Volume 2

Chapter 23: Hydra’s Plight

The relationship between Anselm and Mingfuluo was peculiar in the public eye.

Most of Mingfuluo’s alchemical creations stemmed from Anselm’s ideas—a closely guarded secret known to few in the Empire.

Publicly, Mingfuluo was… well, seen as a failure.

Three years ago, rumors swirled that she’d become Anselm’s Contract Head, but they fizzled when he left the capital, seemingly abandoning her.

In truth, Anselm did intend to make her a Contract Head, and she shared that intent; but publicly, this narrative was a cover for their joint research on new alchemical devices.

Thus, in Hydra Mansion, everyone—servants and masters alike—knew the standoffish female scholar.

The other Contract Heads had some impression of her, but only that.

To them, someone their young master discarded held little value.

But now… it seemed the young master was showing interest in her again?

The Contract Heads glanced at the courtyard’s other corner, shrouded by lush greenery, where a faint figure was visible.

They’d known someone was there but said nothing, as Flamel hadn’t spoken, and as Contract Heads, they didn’t care.

Hitana, however, was startled.

After yesterday’s ordeal, she wasn’t keen to see Mingfuluo… and how did that weakling, who looked half-dead and twitching without Anselm touching her, wake up earlier than her?

Mingfuluo emerged from the hidden corner, bowing to Flamel before slowly shifting her gaze to Hitana.

The tall girl on Anselm’s lap squirmed under her stare, wanting to stand and meet her gaze boldly, but her weakened body nearly toppled in her clumsy movements.

Anselm steadied her, making it look to others… like she was flaunting herself in his arms under Mingfuluo’s scrutiny.

The atmosphere grew subtly awkward.

“Hey, old Sav.”

Laurence, back on Saville’s shoulder, whispered: “What’s the young master up to? Watching two girls fight over him?”

“Don’t speculate on the young master’s decisions, Laurence.”

Saville, standing by, said softly: “Just watch.”

“…” Laurence twitched its whiskers, muttering “boring,” then scurried to Tornado’s feet, whispering something.

Mingfuluo, unmoved by Hitana’s display, stared at the girl in Anselm’s arms, saying calmly:

“For a battle of this level, I have no right to comment, but since Anselm requires it…”

She paused, expressionless: “From my perspective, a tier-three transcendent piercing a top-tier-five warrior’s body is impossible. Thus, it proves Miss Lans has exceptional talent and ability in combat.”

Hitana felt elated, finding Mingfuluo much less grating.

Looks like Anselm’s work yesterday paid off! Now you know who’s boss, huh?

“But—”

The abrupt turn froze Hitana’s improved mood.

“From observing Miss Lans’s combat and past records, I can confirm one thing.”

Mingfuluo adjusted her gray-white glasses, her tone cold:

“You can’t control your emotions or power in battle, can you, Miss Lans?”

“…”

Hitana opened her mouth but couldn’t respond, while the other Contract Heads watched with amusement.

“Sharp eyes… or is it that odd alchemical glass on her nose?”

Tornado glanced at Mingfuluo with interest: “Her soul’s state is intriguing. Solen’s work?”

“I don’t think getting fired up in a fight’s a bad thing,” Laurence said, claws crossed. “Passion’s a warrior’s best weapon, right, Tyr?”

“A warrior’s best weapon is themselves,” Tyr said gravely. “Passion or reason—it’s personal.”

The Contract Heads’ chatter didn’t sway Mingfuluo. She kept staring at Hitana, meticulously following Anselm’s orders:

“I lack the expertise to critique Miss Lans’s superior combat skills. But from a character perspective, I can infer possibilities from her battle behavior.”

“—She not only struggles to control emotions in combat but, in many emotionally charged situations, is prone to impulsive, incorrect choices. Normally, as a Contract Head, Anselm should easily manage her, but in reality…”

Her purple eyes didn’t shift to Anselm, her icy gaze unwavering behind her lenses:

“Anselm not only doesn’t control her but indulges her behavior. At this critical time of tier-six transition, Miss Lans’s character and actions could cause major trouble for Anselm.”

“You—”

Hitana, furious, wanted to retort but, after racking her brain, found no counterargument.

After Anselm’s training, she’d grown keenly aware of her temperament and knack for trouble.

Though she’d improved, if someone targeted this weakness… She had no confidence.

So, in the Imperial Capital, despite Anselm giving her a few tasks, Hitana restrained herself, fearing she’d cause him trouble.

“Hahaha, no big deal. Mistakes happen.”

Flamel laughed heartily: “Hydra has the right and power to err, even repeatedly, and as part of Hydra, so does a Contract Head.”

“I’m not questioning your wisdom or might.”

