After breakfast, Ada hurriedly tidied up, donned her school uniform, and rushed off to the academy.
Once Silas had cleared the table, he opened his wardrobe and took out his second, and last, clean suit.
The coarse linen shirt felt rough against his skin; in that moment, Silas keenly missed the comfortable clothes of his old world on Earth.
Dressed in shirt and suit, Silas looked at his reflection in the mirror and nodded with satisfaction.
The young man in the mirror had dark golden hair and fair skin, with dark eyebrows framing a pair of expressive, double-lidded eyes.
His cheeks were somewhat gaunt, his nose high-bridged, and his chin cleanly shaven. While not strikingly handsome, his appearance was certainly not unpleasant.
"Unexpected… I look almost exactly as I did before, just the hair and skin tone have changed. It seems my transmigration into him wasn't entirely random or coincidental."
Taking his black bowler hat from the coat rack, shrugging on his warm black overcoat, pulling on his gloves, and picking up his cane, Silas looked at the gentleman in the mirror – a figure imbued with an air of mystery and elegance – and sighed. "It's true what they say: clothes make the man. Dressed like this, I feel quite a bit more dashing."
With his attire sorted, Silas grabbed a handful of loose change from his desk drawer and tucked it into his coat pocket. After a final check to ensure all the gas valves in the apartment were securely closed, he gave the Husky a parting instruction, locked the door, and left.
The snow had fallen heavily the previous night and was still drifting down sporadically.
Stepping out of the building, the first sensation was a blast of icy air.
The snow in the front courtyard had been crudely cleared, leaving a narrow path.
Reaching the main street, he saw it was already bustling with people.
It was half-past seven, the peak of the morning commute.
Standing by the roadside, Silas surveyed the scene.
The snow-covered street teemed with people.
There were pedestrians on foot, nobles in horse-drawn carriages, and even steam locomotives, belching steam and black smoke, clattering swiftly along the iron tracks embedded in the road.
Adjusting the angle of his bowler hat so the brim shielded his face from the falling snowflakes, Silas followed Sotos's memories towards the Bayne Police Station.
His lodgings weren't far from the station. After three blocks, he arrived at a wide crossroads and saw a five-story, greyish-white building.
A plaque above the main entrance on the ground floor read: "Bayne City West District Police Sub-Bureau."
However, it wasn't the imposing building that truly caught the eye, but the two colossal steam-powered robots flanking the entrance steps.
The robots were massive, standing at least four meters tall, their entire bodies encased in silver metal armor.
Their humanoid heads featured two glowing red gems that served as eyes, swiveling as they scanned their surroundings vigilantly.
Jets of hot steam periodically hissed from their backs. Each robot gripped a two-meter-long, giant steam-powered gear rifle, and mounted on their shoulders were smaller, six-barreled Gatling guns.
They looked less like steam robots and more like something out of Predator.
Though it seemed utterly fantastical, Silas had to admit, these intricate machines – marvels that even the electronic information age of his old world might struggle to produce – were indeed powered by steam engines.
"The technological development tree in this world… it's completely skewed," Silas sighed internally.
Steam robots were merely the tip of the iceberg. In Sotos's memories, Silas had also seen steam airships, colossal steel behemoths stretching over seventy meters in length.
Those were true marvels of black technology, their impact on Silas more stunning than even the Helicarrier from the first Avengers movie.
Suppressing his inner astonishment, Silas made his way towards the police station.
The crossroads was incredibly crowded. Due to the morning rush hour, the density of people was comparable to a major capital city.
Fortunately, the traffic police here were highly professional and dedicated. Under the guidance of three officers, the intersection, while busy, avoided complete gridlock, and people moved forward in an orderly fashion.
Silas merged with the flow of people, slowly advancing while observing the denizens of this era.
Their attire reflected the early Industrial Revolution. Ordinary workers wore rough canvas work clothes.
The middle class, those with some technical skills, wore suits made of more common materials and thin overcoats, much like Silas himself.
The truly wealthy and established, however, typically sported silk top hats, fine pure cotton suits or tailcoats, and exquisite fur-lined overcoats. They often carried sandalwood canes inlaid with extravagant gold, exuding an air of opulence and brilliance.
Following the crowd across the intersection, Silas paused at the foot of the police station steps, casting a wary glance at the two robots before proceeding inside.
As he ascended the steps, Silas happened to see a middle-aged man in a blue police uniform and a blue cotton overcoat emerging from the building. As they came face to face, Silas, out of habit, began to offer a polite greeting.
"Hello…"
The moment Silas doffed his hat, both men froze.
They recognized each other.
Silas stared at the middle-aged man, a knot of tension and fear tightening in his chest. The middle-aged man, in turn, stared at Silas with an expression of utter shock and horror.
After two seconds of stunned silence, Silas managed a strained, awkward smile, clapped his hat back on his head, turned, and swiftly walked away.
The man's name was Jace Paskell. According to Silas Sotos's memories, Paskell was a mid-level operative in the Death Cult. He already possessed mystical powers; rumor had it he could control the corpses of the dead.
Within the cult, Sotos had encountered him quite frequently, as Paskell had a relatively good relationship with Sotos's mentor, John Ross.
Crucially, however, when Sotos was being killed, with the intent of transforming him into an undead warrior, Jace Paskell had been present and had even assisted in the process.
"Damn it all! That bastard is a police officer here!" Silas had never imagined that, even after seemingly escaping the Death Cult through death itself, he would run into one of its members – and one of his own murderers – on the very next day!
As Silas made his hasty retreat, Jace Paskell snapped out of his horrified stupor.
"No mistake… that was definitely Silas Sotos. Why isn't he dead!? We clearly drowned him! Could our method have actually… succeeded!?"
"No! It couldn't have succeeded. If it had, he wouldn't have his own consciousness. Just now, I saw the fear and tension in his eyes. That bastard is definitely not dead."
"Damn him! He must be here to report us to the police! No! I absolutely cannot let him live!"
At this thought, a venomous glint flashed in Jace Paskell's eyes. "I must eliminate you!"
His hand drifted to the pistol holstered at his waist. Staring at Silas's retreating back, he quickly began to follow.
Silas, now quickening his pace down the street, could already sense Jace Paskell stealthily tailing him.
"What do I do? Think calmly. The police station is out. Who knows how many more of his accomplices are in there? If I go in, they could slap me with some trumped-up charge and execute me. I wouldn't even have a chance to run."
Panic surged within Silas.
"He's already on to me. Running away won't work. He has my home address, my information. Even if I escape, he might go after my… family."
At that thought, a chilling wave of ice and fury washed over Silas.
"You killed me once, and now you want to kill me a second time? And you'd even threaten someone like Ada? I must eliminate you!"