By the time Arna made her way toward the supplier’s shop, the streets of the East End were already bustling.
The air was thick with the rhythmic cries of street hawkers, and the smog from the factories choked the sky as usual.
The advertisement she had placed in *The Times* would likely take a day or two to circulate, but the Baker Street squad would spread the word through the alleys and tenements of Whitechapel much faster.
Taking on ten apprentices at four shillings a week, with room and board included—such compensation was a small fortune, especially for impoverished families who relied on their children to earn half a penny by sweeping chimneys or scavenging through trash heaps.
However, since this was a targeted recruitment, she had added specific requirements to the initial announcement: manual dexterity was a must, an interview was required, and the date was set for the weekend.
She left herself a five-day window, primarily because Arna intended to repaint and renovate the factory before the children arrived, using a special deodorizer to clear out any potentially toxic gases.
Alas, this era was so primitive that many materials were simply impossible to find.
Fortunately, the System had been uncharacteristically generous. Although it still refused to unlock the basic factory production recipes ahead of schedule, it had provided her with a simple deodorizing formula.
“Lime water, brushes, coal tar, and baking soda?” the supplier asked skeptively, gripping the list Arna had provided. “In these quantities?”
He scratched his thinning hair, feeling that this young person had absolutely no concept of volume. “Are you declaring war on stains? You realize this amount of homemade paint stripper is enough to coat an entire factory. As for the other things you want, I can’t see what use they are when combined.”
Arna replied, “…I *am* painting a factory. Since I’m buying so much, how about a discount?”
“I see. It sounds like that factory hasn’t had a proper cleaning since Queen Victoria was a little girl,” the supplier joked.
He shrugged and began to pull the order together. “If you need me to find someone to deliver this to the factory, there’s an extra charge. I can recommend some reliable renovation workers for you, too. By the way, if it’s a factory that’s been sitting that long, I’m afraid the rat nests will be thicker than your garden fence.”
He lowered his voice. “My advice? Get a cat. There’s a lad down by the dockside who loves raising those furry little things. For a pint of ale and two pence, you can borrow one. The kind that catches the craftiest rats in all of London.”
There it was—the inevitable pet-collecting phase of base building!
Arna nodded solemnly and added the task to her to-do list for the day.
“No need. Just give me the supplies,” she said, shaking her head shrewdly at his first suggestion to avoid any unnecessary payment traps. “I don’t need you to deliver them.”
The supplier huffed but said nothing more.
A moment later, he pointed to the large sacks gathered on the floor. “That’s everything.”
He wanted to see exactly how this arrogant brat planned to haul all this to the factory on foot! He had noticed the fellow hadn’t even bothered to hire a carriage in advance.
The supplier’s eyes were glued to Arna as she reached out and grabbed the sacks. Three, two, one—it was time for him to drop—
He watched, slack-jawed, as Arna effortlessly swung the heavy hemp sack over her shoulder and marched right out.
Because the sack was so enormous, she even gave the doorframe a heavy thwack as she squeezed through.
Yet, that brisk, flying pace left the supplier in a state of absolute shock.
*Just where did this country bumpkin with the strength of an ox come from?*
Back at the factory, Arna dropped the bundle on the floor, rolled up her sleeves, and began mixing the lime water.
*Listen up, you scrubs! It’s time to show you what full-throttle hardcore grinding looks like!*
She stopped wandering around and opening new maps, dedicating all her time to fishing for money and painting the factory. She left the house at six in the morning and walked home from the factory at one-thirty at night, never forgetting to rummage through trash cans along the way for anything valuable.
Occasionally, there were unexpected bonuses—like encountering muggers blocking her path, allowing her to earn a little extra pocket money.
The results were significant. In less than three days, Arna had repainted all three floors of the factory and sprayed her homemade air freshener to neutralize the toxic gases in the air.
However, being too absorbed in work had its downsides; it was easy to lose track of things.
For instance, after she finished spraying the final corner of the factory, the red dots indicating toxic gas on her map had completely vanished, but the time had silently ticked over to 1:50 AM.
Arna shuddered, dropped her spraying equipment, and bolted for the exit, hoping against hope that the developer wasn’t that heartless.
“You said this was a whole new way to play!” she shouted. “Fainting at two o’clock is so… cliché…”
Before she could finish her sentence, she lost consciousness and collapsed onto the cold concrete floor of the factory.
***
When Arna opened her eyes again, she saw the smooth, clean ceiling of Baker Street.
She stared blankly at the ceiling for a moment until a calloused hand blocked her view, gently touching her forehead with its back.
“No fever. It’s not an illness; it should just be hunger,” Watson said, withdrawing his hand. He placed a cold, damp towel on her forehead and spoke sternly. “What were you thinking, Isaacs? Fainting from hunger at two in the morning in a factory with the doors wide open?”
If he hadn’t happened to be out on a house call nearby that night and remembered that Isaacs hadn’t returned to Baker Street—prompting him to have the driver take a detour past the factory—Isaacs’ body might have been cold by the time someone found him the next morning!
Realizing her money hadn’t actually decreased, Arna wriggled a bit on the bed and grabbed the doctor’s sleeve.
“…I was wrong,” she said piteously. “Since we’re roommates, can I get a discount on the medical fee?”
