Chapter 112 – School Opening (2)

The East End Private Integrated Academy.

It was the first building to open among the redevelopment sites in the East End.

Some people said the name was too simple, but when I tried coming up with something myself, nothing quite felt right.

A few names did cross my mind... but calling it Hogwarts made it seem like there would be a monster living in the basement, and naming it Miskatonic made it feel like the library should be off-limits.

So, I just kept it simple and used the name of the area.

—Oh? So, it's not Oberon Academia?

Lewis Carroll once jokingly suggested that, but honestly, using such a name in real life felt way too cringeworthy.

Naming the school I founded after a place in my own work? Ugh... That would definitely earn me a reputation for running some kind of nerd school.

It would be like naming a newborn child "Gundam."

Before long, middle and high schoolers would be saying, "Hey, Gundam! Go buy some bread!" and things would get messy.

That's how important names are.

Like with cars—when you first buy one, black might seem too plain, but later, when it holds its resale value, you'll be smiling.

Anyway.

"Hyung, come look! It's huge!"

"Charlie, please don't run...!"

Two figures ran excitedly through the space.

None other than the Chaplin brothers—officially the first and second registered students in the school dormitory.

At last, they were leaving behind their days of crashing in Oscar Wilde's prison cell... I mean, his playwright's office.

Honestly, it must have been tough for them to live in a rented room, but they had held on admirably until now.

Since their faces didn't show any major signs of distress, I suppose they were doing okay... but they couldn't stay in a place like that forever.

It was practically a tiny prison cell, and their daily life lacked peers their age.

That couldn't be good for their emotional development.

So, a dormitory was the perfect solution for both of them.

And that wasn't all...

***

"Thank you, ma'am. I truly appreciate you accepting my request to join the school as a teacher."

"Not at all, Mr. Hanslow Jin. Thanks to you, my child is finally becoming a proper human being."

Inside the school director's office.

Oscar Wilde's wife, Constance Lloyd, spoke with a teary expression as she sat across from me.

"When I heard my husband was sued last year, I thought, 'Ah, the inevitable has come.'"

"Haha... ha..."

"But thanks to you, we didn't have to divorce, and the children didn't lose their father. That alone is a great relief."

Despite her tears, a sharp glint in her eyes betrayed her lingering fury.

She had been ready to go through with it at any moment.

Well, in history, the moment Wilde was convicted, she stripped him of his parental rights, so her reaction was understandable.

"So really, I should be the one thanking you for this opportunity."

"Not at all. By the way, have both of your children been successfully enrolled?"

"Yes, thanks to you, everything went smoothly."

As the daughter of an upper-class family, Constance had always been a progressive woman—publishing books, engaging in society work, and proving herself quite capable.

Recognizing her abilities, I appointed her as the vice principal of our integrated academy.

Naturally, this meant her sons, Cyril Wilde and Vyvyan Wilde, also became students here.

Among them, Cyril and Sidney had already become close.

Maybe it was because they both had names starting with "C."

Or maybe because they were the same age.

Whatever the reason, it was good to see them making friends and finding their talents.

"There's really so much work to do. More people want to work here than I expected..."

"Haha, a lot of people seem eager to join when it's for the sake of children."

Fortunately, the school was thriving beyond expectations.

It helped that, through my connections with the Writers' Guild, I had found many interested authors willing to join as teachers.

Writers of this era often had multiple professions, many of which involved education. So, in a way, we were reaping the benefits of their expertise.

Honestly, where else would I find high-quality educators with this much passion?

Of course, not everyone was here out of pure goodwill.

Many had practical reasons for joining.

After all, literature was notoriously an unprofitable career.

A prime example of this was David Lindsay.

Whether as a side job, as a parent, or as an act of charity—our school had attracted significant attention, and many writers found inspiration in our tuition-free education model.

And then...

—Please let me work here!

—Uh... but...

—I actually have a teaching license! Save me—!

—Shh.

—... If I could just be hired at Hanslow Jin's school, I'd do anything!

Somehow, I even ended up recruiting Herbert George Wells—a certified teacher, no less.

The overall quality of our faculty had unexpectedly skyrocketed.

But even so...

"We're still short on staff?"

"There are too many students, sir."

After seeing Constance Lloyd out, I was greeted by Rowena Rothschild, our financial officer, who, for once, looked genuinely flustered.

"As per your instructions, we've assigned 30 to 40 students per class with designated homeroom teachers. But even with our current faculty, we can only cover about 80% of the required positions."

"80%..."

