Volume 2

Chapter 58 : The Sincerity of Miss Doll’s Apology Is…

In a massive cubic space, one hundred meters in each dimension, Anselm stood calmly, one hand leaning on his cane, the other behind his back, gazing up at a pure white dragon with an eighty-meter wingspan, nearly too large for the vast space.

It stared cautiously, fearfully at the figure on the ground, so tiny compared to its massive form, yet it dared not land.

Even with its head pressed against the ceiling and its wings struggling to beat, it refused to descend.

The Crystal White Dragon, a formidable threat in every dragon calamity of the West Kingdom, could crystallize even spells with its breath, one of the mightiest branches of dragonkind.

But now… it acted like a frightened child cowering in a corner, trying to appear menacing to ward off some terrifying beast.

In truth, managing this feeble show of bravado was already an achievement.

The dragon’s heritage gave it some slight confidence in facing Anselm.

Any other magical beast would have collapsed in terror, trembling or fainting outright.

But it didn’t know that what it should fear wasn’t the beastly terror of the Hydra, but something far deeper, far more irresistible… despair.

The young Hydra raised his hand, his sea-blue eyes surging with all-consuming darkness, transforming his captivating gaze into serpentine vertical pupils.

At the same time, the immense space—walls, floor, ceiling—was rapidly overtaken by an incomprehensible, lightless void. In that instant, the Crystal White Dragon let out a horrified roar:

“rooouuu—”

It frantically beat its wings, crashing into the ceiling, then left and right, desperate to escape, but the darkness had already engulfed everything, leaving no trace of light.

Its massive teal-blue dragon eyes began to be tainted by that absolute black and it roared in despair and fury, its body glowing with blinding light as if preparing for a final stand.

But… It was too late.

Under the relentless erosion of that darkness, the dragon’s radiant glow faded, its frenzied wingbeats slowed, and it gently landed before Anselm, emanating an unprecedented… serenity.

As if returning to its nest, as if finding a place of absolute safety, as if… it had found true belonging.

As if the earlier fear, madness, and instinctual urge to flee etched in its soul were mere illusions.

The proud dragon lowered its massive head in utter docility, its colorless eyes—completely enveloped, saturated, and fused with the darkness—chilling to behold.

At the same time, its body underwent a horrifying mutation visible to the eye: its spine expanded, tearing through flesh and scales, protruding as if the entire backbone were being pulled out; the ornate scales on its chest peeled away, the flesh beneath swelling into tumors, pulsating as if something were about to burst forth.

Facing this grotesque, mutated beast, Anselm smiled and reached out to stroke its massive head: “Good child, good child…”

The mutated dragon exhaled a content, submissive breath, showing none of its initial madness or resistance.

Anselm squinted and said: “A pity it’s a failure… end yourself.”

“…”

The dragon tilted its head, seemingly stunned, but showed no resistance or confusion.

Instead, with almost gleeful decisiveness, it bit into its own body, its massive claws tearing into its chest with a ferocity and brutality as if destroying an enemy, not itself.

“Phew…”

Anselm closed his eyes, letting out a soft sigh.

“Still no success?” Flamel’s voice arrived before his figure in space.

The tall, handsome middle-aged noble, holding a pocket watch, smiled at his son: “I could hear your sigh through the space, Anselm.”

“I didn’t have high expectations,” Anselm shook his head.

“As always.”

“But this Crystal White Dragon had great potential—it even ate this generation’s Dragon King’s eggshell.”

Flamel encouraged, fiddling with his pocket watch.

The dead dragon’s time began to rewind, and within seconds, it was restored to its original, untainted state, frozen in midair.

The man placed his hand on the watch’s button, raising an eyebrow: “So… try again?”

“No need.”

Anselm turned, preparing to leave: “No point wasting more energy.”

“Alright,” Flamel shrugged.

“I’ll use this little guy to make something then… your mother could use a beautiful gown. Hmm… she’d look stunning in it—oh, Anselm, don’t rush off.”

He snapped his fingers, sealing all elements in the space, preventing Anselm from leaving.

The young Hydra turned, gazing at the beaming Flamel, and asked softly: “What is it, Father?”

“That little girl,” Flamel gave a meaningful smile, “the one who made you trouble me for the first time—how’s progress with her?”

“…Almost done,” Anselm replied calmly.

“Why do you ask?”

“Your Contract Head, of course I’d care.”

Flamel said matter-of-factly: “And this is Ephithand’s territory. Many of your plans might not go as smoothly.”

“I never pin my hopes on absolute success.”

Anselm explained his principles to Flamel: “That’s inherently unrealistic, Father.”

Flamel looked at him for a moment, then smiled: “As long as you’re confident. Better hurry.”

