The Rise of Britain’s Mafia King

The cold winter wind from Britain rushed in through the window. Behind the iron bars, two young men dressed in worn British Army uniforms, leaned against a brick wall, chatting casually: "Arthur, when do you think these foreigners will let us go back?" The man with hands caked in black mud weighed a silver dollar in his hand. His face, relatively clean, was marred by a long knife scar that distorted it. Seeing that the other didn’t answer, he called out again: "Arthur? Arthur?" Cough cough cough— In his sleep, Arthur reflexively coughed a few times. The rusty taste in his throat surged upward. Rubbing his eyes and trying to drink some water, he suddenly noticed a strange room, one that didn’t belong to his own home, and cried out in shock: "Damn!" "What’s wrong, Arthur?" A completely unfamiliar yet somehow oddly familiar face appeared before him. Reflexively, he asked: "Mouse? Where... is this?" The young man, called Mouse, turned his head, gently brushing his forehead. After confirming it was cold, he hesitated, looking at him with concern: "Arthur... don’t you remember?" Looking at his fierce yet childishly confused expression, Arthur froze, as hazy memories flooded back in overwhelming waves. The owner of this body shared his name—Arthur. However, unlike Arthur, the history graduate, Arthur was a genuine laborer from the Far East, who had survived through bloody battles such as Verdun and the Somme, emerging alive from piles of corpses. Mouse, the man standing beside him, was his blood brother. It wasn't his nickname—it was a title given to him because he grew up in the streets after his parents passed away before giving him a name. Not being able to read much, he simply adopted his street nickname. Like Arthur, he had traveled across the ocean for a higher-paying job. "So... we’re in England?"Arthur asked. He pulled off the military uniform that had been scavenged from a corpse and reached into an inner pocket. He pulled out a half-broken mirror, and a stern, deep face appeared in the glass. It seemed that luck was on his side, as there were no visible scars on his face. There was, however, a small red and black mark at the corner of his eye. "This might be the fatal wound of the original owner. The infection, left untreated for so many days, could have been deadly." Cough cough cough— The continued coughing confirmed his guess. Seeing him still coughing, Mouse quickly twisted open a water bottle and forced it to his lips. With a gulp of cold water, Arthur felt his confused thoughts slowly clear, and his mind began to race, contemplating their current situation. Though he had often imagined the possibility of crossing over into another world, the gap between imagination and reality was vast, and he still found it difficult to accept. Even though he had been an orphan in his past life, aside from a thirty-year mortgage, the peaceful and stable era was far better than this deadly one. But now, there was nothing he could do but live on, holding onto the belief of the original owner’s success. "Mouse, what year is it?" He scratched his messy hair. Although he didn’t understand why Arthur was suddenly asking such strange questions, he answered truthfully: "According to the foreigners, it should be... 1924." Arthur thought for a moment, then answered quickly: "The war ended in 1918, so we’ve been here for six years?" Mouse shook his head in confusion: "Only four years, Arthur... Are you feverish again?" Looking back at his muddled memories, Arthur finally realized that this world wasn’t the same as the one he had come from. Though the historical progress was mostly similar, there were small differences. For example, in this world, the Germans had managed to resist for two more years, thanks to a political genius who never existed in history. ...... Through fragmented memories and a brief exchange, Arthur roughly understood the situation and reason: "So, because we have no identification and are wearing military uniforms stripped from the dead, the police thought we were spies and locked us up in prison, leaving us in a situation where we can’t go back and can’t leave?" Mouse nodded, his scarred face twisted in a vicious snarl as he gritted his teeth: "Damn it, our contact. I suspect he never intended for us to come back alive, so he didn’t even bother to get us any identification. When I find him, I’ll peel his skin off!" Just as Arthur was about to say something, a sudden sharp electronic sound echoed in his mind. After confirming that it wasn’t coming from around them, another mechanical voice followed: "Insufficient energy unlocked... 15 more needed..." Before he could understand more, the mechanical voice, as if its power was running out, only produced a string of cryptic text. Arthur looked around in confusion, certain he wasn’t imagining things. He then reached into the bottom of his shoe, where the original owner had hidden money, and pulled out several English banknotes—commonly known as pounds. Though it seemed like only a few bills, in post-war Britain, even a skilled worker’s weekly wage was only a few dozen pounds, so these few pounds were a lot. The moment the banknotes were taken out, it was as if they had entered a battery, quickly disappearing. The mechanical voice came again, more refined this time: "Congratulations, you’ve used the Mechanical 9000. Based on your current currency, the next reward will unlock once you’ve accumulated five thousand pounds." "Could this be the legendary system?" Arthur wondered internally. He tried to communicate with it in his mind, but after completing the task, the system seemed to shut down, repeatedly repeating the same phrase. Bang bang bang— After several heavy knocks, an English prison guard in uniform opened the cell door, followed by a young, bespectacled, fair-haired man who looked refined. The young man flipped through his files and introduced himself: "Good afternoon, gentlemen. I’m Sofiel William from the Birmingham Border Control Bureau. According to the records... you’ve been detained for 3 years and 10 months." As a government official in charge of foreign personnel, Sofiel’s Chinese was clearly poor, with mispronunciations and strange intonations, leaving Arthur confused. "Officer Sofiel, I understand English." Realizing the misunderstanding, Sofiel stiffened for a moment, embarrassed by his imperfect Chinese, before switching to English: "According to the Birmingham City Government’s vagrants and laborers act, we will release you unconditionally... and offer you two choices." Unable to understand English, Mouse could only guess from the tone that the blue-eyed man was about to set them free. After nearly four years of imprisonment, he couldn’t hold back and shouted: "To hell with you, four years without even an explanation?" The burly prison guard, seeing the situation escalating, struck the wall with his plastic baton to prevent the situation from spiraling. But Mouse, already furious, clenched his fists, ready to confront the guard. Seeing the situation was getting out of hand, Arthur quickly intervened, calming Mouse and preparing to call for reinforcements from the guards. He then asked: "What are the two choices?" Sofiel stepped back slightly, a trace of disdain on his face as he pulled out a government-stamped document. Standing straight like a pope granting freedom, he announced: "First: The local government can give you a ticket home. Of course... since you lack identification, we won’t pay you the wages owed to battlefield laborers." Arthur didn’t immediately respond, instead asking: "What’s the second option?" Sofiel, pulling out two new passports from his loose tweed coat, pursed his lips: "Second: Thanks to the Labour Party’s governance, you can choose to stay in England. Of course... we still won’t pay you any wages." As the long-lost sunlight streamed through the iron bars and landed on Arthur’s face, his restless heart was filled with uncertainty. After a brief hesitation, he finally answered: "I’ve decided to stay here." Mouse shook his head, ready to take the ticket home, but upon seeing Arthur’s decision, he swallowed hard and reluctantly took the dark brown passport. "Good choice, gentlemen. Mr. Sofiel will take you out of this prison and help you fill out the necessary information. And... welcome to Birmingham." Sofiel wiped his hands with a neatly folded handkerchief, then slowly left the cell.