Mr. Death in the Steam World

Moen opened his eyes.

A biting wind, carrying ice shards, rushed towards him. He instinctively raised his hand to shield his face, only to find that his arm was covered with a thin layer of animal hide.

Looking down, I saw that he was wearing a rough animal skin coat, and the snow under his feet was up to his ankles.

The surrounding area was a vast, white wasteland.

"This is...the world in the book?" Moen murmured.

There were several clusters of firelight in the distance, and without further hesitation, it headed in that direction.

After walking for about fifteen minutes, he saw several figures huddled in the snow.

Some people huddled together with their knees drawn up, while others lay on the snow, covered in a thin layer of frost.

Their lips were bluish-purple, their eyes were half-open and half-closed, and their pupils were dilated.

Moen crouched down and reached out to check one of them for breath, but there was no response.

He stood up and looked around.

This is the long, harsh winter recorded in mythology.

Moen continued walking. The snow beneath his feet grew deeper, and the sky grew darker.

Just when he thought this wasteland would never end, he saw the light.

It was a bonfire.

The campfire was small, its flames flickering in the wind and snow, yet it never went out.

A dozen or so people sat around the fire, their faces glowing red in the firelight.

An old man sat in the center of the fire, holding a child in his arms.

The child buried his face in the old man's chest, his body trembling slightly.

"Grandpa, is Mom... still cold?"

The old man looked down at his grandson in his arms, then at the stiff body lying in the snow in the distance, and his lips trembled a few times.

"Your mother...she's not cold anymore. She's very warm now, warmer than all of us."

The child didn't speak again, but simply buried his face even deeper.

Moen stood on the periphery of the crowd, unnoticed by anyone.

He couldn't quite define his current state, whether he was an observer or a participant.

He could feel the temperature of the wind and snow, but his existence seemed to have no effect on the world.

Just then, a young man stood up from the fire and walked to the stiff body in the snow.

He knelt down, reached out his hand, and gently closed her eyes.

"Lord Hesfield..." the young man whispered, "Please bless her."

No one responded.

The young man knelt in the snow, his shoulders trembling slightly. The firelight flickered behind him, casting his long shadow on the snow.

Then, the campfire suddenly shot up.

A figure slowly took shape amidst the flames.

It was an extremely tall man whose body was made of leaping flames, his face blurred, only the outline of his features could be vaguely seen.

His long hair was golden-red, like molten copper, and danced in the wind.

Everyone knelt down.

Hesfield lowered his head and looked at the young man kneeling in the snow.

Why did you call me?

The young man's body trembled violently, his forehead pressed against the snow, afraid to lift his head.

"Lord Hesfield...please, save us."

"My mother froze to death, my sister froze to death, and now even my child... I beg you..."

Hesfield did not speak.

He turned around, his gaze sweeping over the people kneeling on the ground, over the stiff bodies on the snow, and over the many more huddled figures in the distant wasteland.

"Winter is endless," He finally spoke, "but life is also endless."

He stretched out his hand, and from the campfire, a wisp of flame separated from the fire and floated in mid-air.

The flame was tiny, only the size of a fist, yet it was brighter than any campfire in the world.

"You hold this fire, which can drive away the frost, warm the living, and nurture civilization."

The young man trembled as he raised his head, stretched out his hands, and caught the ball of flame.

The young man's body jolted violently the moment the flame landed in his palm.

His complexion regained its rosy hue, his purplish lips became red, and even his tattered animal skin coat looked somewhat brighter in the flames.

"This is the beginning of the fire," Hesfield's voice echoed in everyone's minds.

"You shall pass this fire on to future generations, and wherever there is a hearth, there will be my protection."

"From this point on, winter is no longer hopeless."

Before he finished speaking, Hesfield's figure transformed back into raging flames and soared into the sky.

At that moment, a hole was torn in the thick clouds in the sky, and golden-red light poured down from the crack, shining on the faces of everyone who was still alive.

Young people stand in the light, passing on the flame, and one withered branch after another is rekindled, giving people a new life in the firelight.

"Wherever there is a hearth fire, there is my protection."

Moen stood at the back of the crowd, reflecting on his experience.

The power of those flames is not just warmth; more importantly, it connects the lives of everyone.

When one person can't bear the cold, others will share his cold.

When one person's life is about to go out, the life of others will turn around and warm him.

This is the true meaning of fire—protection.

Immediately afterwards, the entire world began to blur.

The wind and snow, the campfire, the crowd—everything was like paint thrown into a vortex, melting into countless fragments in a frenzied spin, only to recombine into a completely new scene.

Moen witnessed the rise of the city, the first blacksmith shop, and the molten iron splashing from the blast furnace.

He saw war and peace, celebrations and funerals; he saw people dancing around bonfires and children running in the night with torches in hand.

He also saw a temple.

It was a temple built entirely of obsidian, more magnificent than the largest church in Kansas City.

In the very center of the temple, an ever-burning flame burns on the altar.

Priests in long robes chanted hymns around the flames, while countless devout believers knelt before the altar, pressing their foreheads to the ground.

Then, everything disappeared.

When Moen opened his eyes again, he was no longer facing a snowy wasteland, but the ceiling of his bedroom.

He clearly felt that changes were occurring within his body.

Not only was the magical power within him more solid than before, but more importantly, a new power surged from the Death Note, slowly spreading throughout his body along the magic circuit.

Professor Agnes' eyes slowly widened.

In his field of vision, the black-covered Destiny Book behind Moen suddenly opened on its own.

The pages turned on their own without any wind, rustling as they stopped on a particular page.

Then, golden ink appeared on the paper, outlining the cursive script stroke by stroke.

Flames leaped from the pages of the book, casting flickering light throughout the room.

The professor squinted, trying to observe, but found that he couldn't make out what was written on the pages no matter what he tried.

[By reading the myths of the god of fire, you have gained a new understanding of fire.]

[You have learned the magic: Guardian Flame]

You can transform your magic into flames, enveloping an individual and sharing their pain and suffering.

Moen looked down at his fingers, where a small flame was flickering at the tip.

The flame was faint, as if it had not yet fully formed, yet it exuded a gentle and inclusive aura.

It's exactly the same as the flames of Heatherfield that I just saw in the book.