“First, sell the multi-headed flail, find a new place to live, and then buy some clothes.”

Charlotte gave all the bloodstained clothes—his own and the ladies’ garments—to the maid Mary when he moved, leaving none behind, so now he was in dire need of everyday clothing, as well as essential men’s formalwear.

Thinking about moving, Charlotte couldn’t help but search his memories about the Upper Seventh District.

The property prices in the Val-de-Vaz district were far too expensive, and he definitely couldn’t continue living in the Alexander district; these two districts had to be abandoned first.

The other three districts weren’t options either—they were relatively far away, making commuting to work in the Marne district too inconvenient.

After a simple screening, only two choices remained before Charlotte: the two large districts between Val-de-Vaz and Marne—Alcatraz and Picardy.

After weighing his options, he decisively gave up on the former. Alcatraz, being right next to Val-de-Vaz, had rather high property prices and was also a bit far from his workplace at Kilmainham Prison Road. Picardy, on the other hand, had cheaper housing and was a bit closer to work.

Charlotte decided that after selling the multi-headed flail tomorrow, he would go to the Picardy district’s real estate bureau to see if there were any suitable houses for sale.

Chapter 12 Anne Britton

In this era, there were no real estate agencies in any country. Anyone wanting to sell a house could only list it at the government-established real estate bureau, and anyone wanting to buy property could only go there as well.

The two parties usually didn’t need to meet. The seller just gave a price to the real estate bureau, and the buyer paid the bureau directly, along with taxes, to receive the property certificate.

Charlotte thought for a while, and the drowsiness in his body gradually became irresistible. He didn’t even take off his clothes before drifting into a hazy dream.

A pitch-black night, a long street without lights!

Flickering starlight, howling wind.

Charlotte felt a bit lost. He looked around, not understanding how he ended up outside when he was clearly lying in bed.

“Something’s wrong.”

Charlotte tried to summon his Bloody Glory. Over the past ten days, this power had advanced again, now forming a small vortex at his brow, with a strange energy flowing through his body, giving him great confidence.

A soft voice suddenly sounded behind him: “You ruined me.”

Charlotte turned around in surprise and saw a rather beautiful young lady, her dress stained with blood, bruises on her face, looking very disheveled. He recalled the murder case from earlier that day and asked, “Are you Mrs. Mills?”

The young lady couldn’t help but laugh. In the night, it sounded a bit eerie. She asked in a haunting tone, “You don’t even remember who I am? You let my husband kill me—don’t you feel the slightest bit guilty?”

A slender hand rested on Sherlock’s shoulder. The young lady pressed her face close to his, her breath icy cold, and said, “Don’t you think you owe me compensation?”

Charlotte smiled faintly, completely calm, and said, “You’re not Mrs. Mills, otherwise you would have realized you’ve mistaken me for someone else.”

A resentful, coquettish laugh rang in his ears. The young lady shouted furiously, “You still want to shirk responsibility? Pretend you don’t know me. Come with me to hell, and relive those passionate moments we once shared.”

Charlotte closed his eyes, channeled Bloody Glory into his fist, and punched out, colliding with some unknown object. He clearly felt his fist had the upper hand, sending something flying.

In a voice only he could hear, Charlotte murmured, “So in my dreams, I’m still Henry Clark!”

He had already realized he was dreaming.

Because his appearance had reverted to his previous life: black hair, black eyes, and fair, delicate hands.

Bloody Glory returned to the domain of eldritch power!

Eldritch power came in many forms, but each originated from the soul’s essence.

Dreams could block pure physical energy, but not eldritch power from the soul’s source.

Although Bloody Glory had only just awakened and was still weak, it was not diminished in the dream at all.

A voice cried out in exasperation, “You’re actually a transcendent?”

Charlotte still kept his eyes closed, performed a gentleman’s salute, and smiled, “Yes!”

“Damn it!”

Charlotte suddenly felt his body grow heavy. He opened his eyes to see the bedroom ceiling.

He leapt up, opened the window, and saw a carriage parked across the street, a lantern hanging from it, casting a dim yellow glow over the street.

Charlotte calmly leapt out the window.

For the first time in two lifetimes, he tried free-falling from the fourth floor. The wind roared past his ears, but he wasn’t afraid.

Bloody Glory surged into his legs, making them as powerful as an antelope’s. He landed lightly, crouched to absorb the impact, and walked gracefully toward the carriage across the street.

Charlotte smiled slightly and said, “It’s very impolite to intrude into someone else’s dream. Could you tell me who you really are?”

A young girl’s voice came from inside the carriage, flustered: “What are you talking about? I’m just passing by, please move aside.”