Mr. Death in the Steam World

"Life isn't easy for the miners' families here," Arthur said in a low voice.

"The mining association in Ironcrown City only recognizes output, not people. If a miner has an accident, he is lucky if he can get a sum of money as compensation."

"Those temporary workers who weren't even considered formal miners and were paid on a daily basis, once they died, they were gone. Their names wouldn't even appear in the Chamber of Commerce's records."

Moen didn't reply. He thought of the half-mineralized remains, and the way those trembling hands gripped the miner's lamp tightly before being engulfed by flames.

Just then, a group of children suddenly darted out from the open space between the shacks ahead.

The leader was a little girl, who only reached Moen's waist. Her hair was tied into two crooked braids in a messy manner, and her face was covered in coal dust, but her eyes were unusually bright.

Behind her followed six or seven even younger children, all dressed in rags but full of energy, like a group of wildcats that had crawled out of the cracks in the shack, who quickly surrounded Moen and Arthur.

"Are you a new miner?" The little girl tilted her head back, hands on her hips, her tone carrying a maturity beyond her years. "I've never seen you before."

Moen looked down at her, a slight smile playing on his lips.

"I'm not a miner," he said.

"Liar!" a boy behind the little girl shouted. "What are you doing here if you're not a miner? Your clothes look similar to those of the foremen at the mine—are you a supervisor?"

Upon hearing this, the children all took a half step back, their curiosity instantly replaced by wariness.

Moen clearly saw that two children had quietly hidden the pebbles they were holding behind their backs.

He sighed inwardly; the word "supervisor" probably wasn't a good one in this shantytown.

"I'm not the foreman." He crouched down, lowering his gaze to the level of the little girl. "I'm here to find someone, a retired old miner."

The little girl tilted her head and looked him over for a while, as if trying to determine whether he was lying, then shook her head.

"It's no use talking to anyone. We can't handle things at the mine. You can leave."

She spoke like an adult, but after she finished speaking, she didn't actually send him away.

Moen noticed that her gaze kept glancing, almost imperceptibly, towards a dilapidated shack not far away. At the entrance of the shack was a chipped iron pot, its contents empty.

Moen suddenly thought of Clara. There was no other reason than that the little girl in front of him was about the same age as her, but had a face that looked far too mature for her age.

Before he traveled through time, Clara and this girl were in similar situations, if not exactly the same.

"How long have you been waiting here?" he asked.

The little girl was stunned for a moment. "What?"

"We're waiting for your father or brother to come back from the mine," Moen said calmly.

"The kids in the shantytowns will swarm around any unfamiliar man they see, asking if he's a new miner. It's because you're used to watching the men of your family go into the mine and then waiting for them to come out, sometimes they do, sometimes they don't... right?"

The children looked at each other, and no one spoke.

Moen did not continue speaking.

He raised his right hand, gathering a wisp of magic at his fingertips, and a pale golden flame silently ignited on his fingertip.

The little girl's eyes widened instantly.

"Fire!" a smaller boy behind her screamed, his voice shrill and piercing. "He has fire on his fingers!"

The children swarmed forward, no longer caring about the supervisor, eager to get their heads right next to Moen's fingertips. A few of the younger ones even reached out to touch him, only to be slapped away by the little girl.

"Idiot! You can't touch fire!"

"But it's not hot," the little boy pouted, looking aggrieved. "Look, look, I don't even have blisters on my hands—"

"That's fire too! Mom said kids shouldn't play with fire!"

Moen watched them chattering away, a smile unconsciously creeping onto his lips.

The little girl finally looked away from the flames and focused her gaze back on Moen's face.

She pulled a crumpled little paper packet from her pocket, inside which lay a piece of fruit candy that had been crushed and deformed.

"Here, take this." She stuffed the candy into Moen's hand. "Thank you for showing my younger brother and sister the trick; they haven't been this happy in a long time."

Moen looked down at the piece of candy in his hand.

The candy wrapper was already a little sticky, obviously having been in his pocket for quite some time. He tucked his fingers together and carefully put the candy into the inside pocket of his coat, placing it together with Clara's sachet.

"Thank you," he said. "This candy is very precious to me."

Two blushes rose on the little girl's face. She tried hard to keep her face straight, but the corners of her mouth still turned up uncontrollably.

"It's just a piece of candy, what's there to thank me for?" She turned around and waved to the children behind her to hide her embarrassment.

"Okay, everyone, it's time to go home and eat!"

The children let out a reluctant, drawn-out "Oh—", but still obediently scattered and ran towards their respective shacks.

The little girl turned around and took a few steps, then suddenly turned back.

"You said you were looking for retired old miners, well, old crippled Flynn lives in that shack."

"He used to be a foreman at the mine. After his leg was broken, nobody cared about him anymore. He didn't talk to people much. Sometimes when we couldn't beg for food, he would share half with us, so—"

"Oh, don't tell him I told you where I lived; he has a weird temper."

Moen nodded, waved to the little girl, and she turned and ran away.

"Your charm has been growing lately, Marcus. You're even winning over little girls," Arthur said, making a rare sarcastic remark.

"It's not as good as some people who don't even spare the boss's wife."

Moen ignored him, casually retorted, and strode into the depths of the shantytown.

That shack was more dilapidated than the others around it.

He stopped outside and cleared his throat.

"Excuse me, are you Mr. Flynn?"

There was a moment of silence behind the curtain, then a hoarse voice came out.

"He's dead. If you're here to collect a debt, go to his grave."

“I’m not here to collect a debt,” Moen said in a low voice. “I found your son’s remains in the old mine shaft.”

The curtain was suddenly ripped open.

An old man stood inside the door. He was not short, but his back was hunched over badly. Half of his left trouser leg was missing, and he was supported by a rusty iron rod.

"What did you just say?"

"I found him in an abandoned mine tunnel, clutching a miner's lamp in his hand, with an old scar on his right ring finger."

"I inquired around and learned that he is your son, so I came to find you."

This is the information that Moen saw in his memory.

Upon hearing his words, the old man's face trembled violently.