"[One point of magic used]" "[One point of magic used]" "[One point of magic used]" "[…]"
With the prompt sound in his ear and the real-time data change in front of his eyes, York was well aware of his magic expenditure.
He placed each bullet, already sanctified and enchanted, into a small bag next to him, generating a clear jingling sound upon contact.
Enchanting a bullet typically consumes one point of magic, and York estimated the effect to be permanent, similar to the two points of magic he had spent previously.
Moreover, he guessed that his magic could only be used by himself unless transformed by the system for others to use.
For instance, the enchanted bullets worked effectively when he used them, but the enchantment would disappear once someone else used them.
This particularity was somewhat unique, akin to how certain weapons recognize their owner.
Thus, consuming magic personally and giving it to others differed; personal consumption could be recovered over time, precisely one point of magic per minute.
York squinted slightly, finding this mode familiar.
It reminded him of the mana bar in games, where casting certain abilities would consume a specific amount of mana.
Thinking of this, York looked at his simplistic personal panel with some regret.
So far, the system had not granted him any skills; even the random tasks rewarded points, so his use of magic was entirely self-taught.
For example, spreading magic to his eyes in pitch darkness acted like wearing night vision goggles.
Spreading magic to bullets increased their penetration and damage, especially effective against demons and spirits when combined with sanctified bullets.
The most extraordinary aspect was that this magic could also enhance holy water and even synergize with the Bible and other effects.
The rest was just as it was, like telekinesis, which was convenient but lacked lethal power.
To York, his internal magic felt like a universal toolbox.
However, that was about it. York believed he had yet to fully understand his magic, given that in his previous life, magic was typically associated with wizards.
Unfortunately, being a priest, he didn't know how to learn magic. He even searched the church's secret archives for information on magic, but the vast library contained no spellbooks, and records on wizards were sparse and fragmented.
"It's a pity. Imagine casting a huge fireball to blast those demons. Just thinking about it is thrilling," York mused, seeing power as justice—the greater the power, the greater the justice.
"Magic…"
York put away his deep longing, picked up a bullet from the small bag in front of him, and lightly carved a cross on it with a small knife. Magic automatically spread over it.
"[One point of magic used]" "[One point of magic used]" "[…]" At 9 PM.
After enchanting one hundred thirty-four bullets, York switched off from his priestly duties, locking the church doors to officially close for the day.
Only a few familiar believers had come to pray today, and he fulfilled his priestly duty by listening to their confessions.
In such circumstances, life was uneventful, and time passed quickly. York subconsciously touched the envelope in his pocket. Although he respected Old Brown's decision, he was still somewhat worried.
Old Brown was a kind old man who had supported him significantly.
"With Old Brown's capability, dealing with those scum shouldn't be difficult."
York had considered how Old Brown might act. Nowadays, firearms are designed with minimal recoil, suitable for the elderly and women.
"Of course, it wouldn't be easy for Old Brown to deal with those people. He'd likely choose a discreet handgun. Though handguns are strictly controlled compared to rifles, obtaining a concealed carry permit shouldn't be hard for a retired military officer like Old Brown."
"Once he has a handgun, with his combat experience, he'd likely ambush them, using the element of surprise…"
Thinking this, York sat in the driver's seat of his Ford Raptor, sighed, shifted gears, and slowly drove away from the church, heading towards Old Brown's location.
He needed to ensure Old Brown's safety.
Old Brown, a retired military officer with a substantial pension, had spent most of it on his wife, Judith.
Those who have never stayed in a hospital might not understand the daily costs involved.
Thus, Old Brown chose to live in the Temm community to save money, where living expenses were lower.
But lower expenses also meant fewer police patrols, leading to poorer security.
It was a vicious cycle that, over time, attracted gang activity, further deteriorating the community's atmosphere.
Driving through the Temm community streets at a slow pace, York occasionally noticed signs of poor security.
Groups of young men with cold gazes hung around every street corner, obviously not just out for a stroll.
Besides them, York spotted some youths engaged in transactions, his keen eyes catching glimpses of white powder in small bags, clearly drugs.
Such brazenness was something he had never seen in his previous life.
"The security in the Temm community is getting worse…" York muttered, pressing the accelerator to hurry to Old Brown's house.
At a speed of over seventy miles per hour, it didn't take long for York to reach the place where he had encountered Old Brown the previous morning, also the site of mockery by those youths.
However, the scene he found there made him frown.
At night, the area where Old Brown had emerged was now cordoned off, filled with police cars and ambulances, their red lights flashing in the alley. A crowd of onlookers gathered across the street, watching the commotion.
"What happened here?"
Suddenly remembering Old Brown, York's worry deepened. He drove directly to the cordoned area.
There, a group of police officers stood behind the police cars.
"Officer Becker, what happened here?"
York asked one of the recognizable officers, remembering his wife had brought him to church.
Hearing York, Officer Dean Becker, initially intending to disperse the crowd, approached the pickup upon recognizing York.
"Father York, what brings you here?"
York calmly replied, "Looking for an old friend. He lives in this community."
Hearing this, Becker glanced back at his colleagues, whispering, "Father, be careful passing through here. Better yet, try not to come at all."