Remaining forever a loyal disciple is no courtesy to the master. Why, then, do you not try to seize my treasured weapon and secret manuals?
Even when the right path is taught, no one learns it.1
–Friedrich Nietzsche, 2
“Perhaps the first manuscript worth celebrating will be completed before the Royal Ball.”
“Excellent. The day when all of London marvels at your literary talent is not far off.”
“What do you an? What they should marvel at is not my talent, but your intellect and Kung-Fu.”
Watson scratched her head awkwardly, as if embarrassed.
She looked as if she couldn’t bear the embarrassnt of praising the literary talent she had never shown.
Well, I’ve never worried about that issue.
She is an elite who obtained a dical doctorate from the University of London.
At the very least, she will surely produce lines that readers can enjoy, just like her brother did before my regression.
“Everything is good, but don’t overdo it. There are still eight Yin-Qi nails in your ridians that need to be removed, so please consider my position as the one treating you.”
“If anyone else had said that, I would have glared at them for daring to advise a doctor on health, but since it’s you, I’ll take it to heart.”
“Thank you for saying so. Then I have so business to attend to, so I’ll be leaving.”
“Hmm? Where are you planning to go?”
I took out the fabric-laden silk bundle from the two hidden ones.
“Didn’t my cherished clothes get torn while fighting the Phantom Fist? So, I’m planning to get a new set of clothes tailored for the Ball.”
After giving Watson a vague answer to her question as to what I was holding in my hand, I left the house.
I didn’t want to reveal that I was secretly preparing a gift for her.
As I stepped out of the boarding house to catch a carriage, I noticed two rather luxurious-looking envelopes placed in front of the entrance.
One was sent by Ulrich Zuckerberg, who had been profusely expressing his gratitude to .
The other bore the na of Sir Henry Fawcett, the Postmaster General.
Both had promised a gift or reward for solving this case.
As soone who considers himself a chivalrous gentleman, I was quite curious about how much sincerity they would show to , but I decided to resist the urge to check the letters until I boarded the carriage.
“Where to, sir?”
“Mayfair. Take to Savile Row.”
“Understood.”
-Giddy up!
The coachman began to drive the carriage towards the sartorial sanctuary, which would take about ten minutes.
While heading to the destination, I quickly tore open the letters sent by the clients.
As expected, both letters conveyed their current states with writing and tone dripping with relief and joy.
The letter from Ulrich Zuckerberg, who had given a substantial check as an advance paynt, ntioned that he would soon visit with a surprising gift.
The letter, scribbled quickly with excitent evident in the handwriting, had a particularly intriguing part:
“You’re already making look forward to it, Ulrich.”
It’s fortunate if he’s saying this with confidence, but for now, I’ll wait for the day he visits.
anwhile, it seed the Postmaster General, busy with official duties, wanted to visit his office.
Normally, I would have requested that he send the gift through a postman, citing my busy schedule, but I decided to visit Sir Fawcett’s office soon.
The reason was simple.
His letter contained such shocking content that I montarily forgot about the gift Ulrich promised.
Strange.
I thought I first t the Postmaster General at the Central Post Office.
“Why does Sir Fawcett know my master?”
And what is this item my master left? What could it an?
I kept thinking but couldn’t find a connection between them.
What kind of relationship do my master and Sir Fawcett have?
I want to ask directly, but since he said to visit after the Royal Ball in a month, it seems pointless to ask before then.
‘…If necessary, it might not be a bad idea to find a clue before eting the Minister.’
The carriage’s destination was Savile Row.
Coincidentally, my master’s residence is also there.
The carriage dropped off at the entrance of Savile Row and leisurely vanished into the distance.
This place, considered a landmark of Burlington Gardens, was also regarded as a rather peculiar spot in London.
A short alleyway of less than 300 yards, lined with dozens of four-story buildings tightly packed together.
However, there was an imnse allure here that made many esteed gentlen willingly make their way.
Indeed, this was London’s pride, where tailors gathered to create bespoke suits.
A place that dressed all crowned heads of Europe in suits.
This was the elegant nickna used by those who appreciated culture when referring to Savile Row.
“How long has it been since I last visited here?”
Was the last ti I stopped by before my master went on a journey?
That was October 2, 1872, so it’s been nearly nine years.
