2 Inheritance

As the train slowly pulled into London Station, Arna finally opened her eyes.

With just a blink, her energy was fully restored—simple as that!

She made her way down the narrow aisle toward the exit, surrounded by people desperately pushing forward. Unintentionally, her boots stepped onto a spacious, brightly lit platform.

Sunlight streamed down through the soaring glass arches, piercing the dissipating white steam. Beyond the yellow brick archways, the crisp cries of newspaper boys hawking their papers faintly echoed.

Though she didn’t know what papers they were selling... the modeling and rendering were astonishingly vivid!

Arna stood still for a moment, stretching her neck curiously to look around the platform. She paced along the tiled floor amidst the bustling crowd, searching for some guiding NPC.

She spotted no special landmarks or signs, and nearly collided with a burly porter beside her.

“Hey, country bumpkin, watch where you’re going!” The man took a couple of steps back, glaring at her with a gruff voice.

Before Arna could respond, he hastened away.

Perhaps she hadn’t reached the meeting point yet?

She circled around the brick walls, hunting for any glitches to bypass walls, but finding none, she reluctantly took the archway out onto the street.

This street was Euston Road, and the station she had just arrived at was one of London’s most famous—the King’s Cross Station.

After wandering around the station, she finally found a small red dot marked on her map.

There stood a short, stout gray-haired man dressed in black with a white tie, staring anxiously at his watch.

You must be it—the escort NPC!

Arna stepped forward and stopped in front of him.

He glanced up and immediately initiated conversation.

“So, you must be Arna Esas?” His tone was brusque. “Good, you’re not late—that’s commendable.”

Seeing her nod, he gestured for her to follow him forward.

“My name is Green. I’m a legal counsel at the Green-Douglas-Knight firm. I used to be friends with your grandfather and handled some of his business affairs. Of course, you may not know me well, as you haven’t kept in touch with your grandfather much. Anyway, your grandfather passed away recently and left you an inheritance,” he said softly, walking with Arna down the street while explaining, “I assume you’ve read the letter I sent you. As the executor of his will, it’s my duty to hand over the deed to the factory land to you.”

Typical cutscene fare—the usual story of a relative’s passing, a player inheriting a farm, manor, yard, or land parcel, and being urged to work hard to honor that relative’s legacy.

Taking advantage of the scene, Arna activated auto-follow mode and began rummaging through her inventory panel to check her resources.

Her original 999,999 gold coins were locked—obviously the currencies from different maps didn’t transfer, and the developers hadn’t even bothered with an exchange mechanism; pure laziness.

She still had ten sandwiches in her bag—the item limit for sandwiches. Considering she might get attacked by minor monsters right after spawning, she hadn’t sold them.

She had just made a small profit flipping sandwiches on the train, now holding 120 pieces of a new currency called “pennies.”

Her gold hoe, gold axe, gold hammer, and gold sword remained intact, but all magic-related items were grayed out, uncertain if they could be reactivated later.

Her fishing rod was still there and seemed usable—hopefully she could catch fish nearby.

Two unopened letters also stuffed in her bag showed no sign of containing items, so she skipped reading them.

After all, in a single-player survival game, storylines were secondary—being able to dig, farm, fish, and feed yourself while earning some money was already great!

After a moment, she realized Green was staring straight at her, clearly waiting for her response.

She tried pressing the skip button.

Skip failed.

In fact, this lousy game didn’t have a skip button at all.

She nodded once.

Good. The man seemed satisfied and the dialogue box popped up again.

Content, Arna continued inspecting her inventory and the unlocked surrounding map.

“This factory land is in East London. You’ve probably heard of it. Most factories are there, and it’s also where many workers live. It’s close to Whitechapel. The neighborhood isn’t very safe, but transportation is convenient,” Green explained in detail. “Besides that, most of your grandfather’s assets were used to offset outstanding debts. The factory land is the only property he left behind...”

He glanced up and down the young man standing before him.

Arna Esas bore a healthy complexion, clearly kissed by the sun, with bright, spirited eyes and well-defined features that made a good impression, suggesting he was a young man of decent character.

His coarse wool coat was well cared for; his white shirt collar was faded from washing, indicating some skill in household chores. Though the style was outdated, he maintained a basic neatness and decency.

Now, he listened intently, though somewhat taciturn, nodding occasionally at serious points to show he was paying attention.

It seemed that handing over the factory to him would finally bring peace to old Esas’s spirit.

“So, what do you want to do? Visit the factory now, or wait until tomorrow morning?” Green, showing some kindness for an old friend’s child, offered sympathetically. “If you have nowhere to stay, I can recommend some fairly safe inns.”

“...Wait, I’m inheriting a factory?” Arna blinked in surprise.

Could it be a developer prank, calling a farm a “factory”?

“No, it’s not a factory,” Green corrected, not wanting the young man to have unrealistic expectations and then be disappointed. “It’s a piece of land where a factory once stood—strictly speaking, it still includes the factory building and leftover debris. The factory isn’t operational. To restart it, you’d have to go through the proper procedures.”

