Arthur Collins was awakened by a violent fit of coughing.
For Taiwan novels, look for Taiwan Novel Net, twkan.com. It's super powerful.
The sound came from the other end of the room, short and suppressed, as if afraid of disturbing something, yet it burst uncontrollably from a thin chest.
He opened his eyes, his retina still imprinted with the faint blue light of a 21st-century display and a screen full of scrolling code. Did I pull another all-nighter? he thought vaguely, and then, a memory not his own flooded his mind like a tide.
He was no longer the programmer who sat on an ergonomic chair, living on coffee and takeout. He was now... Arthur Collins, a twenty-year-old former Oxford University student from a fallen family.
His father, once a reasonably successful cotton merchant, had staked his entire fortune on Egyptian cotton futures at the beginning of the year. A sudden military coup around the Suez Canal wiped out his wealth overnight. The immense blow and debt pressure caused him to suffer a sudden heart attack and pass away. His sickly mother, after selling their Kensington mansion and all their possessions, also succumbed to excessive grief a few months prior.
With the family's economic pillar collapsing, Arthur naturally could no longer afford Oxford University's exorbitant tuition. A politely worded but cold letter from Balliol College completely knocked him from the ivory tower's clouds into the mud of the East End of London.
And the source of that coughing was the only "inheritance" he received from that family disaster—his seventeen-year-old sister, Lilian... Outside, London's November unsparingly displayed its characteristic ugly face. The lead-gray sky was as gloomy as a rag soaked in dirty water, and the cold wind, carrying fine rain, tirelessly beat against the sloping attic window. Raindrops seeped through the cracks in the glass, forming a small puddle under the windowsill.
This was an attic on the top floor of a low-rent apartment building near Whitechapel in the East End of London. Rather than a room, it was more like a slightly larger storage closet. The sloping roof made it difficult to breathe, and the only place Arthur could stand upright was a small area in the center of the room. Large chunks of plaster peeled off the walls, revealing mottled bricks underneath, like some hideous skin disease.
Damn, this dump... Arthur cursed in his previous life's native language, then threw off the paper-thin, moldy blanket covering him. The cold immediately burrowed into his bones like a venomous snake, making him shiver.
"Arthur? Did I wake you?"
Lilian's voice came from the corner, thick with a nasal tone and apology.
"No, Lilian," Arthur said, fumbling to put on his patched shirt, "I've been awake for a while, trying to decide if we should roast a dragon for lunch today or stew a sea monster."
He tried to make his voice sound light. In his previous life, he was an orphan and had never experienced the warmth of family, but the memories and emotions in this body made him instinctively want to protect his fragile sister.
Lilian coughed twice, amused by his poor joke, then gave a weak laugh: "I want sea monster, Arthur, with plenty of pepper, please."
"No problem, my lady," Arthur replied earnestly, which made Lilian smile even more.
But when he turned and walked towards the dilapidated table that served as their kitchen, the smile on his face instantly vanished.
On the table lay half a loaf of black bread, hard enough to be used as a weapon, and next to it, a small piece of fishy-smelling salted fish. This was all their food for today, and possibly for the next three days.
Even more critical was the small brown medicine bottle on the table. It was empty. It was digitalis tincture, used to relieve palpitations and joint pain, and it was expensive.
"The sequelae of rheumatic fever, the ghost of the poor in this era..." Arthur's inner monologue was as cold as the rain outside the window.
Lilian had scarlet fever a few years ago, and after the high fever subsided, the root of the illness remained in her heart.
The doctor, or rather, the pharmacist who seemed more like a quack, had visited last week. After taking the last few shillings of his predecessor, he coldly delivered the verdict: her heart valves were permanently damaged, she must immediately stop any strenuous work, move to a dry and warm place in the countryside for recuperation, supplement with milk and fresh meat daily, and absolutely avoid catching a cold... Otherwise, her fragile heart could stop beating completely at any time after a cold or a severe cough.
Move to the countryside? Milk and meat?
This gentleman probably thought he lived in Buckingham Palace.
Arthur thought self-mockingly; he didn't even have money for the next meal's bread.
His predecessor had managed to scrape by, relying on his solid writing skills to take on scattered German translation jobs. But this meager income was a drop in the bucket compared to Lilian's worsening condition and expensive medical bills.
No, this can't go on.
Arthur's gaze swept across the room, finally landing on a stack of yellowed newspapers.
This was a contradictory era. On one side, the formidable prestige of the British Empire; on the other, the gloom and despair of Dickens' foggy city. People worshipped science and reason, but at the same time, mysticism and spiritualism quietly flourished in every corner of the city. It was a melting pot of ideas, where old orders were collapsing, and new concepts had yet to form. Chaotic, confusing, yet full of opportunities.
"My greatest advantage is the ideas and masterpieces in my mind that transcend this era. But how to use them? Just present them? I'd probably be considered a madman or a plagiarist. I need an entry point, a reasonable identity that won't arouse suspicion..."
Arthur's mind raced.
He couldn't just conjure a Holmes out of thin air; that would be too abrupt.
He needed a "stepping stone," a "foothold."
He had it!
His gaze sharpened, and a name appeared in his mind—Edgar Allan Poe.
This American master of darkness had passed away more than thirty years ago. Although his works were occasionally mentioned in England, they had not received the attention they deserved. The mainstream British literary world viewed the works of this American cousin with a certain condescending scrutiny and disdain.
This was his chance!
Not to be a 'creator,' but a 'discoverer,' an 'evangelist.'
To "unearth" this American genius forgotten by the British literary world, to debut as a critic with unique taste. This would both showcase his talent and be absolutely safe!
The moment this thought appeared, he felt an uncontrollable surge of excitement.
"Arthur, what are you thinking about?"
Lilian's voice interrupted his contemplation.
Arthur turned around and saw his sister, wrapped in a blanket, looking at him curiously. A pang of pain went through his heart. He quickly walked over and touched her forehead. Thankfully, she didn't have a fever.
"I'm thinking about a writer, Lilian," he said softly, pulling up her fallen blanket, "a wonderful poet from America. People here barely know him, or rather, they've misunderstood him."
"Really? What did he write?"
Lilian's eyes lit up with a spark of curiosity.
"He wrote many things, for example, a story about a man who, longing for his deceased lover, gradually descends into madness amidst the cries of a mysterious raven."
Arthur slowly recounted the core of the story.
"A raven?" Lilian was drawn to the image. "Can it talk?"
"Yes, but it only says one word."
Arthur's lips curved into a mysterious smile.
"What word?"
"'Nevermore.'"