1836: I Became a Literary Giant in Great Britain

London at night presents a different scene. Gas lamps have just been lit, their faint light flickering in the fog, illuminating hurried pedestrians, clanging carriages, and street vendors.

On the other side of the city, London's East End is a completely different world, with narrow, crowded streets, dilapidated houses, and a pervasive smell of decay.

Thousands of people are crammed into slums, struggling daily for a loaf of bread. Many of them have never seen the vibrancy of London's West End, as if they live on two different planets.

The prosperity and glory of the empire were irrelevant to them; they could only seize every opportunity to survive.

Michel Leblanc is not a resident of the slums of East London, but he faces the same, or even more severe, plight as those poor people.

He now lives on the outskirts of St. Giles Parish, in the attic of a three-story apartment building on Cohen Street. The apartment is windowless, cold, and damp. The ceiling height is also quite poor; at Michel's height of 1.83 meters, he has to bend over to walk around inside.

Although the living conditions were very poor, in this era, having a place to stay was already a stroke of luck amidst misfortune.

As dawn broke, the three-story apartment building began to bustle with noise—the cries of children, the curses of men, and all sorts of other sounds filled the room.

Michelle was about to leave when he suddenly heard heavy footsteps coming from downstairs. He had just put his hand on the doorknob when he heard heavy footsteps coming from downstairs.

The footsteps were highly distinctive and could be clearly heard, while the old wooden staircase groaned under its own weight.

Clearly, he's a heavyweight contender.

Michel's hand froze in mid-air. The footsteps weren't just passing by; they were heading straight for the third floor! And whoever was looking for him at this hour was undoubtedly his landlady.

"Michelle, I know you're in the house!"

The sound easily penetrated the thin door panel and echoed in the cramped attic.

Michelle's eyes widened suddenly, and she withdrew her hand as if she had been electrocuted, pressing herself against the wall, not daring to breathe.

It was indeed Mrs. Marshall, the landlady.

"Bang! Bang! Bang!" came a loud knocking sound from outside the house.

The poor wooden door groaned in pain, as if it would collapse at any moment.

"Michelle! Don't think I won't know you're in there just because you haven't made a sound!"

The landlady's voice was incredibly loud: "I saw your light on last night! You're two months behind on your rent, a full two months! Even though you're a student, my mercy has its limits!"

Michelle covered her mouth tightly, afraid of making a sound.

Apart from a broken bed and a rickety table, there wasn't even a place to hide in the room. Once the door fell down, all he could do was share a deep, poignant gaze with the landlady.

"Next week, at the latest next week, if you still can't pay the overdue rent, I'll have to ask you to leave!" Seeing no response from the room, the landlady gave her final ultimatum and went downstairs on her own.

Hearing the sound of people coming downstairs, Michelle finally relaxed completely and let out a deep breath.

If time travel could bring immense wealth and status, who would want to be poor and unable to pay rent?

Yes, Michelle is a time traveler.

A week ago, the original owner of this body passed away from a sudden and serious illness, allowing this soul from the new century to take over the body. He was originally an ordinary graduate student in the future. After staying up all night reading novels, he woke up not to be greeted by an 8 a.m. meeting and a group meeting, but by the acrid smoke emitted by a nearby chemical plant.

After Michelle merged the memories, she realized with a wry smile that her predecessor had left her with a huge problem.

He not only owed tuition fees to the school, but also a large sum of rent to his landlady. If the landlady's tolerance reached its limit, he could be evicted at any time. Therefore, during his time in the world, Michelle tried to avoid contact with the landlady as much as possible.

Dropping out of school is a minor matter; being kicked out and freezing to death in the London winter night is not an impossible possibility.

London in 2025 might not freeze to death, but the winter of 1836 certainly would. This was at the tail end of the Little Ice Age, and the temperature was almost ten degrees lower than it would be two hundred years later. It was normal for the temperature to drop to below -10 degrees Celsius at night in winter.

