Never mind the specifics of how she pulled it off, and never mind the driver’s state of mind when he saw a person crawl out from under his carriage; regardless, Arna, having hitched her free ride, arrived at Lawyer Green’s firm exactly at the appointed time.
She scanned the surroundings until her eyes locked onto a brass plaque hanging on the door in front of her. It bore a single line of text:
*Nemo me impune cessit.*
…Surely that didn’t mean “Isaacs and dogs not allowed,” right?
As a curious illiterate, Arna stood at the door for a moment, staring at the plaque and frantically clicking the system translation.
Three seconds later, the translation popped up.
【No one provokes me with impunity. (Latin)】
That sounds pretty cool! I want it!
Arna began frantically pressing the interaction key on the brass plaque, hoping that brute force would work wonders.
No miracle occurred, though she did manage to get a lot of dust on her sleeves.
Before she could pry at it further, the door was pushed open.
A noblewoman stepped out.
Wearing a veiled hat, she looked at Arna’s hand—which was practically welded to the plaque—with considerable astonishment. She bypassed her, unable to resist commenting, “Are cleaners these days really this unprofessional? Working without even bringing tools?”
Arna: …
She silently pulled her hand back.
As everyone knows, interacting with someone else’s property right in front of them was just like picking things out of a trash can. Either someone would shout “How disgusting!” or “Thief!” and it was an easy way to lower favorability.
She peeked inside and saw the round-bodied NPC lawyer bracing himself to stand up from behind an oak desk.
“Hey, Little Mr. Isaacs!” he greeted. “Come on in.”
To be honest, the lawyer NPC’s appearance really did resemble a walrus.
Arna gave a response and walked in, stepping across a somewhat dingy Turkish carpet to see a massive London map.
Noticing Arna’s gaze, Lawyer Green chuckled.
“It’s a few years old, but luckily there haven’t been any major urban projects lately, so it’s still usable,” he remarked, pointing to a spot near the east. “Here. This is where your grandfather’s factory is located. It’s on a relatively safe street near Whitechapel.”
His lips twitched as if he were tasting something bitter. “Of course, the building is still standing, but things aren’t like they were when your grandfather picked up his first bucket of nails near Whitechapel. After he fell ill, the stubborn old man had to sell off his assets to raise money for his expenses.”
Tracing the worn London map, Lawyer Green circled the surrounding area. “In his final years, we discussed leasing the factory to others to maintain the overall upkeep. Unfortunately, the other party breached the contract soon after due to a carriage accident.”
Arna nodded, getting the gist of the situation. She asked casually, “Any suggestions?”
“My suggestions? You’ve asked the right person; your grandfather used to consult me often,” Lawyer Green said, stroking his mustache with pride. “I suggest you lease the land to those… socialists.”
He winked, looking even more like a wicked walrus. “Even though those fellows love gathering a rabble for their bizarre speeches, it’s better than letting the goods sit inside alone, right? Considering… certain factors.”
Those socialists were running around everywhere starting “worker housing movements,” but somehow they had funds. Having them there was better than leaving the place to be burgled or “mysteriously catching fire.”
According to Lawyer Green’s friends, they even planned to build a new city on the outskirts of London!
In Green’s view, these people simply had too much money and nowhere to spend it.
Arna: …Actually, she just wanted to ask where to start the renovations and who the best carpenter in London was.
She scratched her head and said nothing.
“Fine,” Green said, seeing her expression. He knew what she was thinking and couldn’t help but shake his head. “The same foul temper as your grandfather.”
He thought for a moment and lowered his voice. “If you plan to repaint the house, I suggest hiring watchmen for the night. You don’t want to be in that area after dark. I heard just last Thursday, two gangs got into a fight near the Ten Bells Pub.”
“…Watchmen?” Arna asked blankly. “What are those?”
For some reason, faced with the suggestion of spending money to hire people, she felt an instinctive resistance.
…It was probably because her wallet, containing only a few coins, was letting out a mournful wail!
Lawyer Green sighed at this amateur.
“Think of them as people responsible for patrolling the district at night to maintain security,” he explained, taking a sip of tea. “For someone like you, new to the area, it’s safer to hire someone to watch the warehouse. Of course, that’s once your goods arrive.”
Looking at the bewildered Little Mr. Isaacs, Lawyer Green chuckled inwardly. He felt he was truly getting old, starting to worry about things that hadn’t even happened yet.
Rebuilding a factory—how difficult was that?
This youngster probably hadn’t saved much money over the years anyway.
Setting the matter aside, Lawyer Green braced himself with his cane and stood up. “Alright, let’s go take a look at your factory first.”
He led Arna to the door, hailed a carriage, and climbed in first.
Arna and the driver locked eyes.
This guy looked familiar… Wasn’t this the driver who had given her a “free ride” this morning?
