Mr. Death in the Steam World

On the ground, Moen supported himself on his knees and stood up.

Emily held his arm, Melina peeked out from behind Phils, and Vera stood alone in the shadows at the mine entrance, where the battle monks were clearing out the last remaining enemies.

The archbishop descended slowly from the sky, holy light gathering around him, revealing a tired and solemn face.

"The battle is over," he said, "but the trouble is just beginning."

Moen did not speak.

He looked down at his mangled arm, then turned to look in the direction Arthur had been dragged away, and finally fixed his gaze on the spot where the spatial rift in the sky had disappeared.

The look the bespectacled man gave him at the end made him feel very uncomfortable.

It wasn't like looking at an enemy; it was more like looking at a puzzle.

But puzzles always need to be solved.

The battlefield fell silent again, with only the mournful sound of the night wind howling through the ruins of the mine.

Moen knelt on one knee, panting heavily.

The pain in my right arm had gone numb; my entire arm felt like it had been borrowed from someone else, completely unresponsive.

Emily crouched down beside him, her blue eyes filled with worry.

Phils ran from the cave entrance, with Melina following behind her, her light brown eyes shining brightly in the moonlight.

"Mr. Marcus!" Fields crouched down and reached out to feel his forehead. "How are you?"

"I won't die." Moen forced a smile. "I'm just a little tired."

"A little tired?" Fils' voice rose several octaves. "You call this a little tired? Your whole arm is practically useless!"

Moen looked down at his right arm; it was indeed in terrible condition.

Several wounds were still bleeding, soaking the strips of cloth Emily had wrapped around her into a dark red color.

"He'll be fine after he goes back and rests," he said.

Fils opened her mouth as if to say something, but in the end she just sighed.

She stood up and turned to look in the direction of the archbishop.

Cecil was slowly descending from the sky, holy light flowing around him, making him look like a god descending to earth.

His gaze swept across the battlefield before settling on Moen.

"Mr. Marcus," his voice was deep and steady, "your performance has exceeded my expectations."

Moen looked up at him without saying a word.

The archbishop didn't say much, just nodded slightly, and then turned and walked in the direction where Arthur had been sent away.

His silhouette appeared exceptionally tall in the moonlight.

Moen withdrew his gaze and let out a deep breath.

He turned his head and looked in the direction where the bespectacled man had disappeared.

The cracks in the sky had completely disappeared, leaving only moonlight and starlight to illuminate the ruins of the mine.

Moen lowered his head, looked at his right hand covered in scars, and slowly clenched his fist.

He remembered what the bespectacled man had said before he left.

"Will the truth let you off the hook?"

"Hmph, then bring it on."

The night wind blew from behind him, making the hem of his blood-soaked clothes flutter loudly.

Behind him, the ruins of the mine cast long shadows in the moonlight.

Among those shadows were traces of blood left by the remnants of the Truth Society as they fled, marks left by Sidwin when he was dragged away, and shallow craters left by Arthur when he fell.

There are all the struggles, battles, and wounds left behind by the four of them during their days in Ironcrown City.

The moonlight, like water, bathed everyone.

In the distance, the clock tower of Ironcrown City rang the two o'clock bell in the morning.

The somber tolling of bells echoed through the night sky, one after another, like some ancient requiem, bringing the battle to a final close.

Moen closed his eyes, letting exhaustion slowly engulf his consciousness.

In the last second before he lost consciousness, he felt someone take the revolver from his hand.

Then a pair of warm hands gently covered his injured right arm.

A golden-red light emanated from those hands, warm and gentle, like an inextinguishable flame.

"Go to sleep," Phils's voice rang in his ear. "Leave the rest to me."

A slight smile appeared on Moen's lips as his consciousness sank completely into darkness.

At that moment, in the office, Lucy licked her paws and sighed.

They really are a handful.

Even a level 7 roadside creature like this requires my intervention. Can Sister Sharon really rely on him to fulfill her wish?

Never mind, this has nothing to do with the cat.

The black cat buried its head deeper into its fur, lazily flicked the tip of its tail, and soon drifted off to sleep.

......

A few days later, at Ironcrown City Church Hospital.

Moen was lying in the hospital bed with a thick bandage wrapped around his right arm.

"Mr. Marcus."

Phils's voice came from beside the bed, pulling him back to reality.

She sat on a wooden chair by the bed, holding a bowl of steaming porridge in her hand. Her long, silvery-white hair was not tied in a ponytail today, but was loose over her shoulders, gleaming softly in the morning light.

"You're spacing out again." She placed the bowl of porridge on the bedside table and reached out to feel his forehead. "The fever has gone down, but the doctor said you need to rest more."

"I don't have a fever," Moen said helplessly. "I'm just thinking about things."

"What are you thinking about?"

"Think about what the man with glasses said before he left."

Phils paused for a moment, then casually withdrew her hand, picked up the bowl of porridge, scooped a spoonful, and brought it to his lips.

"Eat first, there's no use thinking about it so much."

Moen opened his mouth to catch the spoonful of porridge, swallowed it, and then said, "Don't you think what he said was quite bothersome?"

"So what if we care?" Fils scooped up another spoonful. "We don't even know who he is, let alone that he has the entire Truth Society behind him."

"And—" she paused, her tone becoming more serious.

"The archbishop said that the Truth Society will not be making any major moves in the short term. They lost too many men in Ironcrown City this time and need time to regroup."

"So we are safe for at least a period of time."

Moen was silent for a moment, then nodded.

That makes sense. Instead of worrying about things that haven't happened yet, it's better to focus on healing the wounds in front of us.

"How long does the doctor say it will take to heal your arm?" Phils's gaze fell on the bandage on his right arm.

"Three weeks."

"Three weeks?" Phils frowned. "That long?"

"A fracture, not a sprain." Moen shook his arm, which was tightly strapped in place. "It's a miracle it didn't break."

"However, with my self-healing abilities, it won't take more than a few days—what are you doing?"

Phils didn't speak, but simply put down the bowl of porridge and gently placed her hand on the bandage on his right arm.

A golden-red light emanated from her palm, warm and soft, like a thin veil covering his arm.

The pain gradually subsided in the light, and the effect was immediate.

"Your trick really works," Moen said.

"Even if it's useful, you can't use it every day." Fils withdrew her hand, her ear tips slightly red.

"My magic is limited, and the doctor said your bones need to grow on their own; too much external intervention is actually bad."

"And what you just did—"

"I just want to try," Phils said, turning her head away. "Is that not allowed?"

Moen couldn't help but smile slightly as he looked at her stubborn expression.