Allen leaned against the grimy wall, carefully making his way down.
The drunk in the attic seemed to be asleep, but in this lawless land, any carelessness could be fatal.
The money in his pocket was enough to make many people kill.
After leaving the dilapidated building, a stronger stench assailed him.
The street was so narrow that only one carriage could pass, and the sides were piled high with garbage, animal entrails, and human excrement.
Black mud squelched underfoot, and several large rats scurried past him, oblivious to his presence, disappearing into the heaps of trash.
This was the real Five Points, a paradise of crime and a hell of civilisation.
Allen subconsciously covered his nose and mouth, his brows tightly furrowed.
In this filthy environment, cholera lurked in every drop of sewage and every piece of garbage.
He had to leave here as soon as possible.
"Hey, kid, new here?"
A hoarse voice came from a nearby alley.
Allen caught a glimpse of two men out of the corner of his eye; they leaned against the wall, their gazes like vultures, scanning passersby, searching for seemingly weak and vulnerable prey.
Clearly, Allen, pale and just recovering from a serious illness, perfectly fit their criteria.
Allen didn't stop, nor did he turn to look at them, uttering two words in a calm, almost indifferent tone.
"Get lost."
The voice wasn't loud, but it made the two ruffians pause.
They were accustomed to the fear and retreat of newcomers and had not expected such a reaction.
"What did you say? You damned Irish bastard!"
One of the men felt offended and, enraged, straightened up from the wall.
Allen finally stopped and slowly turned around.
There was no fear in his eyes, only a cold gaze that swept over the two men.
He had noticed long ago that they were unsteady on their feet, their eyes unfocused, and he could smell the cheap liquor on them from afar.
Clearly, these were typical street thugs, blustering but cowardly.
"Get lost, or I promise you won't see tomorrow's sun."
He wasn't bluffing.
In his previous life, to secure a contract for an African mine, he had spent a month in a war-torn region, surrounded by heavily armed mercenaries.
He had even personally wielded a gun in counterattacks and seen blood.
That kind of aura, honed on the edge of life and death, was not something two street drunks could compare to.
The two men were intimidated by his cold gaze.
Both felt a dangerous aura emanating from him that belied his slender appearance, similar to the real gangsters in the district—something only those who had truly seen blood possessed.
"Damn it, let's go."
The leader muttered a curse and pulled his companion back into the alley.
After all, they were just petty thugs, not desperadoes; there was no need to provoke someone like that.
Although the crisis was resolved, he felt no relief.
Because he knew this was just the beginning.
In this land, kindness and weakness could be considered synonyms, both leading to the same outcome.
That was to be bullied to death.
Allen quickened his pace, heading towards the Bowery District, which was relatively prosperous and safe in his memory.
He needed to find a cheap but clean place to stay, and most importantly, a fireplace where he could boil water.
Boiling water, in this era, was the cheapest and most effective disinfectant.
After passing through a few chaotic streets, the stench in the air gradually lessened, and the surrounding buildings became slightly more orderly.
Although the clothes of the pedestrians on the street were still ordinary, they were at least much cleaner.
This was the Bowery District, the entertainment hub of New York's lower class; though it was also filled with cheats, thieves, and prostitutes, there was at least a basic sense of order.
Allenwalked into a small tavern that looked relatively decent.
The tavern was smoky, several sailors were loudly playing drinking games, and a gaudily dressed woman was flirting with a customer in the corner.
He walked up to the bar and spoke to the burly bartender, placing a 1-cent coin on the oak bar.
"A glass of clean water, freshly boiled."
The bartender glanced at him, then at the coin, and impatiently poured a glass of water from a steaming kettle in the back kitchen, placing it heavily in front of him.
Hedidn't drink immediately but waited for the scalding glass to cool slightly.
He carefully observed the water, found it very clear, and smelled no odd odor before taking small sips.
The warm water flowing down his parched throat made him feel as if he had come back to life.
After finishing the water, Allen started a conversation, pushing over another 5 cents.
"Hey... buddy, do you know where there's a cheap, clean basement for rent nearby?"
Information had a price, and spending a little money often saved a lot of trouble.
Seeing the coin, the bartender's expression softened considerably.
He pocketed the money and wiped the bar with a greasy rag.
"Just call me John. Walk two blocks east, there's a widow named Mrs. Hudson; her basement seems to be empty. But that old woman has a strange temper, and her asking price isn't low."
"Okay, thank you, John!"
After finding his target, Allen turned and left the tavern.
He needed a permanent base.
An independent basement would ensure privacy and also facilitate him setting up a simple laboratory and workshop.
Following the bartender's directions, he quickly found Mrs. Hudson's house.
It was a two-story brick and wood structure, much tidier than the surrounding houses.
He knocked on the door, and it was opened by a thin, stern-faced white old woman in her fifties.
She held a rattan cane used for beating carpets and eyed Allen warily, scrutinizing him from head to toe.
"Who are you? What do you want?" Mrs. Hudson's voice was as rigid as her expression.
Allen took off his hat and bowed slightly, trying to appear well-mannered.
"Good day, Madam, I am Allen Williams. I heard from John at the tavern that you have a basement for rent?"
"My basement isn't for rent to drunks and hooligans."
Mrs. Hudson's gaze lingered on Allen's old clothes for a moment, a hint of disdain in her tone.
"Then I fit perfectly. I neither drink excessively nor cause trouble. I just need a quiet place to do a small business."
Allen looked at her frankly, responding neither servilely nor arrogantly.
He knew that dealing with this kind of lower-class, respectable person with some assets and a high opinion of herself, excessive humility would only make her look down on him.
Mrs. Hudson raised an eyebrow, asking with some surprise, "What kind of business?"
"Food processing," he opened up, describing it with a mix of truth and fabrication.
"War might be coming, Madam, and soldiers will need food that lasts longer and tastes better. This is a promising industry."
He deliberately mentioned war and prospects, successfully attracting Mrs. Hudson's attention with these words.
Although she was a widow, she knew what war meant.
"Come in." She stepped aside, letting Allen enter the house.
The house was very clean, emitting a scent of soap and lemon.
Allen nodded silently; this indicated that the landlady was a clean person, and the basement's hygiene should not be too bad.
The entrance to the basement was in the kitchen.
Mrs. Hudson lit an oil lamp and led him downstairs.
The basement was not large, but it was very dry, with stone walls, a small fireplace with a chimney, and a small back window.
Most importantly, it was very clean, with no signs of rats or cockroaches.
"The rent is 2 dollars a week, one month must be paid in advance, and no bringing people back indiscriminately."
Mrs. Hudson laid out her conditions.
2 dollars a week, which was 8 dollars a month, a considerable expense for an ordinary worker.
But for Allen, this price was completely acceptable.
"Deal, Madam."
Allen didn't bargain, straightforwardly taking out 8 dollars from his pocket and handing it over.
"This is the first month's rent."
Seeing him pay so readily, Mrs. Hudson's expression softened somewhat.
She took the money and handed Allen a key.
"Remember my rules, young man."
She gave one last admonition and then turned and left.
Allen let out a long sigh of relief.
He placed the oil lamp on the fireplace, looking around his small space. From today on, this would be his starting point.
He still had 67 dollars on him.
These 67 dollars would be his lever to move an era.
Allen sat on the cold stone steps, his eyes gleaming with the light of ambition.
"Next, it's time to let the people of this era see what true technology is."