That sounded like a lot, but...

A school doesn't just need homeroom teachers.

There are duties like night shifts, dorm supervision, and administrative roles such as department heads and student affairs coordinators.

And teachers are human, too.

They get sick, they take vacations, and sometimes, unexpected things come up.

We needed a pool of substitute teachers for emergencies.

By the time we factored in all those needs, we would need 1.5 times the number of teachers to run the school smoothly.

At 80%, we weren't even halfway there.

"Of course, thanks to our foundation's sponsorship, we do have East End graduates currently training in teacher education programs. Once they complete their degrees and obtain certifications, we'll be able to meet demand. But until then..."

"It won't be right away. They'll need time to adjust."

"That's true."

"Hmm…"

What to do… I knew the situation in the East End wasn't great, but I hadn't expected so many students to flock in. That was my mistake.

The school would expand eventually, but that wasn't something that could be done immediately.

"Whew… So, what now?"

For now, I had no choice but to tell Rowena Rothschild that I'd think about it and send her on her way.

At least it wasn't an issue that had to be resolved by tomorrow.

Unlike in Korea, where the school year starts in the spring, in England, it begins in the fall. That gave me about three months.

But that didn't mean a solution would just present itself.

Sure, if I packed 60 students into a single class like in the '80s and '90s, I could meet the demand for classrooms.

But doing that would only lower the quality of education I had worked so hard to improve.

It would turn into a place where students sniffed glue, idolized gangsters, and embraced that kind of culture.

This school was built to bring hope to kids in poverty. Letting it become like that would defeat the purpose.

If that were the case, it would be better not to have a school at all.

Besides, from what I've heard, even 30 to 40 students per class is already considered too many from an educational standpoint.

But hiring more teachers… It's not like qualified teachers just sprout from the ground or fall from the sky.

In the end, I was at a loss.

But then again… was it really my job to come up with all the answers?

"Hm. So that's the problem?"

"Yes, Mr. Miller."

At times like this… consulting Milleremon was the best choice.

Of course, Mr. Miller didn't have solutions to everything. He could only help where he had the means to.

There weren't many people among the upper class interested in matters like this, and even with sponsorships, I had already secured a significant amount. So I didn't have high hopes.

It was just venting. I didn't expect much.

"I see. In that case, I believe I know someone who could help."

"… Pardon?"

"Wait here for a moment. I should give them a heads-up."

"W-Wait a minute, Mr. Miller!"

What the—? He had an answer just like that? Was Milleremon actually some kind of divine being?

While I was still processing, Mr. Miller made a quick call somewhere, summoned a carriage, and soon whisked me off.

Before I knew it, we had arrived at 10 South Street in London's Mayfair.

What was this now?

"Frederick! What brings you here?"

"It's been a while, Sir Edmund Hope Verney."

I had never seen this man before. Then again, it wasn't like I knew everyone in Mr. Miller's circle.

"As per your previous request, I've come to introduce my aunt to… Hanslow Jin."

"Oh-ho, at last…?"

Sir Hope Verney's eyes flickered with interest as he glanced at me—then quickly looked away.

Right, I was used to this.

People of this era never assumed Hanslow Jin would be an Asian.

"Unfortunately, my aunt's health has taken a turn for the worse. She's been moved to St. Thomas' Hospital."

"Oh dear. Is it serious?"

"Well, it's not good… but she's still able to hold a conversation."

"That's… I see. I wish her a swift recovery."

"Haha, wouldn't it be better to tell her that in person? Here, I'll write you a letter of introduction. Take Hanslow Jin to see her."

"Thank you, Sir Verney."

St. Thomas' Hospital… Who exactly was I being taken to meet?

But that thought vanished the moment I arrived at a private room in the hospital.

"Hanslow Jin has arrived."

"Ah, yes. I'm Hanslow Jin—"

"That's enough."

An elderly woman, squinting as if her eyesight were poor, struggled to focus on me—yet somehow aimed at me with the precision of someone pointing a gun.

"Keep your distance."

"E-excuse me?"

"Wash your hands and keep your distance! How dare you approach a patient with contaminated hands! Do you want to die!?"

What…?

Was this more than I had expected? Or exactly what I should have expected?

Though I hadn't been given her name, I had a feeling I already knew who she was.

So, as if I had anticipated this, I deliberately made a show of scrubbing my hands with soap in the washbasin the nurse offered, then waited for the elderly woman's approval.

"Very well. You may approach."

"… Thank you."

Dame Florence Nightingale.