Mr. Death in the Steam World

"That Sidwin kid?" The middle-aged gentleman, holding a glass of whiskey, stammered.

"He has changed a lot in the past year. Although he used to be a spoiled brat, he was at least careful with his words."

"Now? Ha, last month he was at the mine, and just because a miner was a little slow, he had him hung up and whipped twenty times on the spot. The miner was so badly beaten that he almost didn't survive."

"This has never happened before. He wasn't exactly a saint before, but he wasn't this crazy."

He let out a burp and continued, "And he had a few more friends with him, dressed in black robes, looking rather sinister."

"A black robe?" Emily pressed. "Where did it come from?"

"Judging from his accent, he seems to be from the south," the middle-aged gentleman shook his head. "Who knows? Sidwin is becoming more and more unpredictable these days."

"I heard he recruited quite a few mercenaries, specifically those with fire-attribute magic. I wonder what he's planning to do."

In the rest area by the dance floor, a noblewoman in a purple dress leaned close to Emily's ear and whispered.

"Miss Manro, do you have business dealings with the Ashton family?"

"It's not really about keeping in touch," Emily said with a smile, "I just wanted to broaden my horizons."

"That's good." The lady patted her chest in relief.

"Let me tell you, old Sidwin has been having a tough time lately. His son is causing too much trouble; the miners almost went on strike, and several old guys in the Chamber of Commerce are unhappy with him."

"Old Sidwin has always had a good reputation in the Chamber of Commerce. He is fair in his dealings with people, but his son's outburst has made him lose face."

"Have the father and son had an argument?"

"It's more than just arguing," the lady said, lowering her voice even further.

"At a family dinner last month, old Sidwin told his son to tone it down in front of a dozen guests. Sidwin then smashed his wine glass and said that his father was—well, there are some things I'm too embarrassed to say."

"Anyway, old Sidwin's face turned white with anger, and he almost struck on the spot."

After leaving the rest area, Emily took Moen's arm and whispered the information she had received into his ear.

"These clues are too concentrated. Sidwin must have obtained some kind of support, something that allows him to disregard the family's reputation and even turn against his father."

"His status as a candidate for Vulcan is his advantage," Moen said calmly.

"He probably felt that once he became the agent, the Ashton family, the mining business, and the chamber of commerce relationships were just icing on the cake for him, and he no longer needed to rely on them."

"Then why did he recruit fire-attribute mercenaries?"

"Three possibilities," Moen thought for a moment. "The first is to prevent others from plotting against him, such as the other woman among the candidates."

"The second is to prepare for a certain condition that might be needed in the Vulcan ritual; the third—"

He paused, his eyes flashing sharply.

"The third possibility is that he intends to strike first."

Emily's expression changed slightly.

"In any case, we've gathered enough information tonight." Moen glanced at the deep night outside the window.

"It's time to go back. Arthur and Phils are still waiting for us."

Emily nodded, took his arm, and walked towards the door. As they passed the center of the hall, Moen glanced out of the corner of his eye towards the sofa.

Sidwin was still there, but his two companions were gone, and the thin, bespectacled man stood in a corner at the other end of the hall, staring intently at their departing figures.

The face remained expressionless, but Moen could feel that cold gaze lingering on his back for a very long time.

The feeling of unease only disappeared when the two stepped out of the club and were greeted by the cold night wind of Iron Crown City.

After leaving the club, Moen and Emily walked side by side through the night streets of Ironcrown City.

Far from the bright lights of the aristocratic district, the surrounding streets returned to their gray and quiet state.

Occasionally, a dull whistle would drift from the direction of the factory, its long trailing sound echoing through the night.

As they walked, Emily suddenly grabbed Moen's sleeve and quickly headed toward a small stall by the roadside.

It was a pushcart selling roasted chestnuts. The stall owner was an old man wrapped in an old cotton-padded coat, turning over the chestnuts on the wire mesh with an iron shovel.

"Uncle, two servings, please!" Emily held up two fingers.

The old man smiled and handed over two paper bags. Emily paid for them and stuffed one of the bags into Moen's hand.

The paper bag was scalding hot even through my leather gloves; the chestnut shells were roasted until they were shiny and the aroma wafted straight into my nose.

"Eat it while it's hot, it won't taste good when it's cold." She said as she peeled a chestnut, put it in her mouth, and puffed out her cheeks slightly.

Moen took the paper bag, peeled one, and a warm sensation spread from the tip of his tongue as it entered his mouth.

Although he couldn't taste it, the warmth was very real.

"I ate this when I was little," Emily suddenly said, her voice much softer than before.

She looked down at the peeled chestnut in her hand, her emerald eyes reflecting the flickering light of the charcoal fire.

"But that vendor's chestnuts weren't as good as these. Some of his chestnuts were burnt, and some were still raw, making them very difficult to peel."

"Every time I go to buy them, he will give me a few extra, saying, 'Little girl, eat more so you can grow taller.'"

As she spoke, the corners of her mouth turned up slightly. The smile was different from her usual sly smile; it was very simple and genuine.

Moen didn't say anything, he just quietly peeled chestnuts.

A night breeze blew in from the end of the street, ruffling the stray hairs at Emily's temples.

She tucked her hair behind her ear, popped the last chestnut into her mouth, brushed the crumbs off her hands, and turned to give him her usual smile.

"Let's go, it's time to go back."

Moen nodded and followed her forward.

The chestnuts in the paper bag were still warm, and in the cold night of Iron Crown City, that warmth was surprisingly comforting.

When they returned to the Swallow Inn, Arthur was already waiting for Moen in his room.

"How is the situation?"

Moen recounted all the information he had gathered at the club.

Sidwin's personality changed drastically. The black-robed man around him recruited a large number of fire-attribute mercenaries. There was a father-son argument, and then there was that bespectacled man.

After listening, Arthur remained silent for a moment, then said in a deep voice:

"I've also gained something. People from the church told me that the magical fluctuations around Ironcrown City have been abnormal in recent months, with both the frequency and intensity continuously increasing."

"They initially thought it was caused by ley line activity, but I compared the timeline—the start time of the abnormal fluctuations almost perfectly coincided with the time the ruins were discovered."

"Where's Philse?"

"The direction of the crystal keeps changing, but the overall range is shrinking and becoming more stable." Phils lifted the crystal and handed it to the two of them.

The light inside the crystal was indeed much clearer than before we set off, like a heart that was slowly beating.

"That means the other candidate is also in Ironcrown City, or at least in the vicinity of Ironcrown City," Arthur concluded.

The room was silent for a few seconds.

Then Emily clapped her hands lightly: "Whether he's coming for Phils or for himself, at least we have some cards to play now."

"We know where he is, what he's doing, and who's around him. Now it's up to us to decide what to do."

Moen nodded.

"Let's rest tonight," Arthur said, standing up. "We'll meet again tomorrow, gather all the information, and then decide on our next move."

Everyone nodded in agreement and returned to their respective rooms.

Moen was finally able to take off the ill-fitting suit. He sat on the edge of the bed, took out the sachet Clara had given him from his pocket, and twirled it between his fingers.

For some reason, he felt inexplicably at ease whenever he looked at the sachet.