.
"I'll explain," he said. "That game there is guessing what number the dice will show. You can think of it as throwing away your life alongside the dice."
"Mhm… I see."
"And that is a card game. The rules vary, but the common point is the same: they hand their lives to luck and call it entertainment."
Did this man lose a fortune once, or watch someone close to him get ruined?
Every word he spoke had a thorn in it.
He marched me around the hall, lecturing passionately on why gambling was a waste.
And I agreed—fully.
But humans are greedy, and they repeat the same mistakes.
The people filling this place would keep coming until the day the law shut the doors.
I was about to sink into that thought when—
I saw it.
A table in the center that looked like a VIP spot.
A man deeply absorbed in cards.
Or rather… the dealer in front of him was what seized my attention.
It was only a flicker of discomfort at first.
But as I watched closely, I understood instantly.
These bastards.
That dealer's hands were dirty.
The players' vision had narrowed—they were too fixated, too inexperienced to catch it.
But to my eyes, it was obvious.
I paused and observed.
The dealer wasn't being reckless. He controlled the flow carefully.
He didn't drain them dry in one bite.
He let them taste victory now and then—a little high, a little hope—then shaved them steadily, piece by piece.
This wasn't a first-time trick.
And it wasn't a lone dealer acting out.
At this level, the house was involved.
No wonder my feet had stopped outside so naturally.
It wasn't "intuition."
Not really.
It was recognition.
The cold, heavy feeling of returning to a place I knew too well.
A familiar scent.
And somewhere deep inside me—that old partner-spirit, the part of me shaped by a decade of cons—
screamed in delighted glee… and stirred.