As Sean closed the last thick copy of Evidence Science, the first morning light from outside the attic filtered through the mottled window frame, illuminating the dust floating in the air.
He tried to stand up, but his knees gave a protesting creak. Only then did he realize he had been recklessly overexerting himself in this cramped room for a week. His eyes fell on the table corner, where Aunt Martha's bread had long since cracked like weathered stone, and the milk was emitting a sour odor.
Shawn shook his head with a self-deprecating laugh and got up to walk to the dirty dressing mirror.
The person in the mirror made him freeze.
His disheveled hair resembled a clump of withered grass scorched by wildfire, while his thick beard nearly concealed half of his face, his eyes bloodshot with terrifying veins. The current state of his physical condition was so deplorable that he would have been directly admitted to a mental institution in Manhattan's streets in 2026 as a severe drug addict.
Recalling his self in 2026, Sean's lips curved into a cynical smile. Back then, he was a living legend at Harvard Law School, the most radiant figure on his alma mater's honor wall—a legal darling impeccably dressed in crisp suits, gleaming leather shoes, and every strand of hair meticulously groomed.
Actually... that scruffy beard is actually quite cool, at least it makes him look like a dude with a story.
He ran his fingers through his thick, stubby beard—a rugged emblem of the era. Yet beneath that 'cool' facade, he caught a nauseating stench: the putrid blend of alcohol, sweat, and decaying paper. For a modern elite who once bathed twice daily and obsessively pursued quality of life, this stench was sheer physiological horror.
He instinctively reached for the hot water tap, but his hand met the icy hollow wooden barrel, jolting him awake: this was 1885, when hot water was a costly luxury.
Sean picked up the tattered wallet, counted a few copper coins still warm from the inside, and pushed open the door that had been sealed for a week.
The town streets were already bustling with morning activity. When Sean appeared on the street, the air seemed to freeze for a moment.
"Look! Our 'sheep guardian' Jack has finally emerged from the dungeon!" The blacksmith's apprentice leaned against the doorframe, his voice mocking as he whistled. "Jack, did you go to hell to learn how to talk to sheep?"
"Hey Jack, your clothes stink so badly you could kill Pete's sheep across the street!" the passing carriage driver shouted.
Sean walked through the laughter with a blank expression. In 2026, he had endured curses ten thousand times more vile than these—those defeated tycoons would even hire hitmen to greet his entire family at the courthouse gates. The townsmen's mockery sounded to him as childish as kindergarten children's squabbles.
He went straight into a bathhouse called "Old John".
In that massive, rusted metal bathtub, Sean submerged himself completely in the scalding water. The muck was stripped away, and the legal statutes, case precedents, and political maneuvering that had been forcibly imposed on his mind over the past week gradually became orderly under the immersion in the hot water.
After taking a shower, he sat down in the leather chair of the barbershop.
The barber was a middle-aged man of quiet demeanor, his razor gliding deftly across Sean's cheek. As patches of beard were shaved away, the once delicate yet timid features of Jack's face, now sculpted by Sean's soul, revealed lines of marble-like firmness.
The hair was trimmed short and styled into the sleek bob that epitomizes the refined gentleman of our time.
When the barber removed the scarf, the man in the mirror changed.
The profound eyes no longer held the bewilderment and alcohol-induced disorientation, but rather a chilling calmness. That aura was like a heavy sword freshly tempered from the furnace—still lodged in its tattered scabbard, yet no one dared to overlook its sharpness.
Sean studied his reflection in the mirror, then pulled a coin from his pocket and tossed it to the barber.
"Jack?" The barber froze. The man's voice had grown deep and resonant, carrying an undeniable magnetic quality.
"No," Sean stood up, elegantly fastening the buttons of his still-worn yet tidy vest, a sly smile playing on his lips. "From today onward, I'm the most troublesome' Jack 'you've ever met."
He walked out of the barbershop, basking in the sunlight, and strode confidently toward Nate's tavern.
He was all set. Every plan, every foreshadowing would begin with those three missing sheep, carving Sean Woz's name into the annals of this barbaric age.