Rise of the Arms Dealer in the World War-Chapter 1 - : Is This Schizophrenia?

Thud!

The sound of flesh meeting flesh echoed sharply through the dim alley, punctuated by a soft groan. Fang Ming crumpled to the ground like a shrimp, his body shaking violently as though wracked with pain. His trembling was exaggerated, each movement calculated to appear weak, broken—pitiful.

It worked.

The young Chinese boy who led the gang took a step back, his fists lowering, uncertain. To the gang, it looked as though they had nearly beaten Jin to death.

"Pah!" the leader spat on the ground. "You're nothing but a handful! If you come back here again, I'll break every limb you've got. This is your last warning!"

His voice was loud and authoritative, projecting dominance, but his gang's uneasy glances betrayed their discomfort. Satisfied with their supposed victory, the boys turned and strutted out of the alley, heads held high, chests puffed out with triumph.

Jin waited.

He lay motionless until their footsteps faded, his breathing slow and deliberate. Then, with an almost eerie calm, he rolled onto his side and rose to his feet, dusting off his worn clothes. There were no winces of pain, no trembling in his hands. He straightened his posture and smoothed his shirt with meticulous precision, his face a mask of neutrality.

It wasn't that he couldn't fight back. If it came to it, Jin could have held his own against the gang, perhaps even driven them off. But to what end? A fight would waste energy, attract attention, and escalate tensions he didn't need. Victory was only worth pursuing if it meant lasting control, and these boys were not worth the effort.

He crouched to gather his scattered shoeshine tools, his movements unhurried. The scuffle was already a distant memory.

Jin's journey home was long. Leaving the shadowed alleys, he stepped into the chaos of the bustling marketplace. Vendors shouted over each other, hawking their goods with practiced fervor. The scent of spices, sweat, and roasting meat filled the air, clinging to the humidity. Jin moved through it all like a ghost, unnoticed and unbothered, until the marketplace gave way to quieter streets.

The outskirts of the city were a stark contrast to the vibrant market. Here, the streets grew narrow, and the buildings sagged under the weight of years and neglect. Jin's house, a small and shabby structure barely holding itself together, stood at the end of a dirt path.

It wasn't much.

But it was home.

"I'm home," Jin called softly as he pushed open the creaking wooden door.

"Brother!"

The response was immediate, her voice bright and filled with unrestrained joy. Jin's younger sister came bounding into the room, her small frame a blur of energy. Her face was radiant, her smile wide enough to light the dim space.

For a moment, Jin forgot the weight of the day. His stoic demeanor cracked, replaced by a genuine, unguarded smile. She was his light, his reminder that the world wasn't entirely cruel.

"Aw, did you miss your brother?" he teased, his voice playful.

"No!" she shot back, her arms crossing in mock defiance.

"Gasp! Brother is so sad..." Jin clutched at his chest dramatically, pretending to stagger.

His sister giggled but quickly regained her composure, her expression turning sharp. "But you promised candy! Did you bring it?"

Jin froze, his eyes widening in feigned panic. "Ah! I forgot!"

Her gaze hardened instantly. She looked like a miniature loan shark, her eyes narrow and her lips pressed into a thin line.

"So... you lied?"

Her voice was cold, the authority in her tone sending a genuine chill down Jin's spine. He raised his hands in surrender, pulling a small package from his pocket with exaggerated flair.

"Tada! Of course I brought it!"

Her transformation was immediate. The icy glare melted into an expression of pure delight, and she snatched the candy from his hands.

"Wow! I love you, brother!"

Jin chuckled, though he couldn't shake the feeling that the room had grown momentarily colder. Shaking his head, he ruffled her hair affectionately before retreating to his room.

The moment the door closed behind him, Jin's playful demeanor vanished. His face hardened, his eyes sharp and calculating.

Sitting at a small desk, he opened his journal and began to write. Fang Ming, the first line read, a Joseon man who remembers his past life.

Despite living as a lower-class citizen in Qing China, Jin clung fiercely to his identity. He was a man of the Gwangju Ming clan, a proud Joseon heritage that defined him.

His thoughts turned to his father, a sailor who navigated the trade routes between Joseon and Qing China. It was honest work, but it had cost them dearly. Jin's mother, left alone for months at a time, had fallen ill. Despite his father's desperate attempts to save her, no doctor in Joseon could even name her ailment.

She had died when Jin was only ten.

Jin's pen paused as the memory surfaced, unbidden and unwelcome. His father had called it God's will, a testament to her kindness. But even Jin's young sister, then just five years old, had understood the truth.

As if the pain of her death wasn't enough, the family's tragedy deepened. At her funeral, Jin's father's rosary ring was discovered—a mark of his conversion to Catholicism. In Joseon, where Catholics were persecuted with brutal fervor, this revelation left the family with no choice but to flee.

Now, in 1894, Jin found himself in Hong Kong, far from his homeland but burdened with a secret that set him apart even here.

The memories of his past life had come suddenly, unbidden, two years ago. At first, he thought them delusions, remnants of a fevered imagination. Schizophrenia, he had called it. But how could a boy in the 19th century even know such a term?

