Steampunk Era: Mad Abield
Chapter 440 - Two Hundred and Ninety-Six: Parting Ways to Meet Again (3)

Chapter 440: Chapter Two Hundred and Ninety-Six: Parting Ways to Meet Again (3)

Watching the vehicle move away, the older member of the police patrol duo shrugged his shoulders and sighed to his younger partner, "You see, that’s the strange hobby of the rich."

"Is it to showcase their virtue of being charitable, or just to show off in front of their female companion?" the young policeman said, noticing that the beggar had slipped into an alleyway, "He knows his place, too. If he dared to stop cars again, we would definitely have chased him away, wouldn’t we?"

"Yes, the nobles wouldn’t like to see people begging on the main streets," replied the older one, sighing helplessly upon hearing the sound of a motorcycle engine behind him. "You see, more and more rich people are appearing, and everyone is starting to dislike those cumbersome carriages and the horses that pull them through the streets."

After finishing their conversation, the two policemen turned around and saw a motorcycle with a blue body, its door bearing the shield badge of the National Security Bureau. At the controls was a young lad, and the youngster sitting in the back seat nodded to the two policemen, "Good evening, gentlemen, I am Zem from the National Security Bureau, here’s my ID."

"Ah, good evening, Investigator Zem, sir. Your new department is really something. Is there anything you need?" The older policeman admired the motorcycle greatly. As for the National Security Bureau, this new department had combined several powerful departments of The Capital, and now all extraordinary events were under their jurisdiction.

It wasn’t about noble kids coming to gild their resumes; the older officer understood that these young people were dealing with truly terrifying things. Compared to that, the beggars and thieves they dealt with seemed as harmless as babies.

"Have you seen any strangers around here, or anyone suspicious?" Zem retrieved his ID slowly and asked the policemen with his distinctive North Sydney accent.

"No, sir, unless the charitable gentleman and the audacious beggar also count as suspicious persons," the older officer shook his head. "Oh, and I apologize, I haven’t yet confirmed what exactly qualifies as a suspicious person."

"Hmm... That’s all then, thank you for your report." After speaking, Zem patted the door, and as the motorcycle started to move, the young man smiled and lifted his police cap, "Good night, gentlemen."

"Good night, sir." Both policemen raised their caps too, watching as the motorcycle and its distinguished passengers disappeared into the depths of the night.

"Old Jack, when will we get such a nice patrol car?"

"About the time you’re so old you can barely walk," replied the older partner with a chuckle, his attention then drawn to a few figures in black appearing on the street corner.

Their gazes met.

So the older officer immediately took his whistle and blew a long blast—it was for a reason.

Because he didn’t know who the opponent was.

If they were common thieves, they should have scattered at the sound of his whistle.

If they were thieves with transcendent abilities, they should have disappeared from sight as quickly as possible at the sound of his whistle.

If they were robbers with transcendent abilities, his whistle might bring about a fatal encounter, but rather than be killed silently, it was better to blow the whistle before death. The Sydney police system wouldn’t let anyone get away with killing one of their own, even if it was a noble. Even if the system couldn’t convict them, it would surely seek to eradicate all members of that noble family through repeated private duels.

After all, we are but dogs of the Emperor.

.........

Malin stopped his car at the crossroads because a caravan of carriages was passing through. A patrol officer maintaining order approached and his expression brightened considerably upon noticing the Mage Tower badge on the door of the motorcycle, "Sorry, sirs, it’s an elven caravan. You’ll need to wait for a moment."

"No problem, we’re not in a hurry," Malin said as he stood up to stretch.

The caravan moved slowly, with a few elves sitting atop the carriages, some appearing to be seasoned members who were used to the spectacle, and others young and peering around curiously.

"From Eternal Night Island?" Malin asked in Elvish.

"Yes, child, may the branches prosper."

"Good evening, elder, may the leaves flourish," Malin replied.

Since it was pure Elvish language, Malin no longer had any concerns. He sat back in the passenger’s seat and pulled out a book to pass the time—it was from the bookshelf.

The book was titled—On the Impact of Syllable Omission in Spell Formation Structures on Spellcasting Time.

It sounded incredibly advanced, and Malin felt a bit daunted—he relied on his paternal line for spellcasting, utilizing his innate talents, and had little patience for texts that categorized even the size of the tongue curl in thirteen different ways—it just seemed inhuman.

Without betraying any emotion, Malin put the book back and pulled out another one.

Glancing at the title—On the Next Generation Evolution of Firearms.

I’m familiar with this! Malin flipped to the first page excitedly... then gave a glance at Clovis, "Dear, is this what the old men in the Mage Tower dream up when they’ve got nothing better to do?"

He spread open the book he was holding, and written on the first page was the First Generation Combat Mage’s Tactical Battle Weapon—75mm Assault Mortar.

