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Beneath a sky like a veil of thin gray gauze.

A blond young man in a striped smock quietly entered the residential area at the very end of Red Tree Street.

Large stretches of crude single-story houses stood scattered about without order. Most of their doors and windows were badly damaged, while collarless clothes in shades of brown and black hung from thin lines outside. Faintly, one could hear children crying and women shouting impatient curses.

This was one of Black City's notorious slums. Only the lowest dregs of society lived here, for no reason other than the monthly rent, cheap enough at 6 Pfennig, was enough to attract most poor people.

Though order here was chaotic, household waste lay everywhere, and the stench was overwhelming—even the watchmen were unwilling to patrol this place—it was still, at the very least, somewhere to shelter from the wind and rain.

Local council policy did not permit anyone to sleep on the streets at night. Thus, homeless Beggars often slept during the day, then hid in rubbish dumps or secluded corners of the city at night. They were either beaten and cursed at by others or afflicted with terrible illnesses, and might one day suddenly die in the streets.

Compared to those poor souls, this residential area seemed like paradise.

After all, in the minds of ordinary people, a "residence" was a barrier against "Miasma."

'This world is filled with the filth of "Miasma." If people do not isolate themselves with houses and clothing, they will suffer misfortune, perhaps even fall ill or go mad.'

Looking at the familiar residential area before him, memories surged up from the depths of Gilan's mind. He could not help recalling his mother's stern face and her tirelessly repeated advice.

'Remember, Iros. When a gentleman goes out, he must pay attention to the unity of his attire, especially his hat. A man's hat is like a woman's makeup—absolutely indispensable!'

But in his previous life, Gilan had been a young man of the new era raised on scientific education. He habitually analyzed everything through scientific reasoning, so he merely shook his head in skepticism.

Gilan hurried to a corner of the residential area and found his home.

It was the simplest sort of single-story house, square and boxy, like a cement box built from bricks and stones.

The rusted iron door hung loosely over the entrance, like an elderly guard stubbornly carrying out his duties and mission in the final moments of his life.

Following his memories, Gilan rummaged through a long-dead potted plant outside the house and retrieved a key.

He inserted the key into the iron door's lock and gently turned it.

Click.

The iron door opened. Gilan slipped inside and closed it behind him.

The slums had no gas meters, and the poor people here could not afford Gas Lamps or private stoves.

In the darkness, Gilan found the Matchsticks in a drawer and lit the candle on the table.

As the firelight spread, Gilan saw his surroundings clearly.

His home was small, barely twenty square meters. There was no washroom, kitchen, or toilet, so washing clothes, cooking, and relieving oneself all had to be done in the public areas outside.

Apart from a hardwood bed, there was only a table and a set of chairs.

That table and chair set had accompanied Gilan for nearly ten years. It was not merely where mother and son ate; it was also his mother's workbench for making shoes by hand.

What Gilan remembered most vividly was that on the day his mother died, she had still been sitting in that chair as usual, leather and a file clutched in her hands. Shoe lasts and bundles of shoe uppers lay across the dirty, cluttered table.

Even on her deathbed, she had not finished that pair of cheap leather shoes worth only 2 Pfennig and 5 Melang.

Yet her corpse had already gone cold and stiff.

After a brief moment of recollection, Gilan looked around, then went to the bed. He kicked over more than a dozen glass liquor bottles before yanking aside the filthy quilt and bedsheet.

He found an iron box underneath.

When he opened it, several coins and banknotes came into view.

This was all the savings of "Gilan Iros": 4 Caesar, 16 Pfennig, and 9 Melang, along with a few scattered small Price coins.

In the Bremen Empire, this was the legally recognized and only circulating currency system.

The highest-value unit was the "Caesar." Both its banknotes and coins bore the portrait of the Empire's leader, Caesar Gide. Since the banknotes were laminated with gold foil and the coins were largely made of gold, it was also known as the "Gold Caesar."

Next came the "Pfennig," which bore the portrait of a missionary and circulated as silver-foil banknotes and silver coins. It was also called the "Silver Pfennig."

The most common currency was the "Melang," bearing the portrait of a knight. Its banknotes were unremarkable, while its coins were primarily brass, earning it the name "Copper Melang."

Price existed only as coins, each the size of a fingernail. Their core material was steel coated in aluminum. The front bore the "X" emblem representing the Bremen Empire, while the reverse displayed a set of scales.

'That scale design should symbolize Lady Snow, the "Goddess of Salt and Justice." The Imperial Chamber of Commerce worships this deity.'

Gilan's old memories deepened his understanding at that moment.

1 Caesar was equal to 20 Pfennig, while 1 Pfennig equaled 12 Melang. As for Price, it was worth roughly half a Melang.

But "Caesar" had never been a commonly used currency for the poor, or even ordinary wage earners.

The reason was simple: the value of a Caesar far exceeded their daily incomes and expenses.

As far as Gilan knew, an ordinary worker's weekly wage was only around 5 Pfennig, with an annual income of roughly 12 to 15 Caesar. The residents of these slums earned even less.

Gilan's mother worked day and night making leather shoes, yet she earned at most 15 Pfennig a month.

"Ah, we're all wretches."

Looking at the money in the iron box, Gilan could not help sighing.

This was no small sum. The original Gilan had saved it over the years through grueling service to the gang, intending only to buy his mother a decent gravestone. Yet it was still nowhere near enough.

For that, the original Gilan had even been arrested and taken to the police station, paying with his life.

'I'll take this money for now. If I ever get the chance, I'll come back and make up for this regret.'

Gilan slowly closed the iron box.

'This is a debt a man must never forget.'

He took a deep breath and removed his bloodstained, damaged clothes, revealing his fair, thin body.

Walking up to a cracked full-length mirror, Gilan saw his appearance clearly for the first time.

Blond hair fell messily over his forehead. He had straight, slanted brows, slightly long lashes, deep blue eyes, a high nose bridge, and hollow cheeks with symmetrical, defined features. Although a wound on his left cheek disrupted that harmony, it also added a hint of ferocity.

'Pretty handsome.'

Gilan gave the mirror a faint smile.

For some reason, however, the smile looked a little sinister.

Next, he gave his body a simple examination and found bruises and abrasions everywhere, blue, red, and purple. Fortunately, the gunshot wound on his left leg had already scabbed over and healed, making him marvel once more at the wonders of alchemical medicine.

Gilan glanced at himself in the mirror and nodded in satisfaction.

His development was normal, even above average in certain areas. He was simply not robust enough overall, making him look frail.

He then changed into a clean black smock and checked trousers.

Looking at a beige soft hat by the bedside, Gilan hesitated briefly before picking it up. After all, it could conceal his appearance.

Besides, in this era, men wore hats whenever they went out, whether rich or poor. If he did not wear one, he would stand out instead.

When Gilan took the hat, an old picture frame slipped out from beneath it.

'Hm?'

He picked up the frame and looked at it. In the blurry, muted photograph was a beautiful blond woman, quite young, holding a baby in her arms.

'This is a photograph of Mother, Amanda Iros, when she was young. The baby in her arms is me.'

Gilan recalled a few things. After a moment's thought, he decided to take the photograph with him as well.

He found a worn handbag and stuffed the iron box containing the money, the picture frame, the magazine, and the Silver Cube inside. He tucked the Luger Pistol into his waistband for quick access and self-defense.

Then he picked up the bag and turned to leave.

But just then, someone knocked on the iron door from outside.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

Gilan's gaze sharpened as he swiftly drew his pistol.