The memories were too vivid to dismiss, the knowledge too precise. Over time, they aligned with history in ways Jin couldn't deny. He was a man from the 21st century, a stranger in his own skin.

"Phew..." Jin exhaled softly, closing his journal.

Rising from his chair, he knelt beside a loose floorboard. Carefully, he lifted it, revealing a small wooden box. Inside were his most valuable possessions: handwritten notes chronicling future events and the modest savings he had earned through relentless work.

Jin's gaze lingered on the contents for a moment, his thoughts dark and determined. His father's sacrifices had kept them afloat, but it wasn't enough. It would never be enough.

And so, at thirteen, Jin had stepped into the streets with nothing but a shoeshine kit and a plan.

He had approached the work methodically, targeting the wealthiest clients. The British, who dominated Hong Kong, had proven the perfect choice. Soldiers, merchants, and politicians—all fascinated by the young boy who spoke their language fluently.

It was a start.

But Jin's ambitions were far greater. He didn't want to be useful; he wanted to be indispensable.

But Being Merely Useful Wasn't Enough

Jin leaned against the creaking wooden desk, staring down at his journal with determined eyes. It wasn't enough to be useful—to simply exist as a convenience. He aspired to be something far greater: indispensable.

He envisioned a future where his presence was not just beneficial but vital, where people relied on him completely and could not imagine succeeding without him.

For that purpose, Jin had spent the past year and a half meticulously saving every copper coin he earned. Each grueling day as a shoeshiner, each odd job completed, every resource he gathered—all of it fed into his dream. This was his seed money, the foundation for a new beginning.

"Phew... At least it's fortunate that Father works on a trade ship," Jin muttered to himself.

Had his father been home every day, Jin's life would have been vastly different. If his father had been a farmer, Jin would have been forced into the fields, his time consumed by endless toil. If he had been a shopkeeper, Jin would have spent his days hauling goods and tending to customers.

Instead, Jin lived in an era where sailors worked until death claimed them. It was a grim reality, but one that gave him the freedom he needed. Breadwinners in this time rarely earned enough to support their families, and Jin's father was no exception.

His main responsibility was his sister. Even this duty, however, was shared with kindhearted neighbors, thanks to the small sums of money his father gave them before departing on his long trips. His father's absences—lasting anywhere from two weeks to a month—gave Jin the perfect window to act on his plans.

"Brother, the lady next door gave us food! Come out and eat!"

His sister's cheerful voice broke through his thoughts. Jin smiled faintly, closing his journal.

"Okay, I'll be out in a minute!" he called back.

Sitting side by side at the table, the siblings shared their modest meal. While they didn't have meat every day, the variety of dishes on their plates was a small luxury for the era.

"Let's eat!"

"Let's eat."

Jin glanced at his sister as she happily dug into her food. Although he carried the memories of a different time, of a different man, this small girl was now his most precious and irreplaceable treasure.

For her, he could endure any frustration, any hardship. He would protect her, no matter the cost.

His resolve hardened once more, like steel forged in fire. To protect his loved ones, he needed to rise above the world itself.

The next morning, Jin left his sister in the care of the neighbor. It wasn't just practical; he thought it would be good for her to spend time with other children her age. She deserved moments of normalcy, away from the weight of his plans.

Jin's own destination, however, was far from ordinary: a Catholic orphanage.

In China, the concept of an orphanage was almost unheard of. Families often struggled to survive even in the best of times, let alone during famines. The idea of taking in and caring for orphans seemed absurd in such conditions.

But Hong Kong was different. Here, Catholic priests had established orphanages funded by donations and bolstered by carefully managed budgets. These institutions served a dual purpose: providing care for orphans and spreading Catholicism. The orphanages were as much a tool for religious promotion as they were sanctuaries for the vulnerable.

Despite their mixed intentions, Jin had to admit they were effective. Properly managed, the orphanages gave many children a chance at survival.

Unfortunately, not all stories were as hopeful. Incidents of child abductions and the trafficking of orphans to foreign lands had sparked outrage among the Qing population. Protests and backlash from citizens had forced many orphanages to close or reduce their operations.

Even those run by churches faced dwindling donations. People feared the judgment of their non-religious peers, hesitant to show support for such institutions openly.

Jin's thoughts darkened as he considered the fate of older boys in these orphanages.

Even in future Korea, where society was far more developed, orphanages faced the same grim reality. As children grew older, they were often forced to leave, their spots given to younger, more vulnerable newcomers.

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By the time they reached thirteen, many boys understood they were no longer wanted. Expelled from the orphanages, they ended up in the shadows—working illegal jobs in back alleys, exploited as laborers, or worse.

To Jin, these boys weren't just victims of circumstance. They were an opportunity.

Young, desperate, and willing to do whatever it took to survive, they were the ideal candidates.

Jin's eyes gleamed with determination as he considered his plan. These boys would become his allies. His foundation. His army.

And with their help, he would ascend.