“…” Anselm’s eyes lowered slightly. “Why?”

“Because I’ll be leaving soon,” the elder Hydra said.

“I’m quite busy, Anselm. I’ve got a lead on the next crucial material, and once I dive into the Zero Point Labyrinth, you won’t be able to reach me. So, best wrap up with that girl soon—I’d like to make her a custom gift before I go.”

“I will.”

Anselm replied softly: “May I leave now, Father?”

Flamel waved with a grin: “Keep at it, make her cry in your arms.”

“Oh, and Ivora’s waiting for you outside. What did you discuss with her?”

“…Ivora?”

Anselm’s brow furrowed slightly but quickly relaxed: “I see. Goodbye, Father.”

His figure vanished, reappearing in the corridor of the Notun.

Anselm immediately spotted the fiery woman leaning against a nearby wall, arms crossed, staring at him.

Before she could speak, Anselm said first: “What, didn’t things work out with Mingfuluo?”

“…” Ivora’s expression grew dangerous. “You planned this? Playing me?”

“What else would you come to me for?”

Anselm said leisurely: “Simple deduction—what did she say?”

“…Hmph, just a flat refusal.”

“No reasons given?”

“None,” the Grand Princess sneered.

“Seems like with your protection, she’s grown quite bold.”

Anselm’s eyes narrowed slightly but he said nothing more, only asking Ivora: “So, are you still pursuing it? That interested in the Data System?”

“It’s not about that thing.”

The woman stepped forward, suddenly grabbing Anselm, pulling them close.

“Anselm, my subordinate… overheard her muttering something interesting.”

The young Hydra raised an eyebrow: “That convenient?”

“Heh, just that convenient. Guess what she was saying?”

Ivora’s grip on Anselm’s wrist tightened, her breath hot and dangerous:

“She was muttering about how to deal with the Empress, with… the Flame-Feasting Royalty.”

Looking at her stunning face so close, Anselm replied nonchalantly: “And?”

“So… keep your little doll in check, Anselm.”

Ivora tugged at her lips: “I now have every reason to burn her to ashes without regard for your face, got it?”

“This time, out of our little friendship and your past help, I’ll overlook her suicidal, arrogant words.”

“But if your little doll does anything to displease me again… boom—”

The woman gleefully mimed an explosion: “She’ll become a pretty spark.”

Anselm only laughed: “Don’t keep misjudging Mingfuluo’s value to me, Ivora.”

“Is she important… or not? Or just conveniently placed?”

His casual, genuine demeanor left Ivora uncertain: “I know you want to beat me for once, since you never have.”

“…Should I say you don’t seem to care about that little doll, or care too much about your little dog?”

Ivora let go of Anselm, clicking her tongue in displeasure: “If it were that little dog, you’d already be giving me attitude… and she doesn’t even affect you? What a useless thing.”

Anselm only smiled without responding, which irked Ivora further.

Her complex relationship with Anselm couldn’t be summed up easily.

She admired his talent and strength but didn’t want him to surpass her in everything; she craved such an exceptional male yet constantly sought to extract his value.

Their dynamic shifted between ally and enemy, with Anselm always a step ahead, prepared.

As he said, Ivora had never beaten him.

“I thought you might use me to tame her, but it seems… you don’t have that plan.”

Ivora dialed back her aggression: “Anselm, what exactly are you planning with that little doll? After seeing the intel on why that crazy old man Erlin Zege died, I don’t believe you’d pass up this chance.”

“The chance is right here, isn’t it?” Anselm smiled.

“…Hm?”

Anselm’s gaze gave Ivora a sudden, uneasy feeling.

She hated being looked at like that.

Over the years, their collaborations weren’t many, but she knew this pattern.

That look meant she was in a position of “knowing Anselm was using her but having to go along because it benefited her too,” which infuriated her.

Of course, there was an even worse scenario she couldn’t accept—being used without realizing it, even enjoying it.

“I don’t believe you don’t want to get back at your overstepping little sister.”

This time, Anselm took the offensive, his hand slipping under the slit of Ivora’s lavish gown, chuckling softly: “But she’s always airtight, with your mother’s protection, so… no way to strike, right?”

Ivora’s breathing grew heavier, stirred both by Anselm’s touch and his words.

Strong as she was, someone like Ivora wouldn’t tolerate a pest’s annoyance.

She’d burn every insect within miles to ash if provoked.

As Ephithand’s tool to suppress her, Sulun had drawn much of Ivora’s hatred in a short time.

If Ivora merely wished her mother dead in thought, her killing intent toward Sulun was undisguised—she’d seize any chance, or if truly enraged, ensure Sulun’s certain death.

But as Anselm said… Sulun was always impeccable, leaving Ivora endlessly frustrated.

