"I'm interested in purchasing a 120-acre farm," Henry said. "I've already paid the deposit. I'd like to commission you to handle the contract and the transfer of the deed."
"Of course," Carlson said, his face lighting up. "I'd be happy to."
"Excellent. When are you free?"
"This afternoon, or tomorrow afternoon."
"If it were this afternoon, when could you leave?"
"Around 1 PM. I have my own carriage."
"Perfect," Henry said. "We'll leave at 1 PM, in your carriage."
Henry returned to the manor. He went to his room, locked the door, and used the new green pearl.
Instantly, the warm current washed over him. He was flooded with the phantom memories of a master linguist, a man who could achieve fluency in a new language in a single month. He now possessed a perfect, native-level understanding of eight languages: French, English, Spanish, Portuguese, Italian, German, Russian, and Latin.
A new skill appeared: Languages LV 4.
A truly lucky day, he thought, and then immediately used the energy from the pearl, along with 90 grey pearls, to upgrade his Artillery skill to LV 4.
He now had a master-level understanding of every cannon in the world, an instinctive feel for their mechanics, their ballistics. He knew he could operate any cannon under 155mm by himself, firing one round per minute.
He still had enough pearl energy to upgrade another talent, but he decided to save it. He was strong enough.
He then began a meticulous search of the manor. He knew a place like this, a secret safe house, would have its secrets.
Half an hour later, he found it: a hidden compartment behind a bookshelf in the second-floor study. Inside was a medium-sized safe. He opened it and found a small stash of gold, a few hundred dollars in cash, and two revolvers.
But he wasn't satisfied. The basement still felt wrong. The floor plan didn't match the building's exterior dimensions. After another dozen minutes of searching, he found it: a small, almost invisible circular switch, hidden behind a storage cabinet.
He pressed it, and a section of the wall slid open, revealing a hidden, multi-room apartment, with its own beds, furniture, and water supply. It was a perfect bolthole.
He emptied his storage space into the hidden rooms, transferring the kerosene, the ingots, and most of his arsenal, freeing up another eight cubic meters.
At 1 PM, he met the lawyer, Carlson, and the two of them, along with one of Carlson's associates, set off for the farm.
The deal was finalized in under an hour. Henry paid the remaining $6,200, and the farm was officially his. He gave the old farmer, Hans, another thousand dollars to hire men and buy feed for the 100 or so warhorses he would be bringing in the next few days.
On the ride back, Henry asked, "Mr. Carlson, I have the deed to a manor in the northern suburbs of Chicago. The original owner is confirmed deceased. Is there a way to transfer the property to my name?"
The lawyer just smiled. "Of course. This is an age of infinite possibilities. For a fee of, say, thirty percent of the property's market value, I can make it happen."
Henry appreciated his directness. In a city as corrupt as Chicago, a man like Carlson was a valuable asset.
"I'm also planning to establish my own detective agency," Henry said. "And perhaps acquire a newspaper. I'd like to retain you as my legal counsel."
"I would be honored," Carlson replied instantly.
It was after 7 PM when they returned to the city. Henry treated the lawyer to a lavish French dinner, and then returned to his own manor in the northern suburbs.
The next morning, he tested his new physical abilities. His standing long jump was now 7.36 meters. His vertical leap was 2.25 meters. He was superhuman. He could leap onto the roof of a five-meter-high building. He punched a brick, and it shattered, his own fist protected by a thin, tough, gelatinous layer of energy that had formed over his knuckles. He felt no pain.
He was in a state of pure, ecstatic bliss.
Until he rode to the stables at the livestock exchange.
He was three kilometers away when he realized he could no longer sense his horses.
He arrived at the stables and found them empty. All one hundred of his horses were gone.
He went to the rental office and found the manager, a portly, bald Irishman named Sandy.
"Hey, Sandy," Henry said, his voice dangerously calm. "Where are my hundred horses?"
Sandy just looked at him with a blank expression. "Who are you?"
Henry slapped the five iron tokens for the stables on the desk. "I'm the man who rented five of your stables and left one hundred horses and five stable hands in your care."
"Sir," Sandy said, his voice now a cold, dismissive sneer, "we are only responsible for renting the space. The security of your property is your own concern. You've come to the wrong man."
"But your own rules state that no one can remove an animal without the matching token," Henry said, his face a mask of cold fury.
"Perhaps you lost your tokens," Sandy said with a shrug. "Perhaps someone stole them. Not my problem. You should have bought insurance."
Henry remembered the insurance salesman, Kenneth. It was all a scam. A protection racket.
"You didn't mention any of this when I rented the stables," Henry said, his voice low.
"It's the standard practice," Sandy said with an impatient wave of his hand. "Everyone knows it."
Henry turned and walked away. He had given the man his chance.
He heard the sound of derisive laughter from behind him. He saw the insurance salesman, Kenneth, watching him from across the street, a mocking grin on his face.
"Hey there, noble sir!" Kenneth called out, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Still don't need that insurance policy?"
Henry just ignored him and kept walking.
He heard the man spit on the ground behind him.