The storm had dispersed the sea's malevolent spirits, but failed to cleanse the Sea Witch of its heavy load of death and despair.

After struggling to burn the last few shovels of coal, the battered steel behemoth finally came to a mournful stop at London's Limehouse Dock.

The air smelled different.

The deep sea's salty tang had been replaced by a heavier, more suffocating odor—the heartbeat of the Industrial Revolution, the coal smoke spewing from tens of thousands of chimneys mingled with the muddy stench of the Thames and the cloying sweetness of cheap gin from the shore, forming a perpetual gray fog that blanketed the world's capital.

The surviving laborers stood bewildered on this unfamiliar land, barely clothed, their eyes filled only with fear and confusion.

Lin Jie blended into the crowd but had already planned his first move.

Hunching his shoulders and using his slender build to advantage, he quietly slipped away from the group unnoticed during the chaos, disappearing like a rat into the dock area's labyrinthine alleys.

In his arms, the heavy leather bag tightly wrapped in rags and that revolver were his entire fortune, his only hope for survival.

All his knowledge of 19th-century London came from libraries in another time and space.

And the reality before him was far more impactful than any written description.

The cobblestone streets were littered with horse manure and garbage, well-dressed gentlemen brushed past ragged children, neither group showing any reaction in their eyes.

Carriages and handcarts competed for space on the narrow streets, the coachmen's curses mingling with newsboys' shouts to create a chaotic yet vibrant urban symphony.

Lin Jie stopped in a dead-end alley reeking of urine and rotting fish.

Leaning against the damp, cold brick wall, he breathed heavily, his taut nerves finally relaxing for a moment.

He needed to take stock of his "inheritance."

Carefully unwrapping the cloth bundle, he placed the Webley Revolver on a relatively clean piece of burlap.

Then he opened the small leather bag soaked with seawater. Its contents were few, but each item seemed profoundly significant.

A thick German diary with a hard cover, its corners already worn.

Lin Jie flipped through a few pages, completely unable to understand the elegant, unfamiliar cursive script, but he saw on one page a precisely drawn pencil sketch of the ship's monster, accompanied by lines of observation data.

This diary was ironclad evidence of that non-existent "inner world."

Several silver coins that felt cold to the touch. They were slightly larger than the shillings in circulation, with exquisite craftsmanship, featuring complex patterns resembling Nordic runes on the front and a unique emblem formed by the letters "I.A.R.C." on the back.

A small dark brown medicine bottle sealed with wax, shaking it revealed the sound of pills rolling inside.

Without knowing their purpose, Lin Jie dared not try them.

And seven specially prepared spare bullets with dark silver tips. He carefully removed them one by one—these were his limited trump cards.

Finally, his gaze returned to the revolver.

He gripped the handle again, and that cool sensation that could soothe inner fear returned.

In the pitch-black environment of the lower deck, he hadn't had time to examine it closely, but now in London's dim daylight, he finally discovered the source of this coolness.

He repeatedly rubbed his fingertips over the smooth walnut grip, soon finding a subtle unevenness.

Squinting and leaning closer, he discovered that on the right side of the grip, using an incomprehensibly exquisite technique, a small translucent substance smaller than a pinky fingernail had been seamlessly embedded.

It was a scale.

Its color was a subtle pearl gray with sharp edges that reflected an eerie cold light, its texture identical to the Deep Sea Siren skin he'd seen through the porthole.

On impulse, he wanted to experience that strange "reverberation" again. Holding his breath, he extended his index finger and gently touched the scale.

However, the anticipated tsunami of information didn't appear.

He only felt slight mental fatigue, with just a few vague emotional fragments belonging to the gun's original owner echoing in his mind—"focus," "vigilance," and a natural aversion to the concept of "water."

"It seems that feeling can't be activated at will," Lin Jie thought to himself.

But practical concerns pulled him back from contemplating supernatural powers.

His stomach was protesting, and London's damp cold air was steadily draining his body heat. He needed to find shelter from the wind and rain and fill his belly before nightfall.

He needed money.

The gun, bullets, and diary absolutely couldn't be sold, the medicine bottle was too risky—his only option remained those silver coins.

He hesitated repeatedly; these were, after all, the German Gentleman's relics.

But the needs of the living were far more urgent than respect for the dead.

He selected the most ordinary, most worn-looking silver coin, rewrapped the remaining items, and hid them closest to his body.

He emerged from the alley and began searching the unfamiliar streets for a place to exchange for cash.

He avoided the grand-looking banks, instead choosing a small shop with a sign reading "Antiques & Curios."

Such places might be more interested in this mysterious "strange money."

The shop was dimly lit, filled with the smells of old books, dust, and polishing wax. A balding, bespectacled middle-aged shopkeeper was leisurely wiping a silver candlestick.

Lin Jie approached the counter and placed the silver coin on the velvet-covered surface.

"I need money... food..."

The shopkeeper stopped his work, adjusted his glasses, and picked up the silver coin.

Instead of using the high-powered magnifying glass typical of jewelers, he rubbed it with his fingers for a moment, a sharp glint flashing in his eyes that Lin Jie failed to catch.

His gaze toward Lin Jie carried subtle scrutiny.

"A nice talisman, young man," the shopkeeper said slowly in impeccable London accent. "But the condition is average, I can only give you a few shillings."

After some gesturing, he ultimately exchanged this coin of unknown value for several heavy copper pennies and one silver shilling.

This meager amount was enough for a hot meal and a bed in the cheapest shared housing.

Transaction completed, the shopkeeper politely smiled as he watched Lin Jie leave. But once Lin Jie disappeared around the corner, his smile vanished instantly.

Placing the silver coin on a black velvet cloth, he turned and entered the shop's inner room, opening a brass device hidden behind a bookshelf connected by wires.

Skillfully tapping out a code, an invisible message swiftly crossed London's rooftops.

That evening, Lin Jie rented a bed in a cheap apartment even rats would disdain, located on the edge of the church district.

The room was crammed with over ten people, the air thick with sweat, alcohol, and despair.

Huddled in his corner, he ate a small piece of black bread with a bowl of thin meat broth containing almost no meat, feeling the warmth of normal food after months without it.

He spread the German diary on his lap, using the dim gaslight from the window to page through the sketches inside.

He wanted to discern some patterns about that world from these monster drawings.

Suddenly, knocking came from downstairs.

Not the random pounding of drunks, but two polite, measured knocks.

He heard the landlord's fawning yet slightly frightened whispers, followed by two steady footsteps climbing the creaking wooden stairs.

The footsteps were purposeful, not stopping at any other room, heading directly toward the large dormitory where Lin Jie stayed.

Lin Jie's heart clenched violently, his hand darting into his clothes to grip the revolver.

The door opened gently.

Two men stood in the doorway.

They wore well-tailored high-collared wool coats and bowler hats, completely out of place with everyone else in the room.

One of them was precisely the "antique shop owner" who had purchased Lin Jie's silver coin during the day. His eyes now held no pretense, cold as an unsheathed blade.

Their sharp gazes swept over the room's frightened or numb faces, finally locking accurately on the young Eastern man in the corner, who was flipping through a German diary that didn't belong to him.

Trouble had found him at a speed Lin Jie had never anticipated.