Sean slumped back into the creaking armchair, his quill poised over the rough parchment. The kerosene lamp's flickering flame crackled softly, its light casting a distorted, oversized shadow on the wall.
He didn't rush to write, but instead reached out his calloused hands and gently stroked the burn marks on the table's edge from cigarette butts. This was Jack's habit—whenever he got stuck in a legal impasse, he'd restlessly light a cheap cigar here.
"Jack, you're a total idealist," Sean muttered to himself, a wry smile playing on his lips.
While sorting through the case files, he discovered that Jack was not only deficient in legal skills but also a complete "candidate for saint" in daily life. At the bottom of the drawer lay a stack of IOUs—not debts owed by Jack to others, but by the town's widows, widowers, and orphans to him.
A promissory note read: 'Borrowed two dollars from Old Tom to repair the roof damaged by the storm. Interest: an apple when you pass by next time.'
Sean stared at the four characters 'One Apple' in silence for a long time. In 2026, his time was priced in US dollars, with each minute of consultation equivalent to a year's worth of food for an average person. He had mocked countless individuals like Jack, dismissing them as defective products in the evolutionary chain, destined to be crushed by the wheels of capital.
But now, he's come back to life by eating the' Baijia Fan' (a communal meal) that these people have pooled together.
"This crushing debt of human connections is even harder to settle than Manhattan's hedge funds," Sean rubbed his temples, his gaze turning cold again. "Since I've taken your body, I'll collect your debts and repay your kindness. But starting tomorrow, we'll live differently."
He began writing furiously on paper, no longer delivering Jack's halting, pleading-style defense, but adopting Sean Voss's aggressive legal logic.
During these hours, he meticulously dissected the Homestead Act and the Pacific Railway Act of that era. His keen observation revealed that this seemingly desolate town was strategically positioned at the crossroads of power struggles among several railroad giants.
If I'm not mistaken, those two farmers weren't after the sheep—they were after the future premium rights to those acres of land. And Jack, you fool, you're fixated on those few strands of wool.
Sean put down his pen and gazed out at the pitch-black night outside. In the distance, the faint howls of wolves from the wilderness drifted in through the window cracks, mingled with the crisp wind.
He felt a sense of freedom he had never felt before.
In 2026, he was a master of the rules, yet the rules had been rigidified to the extreme. Here, in 1885 America, the law was like freshly forged iron—so long as your hammer was heavy enough, you could shape it however you pleased.
He stood up, walked to the bookshelf, and pulled out a tattered copy of *Geographical Records* from the pile of yellowed old books. He needed to confirm the route to the outside world.
The town is too small to contain Sean Woz's ambitions. But I must carry Jack's dignity out into the world.
Sean reorganized all the case files and neatly stacked them on the table. He decided to meet with Pete, the farmer who had won the lawsuit, early the next morning. His goal was not only to return the three sheep unharmed to Old Hank's pen but also to get Pete to voluntarily pay the first' travel expenses' to help him leave the small town.
He blew out the kerosene lamp.
In the darkness, Sean's breathing grew steady and forceful. He was no longer the alcoholic Jack or the arrogant lawyer who died in Manhattan, but a specter poised to unleash a storm in this barbaric age.
The morning sun will witness a dimensional reduction attack spanning centuries