Mingfuluo boldly addressed Flamel, even seeming to contradict him: “But the Imperial Capital, seemingly calm, is a storm brewing. The Empress’s life is ending, and she, unwilling to die and already mad, could do anything. For instance—”

Her flat tone was unsettling, and her next words shifted the Contract Heads’ expressions:

“If Miss Lans’s temperament is exploited, and she’s killed by the Empress, what then?”

Anselm’s eyes narrowed: “A wild imagination, but I’d never let that happen.”

“But the Empress can make anything happen.”

“No matter,” Flamel said jovially, like an elder solving a minor issue. “I’ll kill Ephithand first. She’s lost her edge—she’s no match for me.”

“That’s the issue, Mr. Flamel.”

Mingfuluo, still staring at Hitana while addressing Flamel—a clear breach of decorum—irritated Hitana, who seethed but had no outlet.

“Are you really planning to handle the Empress yourself?” she asked.

“…Hm?” Flamel raised an eyebrow. “You don’t have much faith in me, little lady.”

“Even you—can you guarantee killing the Empress instantly?”

Mingfuluo countered: “If you fight her, you’ll bring all your Contract Heads. And then…”

Her gaze shifted to Anselm: “Who ensures Anselm’s safety? He can kill one tier-five, two, three, even more… but ten, twenty, thirty?”

In the silence, the woman’s cold voice uttered audacious, blasphemous words:

“I believe every tier-five transcendent in this world desperately yearns to destroy the gods above them.”

The Celestial Path’s end is currently tier five; no one has ever found a way to reach tier six.

The four divine seeds, doomed to be ruled by madness, have crushed others with their superior life essence and power, wielding, toying with, and dominating them for nearly a millennium.

When a divine seed dies, these tier-five transcendents… become the new gods of the land.

Which transcendent at this level would willingly be ordered around by a madman, their life dictated by their whims?

And who… could resist the temptation of becoming such a “god”?

But they’ve never had the chance.

The Empress births heirs without limit, though tier-six potential is random; Hydra only produces offspring at life’s end, so their periods of madness are staggered—either a robust Empress ends a fading beast, or a mature Hydra ends an aging monarch.

In either case, one divine seed, after eliminating the other, can rule the continent and Empire for decades, slaughtering any tier-five trying to sever their lineage thousands of times over.

Even the Empress and Hydra clashing is the worst-case scenario, occurring only twice in Empire history.

Usually, they willingly step into their end, passing power to the next generation.

But now… the Empire is in its most unique period since its founding.

—An Empress unwilling to die, lost to madness, and a Hydra, who should retain sanity longer, inexplicably nearing its end.

Theoretically, Flamel and the Empress’s deathmatch is inevitable.

After it, Flamel’s soul, pushed closer to self-destruction by endless information erosion, won’t survive long.

If, in that moment, both the Empress’s and Hydra’s bloodlines are severed, and one endures Flamel’s final, brief madness…

The Empire… would change hands, free of divine seeds.

As for what Hydra’s madness might do to the Empire… What does it matter?

As long as these tier-five Crowned Ones survive, can’t they rebuild an Empire from the ashes, as the founding Empress did after the Celestial Conquest Dynasty’s fall?

In a few words, Mingfuluo revealed a grim truth—neither Anselm nor Hydra is truly safe.

“I don’t know when that moment will come.”

Mingfuluo said: “But I believe… Anselm should prepare for it. So, since he asked me to evaluate Miss Lans, I can only point out—”

“No matter how much Anselm prepares.”

She spoke coldly, mechanically, like a tool hammering materials in an alchemical forge: “You, unable to control your emotions or power, are undoubtedly the greatest unstable factor.”

Hitana bit her lip, her heaving chest betraying her seething anger, but her silence and trembling body showed she couldn’t refute Mingfuluo’s words.

If… if Anselm is in such danger, can I do everything right? Can I ensure I won’t harm him with my impulsiveness? Can I…

Anselm placed his hand over Hitana’s, saying nothing, gently prying open her clenched fist and interlocking their fingers.

“Mingfuluo.”

As Hitana calmed, Anselm looked at the rational, imprisoned puppet.

Yesterday, he and Hitana tormented her until dawn. She should’ve been, as Hitana thought, collapsed on his sofa.

But Anselm used a potion to rouse her, restoring her clarity, and in a few hours, she’d decided what to do.

“Your words clearly suggest one thing.”

He chuckled: “You believe you’re the one who’d never disrupt my plans, far more stable than the unstable Hitana, right?”

“Yes.”

“Then.” The young Hydra gazed into her radiant yet cold, empty purple eyes, sighing, “This is your answer, your choice?”

Anselm gave her two paths.

Resist and oppose him, or submit and cooperate temporarily, finding a way to overcome the final obstacle to her ideals later?

Mingfuluo chose the latter. As she saw Hydra’s precarious position, she knew… with Babel Tower in Anselm’s hands, she had no choice.

