Sherlock got out of the taxi and, in a rather awkward manner, pulled a few pounds from his pocket and paid the driver.
Then he stood by the roadside, staring blankly at the dilapidated house in front of him.
He had been in this world for almost a week now.
He was already used to his new name—Sherlock Cavendish.
He had regressed in time.
In his previous life, his name was Charles. He had lived in modern, 21st-century Germany. He had recently graduated from college and was on his way to his first job interview when he was involved in a car accident.
When he woke up again, he found himself in the body of a young British man lying in a hospital bed.
The sudden change in his environment left Charles shaken. Everything around him felt unfamiliar.
However, he had always been good at keeping his emotions in check, so he didn't do anything reckless or say anything strange in the hospital.
After a thorough examination by a group of doctors, they reached a conclusion about Charles' condition.
He was suffering from amnesia caused by a head injury.
It was, without a doubt, the perfect explanation for Charles—someone who had no idea what was going on and had inherited none of his predecessor's memories.
It even accounted for his slightly clumsy English.
With amnesia as an excuse, he was able to openly learn about the body he was inhabiting in this new world from the hospital staff.
Sherlock Cavendish as far as he could figure out was an ordinary twenty-year-old, unemployed and single, from Surrey, England.
At home, he had fallen from the second floor in some kind of accident and lost consciousness.
Fortunately, a kind neighbor found him in time and rushed him to the hospital.
When he regained consciousness, the original Sherlock was gone—replaced by Charles, who had arrived from another world.
The year was 1992, and Britain was going through an economic downturn. The Soviet Union had dissolved less than a year ago, and the rest of Europe seemed to be feeling the aftershocks as well.
In August, most European countries would plunge into a financial crisis triggered by currency devaluation, and the United Kingdom would be among the hardest hit.
That was the only major event Charles knew would happen in Britain that year. In his spare time, he had occasionally sat in on a few finance lectures.
He had never imagined that something like transmigration—something that only happened in novels—would actually happen to him.
Charles had always been fairly easygoing. In his previous life, he was an orphan. Aside from the friends he'd made in school, he had no real ties.
For him, being thrown into late 20th-century Britain wasn't the worst possible outcome.
With his knowledge of the future, he might even be able to escape the kind of life where he was doomed to become a corporate slave.
It took him two days in the hospital to slowly accept his new reality. Once he had made peace with it, Charles officially accepted the identity of Sherlock.
He stayed in the hospital for two more days and was discharged after the doctor confirmed there were no other issues.
It seemed Sherlock had no relatives in this world.
Otherwise, with something as serious as amnesia after being hospitalized, a whole week wouldn't have passed without a single visitor.
That was, naturally, the best thing for Sherlock—someone who hadn't inherited his predecessor's memories.
If he really had parents waiting somewhere, he wouldn't even know how to face them.
But Sherlock didn't seem completely abandoned either.
The doctors never asked him to pay the hospital fees he'd racked up during his stay, even after he was discharged.
After telling him he was free to go, they handed him a note with an address written on it and told him it was his home.
With the few pounds he already had in his pocket, Sherlock took a taxi there.
To be honest, the two-story building looked shabby from the outside.
The exterior walls were cracked, the paving stones out front were split and uneven, the weeds in the yard had clearly been left alone for far too long, and the iron gate was coated in rust.
At first glance, someone unfamiliar with the place might instinctively assume it was a haunted house—somewhere an old witch had once lived.
Sherlock snapped back to himself, shook his head, and let out a bitter smile.
Haunted or not, he was lucky to have a roof over his head. He couldn't afford to be picky.
At the same time, his gaze sharpened as he looked at the run-down house before him.
He would have to start from scratch.
Before transmigrating, even as an orphan, he had managed to get into a prestigious university and win a national scholarship. He'd made something of himself.
In this world, with the advantage of foresight, he refused to believe his future could be worse than before.
Having made up his mind, Sherlock clenched his fist, stood before the house, and muttered two words to himself.
"Strive. Persevere."
However, before he could even step inside, the sound of an engine cutting off rang out behind him.
Sherlock turned in surprise and found a top-of-the-line luxury car parked behind him. He had only ever seen that kind of logo on television.
The car door opened, and an elderly man with white hair stepped out. He wore a clean, immaculate suit—one that looked as though it cost more than everything Charles had owned in his previous life combined.
The man bowed respectfully and spoke.
"Young Master, congratulations on your discharge from the hospital. Unfortunately, on that very same day, the Master's condition worsened, and he has now been admitted as well."
While Sherlock stood there in a daze, the old man bowed again and handed him a document.
"The Master believes your amnesia may not be entirely a bad thing. He no longer wishes to continue arguing with you."
"As long as you promise never to have contact with those people again, the Master's title and property will be yours."
"After all, you are his own flesh and blood. He doesn't want to hand the ancestral title—and the fortune he spent his life protecting—to those cold-blooded relatives."
"This contract is both an agreement and a will. If you are willing to sign it, you will inherit all of the Cavendish family's assets."
Sherlock still hadn't moved, stunned into silence. The old man sighed and placed the will into his hands.
"Young Master… please don't hold a grudge against the Master anymore. Forget it—you don't remember anything anyway. But your father truly hopes you will inherit the Cavendish family title. If you've made your decision, call the number above, and I will take you to see the Master as soon as possible."
With that, the old man returned to the car, and the black Rolls-Royce slowly pulled away.
Sherlock stood there, frozen, for more than ten minutes before the blare of a horn from the road finally snapped him back to reality.
He looked down at the will in his hands, then up at the dilapidated house again.
So in this world, he was actually some rich second-generation heir who had run away from home in a fit of anger?
His adoptive father was seriously ill… and might not have much time left.
Once he signed the will, all that talk about effort and struggle would become meaningless—like ink drying on a page, never to be rewritten.
Sherlock's thoughts churned. He stared up at the clear sky, where a single black dot hovered in the distance.
A shameless, foolish grin slowly spread across his face, and he muttered to himself again.
"Screw hard work. I'm here to enjoy myself!"
As he spoke, the black dot in the distance drew closer and closer. An owl spread its wings and glided over Sherlock's head, dropping a letter.
A letter bearing the image of a lion, snake, eagle, and badger—four animals surrounding a bold H—smacked directly into Sherlock's still-smug face.