I am a Peerless Hero without equal! (WC/Currently in FGO Part 1)

"Are you sure?" A man dressed in a tuxedo asked.

Belle always thought the owner of this brothel dressed as a member of the upper class to be patently absurd. Even after years of working with him, she still finds it annoying how he tries to blend in with the nobility.

So you run a brothel targeted at the upper class. So what? Are you truly a member of the Bluebloods? Never. Those peacocks would sooner see their clan demoted than bring one who trades in the flesh into the fold of the nobility.

Still, nevertheless, Belle whipped out her fan, spreading it over her mouth to create an air of mystery and enticement, batting her eyelashes and then saying, "Of course. One of the girls, Lorence, was struck down with the Whore Pox. You remember Lorence, right? A young girl with black hair, blue eyes, a cute button nose, and a piggish face, someone who came from the countryside only to be crushed by London?"

"No."

Of course, he doesn't. The owner sees this brothel solely as a business, perhaps that's why she's the Madam and is given such a large cut of the profit.

Hearing his dismissal, Belle continued, "Well, I saw this morning she returned as good as new. In fact, I think she looks happy for once. Said something about an 'Angel' curing her. An angel who possessed no wings yet can still fly."

"...Interesting. I think the circus master would love to hear this little bit of news." The man sat down on a chair nearby, "Please, tell me more.

____

"You lot can keep restin' here, but I'll need you to chip in for the rent and food," Mary said with a stone-faced expression. There wasn't a single bit of jovialness in sight, showcasing how serious she was.

"Chip in? But we don't have any of the local money…"

"Get yerself a job at a factory—they're always needin' more hands, what with how many quit from injuries. Mash, you can join me in needleworkin'."

"..." Ritsuka was stunned into silence. Where was her generous nature from last night? Where was the woman who offered him and Mash shelter? Because the individual in front of him was not that woman. Like a piece of sandpaper, she was callous about how she regarded Ritsuka's wellbeing.

Was she always this two-faced?

Before anger could bubble and hatred blossom, Ritsuka remembered Kuku's philosophy and took a mental step back. He tried to look at it from her perspective. She must've thought Ritsuka was some rich person from a foreign land and sought to curry his favor. But now it didn't seem like he was wealthy at all. So the kind facade was dropped.

It still annoyed him to learn that Mary thought of him as nothing more than a piggy bank. But Ritsuka supposes it was simply human nature since such actions persist today.

Mouth forming into a grimace, Ritsuka said, "Alright. I'll find a job."

Satisfied, Mary turned around and walked towards the pot of cabbage soup. Given how it's already several hours past nightfall outside, everyone returned from their work.

It was quiet. The house was filled with subdued motion as all looked exhausted. The kids possessed eyes that didn't belong on someone this young. They held a wariness in them like they were war veterans. They saw horrors that no one their age should've witnessed.

How did he miss it yesterday? Was he truly blinded by Mary's generosity that the teen missed how overworked everyone was?

The silence stretched on until Mary scooped up a bowl of soup, "Charlie, 'ere you go."

Her husband got up, tossing an extremely dirtied towel into a tub as he walked over to Mary. Minutes ago, Charlie was wiping away the blackness that coated his face. At first, Ritsuka didn't know what that was, before remembering how Charlie said how he's a miner. Coal dust covered the man's face like a second skin. Coal dust coated parts of his clothing still.

Grabbing the bowl, the husband sat by the bench and began eating silently. He ignored his childrens, too engrossed in his meal to care.

"John."

The teen got up, life growing inside his eyes as he licked his lips. Taking the bowl from his mother's hands, John began nibbling at the soup before getting to the table.

"Ugh, hot," John complained, his brows furrowing as he placed the bowl on the table.

"John, no eatin' til we say our prayers."

"Yes, mama."

As he sat down, the young teen hissed in pain when his right elbow touched the table.

The same elbow that was boiling. Angry red blisters stared back at Ritsuka, and large bubbles swelled to such proportions that they were like mosquito bites. It was a second-degree burn, something that occurred at work, an accident perhaps where boiling water accidentally spilled onto John's elbow. Or perhaps he accidentally touched a steam pipe. Either could be the cause since John worked at a paper mill.

Ritsuka's fingers subconsciously moved towards his own elbows at the sight of the injuries.

