ache .
It wasn't the sharp pain from a crystal chandelier, but a dull ache—like a rusty steel needle stirring in the brain, mingled with the frantic throbbing of cheap alcohol in the veins.
Sean tried to open his eyes, but his eyelids seemed glued to solidified asphalt. He took a sharp breath, nearly choking on the pungent mixture of moldy hay, vomit, and cheap whiskey potent enough to kill rats.
Damn... Is Vanderbilt's ambulance made of horse-drawn carriage? Why is it so slow...
Shawn cursed while struggling to keep his body upright. When his palms touched the ground, they met not the soft Persian carpet of the banquet, but the rough, damp wooden floor covered with splinters.
bang ——!
A flood of unfamiliar memories erupted without warning, like a poorly made black-and-white film, forcibly thrust into Sean's razor-sharp legal mind.
The owner of this body is named Jack, a defeated man who struggled for ten years in this post-war America that was growing wildly.
Jack's memories hold no traces of Manhattan's champagne or high society, only endless failures: being kicked out by his landlady with a broom for unpaid rent; being mocked by peers as a 'baggy-worn defense attorney' for his torn robe; and a decade-long legal career with such dismal success rates that even stray dogs on the streets avoided him.
What led him to alcoholism and nearly die was a ridiculous lawsuit.
The two embattled farmers were locked in a legal battle over ownership of three nearly identical sheep.
"Jack, you're the cheapest lawyer in town!" The old farmer Hank, reeking of sheep, spat as he pulled two worn-out coins from his pocket. "If you lose this case and my three sheep get stolen by that neighbor's hooligan, I'll lock you in the sheep pen as a breeding stock!"
Jack lost. In court, his stammering arguments and flawed logic were shredded by the opponent, who had merely studied law for two years. The judge even struck the gavel with disgust before he finished his defense.
The commission from two coins was only enough for him to buy a bottle of low-quality liquor in this filthy tavern, which could ruin his liver.
"Jack? Jack the lawyer?" A hoarse voice rang in my ears.
Sean suddenly opened his eyes.
The first thing that caught his eye was the creaking tavern ceiling, its dim, greasy glow from a kerosene lamp. He looked down at his hands—rough, calloused, with mud still clinging to their crevices. His once-prided bespoke tailcoat had vanished, replaced by an old vest with a yellowed collar that reeked of sweat.
Sean gave a self-deprecating cold laugh.
As the most brilliant legal genius in 21st-century Manhattan, he had orchestrated mergers worth hundreds of millions of dollars and manipulated monopoly treaties that shaped national destiny. Yet fate has now cast him into this post-Civil War wilderness, reducing him to a worthless man who would die in a tavern over a few sheep.
"Jack, you're awake?" the tavern keeper said, wiping the greasy cup with a mocking glance. "If you're still alive, get out of here. Old Hank was chasing you down the street with a pitchfork—he said he'd sew your empty mouth shut on a sheep's ass."
Sean stood up, leaning on the table. Despite the excruciating headache and the trembling of his frail body, the moment he straightened up, the once-depressed and humble 'Jack' vanished.
A razor-sharp sense of oppression, uniquely Sean Wozniak's, reemerged in his bloodshot eyes.
"Goat?" Sean's voice was hoarse, yet carried an undeniable authority. He reached into his pocket, which held nothing but a crumpled court ruling filled with dogshit logic.
He wiped the lingering alcohol stains from his lips and flashed a sardonic smile.
In this era, even sheep are being poached. It seems that the 'law of the jungle' in the legal system is more approachable than I had imagined.
Sean pushed open the creaking tavern door. The blinding sunlight and swirling dust from the street hit him in the face. He took a deep breath, observing the burly men riding tall horses with revolvers at their waists, and the streets reeking of horse manure.
No worries, Jack. Since I've taken over your body, let's start with those three sheep and teach this savage America what true 'legal fraud' is... No, it's the art of the law.
However, he had only taken two steps when his movement suddenly froze.
A final fragment of Jack's memory flashed through his mind—the corridor behind the courtroom, where he had seen a woman in a tattered long dress, her eyes as cold as ice. She was the legal counsel the other party had hired, though merely an assistant, yet it was she who delivered the fatal blow at the end of the verdict.
Even in his most hazy recollections, those eyes burned like a red-hot iron, making Sean's soul tremble.
"Avey..."
Sean clenched his fist.
If this is hell, he is definitely not alone.