Chapter 166: The 'Fire' Ignited in Hell

Most of the Brass Nobles, including the Council President, had no idea what the name Jack Bailey truly signified.

But Bishop Cleve and Saintess Yufemia did. They knew full well the chaos this man’s betrayal would unleash.

No wonder she didn’t flee, even though she knew death was certain.

She deliberately allowed herself to be brought to the chamber.

She’d calculated this moment perfectly.

Realization struck Cleve like a hammer. Beneath his mask, his molars ground together with a sharp, grinding sound.

If only he had known Vivian’s plan sooner…

He would’ve crushed Jack and Vivian like vermin, leaving their rotting corpses to fester in the sewers of Rust Iron District—until not even a single bone remained.

Now, trapped under the weight of every eye in the room, he and Yufemia were powerless.

But to think a mere Lower City rat could bring us down?

Vivian… you’re still too young.

In the silence between Cleve and Yufemia, the chamber master finally raised a hand toward the guards.

“Bring in the Lower City’s Jack Bailey.”

“Yes.”

After an agonizing wait, the great doors of the chamber creaked open once more.

A sudden wave of stench—iron rust and machine oil, sour and thick—flooded the room, cutting through the lingering scent of jasmine that had perfumed the hall for years.

Contrast was immediate.

While the Brass Nobles stood immaculate and composed, Old Jack entered in a tattered leather jacket, his right arm replaced by a crude, low-tier cybernetic prosthetic—its surface visibly corroded, pulsing with a faint, eerie rust.

Disheveled. Crude.

The raw, unrefined savagery of the Lower City was embodied in him.

“Tch~”

A collective gasp of disgust followed. Several Nobles dramatically fumbled for handkerchiefs, clamping them over their noses.

They were visibly repulsed—resisting the air now tainted by Old Jack’s presence.

The innate arrogance of the Upper City, thick as steam from the city’s outer walls, began to ripple through the room.

Even the Council President, though he grimaced in distaste, maintained his composure.

He cleared his throat and spoke in a formal, rehearsed tone:

“Jack Bailey. Vivian claims you have evidence proving her innocence. Show it.”

Under the weight of countless eyes, Old Jack’s spine—normally rigid in the Lower City—slumped slightly.

But the tension didn’t last long.

After a deep breath, he reached into his coat and pulled out two objects.

A yellowed, frayed ledger with curled corners.

And a battered, paint-chipped voice recorder.

The Council President waved a hand. An assistant stepped forward, opened the ledger in front of all.

As the dense, handwritten entries flooded the room, a wave of murmurs surged through the chamber.

Because what was written there was undeniable:

Years of illicit funds, funneled through Old Jack, collected from the underworld of the Lower City—secret transactions orchestrated by the Gear Church.

Dates. Locations. Names. Every detail of the money’s movement was meticulously recorded.

No one could doubt the authenticity.

Yes, this ledger proved the Church had long used Old Jack to secretly control the Lower City’s black markets.

But it didn’t absolve Vivian of the charge she now faced.

So the real key—was the recorder.

At the Council President’s signal, the assistant pressed play.

Instantly, Saintess Yufemia’s voice filled the silent hall.

> “Vivian, in three days, I’ll lure Captain Fisher away from the Knights. Bishop will disable the Prayer Room’s defenses.”

> “You go in, retrieve the item and the person, and bring them to the Gray Rat Gang in the Lower City.”

> “Afterward, I’ll personally petition the Church for a Divine Ascension Ceremony for you. You’ll be granted a custom mecha, infused with a spirit core. What do you say?”

A pause. Then, a soft, tempting whisper:

> “Will you do it?”

Vivian’s reply came without hesitation:

> “I understand, Lady Yufemia.”

The recording ended.

The room went utterly still.

The implications were staggering.

If this recording was real—then Vivian hadn’t stolen the Sacred Artifact at all.

Theft required taking without permission.

But this? This was a direct order.

She had acted under command.

With the evidence now in hand, Old Jack straightened. His voice rang clear.

“Ladies and gentlemen, this is the proof that clears Vivian of guilt.”

“Also… I know many other things about Saintess Yufemia and Bishop Cleve over the years. If you wish… I can speak.”

“Enough!”

Before he could continue, Bishop Cleve erupted in fury, cutting him off.

Standing atop the dais, he looked down at Old Jack—small, insignificant, like a speck beneath his boot.

“A Lower City rat? Daring to speak in the presence of the divine?

A recording? Anyone can forge that. Your pathetic trick won’t fool anyone.”

He paused. Then slowly swept his gaze across the assembled Nobles, his tone calm, almost gentle.

“Do you agree, my lords?”

His voice carried no emotion.

But those who had something to hide—those whose consciences trembled—heard the threat beneath it.

After a few silent glances, most of the Brass Nobles nodded in unison.

“Yes. A recording alone isn’t proof.”

They agreed.

Below, Vivian and Old Jack said nothing.

And in the shadows of the Lower City, across countless screens tuned to the live broadcast, the people of Rust Iron District fell silent too.

Physically, the sun was blocked by the ever-present Steam Cloud hanging over the Lower City.

But psychologically—what truly choked the light was the cold, indifferent disdain of these Nobles.

Were the people of the Lower City even human?

Now, the answer was clear.

No.

Seeing the Nobles united against him, Cleve—still blind to the danger—turned icy.

“Vivian Howard. The evidence of your theft of the Sacred Artifact is undeniable.

And your disgraceful attempt to slander the Church is beyond pardon.”

“I, as Bishop, hereby revoke your title as Silver Knight.

And I formally request the Council President to enforce the law of Steam Capital upon you.”

After a long pause, the Council President spoke.

“After review, the evidence confirms: Vivian Howard is guilty of stealing a Church Sacred Artifact. The chain of proof is complete.”

“The Council President hereby sentences Vivian Howard to Furnace Punishment, to be carried out in seven days.”

“Now, let us vote.”

Twelve Brass Nobles.

Only Golden Knight · Fisher and two representatives from the guilds voted against.

All the rest raised their hands—approval.

Including the Council President.

Seeing this, Cleve, Yufemia, and Vivian all smiled.

Cleve’s was the triumphant sneer of a victor over a fallen foe.

Yufemia’s was the cruel, bitter smirk of a vengeful soul watching corruption collapse.

And in a dark corner of the chamber, hidden in shadow, Tian Dao smiled too.

But his smile held neither mockery, nor pride.

Only pure, unfiltered expectation.

Because as the verdict—Furnace Punishment—spread across Steam Capital through the live broadcast,

he heard it.

The faintest whisper of flame.

From the depths of Rust Iron Hell.

The long-suppressed fury of the Lower City had finally ignited.

How do you make the darkness see the light?

Simple.

Light a fire within it.

But to make it burn bright—

you need more than fire.

You need wind.

In the original timeline, it was the Deputy Captain of the Fifth Squad, Yu Chen, who would have fanned the flames.

But now, Yu Chen was locked away.

So the wind—would come from him.

Tian Dao.

Even though he always believed himself a man of peace, a gentle soul who shunned violence…

in a world as twisted as Steam Capital, peace meant nothing.

Kindness was a luxury the powerful never granted.

Because to them, only fists spoke louder than words.

(End of Chapter)

Chapter end