Reincarnated Cthulhu

East End of London. Or simply, the East End.

People had called it that for as long as anyone could remember. Though no clear boundary existed, just as migratory birds instinctively distinguish north from south, Londoners knew by instinct that where the sunlight grew dim, there lay the East End.

Every Londoner harbored prejudiced images of the East End.

Streets littered with mingled human and horse excrement. Gaunt orphans with hollow, mournful eyes. Unemployed young men lurking at every corner. The skunk-like stench of cheap perfume sprayed by prostitutes. Skies blackened by smoke billowing from factory chimneys. Small boats with shattered keels abandoned by the riverbank, now shrouded in moss. Rats that fearlessly carried fleas from person to person. Sewers that overflowed with foul water when it rained. Weeds that bloomed only to wither immediately, adding dreary browns to the already bleak streets. The distinctive sweet yet acrid scent of opium.

All of these things.

Remarkably, this place lived up to every expectation. The East End was indeed a wonderland—one where all their imagined filth and nauseating fantasies had concentrated into reality.

But it hadn’t always been this way.

Although now buried underground, the glorious Roman city of Londinium once spread outward from this very spot. And that wasn’t all—until medieval times, this area had been London’s thriving center. The Tower of London, now surrounded only by grim rumors, had once served as a royal bedchamber.

That such a historic eastern edge of London should decline over time was simply the natural order of things.