Steampunk Era: Mad Abield
Chapter 362 - 245: I Have a Dream (4)

Chapter 362: Chapter 245: I Have a Dream (4)

In the choice between "dead poor bastard" and "dead comrade," Malin used the Stonewall, first to block the initial volley of bullets. Two World Tree Saplings whipped around from either side, knocking those mind-controlled poor sods to the ground.

"When I watched you crush that prince’s skull on the video, you didn’t show your merciful side," the old Bishop of the Church of Justice crawled out from under the vehicle. He took in the damaged street, the figures knocked to the ground, and the Revolver extended to him. Accepting the firearm, he placed it back in the holster behind his waist: "Please forgive my test of you."

"Suspicion is the path to survival, I won’t blame you for that. Although my relationship with him was genuinely good, I couldn’t come to terms with him. My dream is to ensure the children of this world are well-fed, while what he desired, was completely opposed to mine," Malin said, turning his head, just in time to see one of his World Tree Saplings knock over one of the men who had just gotten up, "He wanted war, endless war, constant bloodshed, and these are the greatest obstacles to my dream. Hence, as the Thananians say... ’Different paths, do not make plans together.’"

Malin didn’t know if the old man understood his last phrase, as he had spoken it in Thainanese.

But evidently, the old man had understood him, as he extended his hand: "You’re right, I was too worried."

"No, your Excellency. As I’ve said before, suspicion is the path to survival. In this world, one must be more cunning than Evil, more skilled in killing than Evil, more adept in conspiracy and deceit than Evil. I’m a consequentialist; the method is unimportant; the outcome needs to be perfect. If the outcome is poor, then perfection during the process is nothing but a laughable, clumsy performance," Malin reached out his hand, shaking hands with the old man: "Let’s reintroduce ourselves, Malin Gaiate, a mortal who wants to live and doesn’t mind others living better lives than mine."

"What about the wicked?"

"Streetlights, ropes, and their necks, make for an excellent organic combination. I would bless them to step into a ceremony named ’The End,’" after finishing, Malin looked towards the Saint Heir that had stepped out: "Did you come out because of the gunshots?"

"Yes, but considering the Guards didn’t make a big fuss, I slowed down," the young Half-blood approached Malin: "Koerchakin Duplex, a Half-blood Elf, my mentor gave me a human name, Paul."

Malin looked at the young man and, finally smiling, shook his hand: "Hello, Paul."

"Hello, Malin. I have a two-wheeled light motorbike here; do you need a ride back?" The Saint Heir offered Malin a good choice, and he followed him onto the bike—truth be told, the vehicle resembled a motorcycle more than anything, but the locals preferred to call it a light motorbike, perhaps because of the difference in the wheels.

As the motorbike passed the main gate, Malin, sitting on the back, waved to the old man, who smiled, nodded, and waved back as a farewell gesture.

The motorbike drove smoothly, though slowly. It was more efficient than the horse-drawn carriage—after all, a two-wheeled vehicle can always navigate through spots where a four-wheeler cannot.

Arriving in front of the Holy Hall of the Goddess of Harvest Church, Malin saw the old Bishop and old Jack: "Wait, he..." "He’s already come back with me. I thought you might stay there a bit longer, so I had him bring me back first and then come for you."

His own Bishop was frowning significantly, clearly, the news had spread faster than two wheels; he was already aware of Malin’s assassination attempt: "Who was it?"

"They bore the tattoo of the Evil God Cult on their chest, but I think it’s a frame, likely by someone who doesn’t want to be exposed. After all, even the most foolish wouldn’t tattoo such a thing so visibly," In Malin’s view, such a stupid act couldn’t be the work of a functioning brain member of the Evil God Cult—being an assassin doesn’t always allow one to wear clothing and armor; such a prominent symbol is, bluntly put, easy to reveal by simply pulling open a shirt during a random inspection by any Lord on any given day.

If such a person existed, they’d have blundered themselves to death already.

"Leave it to the Church of Justice for investigation," the Bishop suggested.

"Yes," Malin nodded: "I’m heading back to the inn; I’ve got articles to write."

"Let old Jack take you," the old Bishop suggested with a smile, as though making a request and a recommendation at the same time.

Without giving it too much thought, Malin nodded: "Alright."

Bidding farewell to Paul, Malin climbed onto the carriage, pulling down a movable panel from the roof that could double as a desk. While not good for detailed drawings, it was adequate for sketching first drafts.

The research facility needed more buildings, and the surrounding defensive structures and watchtowers required careful positioning—curious spies from neighboring countries, Chaos Infiltrators with malicious intent, brazen citizens, and tabloid journalists, each needed specific preparations. If it was not for the presence of Paladins, Malin wouldn’t have minded asking Ails to set up a perimeter defense specifically designed to combat the living.

From the Lich’s words, Malin could sense his audacious courage as well as his deep wariness towards those with pointed ears, a wariness that indicated a wish to stay as far away as possible if it could be helped.