Such injuries dug up memories deep within Ritsuka's mind of his own accidents when it comes to burns. He doesn't remember much, only how there was a large red patch where the boiling water went and the sound of the ambulance.

"James."

John didn't have modern medicine, so such wounds were especially dangerous if infected. Even more so he lived in such a dirty environment.

"Mary, did you treat John's wounds?" Ritsuka asked, causing the woman to pause mid-pouring.

"Course I did. Poured some alcohol on it—James, my brave lad, didn't make much of a fuss."

Hearing Mary's praise, John puffed up his chest to try and look stronger than he really was. His chin was held high as the teen looked satisfied. He grinned smugly at his siblings, his eyes slowing down at each one before quickly moving to the next showing himself off.

"Hey, I also had some alcohol poured onto a scraped knee and I didn't scream much," Wyatt commented, trying to douse John's parade.

The dinner was a loud affair just like yesterday. Each one of Mary's family talked about their work in a joyful tone. It was in complete contrast to the morbid topic— that of children working in dangerous situations, about how there were or weren't any injuries at work. Hearing each kid's story, Ritsuka had a profound sense of sadness and dread at what was to come tomorrow.

Dropping the spoon into the bowl, Ritsuka looked down at his right hand, counting each finger and examining them as a jeweler might with a piece of gem. He counted each groove and the way the skin wrinkled around the joint area as he closed his hand into a grasp. The teen morbidly imagined losing these fingers tomorrow in a factory accident.

Was it worth it?

Is it better to take his chance in the streets?

It spoke of how much Ritsuka dreads working at a factory that he's considering going homeless.

Ritsuka's eyes turned to Mash, who was chatting with John. The two smiled as they talked, John asking all the questions with Mash answering to the best of her abilities. With her education within Chaldea, she was able to easily answer almost all the questions John had about the Earth, the Sun, the World, and more.

Yeah, he guessed he'd work in a factory.

_____

Next Day, Early Morning

Mash waved Ritsuka goodbye as he exited the townhouse. The Last Master of Mankind wore his Chaldea Mystic Code, but in addition to this, he also wore a set of overcoats belonging to Charlie. The overcoats were dirty, damaged, and smelled of old, dried sweat. But they helped make Ritsuka appear less like someone from the upper class.

It made sense in retrospect, Ritsuka figured. The Chaldea Mystic Code did look like high-quality clothing from an outside perspective even ignoring its built-in magecraft.

Ritsuka joined the flow of people walking out of the slums and towards the industrial district. It was like joining a school of fish, so many humans that individuality was lost, and instead laws of fluid dynamics can accurately describe what's happening.

The voices of industries barked like tortured dogs, growing louder the further Ritsuka journeyed. Even though it was so early that the sun had barely scraped the horizon, some factories screamed with activity. They sang a song of grinding metal, hissing steam, and yelling men.

The teen had to grimace when a horrible stench invaded his lungs— a vile mixture of industrial waste. His vision was assaulted by a landscape stripped of any beauty you'd find on a majestic mountain, an icon of humanity's progress.

The industrial heartland of London was even worse up close. When viewed from afar, it was monolithic, without details, just the shape. But now, up close, it was impossible to avoid all the features hidden previously with distance. Not even moss, fungi, rats, or bugs grew next to these factories. This was an environment made solely for humans—a space carved out of nature just for the unnatural.

Ritsuka's head tilted up towards the sky and found no reprieve. Above, numerous chimneys, and smokestacks stabbed at the sky like long needles, each vomiting forth black smoke that drifted into the eternal clouds hanging overhead. All were icons of human progress, the growing pains that come with industrialization— the destruction of the natural.

The color green felt like a nostalgic dream amid this brutal industrial nightmare of greyness, steel, and concrete. The noise of industry grew louder as Ritsuka ventured further in. The flow of humans he was part of disappeared as each worker went to their factory, their faces grim and joyless. How could they smile when such ugliness was in front of them?

Picking one of the numerous factories, Ritsuka lined up on one of five. Steadily, the lines shortened as the minutes passed by. Ritsuka's anxiety grew. He wondered if he should've joined with one of Mary's kids in their job.

Before he could debate the upsides of this possibility, he had reached the front of the line.

Ahead of him, facing the old teen, was a large man with equally large muscles holding a pen and clipboard. He wore a simple T-shirt, its sleeves not even reaching the elbow. Ritsuka realized it was a way of intimidation, to scare the workers into compliance, crushing any dreams of unionizing.