It wasn't a forceful seizure or deceit… Mingfuluo didn’t even know how he did it, but the Empress gave Babel Tower to Anselm and Anselm?

He likely didn’t even hint at wanting it, yet effortlessly took it from the domineering Ivora.

This was good news—great news—to all Babel Tower members.

But only Mingfuluo knew… Anselm’s vision and future never included the era she dreamed of.

Even so, she could only lower her head, responding tonelessly: “Yes, this is my choice.”

Rather than watch Babel Tower collapse in turmoil, she’d bet on forging world-changing power under Hydra’s protection.

Without the present, what future?

“If you have any needs,” Mingfuluo, accepting reality, said softly, “please command me, Anselm.”

The Contract Heads stayed silent, eyes averted. From their perspective, Anselm’s actions didn’t matter, but objectively…

This woman had made a terrible choice.

“Now that you mention it…” Anselm said meaningfully, “I do have something for you to do.”

“Speak.”

“Your real body.” He rested his chin on Hitana’s shoulder, half-smiling. “It hasn’t seen the sun in a while, has it?”

“…”

Mingfuluo stiffened, unable to respond.

“With Babel Tower under me, you needn’t fear the Ether Academy’s threats. I’m not Ivora—if I ensure your path is clear, the Ether Academy won’t overstep. Besides… they’re a bit preoccupied now, aren’t they?”

After the game, Anselm reaped great rewards while pushing the Ether Academy into the fire.

The Empress, soothed by his words, believed she’d crushed her daughter’s spirit, proving her dominion.

But afterward…

As the “culprit” for the game’s absurd outcome, the Ether Academy wouldn’t be burned to ash, but it’d suffer heavily.

At least one or two Supreme Nine Seats would fall.

“As for Solen’s bindings, well… judging by your state, you’re close to breaking them, so…”

The young Hydra’s face bore a gentle, harmless smile: “There’s no need to keep using a puppet, is there?”

“A body perfectly aligned with your soul would aid daily life and research. That’s good for you, right?”

After a brief silence, Mingfuluo nodded slightly: “I understand, Anselm.”

“No need for formalities.” Anselm waved. “Just call me Anselm, as always.”

“…Yes.”

Mingfuluo gazed into his sea-blue eyes, murmuring softly: “As… always.”

After she left, Laurence scurried to Anselm’s feet, squeaking: “Young master, that puppet woman… didn’t you discard her? Now you want her as a Contract Head?”

Its casual demeanor seemed overstepping, with Flamel still sipping tea, but no one minded—Contract Heads and Hydra shared such a bond, never hierarchical.

Anselm bent down, petting Laurence’s head, chuckling: “Whether it’s her or not, hard to say.”

“If the young master needs a Head of Magic,” Tornado said, “choosing a Celestial Path transcendent isn’t ideal.”

“Here we go again.” The rat, enjoying Anselm’s touch, rolled its eyes.

“Contract Heads share the young master’s burdens. You want him to pick a nutcase like you?”

“Those too timid for the Abyss don’t deserve to seek truth.”

Tornado sneered, complex patterns faintly glowing on his white robe: “Truth is endless. The Celestial Path sees a world too narrow, too shallow.”

“Tornado’s right.”

The usually taciturn Tyr spoke: “The girl’s words hold truth. The young master’s situation isn’t optimistic. He needs strong martial power. A Head of Magic with talent rivaling Tornado’s would benefit him more.”

“Why’re you all panicking…” Laurence spun in place, baffled. “The young master has his plans. You think anyone in the Empire can outscheme him? Old Sav, right?”

“The lord and young master have their considerations,” Saville, the butler, rarely opined. “But Laurence is correct—no one in the Empire can threaten the young master with schemes.”

“Exactly, boss, right? Nothing to worry about…” Laurence trailed off. “Boss? Boss?”

“…Hm?”

Flamel, staring blankly at his teacup, snapped back at Laurence’s call, his mature, handsome face showing an embarrassed smile:

“Was thinking about killing all the Empire’s tier-fives… What were you talking about?”

“…Uh.”

Laurence shrank back, hesitant to speak.

Anselm calmly took over: “No need for such absurdity, Father. Ephithand wouldn’t allow it.”

“She’s eroded like you but not foolish… I’m your greatest restraint and her key to turning the tables on that fateful day. She won’t let me be in a threat-free environment. Or… do you want to war with her now?”

“…True.” Flamel rubbed his chin, chuckling and shaking his head. “I don’t think as thoroughly as you, Anselm. So, you’ve prepared, haven’t you?”

“Of course.”

Anselm replied: “I have much to do, and dying by her or other tier-fives’ hands isn’t part of it.”

His composure and confidence made Laurence look up in awe, and even the proud Tornado and reserved Tyr bowed slightly in respect.