Looking at the driver’s squinting eyes, and then at Lawyer Green urging her to hurry inside, Arna chose to sit down with a straight face.
It didn’t matter. As long as she wasn’t embarrassed, the embarrassment belonged to someone else.
But wait, does this game even give passerby NPCs such strong memories?
—This is getting interesting!
*
In any case, the carriage journey from a respectable law firm in the city to Whitechapel was by no means comfortable or pleasant.
The closer they got to the London East End, the heavier the smell of coal smoke became. When the carriage turned onto a bumpy cobblestone road, jolting Arna’s teeth together until they rattled, Lawyer Green pulled out a handkerchief from somewhere and pressed it quite fastidiously to his nose.
Arna, meanwhile, peered out the open window with curiosity.
In the distance, the factories looked like a pack of beasts crouching in the brush, looming through the hazy fog, continuously belching thick smoke into the already murky sky.
The streets were swarming with people. Men with hollow cheeks and flat caps walked in small groups toward the factories. Women wrapped tightly in shawls led toddlers, while groups of older children silently pushed handcarts. Their movements were slow and cautious, like small animals long since domesticated and accustomed to a life of toil and danger.
Although the industrial center was shifting toward the expanding railways and docks, the London East End remained a vital and established industrial zone.
“Not exactly the finest inheritance,” Lawyer Green clicked his tongue in disgust, indifferent to the scene. “However, land is land, even here.”
The carriage turned onto a small path, gradually approaching the factory. He let out a breath. “By the way, there’s one more thing I haven’t told you.”
He gestured. “The factory hasn’t been looked after for three years. Since your grandfather passed away, considering the security situation in the area, there have been occasional… squatters.”
“Squatters?” Arna sounded a bit excited. “Bandits?”
“Not quite,” Lawyer Green said vaguely. “You’ll see when we get there.”
The carriage stopped near the factory gates. He stepped down and handed the keys to Arna, clearly unwilling to risk it himself. “I won’t go in for now. Be careful.”
He looked down at his watch. “In about… an hour, if I don’t hear anything, I’ll go find someone at Scotland Yard.”
Arna, hopping quickly off the carriage, gave a casual acknowledgment and approached the gate with the keys.
The rusted iron gates hung on mottled hinges, where faint traces of old signage could still be seen.
She inserted the key and gave it a hard twist.
The lock clicked open.
Arna reached out and pushed the heavy gates open. The rusted hinges shrieked as they dragged across the ground, sounding like a small animal caught in a door.
A cloud of dust fell from above, nearly hitting her face, but Arna dodged just in time.
The air inside smelled of mold. Dilapidated machinery stood like lingering ghosts in the cavernous hall, decayed to the point of being nearly useless.
Spiderwebs were everywhere. The windows were boarded up, with only a few shafts of dim light leaking through a large hole in the ceiling.
In the rain, that hole would undoubtedly leak water instead.
Arna walked around the machines, eventually slowing her pace as she approached a corner to the west.
It was a makeshift area cordoned off with rags and a wooden frame. It was concealed, and compared to the rest of the factory, it was almost clean.
Before she could get any closer, the rags were suddenly yanked aside by someone inside.
“Took you long enough to find this place,” a burly man said in a gruff, low voice, clearly unfriendly.
He had a prominent scar on one cheek, and a graying beard covered half his face. His arms were crossed over his chest, and his clothes were covered in layers of filth. “So you must be Little Mr. Isaacs. We’ve been waiting for you long enough.”
Behind him, two other equally tattered figures stood up.
Arna: “…Hello?”
What, do London’s vagrant NPCs live in the protagonist’s house now instead of tents under bridges?
The burly man seemed to find this polite greeting suspicious.
He exchanged a look with his two lackeys before turning back, jerking a thumb at himself. “Jack.”
He nodded toward a thinner man on the other side. “That’s Tom. And the one next to him is Rat.”
The young boy called Rat looked only about ten years old. He instinctively flinched at the nickname but didn’t protest.
Surrounded by two red-named NPCs, his green-lit name appeared exceptionally gentle, causing Arna to take an involuntary second look.
This glance didn’t catch Jack’s attention. He scratched his beard and looked Arna up and down with a shrewd eye.
“Never heard Old Isaacs mention he had a grandson,” he grinned. “So I’ll assume you have no idea what you’ve walked into.”
He took a step forward, bringing with him the smell of gin and rotting food.
“Now, here’s the thing, Little Mr. Isaacs,” he paused deliberately, his tone thick with intimidation. “We’ve been maintaining this place. Chasing off thieves, cleaning the rust, patching the leaky roof.”
He snorted. “In my view, such actions are enough to earn a man some… proper security, wouldn’t you say?”
Tom, standing slightly behind him, also took a step forward. Inside his slightly open coat, a glint of a blade was perfectly timed to show itself.