Mr. Death in the Steam World

Moen withdrew his fist and took a deep breath.

His magic was being consumed at an alarming rate; he could feel his magic reserves decreasing at a visible speed.

Not enough, still not enough.

He turned and charged toward the last remaining remnants of the Truth Society who were still putting up a stubborn resistance on the battlefield.

It was a five-person team, forming a circle, back to back, with magical light gathering in their hands.

They saw Moen charging forward.

"Focus fire!" the leader of the men in black shouted, and five dark purple beams shot towards Moen at the same time.

Moen's figure drew an arc in the air, passing over the heads of the five people and landing in the very center of their formation.

The cat's tail swept across.

Mist billowed from the tip of its tail, instantly enveloping the five people in a thick, white fog.

Cheshire Cat's ability to conceal itself in the fog was put to its fullest potential—the Truth Society members couldn't see or hear anything, and couldn't even sense the magical fluctuations of their companions.

But the Queen of Hearts' "rule" allows Moen's senses to pass freely through the fog.

He didn't even need to aim deliberately; he simply reached out instinctively, and the cat's tail, swirling with mist, precisely lashed at each person's wrist.

The sound of weapons hitting the ground rang out one after another, followed by a burst of punches and kicks.

The fog has lifted.

Five people lay sprawled on the ground, some rolling around clutching their wrists, some retching while holding their stomachs, and one who had been knocked unconscious and lay motionless.

Moen stood between them, his chest heaving violently.

His magic power was nearing its limit, and he could feel his magic reserves issuing a sharp alarm.

"Remaining possession time: 15 seconds"

He counted silently in his mind.

Ten seconds later, Moen turned and rushed toward the last area—the entrance to the mine, where several Truth Society members in black robes were trying to escape into the mine tunnels in the chaos.

In nine seconds, he bent his knees and leaped into the air, his body drawing an arc in the air, landing at the entrance of the mine tunnel, blocking their way.

Eight seconds later, the cat's tail swept across, and the mist surged out again.

In seven seconds, he weaved through the fog, delivering a precise punch to the back of the neck of each of the men in black robes.

Six seconds later, the last person fell.

Five seconds later, Moen withdrew his fist and exhaled deeply.

Possession state lifted.

The thorn crown vanished from his head, and the rabbit ears and cat tail turned into specks of light and disappeared into the air.

He felt as if all the energy had been drained from his body, his legs went weak, and he knelt on one knee.

The injury on his right arm, which had been temporarily suppressed during the possession, has now flared up again. The intense pain spreads from his elbow to his shoulder, causing him to break out in a cold sweat.

But a smile played on his lips; all his enemies had fallen.

On the battlefield, only the figures of the combat cultivators cleaning up the battlefield and the prisoners squatting on the ground with their hands covering their heads in the distance remained.

Emily ran over from the edge of the battlefield, squatted down beside him, and reached out to support his shoulder.

"Are you crazy?" Her voice trembled slightly. "You dare to play these tricks with such little magic?"

"Aren't we still standing?" Moen said, panting.

"You call this standing?" Emily glared at him, but her movements were gentle as she checked his right arm injury.

"The bone fracture has worsened; we need to treat it quickly."

Moen did not respond.

He looked up at the two figures still locked in combat in the sky.

The archbishop's holy light had completely suppressed the bespectacled man. His dark purple magic was retreating steadily in the silvery-white holy light, like a piece of ice thrown into a fire, rapidly melting away.

The bespectacled man sustained more and more injuries, and his movements became increasingly sluggish.

His robe was burned and riddled with holes, and there was a deep wound on his left arm that exposed the bone. Blood dripped from his fingertips, gleaming dark red in the moonlight.

His glasses were completely shattered, with half a lens hanging on the bridge of his nose, and his other eye was squinted into a slit as he stared intently at the archbishop in front of him.

"Cecil," his voice was hoarse and low, "you think you've won?"

The archbishop did not answer, but instead concentrated the holy light in his hands even more intensely.

The bespectacled man sneered and suddenly stepped back, putting distance between himself and the archbishop.

His gaze swept down from the sky, across the entire battlefield.

The remnants of the Truth Society have already collapsed.

Some were subdued by the combat cultivators, some escaped into the depths of the mine in the chaos, and several lay motionless on the ground, their fate unknown.

Sidwin, bound tightly by the ropes of holy light, collapsed beside a pile of rubble at the cave entrance, his face as pale as paper and his lips purple, like a fish that had been washed ashore.

Vera stood at the edge of the battlefield, her hands hanging down, her hood completely slipped down, revealing a pale and tired face.

Her gaze met that of the man with glasses.

The bespectacled man looked at her and remained silent for a moment.

Then he looked away and gazed at the young detective kneeling on one knee in the center of the battlefield.

Mohn Marcus.

A first-tier magician, using some kind of spell he couldn't understand, temporarily boosted his combat power to the fourth tier, and within a few dozen seconds, he shattered the last line of defense that he had carefully set up.

A cold smile crept across his lips.

"Interesting," he said softly. "Very interesting."

He raised his hand and tore a spatial rift in front of him.

"Everyone, evacuate."

Upon hearing the order, the remnants of the Truth Society, as if granted a pardon, scrambled and stumbled toward the crack.

The combat monks wanted to give chase, but the archbishop stopped them by raising his hand.

"Let them go." His voice was calm and steady. "Chasing after them will only increase casualties."

The monks stopped and watched as the members of the Truth Society disappeared one by one into the spatial rift.

"Marcus," the bespectacled man's voice came down from high above, so clear it seemed to be right next to your ear, "Remember, the truth will not let you off the hook."

"I will not let any of you go."

His gaze fell on the black figure at the edge of the battlefield.

"And you, Vera, you should know very well what happens to traitors."

The bespectacled man took one last look in the direction of the underground altar.

His gaze pierced through the earth, and he saw that the light of the crystal had been completely extinguished, leaving only the cluster of orange flames burning in the center of the altar.

During his years with the Truth Society, he experienced countless battles and planned countless operations, each time accurately predicting the outcome.

But this time, he failed; he missed too many things.

That first-tier magician, those suddenly appearing high-ranking church fighters, and—

The bespectacled man's expression suddenly turned serious.

Can someone tell him what that cat paw thing was?

He stared at Moen for a long time, but ultimately said nothing.

The bespectacled man turned around and stepped into the spatial rift.

The crack slowly closed behind him, swallowing his figure into endless darkness.