"Never seen you before." He said in a rough voice, hoarse like sandpaper.

"I am looking for a job."

"Hmm," the man scratched the paper several times with his pen. "Alright, name?"

"Ritsuka Fujimaru."

"Hrm. Too complicated. You're Richard from now on."

Ritsuka flashed a grimace before settling back to neutrality.

"Alright Richard," the man ripped off a corner of a paper and handed it to him, "Go in, give this to the supervisor, and he'll tell you what to do."

Ritsuka did as he was told and entered through a metal door. The teen was hit face-first with a wall of hot air, causing him to recoil as if shot by a bullet. He bumped into another worker.

"Oof! Hey watch where you're going!"

"Ah, sorry!" Ritsuka apologetically bowed several times, "Sorry! Sorry!"

The other guy— someone in their early 20s with an unshaven beard, ragged clothes full of dirt and holes, brown hair and eyes— appeared taken aback by the ferocity of Ritsuka's apology. Ritsuka recognized how it was like culture shock, this man wasn't used to being apologized so profusely while it's entirely normal in Japan.

"Alright, alright! Jeez, it's just an accident; there's no need to…" The young man sighed, his hands attached to his sides. "The name's Jordan."

Ritsuka noticed how there were scars on Jordan's arms. Lengthy scars that have been healed for a long time given how old those tissues looked.

"Nice to meet you, Jordan. My name is Ritsuka Fujimaru." Ritsuka bowed again, and Jordan appeared to be put off once more by such an action.

"Ritsuka? What a strange name. Your parents must've really wanted a unique child with such an uncommon name."

Ritsuka chuckled. It seems Jordan didn't know this was a Japanese name. He doesn't know much about the world either then, it seems.

"Anyway, where you heading?"

Ritsuka looked around for the supervisor's office. He was suddenly struck by how labyrinthine everything was. This was a mechanical nightmare, a place with machines that defied logic—hulking amalgamations of squares, tubes, and spinning wheels. Pipes dripped down from the ceiling like stalactites in a cave, each machine connected with such a pipe as if to receive food like a coma patient. In such a stuffed place, only narrow, suffocating passages existed for workers to navigate.

The air was slowly filling up with the screams of metal and steam. The factory was ramping up production as workers poured in.

"The supervisor's office," Ritsuka replied as his gaze continued sweeping across the interior.

Jordan leaned in, "Sorry what? It's getting loud in here."

"The supervisor's office," Ritsuka repeated louder this time, "I'm a new worker here."

"Oh. Well, the supervisor's office's down in the corner that way. Just climb those stairs and you'll see it."

Ritsuka turned to see where Jordan was pointing at. A box held several stories above the ground was in one corner of the large factory. From that box sprouted catwalks placed in a grid pattern all over the factory's ceiling.

Ritsuka realized that it would be where the supervisor could monitor the workers above the commotion and dangers of working with these machines, aloof and omnipresent.

Ritsuka did as he was directed. He passed through the narrow crevasse between machines and found himself almost cut on several sharp edges. No wonder Jordan had so many scars on his arms if he was forced to work with these machines.

Walking up the stairs leading to this supervisor's office, Ritsuka found the place rather comfy—plenty of room to stretch one's arms, framed pictures of women placed atop tables, and stacks of paper almost everywhere. Even if it was messy, it was a far cry from the crampiness present on the factory floor.

There was also a powerful smell in the air, so powerful that Ritsuka almost gagged.

"You're the new worker?" A voice called out, catching Ritsuka's attention.

The voice belonged to a well-dressed man in blue and white sitting on a chair. He was young, in his late 20s. Chains of gold came out of his pocket, connected to a button, alongside a blue bowtie covering his throat. He was the source of the smell, and Ritsuka found himself almost unable to bear being in his presence.

"Yes." Ritsuka forced the words out of his throat as he halted all breathing. This must be the supervisor.

"An oriental. Now that's not something you see here in Britain." The man eyed Ritsuka with something resembling curiosity as if he were an exotic animal, "Which country are you from? China? Japan? Viet— no, definitely not French Vietnam."

"Japan."

"I've been there. I personally brought home one of their curved swords. A 'katana' I believe it's called." The supervisor turned around while Ritsuka's expression lit up. "You're here for a job right?"