Without a place to stay, London winters could easily chill Michelle to the bone.

Michelle didn't want to rush through the game right after his transmigration, so he had to get some money as soon as possible, at least enough to pay off his rent!

-----------------

Hey!

Michelle deftly dodged a lump of filth that fell from the sky.

Commuting in London through the morning fog is never a pleasant experience. Most homes in the East End lack private toilets; essentially, three or four hundred people sharing a single toilet along an entire alley can sometimes overflow by several centimeters, forcing residents to use bricks to step in and out.

Therefore, many people used chamber pots to pour the contents directly into shallow ditches by the roadside or into the Thames River.

Therefore, Michelle had to be careful of her head and feet at all times to avoid getting her "little surprise" from her neighbors, which would ruin her only decent wool coat and leather shoes.

Fortunately, the cold weather suppressed the spread of the smell, so he didn't have to hold his breath.

Desperate to protect her only decent outfit, Michelle walked toward the place she had arranged to meet beforehand.

Although he was almost in dire straits and didn't have the "system" that transmigrators are usually equipped with, he was at least a graduate student majoring in English literature in his previous life, and it seems that his memory and learning ability have been enhanced after transmigrating.

Although the current situation is difficult, it is not without a way out...

That's right. After transmigrating and some thought and observation, Michelle realized that the best way out was to return to her old profession and start writing novels.

Generally speaking, a writer's social status and circumstances are closely related to the era and region in which they live.

Fortunately, things were relatively good for Britain during this period. Next year, William IV, who had no children, will finally see Victoria come of age and inherit the throne.

That's right, it's Queen Victoria, the world's number one K/DA player, the grandmother of Europe, and the destroyer of European royalty. During her reign, Great Britain's power soared, gradually becoming the British Empire on which the sun never sets.

This period is also known as the Victorian era, a time that has been talked about with great interest by later generations.

But the empire's greatness and glory were not shared with ordinary people; on the contrary, they had to bear the heavy price of the empire's rise.

Take child labor as an example: four-year-old chimney sweeps... eight-year-old miners... it was a great victory if these child laborers could even survive to adulthood. Then there was the Irish famine of 1845, nine years later, in which millions of people died in this man-made famine...

It could be argued that while Queen Victoria herself did not commit any murders, the number of people who died as a result of her government or policies was likely greater than that of Little Mustache...

Meanwhile, British writers were actually living a relatively comfortable life. Although they weren't as comfortable as their neighbors in France, they were much more comfortable than their neighbors in Russia, who were constantly having to go to Siberia to grow potatoes.

Writing books can really make a lot of money. To give a recent example, just this year, Dickens became a legend with a popular serialized book, earning a large sum of pounds and moving into a villa.

"Stop, this is not the time for fantasy."

Michelle stopped her daydreaming; at this point, the only right thing to do was to earn some royalties as soon as possible to pay the rent.

Based on his memory, Michelle spent almost a week making some major revisions and finally completed the work in his arms.

If he fails to publish it successfully, he'll probably be close to speedrunning. It's fair to say that this work embodies all of Michel's hopes.

Writing a book is never as simple as just writing a good manuscript. While writing well is important, knowing how to submit it is an art in itself.

Fortunately, although the original owner left behind a lot of problems, as a college student of this period, his qualifications were not low, and the teachers and classmates around him were generally not from ordinary families and had well-developed social connections.

Coincidentally, one of Michel's teachers had a good relationship with the newspaper and could make an introduction for him. An appointment was made with an editor at the newspaper so that they could meet and chat, and also review the manuscript in person.

In this day and age, lost mail is all too common. Once lost, it means all the effort of the past few days has been wasted, and Michelle dared not place her hopes on the postman's diligence. Delivering the manuscript in person was undoubtedly the most reliable option.

So Michel dusted off his wool coat and stepped into the misty London morning, into the end of 1836, the beginning of the Victorian era, into that winter that only existed in books...

(A London street scene in 1823, with St. Paul's Cathedral in the distance)