Sean stood at the office entrance, taking a deep breath to calm his racing heart from the intense running.
He pushed the door open, and the familiar musty smell and the stench of rotting paper hit him again. Sunlight filtered through the thick dust on the windows, casting dim beams of light on the floor where countless specks of dust danced wildly.
"Good heavens..." Sean frowned in disgust at the chaos before him.
In Jack's memory, this man clearly had a profound misunderstanding of the word "order." Expired newspapers were carelessly tossed into the corner, and the darkened coffee stains on the table formed countless ugly patterns. The legal documents on the bookshelf were not neatly arranged but rather piled up like a garbage dump.
Shawn leaned against the doorframe, his mind involuntarily drifting to his 2026 office on the 55th floor of Manhattan.
Back then, all he needed to do was press the internal line button, and within thirty seconds, three impeccably dressed Ivy League graduates would materialize. These high-salary assistants would sort his files by year and category, place his 65°C latte on the table, and even triple-check the ink in his signature pen.
He only needs to focus on strategic thinking and deliver a decisive blow to his opponent during the trial.
"Sean Woz, welcome to the real world."
He self-deprecatingly rolled up his shirt sleeves and grabbed a rag that had become so stiff it was crumbling from the wooden bucket behind the door. Such trivial household chores had never been part of his life plan, but now, to welcome the two soon-to-arrive 'big donors,' he had to do it himself.
If this place isn't cleaned up to look like a proper law firm, those two local tycoons will just see him as a drunk who hasn't sobered up yet.
He first cleared the meaningless scraps of paper from the desk, stuffing them all into the fireplace. Then, with a rag barely dampened, he frantically wiped the desk—so pristine it could have been a museum artifact.
"Road rights competition... Mining rights priority..."
As he mechanically wiped the surface, his mind raced. The details Lucy provided automatically mapped in his top-tier mind: Smith and Matthew's conflict stemmed from overlapping cadastral records. In 1885 America, cadastral surveys were riddled with technical errors, yet he possessed a mapping methodology and contractual traps that were a century ahead of their time.
The state government's approval document issued by Matthew, despite bearing a red stamp, holds no legal weight when conflicting with federal mining laws and local practices—its validity is as negligible as a toilet paper. As for Smith, that burly fellow, he has no clue what' access rights compensation' even means.
Sean intensified his grip and scrubbed away the stubborn ink stain with force.
He retrieved the old books on the Mining Act and Railway Act from the bookshelf and neatly arranged them in the most conspicuous spot on the desk. He even pulled out Jack's leather folder from the clutter—cracked but still holding its texture when polished.
Two hours later.
What was once a chaotic mess in the office took on a solemn and austere professionalism under Sean's obsessive cleaning. Though the furniture remained worn and the walls still stained, the' everything-in-control' layout cast an unsettling sense of oppression over the attic.
Sean stood at the door, scrutinizing his masterpiece.
"Assistant, coffee, AI search system... none of these are mine." He brushed the dust off his hands, a hint of pride flashing in his eyes. "But I possess the most valuable asset of our time—the intellect that is 140 years ahead of you."
He settled back into the now-cleaner swivel chair, spreading out a blank sheet of official paper. After dipping his quill in the inkwell, he penned the first line in bold, flowing calligraphic script:
Legal Mediation Opinion on Road Right Infringement and Mineral Development Priority
In the signature, he omitted Jack's name, instead signing with a flourish the name that would send shivers through the legal profession of the 21st century—
Sean Woz.