The Grand Princess’s expression wavered, torn between resisting Anselm’s manipulation and the allure of his offer.

“Don’t worry, I’m not like a certain vicious woman who’d burn someone for a rejection.”

Anselm pinched lightly, chuckling at Ivora’s soft gasp: “I’ll give you plenty of time to think. It’s fine if you don’t agree, no rush, Ivora.”

He withdrew his slightly damp hand, burning it clean with flames, his gaze playful, then turned to leave.

The moment he turned, the smile and amusement in his eyes vanished completely.

You’re getting impatient, aren’t you?

With the critical moment approaching, you plan to ignite every possible conflict and issue?

In this city I can’t fully control, the storms you could stir are indeed unimaginable, but…

The young Hydra gripped his grim, majestic snake-headed cane, his face hardening with the cold resolve of a dominator.

Adapting plans to shifting circumstances with available resources—Anselm lacked for nothing in this ability.

Even in a thunderstorm or raging sea, playing against fate, he had… the power to cleave through towering waves.

“So… the first step.”

Anselm’s lips curved slightly, his smile tinged with cruelty.

“It’s time for a long-overdue lesson for dear Miss Mingfuluo.”

At first, Mingfuluo didn’t know why Anselm had summoned her to the mansion.

But when Anselm led her to this underground alchemical workshop, she vaguely understood what she was about to face.

Anselm sat leisurely on a soft sofa, legs crossed, in a setting that felt too relaxed for an alchemical workshop, proving this place was, of course, no ordinary workshop.

“Mingfuluo,” he propped his cheek, smiling warmly at the petite doll standing still with her head slightly bowed, “today, Ivora suddenly came to me. She seemed, well… quite displeased.”

“Is it about the Data System?” Mingfuluo responded softly.

“Yes, she thinks you’re being a bit too ungrateful.”

Anselm shook his head: “Not even giving a reason for your refusal, and…”

“And she said you were muttering something about killing the Empress?”

“…!”

Seeing Mingfuluo’s body tremble slightly, Anselm’s smile deepened, though his tone carried a hint of frustration:

“Dear Mingfuluo, do you know how much trouble you’ve caused me?”

“I—”

“I don’t mind you indulging in your strange fantasies,” his tone was light, yet his words were sharp and cold, “that’s your right, and I don’t care. But for you to cause me trouble with such nonsensical words and ideas…”

The young Hydra lightly tapped the armrest: “Isn’t that a bit too much?”

“I… understand. I’m sorry, Anselm… Sir Anselm.”

The petite figure in a white lab coat seemed impossibly frail at that moment.

Her pure resolve was not only disregarded by Anselm but had become a burden to him.

Her grand, unwavering vision hadn’t even begun, yet it was already causing Anselm trouble.

How… absurdly laughable.

“An apology should carry some sincerity, Mingfuluo.”

Anselm tilted his chin slightly, his tone leisurely: “You know what I like, don’t you?”

“…”

Mingfuluo understood almost instantly why Anselm had called her here.

Was this… a reprimand, or rather, conditioning?

A long-overdue attempt to break down her heart and personality, to make her fall step by step into Anselm’s control.

What once would have angered her, made her resist, now oddly made her feel less tense.

Because it meant… Anselm hadn’t completely, utterly given up on her.

There was still a sliver of possibility.

It’s fine… this situation isn’t unexpected.

She had already considered the best course of action.

Even so, Mingfuluo’s hands still trembled slightly.

Anselm’s declaration, the one that plunged her into an abyss of rationality, had become her greatest constraint, freeing her step by step from pure logic, making her no longer default to solving everything with absolute reason.

So now, Mingfuluo was deeply nervous about what she was about to do.

She took a deep breath, first shedding her white lab coat, folding it neatly.

Then she unbuttoned her shirt, folding it just as carefully and placing it atop the coat.

Next came her skirt, her form-fitting clothes, and her high heels—the petite scholar arranged them all neatly beside her.

Finally, clad only in semi-sheer black tights, Miss Doll closed her eyes, removed her glasses, her skin flushed pink from the rush of blood.

Her breathing quickened as she bent her knees, kneeling fully, pressing her forehead to the back of her hands, her hips raised.

Mingfuluo Zege—she knew exactly what Anselm liked most, and she was indeed acting in the way most pleasing to him.

The woman who once opposed Anselm at every turn, resentful and indignant, then indifferent, now showed her humility and vulnerability.

“Please… forgive me, Sir Anselm.”

After all, this was her mistake. If it could make Anselm happy, it was fine.

More importantly… It was about maintaining the fragile balance between her and Anselm.

Would this subservience have to continue for a long time?

Mingfuluo didn’t know what to think.

But she realized… she didn’t feel much resistance to it.