Mr. Death in the Steam World

As the sun sets, the corridors of Kansas City First Hospital are packed with people.

Amidst a chorus of coughs, the operating room door opened from the inside, and Arthur Aldridge emerged.

He closed the door behind him, shutting out the middle-aged man lying on the operating table and the lingering black smoke.

This is the thirty-fifth patient he has treated today.

Arthur took off his mask and wearily wiped the sweat from his brow.

From the first time he saw the black smoke on Clara, he knew very well that it was neither a magician's spell nor the work of a contained object.

This power belongs to the demons.

He will never admit his mistake, as for why...

"Oh, this power of the same kind, isn't it interesting, Arthur?"

"So dispersed, so evenly distributed, like a thin mist enveloping the entire city... Interesting, very interesting."

"Shut up, you devil."

Arthur responded calmly in his mind.

He sighed silently. Ever since that blood-stained night twelve years ago, this demon had been relentlessly haunting him.

In fact, this was also an important reason why he joined the church.

He walked out of the operating room and across the corridor.

Several young nurses nearby saw him and their eyes lit up at the same time.

They shoved each other, some lowered their heads to adjust the brim of their hats, some twirled the ends of their hair with their fingers, and some mustered up the courage to come closer, holding a cup of hot tea in their hands.

"Father Aldridge, you must be tired. Would you like some water?"

"Need not."

Arthur, his face tense, walked straight past them without stopping.

His gaze remained fixed straight ahead, and his grey-green eyes revealed no emotion in the candlelight.

Behind me came hushed screams and whispers.

"...He looked at me!"

"You're clearly looking at me!"

"His eyes are really grey-green, so beautiful..."

Arthur sighed again.

In his youth, his striking good looks helped him frequent various dances in Kansas City, leaving behind a series of fleeting and unfulfilled romantic escapades.

But now he is a 37-year-old middle-aged man with graying temples, and this appearance only annoys him.

He inexplicably thought of Moen Marcus.

That kid is quite good-looking, about the same as he was in his youth. He'll probably have no shortage of trouble with women in the future, and maybe Ignis will be one of them.

The moment the thought crossed his mind, he made an invisible cross on his chest with his index finger and whispered his repentance to the deity in his heart.

After helping out at the hospital for several hours, he finally saw through the symptoms of the cough to the true nature of the problem.

The real problem for these patients lies in the loss of vitality.

With each cough, a wisp of life force was drawn from their bodies, guided by the demonic power, flowing in some unknown direction.

He closed his eyes, and in the spiritual vision granted to him by the divine magic, he could vaguely see countless black threads as thin as hair.

The threads extended from the patients' chests, through the walls, across the streets, like a giant spider web, converging towards the west side of Kansas City.

Although no one would call it that directly, the West Side is, in fact, Kansas's slum.

Low shacks, muddy alleyways, cheap brothels and taverns, and countless vagrants without even identification.

A few people disappear there, just like water disappearing into the ocean, without even a splash.

It was the perfect hunting ground.

Despite having treated 35 patients, the hospital was still overcrowded.

The benches in the corridor were full, so the patients sat on the floor against the wall.

Not far away, several priests dressed in black robes were still working overtime to finish their work, their foreheads glistening with sweat.

A young pastor, probably unable to bear it any longer, looked around to make sure no ordinary citizens were staring at him, and then lowered his head.

A ball of silvery-white light shone from his palm, which he pressed directly against the chest of the old woman in front of him.

The moment the light entered her body, black smoke billowed from the old woman's seven orifices, hissing and dissipating into the air.

Frankly, this is a violation of the Extraordinary Agreement.

According to the agreement, divine spells must be cast out of the sight of ordinary people, but who cares about that right now?

Arthur looked away and did not stop him.

Rules are rules, but people are flexible. Besides, he himself violated no fewer than dozens of rules that afternoon.

He leaned against the wall, closed his eyes, and rearranged the known information in his mind.

With such a large number of patients and such a wide range of victims, the Church of Sanctuary, with its network of informants and spies throughout the city, had not received a single tip-off before today.

It wasn't until this afternoon, when major hospitals simultaneously reported an unusually high number of cough cases, that the church finally realized what was happening and sent out a pastor.

What a joke.

He angrily slammed his fist against the wall, his knuckles striking the rough stone surface, sending a dull pain through him.

……

By the time he returned to the church in his carriage, night had completely enveloped Kansas City.

Arthur walked through the side aisle of the church and pushed open the door to his office.

He sat down in the chair, unscrewed the ink bottle, and the pen nib scratched across the paper.

The consistency of cough symptoms, the involvement of demonic power, the pattern of life force loss, and the directional convergence of the western district.

If it were the devil's own doing, the plan wouldn't be so meticulous.

He had lived with a demon for twelve years, and no one knew better than him just how arrogant the demon's ways were.

They are natural predators, who revere power and fear, and enjoy deriving pleasure from the despair of their prey.

If a demon wants to harvest human life force, it will directly find a crowded place, expand its domain, and drain the life of everyone at once, then leave before the church's demon hunters arrive.

Brutal, direct, and ruthless—that's what makes a demon.

Instead of doing what we are doing now, even deliberately avoiding the church's perception until the very last moment when it is exposed.

There must be a magician guiding this behind the scenes.

Is it the Truth Society? Those madmen who pursue "no forbidden zones in knowledge" do theoretically have a motivation to study demonic power.

Are they the Light Chasers? Those mystics who call themselves "seekers of the true light" have always used mysterious methods.

Or perhaps it's some overconfident new society that accidentally obtained a wisp of demonic power and then tried to seize power from it.

He had no clue what to do.

The pen tip rested on the paper, and the ink bleed into a small black dot.

Just then, the voice rang out again.

"Why not borrow my power, Arthur? You know my methods, my eyes..."

"Shut up, you devil."

"Oh, don't be so heartless." His voice carried a hint of amusement.

"You should know, Arthur, that your god has never appeared when you are in trouble."

"Where was He when you knelt on the floor of the mansion twelve years ago, holding your sister's body and praying to Him?"

"And for the past twelve years, who has been speaking in your ear? Who has helped you through difficulties time and time again?"

"Shut up, you devil."

Arthur's voice remained calm. No one would give a kind look to a murderer who had killed their entire family, no matter how sweet their words.