Mr. Death in the Steam World

The steam clock at Ironcrown Station struck three in the afternoon, steam gushing from the copper pipes at the top of the clock tower and condensing into a thin mist against the leaden sky.

Moen stepped off the steam train, carrying a worn-out leather suitcase. His boots splashed up a few specks of water mixed with coal dust as he stepped onto the platform.

The footsteps of the three people behind her followed one after another. Phils was wrapped in the wool scarf that Arthur had lent her. Although her complexion was much better than when she was unconscious, her lips were still a little pale.

Emily walked beside her, one arm linked with hers, the other covering her mouth, her turquoise eyes scanning the city surrounded by chimneys and factories.

"The sky here is even grayer than in Kansas," she muttered.

"Ironcrown City is like this all year round," Arthur said, the last to step off the platform, straightening his collar which had been askew from being jostled in the carriage.

"The blast furnaces and smelters operate 24 hours a day, with more chimneys than church spires. Locals call this the color of prosperity."

"Calling gray 'prosperity,' Northerners' aesthetic sense is really something..." Emily pursed her lips, not finishing the sentence.

The four walked through the waiting hall and headed deeper into the city along the main road outside the station.

Ironcrown City's streets are much wider than Kansas', but the buildings on both sides are much shorter, mostly two or three-story buildings made of gray bricks and iron frames, with a layer of coal ash covering the windows.

A lingering smell of burnt carbon lingered in the air, mixed with the astringency of engine oil and the metallic tang; after a while, it felt like something was stuck in my nose.

After walking for about twenty minutes, Arthur stopped in front of a three-story gray brick building.

A crooked wooden sign hangs at the entrance of the building, which reads "Swallow Inn - Hot water is free, breakfast is extra".

Pushing open the door, a smell mixed with coal smoke and cheap soap hit me.

Behind the reception desk sat a burly middle-aged woman, clutching a handful of knitting needles and wrestling with the yarn.

Hearing the door open, she looked up and first glanced at Moen and Phils, who were walking in front. Just as she was about to greet them, her gaze passed over their shoulders and fell on Arthur behind them. His face immediately lit up.

"Oh, my Lord!" The proprietress slammed the yarn on the table, her voice so loud it sent dust tumbling down the doorframe.

"What brings such a handsome priest to our shabby place? Is he staying at a hotel? How many rooms? How many days will he stay?"

Arthur seemed to be used to this kind of scene. He walked forward without changing his expression and placed a gold pound on the counter.

"Four rooms, we're not sure how many days we'll stay, so we'll pay for three days first."

"Alright, alright!" The proprietress grabbed the gold pound, stuffed it into her apron pocket, turned around, took a bunch of brass keys from the wall, picked out four and handed them over.

"The last few rooms on the second floor are all empty, quiet, and sunny—but we don't get much sun here anyway."

"Father, please let me know if you need hot water anytime, and I'll bring it to your room tonight, free of charge!"

"Thank you." Arthur took the keys, his smile remaining unchanged.

The four of them went up to the second floor along the creaking wooden stairs.

The corridor was narrow, and the wallpaper on both sides was yellowed and peeling, but the floor was swept clean.

Moen pushed open his room door, threw his suitcase on the bed, tidied up briefly, and had just sat down to catch his breath when there was a knock on the door.

"The hot water is here!" The proprietress's voice boomed even through the door.

When Moen opened the door, he saw her standing in the hallway carrying a basin of steaming hot water, with a clean white towel draped over the edge of the basin.

She tilted her head and gestured with her chin towards Arthur's room.

"I've already delivered the others' drinks. You're with the priest, right? Please feel free to ask for hot water, don't be shy!"

After saying that, she suddenly lowered her voice:

"What does Your Excellency like to eat? Our cook here can prepare several southern dishes—although they certainly can't compare to the finer things you have back home, at least they're palatable."

Moen twitched his lips.

The women in the North are really... how should I put it, warm and hospitable.

In the evening, everyone had dinner at a small restaurant next to the hotel.

Emily scooped up a spoonful of vegetable soup and put it in her mouth, her eyebrows immediately furrowing.

"This is way too salty! Did they pour in the whole bag of salt?"

Phils broke off a piece of dark bread, took a bite, and then put it down with a pained expression. "The bread is harder than a rock; I suspect it's leftovers from yesterday."

Arthur gave a wry smile. He looked down at the plate of decent-looking braised beef in front of him and wisely refrained from touching his fork.

Only Moen expressionlessly ate the stew in front of him spoonful by spoonful.

"Mr. Marcus, don't you think it tastes awful?" Emily looked at him as if he were a monster.

"It's alright, it fills my stomach." Moen calmly took another bite.

That's the good thing about dead people; no matter how delicious or unpalatable the food is, they can't taste anything, making it especially convenient to pretend.

Arthur seemed unable to bear it any longer. He picked up his glass, took a big gulp, then gently shook his head, clasped his hands in front of his chest, closed his eyes, and silently began his pre-dinner prayer in the noisy restaurant.

"Father!"

Arthur's prayer caught in his throat. He opened his eyes helplessly and found the other person standing beside him with a steaming bowl of soup.

"The soup should be drunk while it's hot; it won't taste as good when it gets cold!"

She placed the soup bowl on the table, wiped her hands with her apron, and then deliberately pushed it towards Arthur.

"I made this myself; it's different from the ones on the menu."

Emily looked at Arthur with a gloating expression, while Phils pursed her lips and her shoulders trembled slightly.

Arthur looked at the steaming bowl of borscht in front of him, and felt the expectant gazes of his three teammates around him. He picked up the bowl, resignedly took a sip, and then nodded to the proprietress.

"It tastes good."

The proprietress's face immediately lit up with a smile. Satisfied, she turned around and swayed her thick waist back into the kitchen.

Only after her figure completely disappeared behind the kitchen curtain did Arthur put down his bowl and rub his temples.

"God above," he said softly, his voice filled with a deep sense of powerlessness. "I swear I will never wear a priest's robe in public again."

Upon arriving in Ironforge, the four of them were truly impressed by the warm hospitality of the northerners.

After Moen and the others settled their accommodations, night had already fallen, and they decided to rest for the night.

Moen sat on the bed, preparing to begin his routine reading of magic books. He hadn't slacked off at all during this time, but unfortunately, although his magic power had improved, he hadn't acquired any new spells.

He vaguely sensed that the threshold to the second stage was not far off, and just as he was preparing to put in extra effort—

dong dong dong.

Someone knocked on his door.