"Um— yes."

"My name is George Henryson," George said as he picked up a piece of paper and looked it over, "The Lathe could use some more hands…"

George took another piece of paper and wrote several lines on it with a pen. He got up from his seat and handed it to Ritsuka. "Head over to the Lathe and hand them this piece of paper. They'll give you a quick rundown of what to do. Don't mess up. Or I can get you blacklisted from every factory in London."

Ritsuka felt whiplash. The nice man who knew of Japan before vanished, and in his place was a cutthroat industrialist hellbent on hitting the production goal.

"Where is this Lathe?"

"It's on the other side of the factory, nowhere close to here. Now shoo, I've got a book I want to finish."

Ritsuka grimaced at having to navigate through such a perilous place but did so without complaints.

"Ah!"

A metal tube brushed against Ritsuka's right hand for an instant. It was normally an innocent act yet made all the more painful when that tube piped hot steam. At the very least his hands were gloved so the burns weren't too bad.

"Oh hey, Ritsuka! Guessing you're working at the Lathe as well huh?" Jordan called out his name when he approached the supposed Lathe zone. He saw chunks of metal being fixed into position using clamps. A worker attached a drill tip to a drum-like machine, using a wrench to fix it in place.

"Guess I am…" Ritsuka's voice was somber. Being the Last Master of Mankind had given Ritsuka a certain degree of pride, but now working at this factory has stripped away from him.

Still, at least it's only a temporary thing.

The work was hard and grueling. The lunch given little and unappealing, something remedied by the Chaldean emergency food pellets. There weren't any safety covers for the lathe, so most workers simply tried to stand as far away as possible as the lathe carved into the metal. As Ritsuka covered his ears to block out the screams, he noticed how the other workers didn't bother doing the same, as if they were used to the loud noise. Some workers even wore long-sleeved clothing, something that easily gets caught in such lathes.

Ritsuka tried to make a difference by mentioning the dangers of long sleeves, but no one cared. Jordan simply dismissed Ritsuka's concern by speaking of his experience.

He worked for 10 hours and was only paid a few pennies, a half day's wage since he was only a new worker.

The stress of being so close to these machines, these machines used to make steam engines was getting to him, making his head spin. Several times he almost touched a steam pipe or almost got cut on a piece of scrap metal, rusted ones at that.

Going out of the factory, Ritsuka saw how the sun was setting.

He walked through the industrial district, following the steady flow of being coming into the slums. There is protection in numbers, no one would try to mug such a large group.

"'pare som' change? 'pare som' change please?" A beggar called out from the side of the road. What must've been hundreds of workers ignored him like he didn't exist.

As Ritsuka neared the beggar, he had to push down a frown at the terrible smell. The beggar was dressed even worse than the workers. Some of the clothes were stitched together haphazardly with rusted metal wires.

Ritsuka stopped in front of the beggar and handed an emergency ration pellet, "I can't give you money, but I'll give you a meal."

The beggar was skeptical but opened his mouth wide, showcasing jaws of rotten and missing teeth, swallowing the pellet. Practically in the next moment, the beggar stood up, full of energy as though he had just eaten a filling, succulent meal. There was a fire in his eyes, "Oooh, I haven't felt this full in ages! Thank you so much kind stranger!"

Some of the workers were staring at Ritsuka because of the commotion caused by this beggar. It made him feel self-conscious, as though associating with someone this poor was something taboo.

A second later, Ritsuka realized just how messed up that thought was. He opted to ignore those stares and said, "You're welcome."

The beggar sat down, leaning on the wall behind him, closing his eyes, and muttering as though he were enjoying the moment, "This is a nice last meal…"

That made Ritsuka look disbelieving. He looked at the beggar with wide eyes, mouth hung ajar, "Excuse me?"

"The rats are gathering." The beggar opened his eyes and said, pointing at an alleyway nearby, "The kids might call it by a different name but the Vermin Tide is coming. I got kicked out of a workhouse for losing an arm," the beggar brought up his right hand out of the folds of clothes— a stump of scar tissue, "so this is it for me. Ha ha ha! But to die with a full belly, now that was a dream I've always had! Stay home, kid. Don't come out if you hear the Vermin Tide. It's unmistakable."

Ritsuka made his way back to Mary's home. Given how his mind was on the words of that beggar, it felt like the trip only took a few minutes.