Arna processed this quickly.

Got it. The factory building was her initial house; the leftover debris was the starter seed kit given to players. The formalities meant she had to visit all the residents before beginning quests.

But the game seemed to allow free dialogue. Might as well try.

“Oh, I see,” Arna nodded. “I have a question: can this farm called ‘factory’ be renamed?”

Renaming signs were important, usually issued by the initial guide NPC. She had to ask in advance.

Of course, if the required materials were too expensive, she’d let it go.

“Of course... what?” Green’s words faltered. For the first time, he seemed at a loss for what to say.

*

Ten minutes later.

Green spent a full ten minutes explaining to Arna, this young man, that a factory was a factory—not a farm. Bulldozing the factory to plant crops was unwise and unrealistic. Even with money, it wasn’t cost-effective. Forget about smashing the whole factory down with a hammer.

Old Esas’s spirit would never rest peacefully.

Even Green himself struggled to understand why this was so hard to grasp.

Why was this kid so obsessed with planting crops? He even asked if, since the factory couldn’t be farmed, he could clear some wild land in the suburbs to cultivate.

Who, in their right mind, would think to farm near Whitechapel, even seriously asking local Londoners what vegetables they ate daily?

He dared not imagine the expression on their faces if a gang fight broke out and someone stepped into freshly fertilized, soft earth.

Green tried every ounce of effort and rhetorical skill but couldn’t defeat Arna’s bizarre ideas.

Had the kid’s brain been warped by rural farming life?

For his own sake, he decided to take her to the factory the next morning.

Green escorted Arna to the entrance of a relatively safe inn, gave her the firm’s address for their meeting tomorrow, tore off a note from his pocket, wrote it down, handed it over, and warned her not to wander around at night to avoid theft or scams, then quickly left.

Left alone, Arna stared blankly at the words on her panel.

[Occupation: Landless Farmer]

She clicked it, and a prompt popped up.

[Clearly, you are an unlucky farmer who lost your land. No worries—many farmers in the 19th century shared your fate! Your luck is that you inherited a piece of land, and it’s in London—no matter how worthless the scrap there is, it’s still worth more than the trash in the countryside, right?]

For the first time, Arna seriously read through the storyline information.

After discovering the land couldn’t be sold, she silently cursed the developers three hundred times in her mind.

19th-century London farming—are you serious? Rent was several times the value of the crops!

Why not just drop her on a 19th-century island for a survival game? Maybe she’d even meet tiny kingdoms and giant realms!

Still, she often played management sims—restaurant sims, clothing store sims—but never a factory sim.

Very well, she’d give it a try.

She pulled out the two letters from her bag.

One was from the NPC who had just left, clearly a recap of the game’s background, explaining at length that she inherited a factory—though it was empty, with only scrap left—and needed to figure out what to do with it.

The other letter was signed “Love, your aunt,” expressing awareness of the player’s situation, welcoming her to stay at her home during her time in London to handle the inheritance.

This must be the initial lodging point.

Normally, if the guide NPC didn’t bring the player to the lodging, there would be transport nearby directly to it.

Looking around, Arna spotted a carriage parked nearby. The driver leaned against a wall chatting casually with others, and the horse stood calmly, swishing its tail contentedly.

Arna sprinted forward.

She leapt onto the carriage—overshot.

She jumped back and landed precisely on the step, crouching to climb inside.

She gave the driver the address of her aunt’s house.

The driver stared at this strange, uninvited passenger as if she were insane.

“You’re from the countryside, huh?” he sneered. “Get off. Can you even pay?”

What? There was a fare?

As long as the game didn’t forcibly deduct fees and offered a free alternative, players would always choose free.

Arna slunk off the carriage and dashed away.

Walking was her favorite anyway!

…And walking didn’t consume stamina. She could even pick up some resources on the way.

With this in mind, she grabbed a random NPC to ask for directions and jogged toward the lodging.

Due to many trash bins along the route, Arna stopped frequently, her bag filling up. She barely made it near the destination before nightfall.

Trusting her instincts, she randomly picked a building and interacted with the door.

Good—locked, no opening.

She knocked.

With a creak, the door opened.

“Who are you looking for?” an old lady asked.

“I’m looking for my aunt,” Arna replied confidently.

The landlady of number 219 was momentarily speechless.

“What’s your aunt’s name?” she asked.

Since her grandfather was just “Grandpa,” of course her aunt was just “Aunt”!

Arna answered decisively, “Aunt.”

“...You’re crazy! Don’t waste my time!”

The door slammed shut in her face.

Arna stood there puzzled.

Had she said something wrong? Did she need to say “Aunt Aunt” twice for the password to work?

She glanced at the door number—219.

She’d come to the wrong place; it wasn’t 221B Baker Street.

No matter—getting lost was routine. Once she left the area, NPCs would forget what happened.

She turned around swiftly, but before she’d taken two steps, thick smoke billowed from the windows of the small apartment she’d assumed was her lodging.

—No way, the starting lodging is catching fire right away?