Combat Mages carrying this thing around, what kind of unfortunate creature were they planning to shoot?

"Oh, this was actually designed for stone elementals. Before the prevalence of long-barreled cannons, stone elementals would carry these mortars to bomb the enemies during battle," explained Clovis, pointing at a line of small text, "Look at this description below."

Malin took it back to read—first deployed on the battlefield two hundred years ago, it was used for twenty years.

"Alright."

Turning the first page, the next artillery piece was a long-barrel cannon, clearly not meant for human use. It had handles on both sides, indicating it was intended to be carried by elemental creatures for bombardment. This long-barrel assault cannon came in three sub-types: prototype, eighty-millimeter caliber, with only two made, likely for technological verification.

Mass production model, eighty-millimeter caliber, a total of four hundred and twenty were made and used in quite a few battles, but because they used solid shot, the effectiveness was not great.

Planned production model, seventy-five millimeters, with only one manufactured. It was a reproduction of the Blooming Bullet, two hundred and fifty years later. What intrigued Malin was that this thing had been turned into a sort of turret structure, a twin-mounted, ten-round magazine.

"What’s the planned production model?"

"It’s something intended to be mounted on ironclad ships but was later found to be more useful for combat mages performing ground attacks."

"How do combat mages carry it into the sky?"

"With a weight-reduction Array and floating chain gear, it’s cutting-edge technology from another world, but it requires the combat mage to have a very strong Spiritual Energy. This planned production model was used for fifteen years before being replaced by a new type of assault cannon." As a member of the Mage Tower, Clovis explained these details with the utmost precision.

Malin felt this explanation made sense, so he turned to the next page.

This time, the piece was a heavy assault cannon, two hundred and forty millimeters in caliber, single-shot, and only one prototype existed.

The comment below read — The recoil tore the testing mage in half, prompting the mandatory regulation that weapons must undergo data substantiation before trials.

... That’s as it should be, these guys are nuts; that’s World War II cruiser-level firepower there. Are you expecting combat mages to take to the skies with that to fight Chaos?

Even if Chaos didn’t call the cops, the combat mages themselves would. You wasteful fools.

By the time he got to the fourth page, the convoy had completely passed. Clovis released the brake and continued to drive the motorcycle forward.

Then he glanced at the fourth page—four hundred and six millimeters, second-generation decisive weapon (data substantiation). Malin put the thing back on the shelf, convinced that among the parents of the craftsmen at the Mage Tower, one must have been an army officer and the other a navy officer.

Because only such a combination could come up with something so terrifying.

But to give credit where it’s due, this thing was a lot more powerful than the three-seven hand-cranked machine.

Thinking this, Malin heard a whistle coming from the street behind him.

Then, like a boiling pot, police sirens and whistle sounds immediately erupted. The cops, who had been idling by the roadside, suddenly jumped onto a blue motorcycle and sped toward the direction of the whistles.

With such strict security tonight, Malin realized for the first time just how colorful Mr. Casaman’s underground life was. Better keep running, Mr. Casaman.

While thinking this, Malin saw a barely clothed man burst through a gate on the side of the street, running under the gaze of both Malin and a carful of police officers.

A cop immediately shone the spotlight on him: "It’s Barney Sato, who’s escaped three times!"

Ah, so it was an escapee.

Malin stood up, watching the man, with his pitiful proof, rapidly approaching their vehicle, seemingly intent on hijacking it.

After some thought, Fio pulled out a long-barreled, double-barreled Shotgun from a hidden cabinet under the car while Lorrin drew out a short-barreled, double-barreled Shotgun and Melo took two Revolvers from Malin’s waist.

Facing an assortment of guns of different sizes and lengths, the man gave an embarrassed smile, then turned and ran swiftly toward an alleyway.

Then Fio hit him with an electric shot, a soft-headed bullet with built-in electric shock damage, hitting his hairy buttocks, knocking the fool over and electrocuting him until he foamed at the mouth.

"Nice shooting." The officer stepped down from the car: "Sir, about your reward..." "How much is he worth?"

Malin asked condescendingly.

"Forty dollars."

"Very well, it’s your afternoon tea money now. Hard work pays off," Malin said, then waved at them before sitting back down in the passenger seat.

"Does Mr. Malin look down on that escapee?" Clovis inquired curiously.

"Yes, he’s only worth forty after escaping three times. I find him somewhat pitiful, but the law is the law. If he’s an escapee and tries to hijack our car, he has to pay some price." Malin relaxed back into the cushioned seat: "May he live a colorful life during his upcoming fourth stint in prison."

"But why did he run out of someone’s house in such a disheveled state?"

Clovis asked, puzzled.

Malin thought about it and decided to keep the answer to himself.

After all, the path to the peak of life is not a single one.