“……”
As I cast my gaze afar, before the suit specialty shops, my master’s residence at 14 Savile Row ca into view.
A townhouse nestled among the custom suit specialty shops, lined up neatly in four-story buildings.
The entire facade, including the windows, was an impregnable fortress made of alloys using various heavenly materials, one of my master’s prides.
As a child, I endured my master’s harsh training and tried to vent my frustration by breaking the wall several tis, but each ti my wrist gave out, and I failed to leave a single mark on the wall.
Not only were the materials special, but a unique formation was deployed, making both the inner and outer walls impossible to destroy unless one was a martial artist of the master’s caliber.
Could it be that even a peerless grandmaster, unmatched across all of Europe, feared a gentleman thief might co calling while he was away from ho?
‘…Anyway, it’s still an unnecessarily conspicuous house.’
The townhouse where my master lived had undergone extensive renovations, resulting in a seven-story building that was three stories taller than the other buildings on Savile Row.
So, it was inevitable that the house would catch the eye as soon as you entered the street.
After all, the tailor shop is right in front.
Before entering the store, I paused for a mont to recall mories of my master’s house, which I hadn’t seen in a long ti.
They were too rough to be called mories, and yet too close to keep at arm’s length as just a recollection.
In my mind, the anger from the hellish tis experienced in the training grounds beneath the mansion, driven by the belief that blood and pain create a gentleman, remained intact.
I still resent my master, but it’s true that thanks to him, I am who I am today.
In that sense, it wouldn’t be wrong to assign a slightly positive aning to the experiences I had at his mansion.
“How did he manage to build such a thing…”
I looked up at the narrow and towering front wall of the mansion.
In this day and age, it wasn’t uncommon for wealthy nobles to own a mansion in both the Kung-Fu hub of London, and their family’s estate, focusing on politics, economics, and martial arts.
They would have a stately ho or country house in rural areas or estates, and in London, where social gatherings and other important opportunities flowed, they would build another townhouse and move between the two hos.
London, with its influx of people from all over, had limited residential space, so the aristocrats naturally secured space by building their townhouses vertically.
anwhile, my master, though not an aristocrat but a wealthy gentry, chose to focus all his living arrangents in a single townhouse, without maintaining separate residences in the suburbs or countryside.
I specifically chose the word “focus” because he literally poured an enormous amount of money into remodeling this house.
To be specific, he ignored London’s strict building regulations and expanded 14 Savile Row to seven stories.
The reason such an absurd thing was possible is simple.
My master achieved a flawless victory without a scratch in a Kung-Fu trial against 108 honorary justices who judged minor offenses.
‘In the world I originally lived in, this would have been unimaginable.’
Ignoring building regulations and erecting a seven-story building would have been impossible if the society of the British Empire wasn’t a hierarchical one determined by the level of one’s internal energy.
My master originally didn’t like to openly display his Kung-Fu prowess, so what wind blew him to clash with the justices just to expand the house?
Thinking back now, it’s hard to understand why he insisted on that particular 14 Savile Row in the first place.
‘There must be so secret I don’t know.’
Originally, he intended to purchase the house at No. 7, because the famous Irish poet and orator Richard Sheridan, who was renowned enough to be buried in Westminster Abbey, resided there.
However, not long after, my master discovered that the house Sheridan lived in wasn’t No. 7, and managed to pressure the real estate agent into acquiring No. 14.
It’s still a mystery why he insisted on that house, even though he wasn’t a fan of Sheridan’s work.
In my childhood, I hastily concluded that it was just the whim of a master known for his eccentricity, but looking back now, there might have been another reason.
Seeing the absurd level of security asures prepared, it’s clear he hid sothing in the mansion without my knowledge, but what exactly did he leave behind?
If even a small clue remained, I might have been able to deduce sothing.
Now, I only regret not probing further, citing the reason that my master wasn’t a criminal and the minimal etiquette required in our teacher-student relationship.
‘Actually, it wasn’t that I didn’t do it, but that I couldn’t.’
That’s right.
At that ti, there was an unavoidable circumstance for .
To be specific-
敎了其法, 却無人學得其道. ️
TL/N: The original quote is as follows—One repays a teacher badly if one always remains nothing but a pupil ️
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