*Please don’t deduct everything!*
Hearing that the patient’s first priority upon waking was haggling, Watson’s mustache twitched; he was nearly unable to suppress his anger.
But before he could speak, someone else did.
“A discount?” Holmes, dressed in his dressing gown, leaned against the doorframe with his arms crossed. “Doctor, charge him double just for that idiot remark.”
He stepped forward quickly, firmly grabbed Arna’s wrist, and flipped it over to reveal her scarred palms. They were raw and covered in blisters. He spoke dramatically, “Look at his hands. Sixteen hours of continuous labor! If he had managed his time reasonably and learned the proper way a skilled worker handles tools, these blisters would never have appeared.”
Watson’s anger immediately pivoted toward Holmes. He roared, “For heaven’s sake, Holmes! He’s a patient suffering from severe malnutrition. Now is not the time for your lectures. Let go of him!”
He looked back at Arna, questioning her, “When was the last time you ate? A real meal, not those biscuits.”
Arna scratched her cheek and glanced at the fine wounds on her palms.
The game’s attention to detail was actually quite good. If Holmes hadn’t mentioned it, she wouldn’t have noticed there was a special “worn hands” skin.
“These wounds will heal quickly. My last meal was… last night,” Arna said honestly. “I really did eat. Not biscuits.”
“Evidently,” Holmes said coolly after being yelled at and forced to let go. “Biscuits with a sandwich. One from several days ago—the sibling of those sandwiches sold to you on the train, no doubt.”
Arna clearly saw two sparks of fire ignite in Dr. Watson’s eyes, burning brighter by the second.
“Good Lord, Isaacs! A week-old sandwich?” He seemed to be desperately suppressing his temper. “A bacterial infection would have killed you before you could starve to death from malnutrition!”
Arna thought: *Curse you, Holmes!*
She muttered sheepishly, “It wasn’t spoiled, Dr. Watson. Really, I made sure to keep it fresh…”
She had put those sandwiches into a storage bag that could briefly preserve freshness to prevent rot.
Seeing Watson getting angrier, Arna swallowed the rest of her sentence. She just stared at her nearly empty stamina bar and looked around pitifully.
Before she could say anything else to irritate him, Watson picked up a bowl from the side and thrust the steaming beef broth under her nose.
“Drink it,” he said crossly, standing up. “You need plenty of rest. You are not to go out again until at least this afternoon. Do you hear me?”
“But the wood I ordered is arriving today. I was planning to…” Arna was planning to make the beds for the children.
She had exchanged three pence with the System for a double-decker bed blueprint and another five pence for the raw materials. She intended to hand-craft five double beds and place them in the newly painted second-floor rooms as living quarters.
But the second half of her sentence died in her throat.
Mrs. Hudson was standing at the threshold, her face pale and her lips pressed into a trembling line.
“You foolish, reckless child,” she whispered, her voice not sharp or high-pitched, but laden with a damp, heavy emotion.
The sound made Watson instinctively take a step back. Holmes, being perceptive, firmly gripped his friend’s arm and silently led him out of the room, leaving the bedroom to the “aunt and nephew.”
“You,” Mrs. Hudson said hoarsely, placing the tray she held on the bedside table. “You will finish this soup and eat these pies. Then you will sleep. After that, my dear, we shall have a talk about whether you and your career should be allowed to affect your health.”
Arna surrendered instantly.
Over the next half-day, she promised to return for meals on time, hire a carriage for her commutes, and place another ad the next day to hire a teacher for the children rather than trying to handle everything herself.
Though the expenses were higher than expected, by Friday afternoon, Arna had finished all the work on schedule.
She locked the door to the second-floor rooms and straightened her back, walking down the stairs with a light step. The iron frame gave a soft hum under her feet.
As the sun began to set, the pale walls of the factory reflected the fading light. The carriage driver should be nearby.
Arna stretched her body, calculating roughly how many children she would have to receive tomorrow morning.
At that moment, someone politely knocked on the iron door and pushed it open.
Arna instinctively looked toward the entrance.
It was a girl with rosy cheeks and thick hair tied back with a band, though a few stubborn locks still poked upward.
“I saw your notice in the paper,” she said, holding up the newspaper. “And I didn’t miss the previous issue of *The Times* either. You’re looking for someone to keep those little troublemakers in line?”
“I am,” Arna replied. “And I’m afraid the pay isn’t much. Just as the paper said: six shillings a week, meals included.”
Hearing this, the girl smiled, her manner easy and confident.
“I guessed as much,” she said, looking around the freshly painted factory. “You did this all by yourself? Impressive.”
Arna gave a grunt of affirmation. “Yeah.”
After finishing her visual tour, the girl spoke again. “I’ve had a bit of schooling. I can write a little, I know basic arithmetic, and I know how to keep a brood of runts from the gutters from tearing each other apart during work hours.”
She naturally extended a hand toward Arna. “I’m Nancy. No surname.”
Arna hadn’t expected to actually find a suitable teacher at a below-market rate. Realizing she had found a real bargain, she didn’t hesitate to shake the girl’s hand.
“Then,” she said solemnly, “I look forward to our partnership?”
Nancy burst out laughing. “Yes, I look forward to it, Mr. Isaacs.”