Hydra’s Contract Heads aren’t inherited.

After a Hydra’s death, their time is short.

The chaos and madness they share don’t fade with Hydra’s death but intensify, their lives ticking down with Flamel’s demise.

Yet, having followed Flamel through a life more legendary than legend, they had few regrets.

Some might choose to die with him, others to settle their worldly ties and end their lives quietly, or go out spectacularly.

Their respect for Anselm wasn’t due to status but genuine admiration for their young master.

“Then, I’ll take my leave, Father.”

Anselm stood, supporting Hitana: “There’s much to do.”

“Mm, go see your mother… She’s upset she wasn’t invited to our chat.”

Flamel raised his teacup to Anselm with a smile.

“…I will.” Anselm nodded slightly, leaving the courtyard with Hitana.

Flamel gazed at his son’s departing figure, at the radiant blond hair identical to his wife’s, his eyes briefly lost and vacant.

But the haze lasted only a moment. He brought the teacup to his lips, sipping gently.

“Saville.”

The waning Hydra suddenly spoke: “Anselm will be the greatest Hydra. I’ve told you that, right?”

“Yes,” Laurence, on the table, nodded. “You’ve said it countless times, boss.”

“That many?”

The man chuckled: “Well… probably that many.”

He rubbed the teacup’s rim, his blue eyes—matching Anselm’s—reflecting the water’s surface and countless… maddening vistas only he could see, incomprehensible and indescribable.

“I often wonder,” Flamel said softly, staring at something unknown,

“If Anselm weren’t a Hydra, would he have a greater, better life?”

“…”

The Contract Heads fell silent.

They could banter freely with Flamel, but on this… they had no right to comment.

“My son had no choice in his birth, but I did.”

“I chose to bring him into this world… but does he resent the blood in his veins, the curse entwining his soul, or me for bringing him here?”

Flamel drained his tea, took Anselm’s wine from Saville, filled his cup, and downed it.

“Pfft… cough cough… Who’d Anselm learn this from? I never drink.”

He smacked his lips: “How’s he drinking wine like tea? Oh well… it’s not bad.”

Flamel Hydra stood, walking to the courtyard’s center, gazing at the Imperial Capital’s highest point, at the second sun burning eternally.

The one slumbering in the flames awoke, meeting his gaze with cold, dangerous eyes.

“A lingering failure has no right to stare at me like that, Ephithand.”

The man in noble attire, exuding elegance, grinned—a savage, cruel, vicious smile, belying the rationality he showed in life, mirroring the madness swirling in his sea-blue eyes.

“How about,” he said, smiling, “we start now and let the Empire fall by our hands?”

Shadow.

In that instant, an unreal shadow enveloped the entire Imperial Capital.

Despite clear skies and bright sun, everyone in the vast city felt a chilling, indescribable terror.

They looked up instinctively, unable to pinpoint the source of their dread, seeing only dazzling sunlight.

Flamel raised his left hand. Ten thousand meters above the capital, at the base of a massive alchemical fortress… a colossal cannon barrel emerged.

Unearthed by Flamel from the Zero Point Labyrinth, a relic of the Celestial Conquest Dynasty, upgraded by his hand—the alchemical fortress, Notun.

Saville bowed slightly, his figure seeming to flicker between existence and nonexistence; Laurence’s tiny red eyes gleamed with deeper crimson; Tyr stood silently before Flamel, his three-meter frame seemingly broader; Tornado gripped his scepter, its tip brewing pure destruction.

If Flamel harbored any thought of unleashing ruin, they would unhesitatingly enact his will, obliterating the Empire starting from the capital.

Their gazes locked for what felt like an eternity, yet… so fleeting.

“…”

The aging Empress, hiding in the Source Flame, averted her eyes, no longer meeting Flamel’s.

This submission restored his usual gentle smile, the one he showed Anselm.

He waved and Notun retracted its destructive might, floating calmly above the capital.

The Contract Heads reined in their pressures, heedless of how many tier-five transcendents in the city nearly fled in panic.

“She’s still so weak—everything’s fine.”

Flamel stretched lazily: “Though Anselm has his plans, this is my problem to solve. How could I burden him with it?”

“As a father, I’m already a failure. If I left this mess to Anselm, Aini would make me sleep in another room.”

“Laurence, Saville,” he adjusted his collar, preparing to leave the courtyard, “go warn those restless tier-fives. Since Ephithand backed down, killing a few more won’t matter.”

“No problem, boss!” “Understood, my lord.”

“As for Tyr and Tornado… forget it. You’d wreck the capital, and that’d be troublesome. I’m searching for another Zero Point Labyrinth. Come with me then.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Got it, my lord.”

The man nodded, walking calmly out of the estate.

Flamel Hydra walked the right path, bathed in warm sunlight, radiant.

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