Chapter 171: The Absolute 'Rational' Machine Devotee [Monthly Ticket Bonus Chapter]

【Late Night, Steam Capital – Upper City】

【Gear Church, Great Pendulum Cathedral】

Inside the cathedral, a group of mechanical clerics knelt upon prayer mats, fervently engaged in devotion.

Yet unlike the usual congregation of hundreds, the number of worshippers present tonight was strikingly small.

After the events of the day’s “Trial,” even those outside the Gear Church had begun to question the faith.

And within the church itself, many devout believers were now trembling on the edge of doubt.

They had not questioned Bishop Cleve and Saintess Yufemia for secretly controlling trade in the Lower City.

After all, “money” was, according to the doctrine of the Machine Faith, a vital key to the “Hall of Knowledge.”

What truly unsettled them was how the two had treated Silver Knight Vivian—the one blessed before the Machine Altar, a saintly figure far more devout than any of them, the “Pure One” among the “foolish.”

She had not perished in the sacred pursuit of knowledge, but was instead to be sacrificed to the petty, rotting machinations of power.

For a faith built on logic, machinery, and reason, this was a profound disgrace—a desecration of their very core.

And the worst part?

The ones who had committed this betrayal were none other than Bishop Cleve and Saintess Yufemia—the very figures deemed closest to the “Mechanical God” within the local branch of the Gear Church.

If even they had been tainted by the lust for Reality, then what had become of the “Rationality” they had spent their lives seeking?

This single question had fractured the Gear Church in just half a day—dividing it into three factions.

One led by Bishop Cleve and Yufemia—the Power Faction.

Another, spontaneously formed by those who believed the two had violated doctrine—the Purification Faction.

And the third, led by Golden Knight Fischer, who stood neutral—neither supporting nor opposing, the Neutral Faction.

The ones currently kneeling in prayer within the Great Pendulum Cathedral were members of the Purification Faction.

Among them, the most prominent, the strongest—was Silver Knight·Pel, recently dispatched by Bishop Cleve to the Steam Branch to demand Vivian from Tian Dao.

After completing their prayers, Pel rose silently and walked to the center of the cathedral, where the colossal mechanical clock stood—a towering monolith of over a thousand interlocking gears.

He gripped the pendulum, its massive arm chained to thick alloy links.

With a deep breath, he yanked it hard.

Boom… Boom… Boom…

Three solemn chimes echoed through the cathedral.

Instantly, every cleric on the prayer mats stood.

The nuns tore off their hoods, drawing knives.

The priests unfastened their holsters, pulling out steam-powered short rifles.

In their eyes burned a fire—not of rage, but of sacred resolve. A fire to purge the impure.

Tonight, they would cleanse the faith with their own hands.

But before they could step out of the Great Pendulum Cathedral, a deep, metallic tread echoed from beyond the doors.

All turned.

A towering figure in golden armor stood silhouetted in the entrance.

“Captain Fischer.”

Upon recognizing the figure, Silver Knight·Pel and the other clerics bowed in reverence.

Some among them stared at Fischer with wild, fanatical devotion.

For among the three highest authorities in the Gear Church, Fischer was the only one untouched by corruption.

He was the only one who had ever set foot in the Mechanical God Church Tribunal, who had walked through the Divine Realm itself.

A saintly being.

Fischer said nothing.

He simply walked forward, calm and composed.

In the midst of their fervent gazes, he stopped before Pel.

Then, in a voice as cold and steady as steel:

“Pel. You have overstepped.”

“Overstepped?”

Pel snapped his head up. The silver visor of his helmet snapped open, revealing a face flushed with fury.

“The Knight Corps exists to protect faith—not to serve as lackeys in power struggles!”

“That is their matter,” Fischer replied, cutting him off without hesitation.

“The Knight Corps is a tool of the Central Authority. And tools… do not possess thought.”

“Therefore, until the Central Authority issues orders, no one has the right to lay hands on Bishop Cleve or Saintess Yufemia.”

“Even if their actions desecrate doctrine?”

“You have no authority to define doctrine.”

Pel opened his mouth, trying to speak, to argue.

But when he met Fischer’s eyes—icy, rational, utterly devoid of emotion—he closed it again.

He knelt.

“Yes, honored Captain Fischer. I understand.”

Seeing Pel had recognized his mistake and corrected himself, Fischer turned to address the others.

He intended to halt their clearly unlawful actions—actions that defied established procedure.

But then—

A sharp crack of tearing metal split the air from behind him.

The high-pitched, screeching whine of a Steam Saw Blade activating.

Fischer didn’t turn.

His left hand shot back like lightning, seizing the spinning saw’s jagged teeth mid-motion.

The blade tore at his golden gauntlet, sparks flying.

Each spark struck his armor, then shattered like glass, vanishing into nothing.

Fischer turned slowly, his face serene, bathed in the storm of fireflies.

“Pel,” he said, voice flat. “You have fallen.”

“Fallen?”

Pel let out a harsh, barking laugh—almost like a man hearing a joke too absurd to be real.

“The ones who’ve fallen are the two worms who’ve defiled faith with power. And you—standing by while the doctrine is trampled, a blind fool clinging to obedience!”

“Purification is necessary. Either you or they must be cleansed.”

“Cleansed?” Fischer tilted his head slightly. A sliver of cold light slipped through the cracks of his helmet.

“By a soul now consumed by emotion, drowned in rage?”

“Listen, Fischer! Listen to the fury of my Machine Soul! It screams at the betrayal of the faithful!”

Pel roared, his chest plate vibrating as the steam engine within his chest screamed under overload.

He strained harder, trying to force Fischer’s hand open, to unleash divine purification upon this irredeemable dogmatist.

But no matter how much he roared, his Machine Soul could not close the gap between him and Fischer.

Crack!

No flourish. No show of power.

Fischer simply drove his fist forward—straight into Pel’s helmet.

The silver visor shattered like an eggshell.

Dark red blood and brain matter exploded outward, splattering across the cathedral walls—painting the fresco of the Machine God’s creation in grotesque, splattered streaks.

Moments later, Pel’s lifeless body collapsed to the floor.

His Steam Saw Blade continued spinning, its engine still whirring, until the last puff of steam faded into silence.

Fischer shook his hand, flicking blood from his gauntlet.

The crimson stains on his golden armor vanished instantly, washed away by a burst of steam.

He looked down at the corpse.

His voice remained unchanged.

“Those consumed by emotion—those who have lost reason—cannot hear the Machine Soul.”

Then he turned back to the others.

He had expected the group to collapse without Pel’s leadership—expected reason to return.

But he had underestimated their faith.

And even more, he had failed to grasp the depth of their corruption.

Instead of fear, they slowly rose to their feet.

“Then,” Fischer said, quiet but clear, “it seems we now have more souls in need of purification.”

(End of Chapter)

Chapter end