By the time Elias returned to the mansion, the afternoon light had begun to fade into a muted grey.
The iron gate creaked faintly as he pushed it open. At the base of the steps, the mailbox contained two items: a folded newspaper and a sealed envelope bearing a crest impressed in dark crimson wax.
He collected both but did not open them immediately. His new human body required sustenance after all.
Inside, the house greeted him with the same hollow quiet as before. The absence of servants meant small inconveniences like the layers of dust that gathered faster, floors required attention, but this was still to his liking, for him it meant privacy. No curious eyes. No misplaced loyalties.
He set the newspaper and letter on a side table before moving toward the kitchen.
On the way back from the market, he had purchased modest groceries: fresh vegetables, a cut of meat, bread, herbs. Nothing extravagant. Nobility without income did not benefit from extravagance. Not that it would have been any other way, he wasn't exactly the kind of person to relish in unnecessarily complicated or "fancy" recipes.
'After all, Less is More' he thought with a smile that may or may not have being to hide his lack of Sophistication.
He worked efficiently. Ingredients were washed, trimmed and seasoned. The motions were precise without being rigid. When the dish was assembled, he placed it into the oven and adjusted the heat with practiced care.
While it cooked, he prepared some tea.
The leaves unfurled slowly in hot water, releasing a sharp, clean fragrance that contrasted with the heavier scents of the city.
When it boiled enough, he added some fresh mint leaves to add taste and fragrance. He sliced bread and poured a small dish of olive oil, and sat at the narrow table by the window.
Olive oil had proven surprisingly difficult to source in consistent quality. Backlund favored butter and animal fats apparently; imported goods fluctuated in price and availability. Still, he made a point to keep a small reserve.
He dipped the bread lightly and took a bite.
"The good old poor man's breakfast," he murmured to himself, a satisfied smile plastered on his face.
Simple. Unpretentious. Hits the spot.
He took a few minutes to enjoy the short moments of simple quite, before unfolding the newspaper.
Pollution levels rising in certain industrial districts. Complaints regarding inefficiencies within the administrative offices. Editorial columns discussing mounting tension between political factions; conservative elements advocating stricter oversight, reformists arguing for structural modernization.
Other than the usual concerns of pollution, administrative system failure and the tension between the political factions, there was not much to see, nothing unexpected.
Nothing immediately exploitable.
The only interesting thing was the reveal of the ironclad warship called "The Pritz".
"Other than the grand reveal at the start of the story, I think this one serves more like a dropped plot, or it may have had a rule in the world war, I don't really remember" he murmured to himself.
He turned the page, scanning for financial movements. There were a few promising projects like shipping expansions, railway developments. A few companies showed potential for long-term growth, though entry would require careful timing, and funds to spare.
The oven ticked faintly as it heated.
When his tea was finished, he set the cup aside and finally reached for the sealed letter.
The wax bore the crest of a Viscount house.
Elias broke the seal cleanly and read.
An invitation—polite in tone, mildly enthusiastic beneath the formal phrasing. It was sent by Viscount Glaint.
He remembered him as a friend of Audrey Hall. An aristocrat with genuine interest in occult matters rather than superficial curiosity. His circle was limited but valuable.
The invitation was most likely to attend a gathering to discuss mysticism and related studies. All while poorly disguised as a tea party.
He leaned back slightly.
Elias had not expected noble contact this early.
Then again, his current identity's lineage carried certain rumors. Stories of ancestors with peculiar talents. Tales dismissed publicly as embellishment, yet remembered privately by those who cared about such matters.
For a mysticism enthusiast like Glaint, proximity to even a hint of authentic heritage was valuable.
Useful, even.
After all, his biggest goal was to find the formula for the Apothecary potion.
Elias folded the letter carefully and placed it back into its envelope. A faint smile touched his expression, not in amusement, but recognition of opportunity.
The oven signaled readiness.
He rose to retrieve his meal, and ate in silence.
The next morning was clear but cold.
Elias stood before a firearms institution licensed under Backlund's regulatory authority. The building was orderly, its façade projecting reliability rather than grandeur.
His goal was to acquire a gun for early use.
He entered the building and started applying. The process required documentation, fees, and patience.
He supplied each without hesitation.
The clerk reviewed his background with mild scrutiny. Noble lineage still carried weight in certain offices; even diminished houses retained bureaucratic credibility.
It didn't take long for his permit to be approved.
And the weapon was issued shortly after.
A revolver of respectable make; balanced and well-maintained.
After a quick inspection, he proceeded to the indoor shooting range below.
The air smelled faintly of oil and powder. A few other patrons occupied distant lanes, focused on their own targets.
Elias loaded the revolver with steady hands.
He did not rush.
The first shot rang out cleanly.
The recoil was manageable, the sound contained within the reinforced walls. The bullet struck center mass.
He adjusted minimally and fired again.
And again.
Each shot landed in different places of the target, but they were all precisely where intended.
He did not display satisfaction. Competence required no commentary.
Though there was a hint of reluctance, as he raised the gun to examine it once more "I need a sword".
After completing the session, he cleaned the weapon carefully, secured the necessary paperwork, and departed without lingering.
Outside, the city continued its indifferent motion.
Elias walked back toward his residence, revolver concealed properly, permit folded inside his coat.
Preparation did not guarantee survival. But neglect guaranteed failure.