Then I went to a clothing store.
Spent 4 silver Donelie and 25 copper Narcs.
Yeah. All that for one complete outfit. A gray suit-trouser pair, plain white shirt, matching tie, this slightly off-yellow vest (like boiled mustard but fancier), a mid-length gray trench coat, and—of course—a pair of black leather shoes.
Had to look the part.
Oh, and I added a gray hat and a black wooden walking stick. Locals all had them. I didn't want to stand out.
Not that I don't already stand out—face like mine doesn't get compliments. But with the new outfit, I did feel something shift.
Like... maybe I looked trustworthy now.
Almost like one of those English gentlemen from the books. Decent, if not dashing.
"It's easier to be trusted than in my casual clothes," I muttered to myself, still staring into the mirror.
All of this... for the 10 Sterling.
That's why I was out today, after all.
Once I checked everything off the mental list, I returned to my tiny place, washed up, and knocked out early. Couldn't afford to waste energy.
Next morning. Early rise. Cold floor. Deep breath.
I did a few warmups—if you could call them that.
"The body's too thin."
Saying it out loud didn't help. I did a chest expansion and caught a glimpse—bones. Bulging under my skin like tiny prison bars.
Twist to the side. Ribs. Sharp angles under the skin.
It's like I'm just skin on bones. No fat. No muscle. No real substance. Just... walking cartilage.
Unhealthy. Definitely not good for someone who might be drinking potions soon. If what the books say is true, physical weakness and potion-drinking don't mix.
And what happens if they do mix?
Well. The word used was "tragic."
I don't want to be tragic.
I need to eat more. Meat. Milk. Something that costs money.
More money.
Which reminded me—I had a job to do.
I picked up the new clothes from the chair, dressed fast, tilted the hat just enough to look deliberate, took the cane, and stepped out.
Passed a bakery. Smelled better than it tasted. Bought less than half a pound of brown bread for breakfast.
Dry. Tough. Nothing like Jaden's white bread.
I forced it down.
The streets were busy. People everywhere, everyone rushing. Most of them didn't even look at me, just bumped into my shoulder and kept walking like I wasn't even there.
This era... it's chaotic.
Steam engines changed everything. Industry, class, rhythm of life. People are losing jobs. Some slowly, some all at once. Some can adapt. Others sink.
I made my way through the mess. Streets turned familiar. I followed muscle memory.
About two hours before noon, I arrived at the Church of Life in the Rolo District.
Big. Imposing. Gorgeous, even. The kind of building that makes you stop and just look.
My predecessor—me, but not me—was a devout believer of the Saltmother.
I'm not.
I looked at the spires, the stonework, the ever-burning lights.
Didn't feel much.
Didn't go in.
Just nodded at the building, then turned and walked a block away to Frank's Hotel.
It fit. Exquisite outside, expensive inside. Exactly where a noble client would stay.
Mr. Frank—the innkeeper—also worshipped the Mother Earth. Known in the circles.
The doorman was immaculate. White gloves. Polished posture. He bowed and opened the door.
I walked in like I belonged.
Two receptionists at the front desk. Pretty. One blonde. One black-haired. Smiling too hard.
If I'd shown up in my old clothes? They would've looked at me like I dragged dirt in.
But I didn't.
"Good day, two beautiful ladies," I said, removing my hat.
"Good day, sir," said the black-haired one. "Are you here to stay?"
"No," I replied smoothly. "My name is Feron Mornez. I belong to the Church of the Saltmother other, and I was commissioned by Mr. Strelling. I believe he's staying here. Could you let him know?"
Little lie.
I don't belong to the Church. It's a... cooperative relationship. But the lie worked.
Frank hires believers. They trust believers.
"Mother is above," the woman murmured reverently. "I'll pass it on."
The blonde walked off.
The black-haired one turned to me. "Please sit, Mr. Mornez."
She led me to the lobby sofas.
"My name is Lilian Norman," she said, still smiling. "Would you like something to drink? Coffee or tea?"
I smiled back. "No, Miss Lilith. I won't be sitting long."
In my head, I thought of that old line: Sir, would you like coffee? Tea? Or... me?
I didn't say it.
Few minutes later, the blonde came back.
"Mr. Mornez, Mr. Strelling says you can come up."
"Alright."
I followed her. She gave a gentle warning on the stairs:
"Mr. Strelling's wife is still sick. Please be mindful."
I thanked her. Inside, I was already wondering: still sick after four days? Flu? Or something... worse?
We climbed four floors. No elevator. No mercy.
My lungs burned a little. I'm not fit. Not anymore.
These nobles—they choose top-floor rooms just to be... above others.
Pretentious. Unnecessary. Annoying.
"This is it, Mr. Mornez," she said, then left.
I knocked.
The door opened immediately. Not a hotel staff. A servant. Black uniform. Polite bow.
"Mr. Mornez. Good day. The master is waiting for you."
I nodded, entered.
Suite was huge. Easily ten times my space.
Luxurious carpets. High ceilings. Everything quiet.
In the living room, a man sat on a velvet sofa.
Middle-aged. Black dress. Strong jaw. Deep crow's feet. Trimmed beard. Serious face. Bit of extra weight but not slovenly.
Brows creased. Sad eyes.
That was Mr. Strelling.
He stood as I entered.
"Mr. Mornez! I'm Uriel Strelling. Thank you for coming."
I took off my hat. "Mr. Strelling, you're too kind."
"Please, sit."
He was formal. Controlled. The kind of man who rehearsed every movement.
He signaled a servant for tea.
I handed him the certificate from the church. My ID. Stamped with the Tree of Life seal.
He read it. Returned it. Nothing more.
I shifted slightly. Didn't want small talk.
Pulled out my notebook. Looked up.
"Mr. Strelling, the Church has appointed me to handle your case. If it's alright, could you walk me through the details?"
He bowed his head slightly.
"God is above," he said first, then continued. "I've already reported everything to the Church. I believe you've read the files."
"Yes," I nodded. "But aside from the two major incidents, was there... anything else? Strange occurrences?"
He paused.
"No," he said at last. "After my wife's incident, we moved out quickly. Nothing else happened during the move."
I scribbled a note.
"Did your wife experience anything? Anything at all?"
His brows furrowed. He hesitated.
"She's still ill," he said slowly. "Fevered. Not always lucid."
So... no useful info.
I tapped the pen.
"After moving in—any guests? New staff? Visitors?"
He shook his head.
"No acquaintances here. No guests. But we did hire two local maids."
He added quickly: "We were cautious. They were verified by the Church. It's unlikely they're involved."
Then he looked me in the eyes.
"And... it would be hard for ordinary people to take my wife away without me noticing."
He said a lot. But I felt like we hadn't even started.
I adjusted my grip on the pen. This wasn't going to be easy.
Of course it wasn't.