Ryan sat on the edge of his bed for a long time, and his headache finally began to subside.
But that bloated, heavy feeling in his head remained, as if something had been forcibly stuffed into the depths of his consciousness.
He looked down at the faint trace of white ash on his palm.
He fell silent for a few seconds before slowly wiping it away.
The ash quickly vanished, but the “change” did not.
He could clearly feel that his body was different from before.
It wasn't a dramatic change like a sudden surge of strength, but rather a subtle enhancement.
His vision was clearer, his mind sharper, and even his thinking speed had quickened slightly.
Ryan looked up and out the window.
The sky outside was still pitch-black, with only a faint hint of grey filtering through the thick fog.
Suddenly, a question occurred to him.
What time was it?
In his previous life, there were cell phones.
There were alarm clocks.
There was digital time.
But this was nineteenth-century London.
The poor couldn't afford pocket watches at all, and of course, Ryan's original self hadn't owned one either.
His usual method of telling the time was actually very simple.
Listening to the church bells.
There were many churches in London, especially in the East End.
Almost every so often, a church bell would toll.
Ordinary workers and bottom-tier residents mostly estimated the time by the bells and the sky.
Ryan listened quietly for a moment.
Outside, there was only the sound of the wind and the distant clatter of carriages.
No church was tolling the hour.
That meant it wasn't a full hour yet.
He rubbed his temples and slowly stood up.
His body was still a bit exhausted, but it was much better than a few days ago.
At least now, he didn't feel like he was about to cough up blood at any moment.
Ryan walked over to the window and gently parted the curtain a crack.
Thick fog shrouded St. Blaise Street.
The gas lamps were still lit.
The street was virtually empty, with only the occasional milkman pushing his cart in the distance.
Ryan estimated it to be around four or five in the morning.
It was still early before work, but he could no longer sleep.
To be precise.
He was actually a bit afraid to go back to sleep.
Because that dream had been far too real.
And that woodland gave him an extremely dangerous vibe.
Especially that white figure at the end.
At the thought of it, a faint chill crept down Ryan's spine again.
He turned and went back to the desk.
Ryan looked down and counted his money. These days, he felt uneasy if he didn't count it every day.
He had 5 shillings and 6 pence left.
Although the salary of a formal clerk was higher than what he made in the basement, payday wouldn't come until the end of the month.
Right now, he was still dangerously poor.
Ryan slipped a few coins into his pocket.
Then, he sat at the table and stared blankly.
Outside, the sky slowly began to turn greyish-white.
The East End was gradually waking up, and people began to move about downstairs.
The scraping of a street sweeper's shovel echoed from afar.
After another while.
“Dong—”
A deep tolling finally drifted from a distant church.
Six times.
Six o'clock in the morning.
Ryan slowly let out a breath.
It was time to go.
He first washed his face with cold water—the freezing well water jolting him wide awake—before getting dressed.
His coat was still the old one, the cuffs worn out, and his soles still leaked.
But at least he looked a bit more “human” than he did a few days ago.
He was now a formal clerk on the first floor.
Even if he was only the lowest rank.
In the lower depths of the East End, it was already considered a stable job.
At least he wouldn't starve.
Ryan picked up his document bag and glanced down at the space beneath his bed.
The black booklet was still hidden there.
He hesitated for a few seconds but ultimately decided not to bring it. It was too dangerous.
If he kept something like that on him and got searched, he would be finished.
Then, Ryan pushed open the door and left the attic.
As soon as he went downstairs, he ran into Irene, the landlord's daughter.
The girl was carrying a basket of wet laundry toward the backyard.
Today, she wore a dark grey dress, her blonde hair tied back simply.
Upon seeing Ryan, she was visibly taken aback.
“You're up early today?”
Ryan nodded.
“Couldn't sleep.”
Irene frowned.
“Your complexion is still terrible.”
“Is your lung condition not getting better?”
Ryan smiled slightly.
“I won't die from it.”
The girl stared at him for a few seconds.
Suddenly, she lowered her voice:
“My mother was talking about it yesterday.”
“If you can't pay the rent by the end of the month, you'll really have to move out.”
Ryan fell silent for a moment.
“I know.”
Irene seemed to want to say something, but in the end, she kept it to herself.
She only added in a whisper:
“The East End hasn't been safe at night lately.”
“Come back early.”
With that, she lowered her head and walked away.
Ryan stood there watching her for a moment before turning to walk out.
Early morning London was terribly cold, the thick fog clinging to his face like a damp cloth.
Many shops along the street were just opening, and the bakery had already begun baking its first batch of rye bread.
A faint aroma drifted through the air, and Ryan's stomach instantly began to growl.
He hesitated for a moment.
But he walked over anyway.
“Half a loaf of rye.”
The owner didn't even look up.
“Half a penny.”
Ryan handed over a copper coin. Then, he spent another half-penny to buy a small pat of cheap butter.
This was the first time since his transmigration that he was willing to spend money on butter; though it was only a thin smear, it was already a luxury.
The owner wrapped it in scrap paper and handed it to him.
Ryan didn't eat it immediately. Instead, he stuffed it into his document bag, planning to save it for lunch. Every penny had to be saved right now.
Next, he went to a street stall and bought a cup of hot tea.
One penny.
Steam rose slowly from the tin cup.
Ryan cupped the tea with both hands and took a slow sip.
The warm liquid slid into his stomach, finally making him feel a bit more comfortable.
More and more people filled the streets.
Laborers, dockworkers, paperboys, milkmen.
Everyone kept their heads down, hurrying along.
No one chatted, and no one stopped.
All of London was like a massive machine, and the lower-class people were merely the consumable cogs within it.
Ryan observed his surroundings as he walked.
This was the first time since his transmigration that he was truly in the mood to look at the city.
The East End was dilapidated, but it was far from quiet.
Billboards were plastered everywhere along both sides of the streets.
Some advertised cough syrup, others laudanum.
There were also various “miracle panaceas.”
The corners of walls were covered in hiring notices.
Factories, docks, coal mines.
The wages were all shockingly low.
Ryan even spotted a little boy huddled by the roadside selling matches.
He was ten years old at most, shivering uncontrollably from the cold, yet passersby didn't even spare him a glance.
Ryan silently averted his gaze; such was the reality of this era.
It was all too common for the poor to die.
Half an hour later.
The archive finally loomed out of the thick fog, its greyish-black building as oppressive as ever.
Quite a few employees had already gathered at the entrance.
Some were smoking, while others had their heads down, eating breakfast.
Just as Ryan walked inside,
Simon looked up and glanced at him.
“Quite on time today, aren't you?”
Ryan hung up his coat.
“Almost late?”
“Almost.”
Simon grinned.
“Seems the salary in the Formal Hall really does make a man diligent.”
Someone nearby chuckled. Ryan gave a small smile as well, then sat back down at his desk.
A new pile of files was already stacked on his desk, even larger than yesterday's.
Alvin soon emerged from the inner office, cradling a thick stack of records in his arms.
“Starting today, we will begin verifying records by district.”
“We must finish sorting through the West End migration records before the end of the month.”
The sound of rustling paper instantly filled the entire recording hall.
Everyone settled back into their work routines.
Ryan lowered his head and opened the first file, his pen meeting the paper once more.
The scratching sound echoed through the recording hall once again.
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