Taming the Protagonist

Volume 2

Chapter 95 : He Is the Abyss

After the successful conclusion of Mingfuluo’s taming, the Imperial Capital seemed to return to its former tranquility, with no further ripples.

But this very calm made the keenest of the great figures sense something amiss.

In Ephithand’s palace, Anticheg, Ivora’s eyes narrowed as she stared at the sealed gate before her.

Her dear mother had not held court or handled any state affairs for half a month.

The Empire’s nobles had long grown accustomed to this, or rather, they preferred the chaos of Ephithand’s waning rule.

To them, an emperor who did nothing was the best emperor.

But for Ivora, who was to inherit divine authority, she sensed something… deeply unnatural in this.

Logically, even if Ephithand were on the verge of madness, she should have two or three years of life left. Newest update provıded by novelfire(.)net

Typically, emperors in this phase either desperately sought breakthroughs from the vast elements borne by the Hydras or gave up entirely, indulging in final pleasures.

But none had ever been like Ephithand, hiding within the Source Flame, merely… lingering.

Previously, Ivora thought she was only delaying the approach of her maddened end, but as that limit drew nearer, such behavior seemed utterly meaningless.

Lost in thought, Ivora reached out to touch Anticheg’s gate.

Instantly, searing Blood-flame engulfed her entire hand.

She clicked her tongue, withdrawing her hand, but it was already charred to the bone, blackened in a mere moment.

Ivora frowned, slicing off her entire hand with her other, transforming it into a blade.

A new hand regenerated under the burning Blood-flame.

“You’re not just lingering…” The ferocious, violent flames reminded Ivora of the mother she knew in her youth.

That… absolute dominance over the world.

She clenched her regenerated hand, murmuring: “You’re… gathering strength?”

Ivora, cruel and brutal by nature but never foolish, instantly pieced together many possibilities.

Her expression darkened, and she hesitated.

After a few seconds, she made up her mind, her form turning into a blaze of flame and vanishing.

Inside Anticheg, amid the ever-burning Source Flame, the aged monarch, silent for half a month, opened her eyes.

“Truly… such a troublesome, foolish thing. But it doesn't matter.”

Her flame-colored eyes, clouded with chaos and madness, still radiated a chilling dread.

“I’ll have plenty of time to teach you later.”

Meanwhile, Ivora, who had instantly arrived at Anselm’s chambers, found not him but a frail, pitiful girl.

“Where’s Anselm?” she asked impatiently, addressing the dazed girl with snow-white hair.

“Your Highness Ivora… Greetings—”

Marina, snapping out of her daze, began to greet her but was abruptly cut off: “I asked you where he is.”

The volatile Grand Princess gripped Marina’s throat from a distance, lifting her off the ground expressionlessly: “Can’t you understand?”

“Anselm… is at… the Imperial… Royal Theater… cough, cough, cough!”

After struggling to answer, Marina was roughly dropped to the ground, the vivid burn marks on her neck silently testifying to her pain.

“The Royal Theater… He still has the mood and time for a place like that?”

Ivora muttered, frowning, then glanced at Marina, coughing on the floor.

“You’re the mortal Anselm deliberately kept by his side… Marina, right?”

Marina struggled to her feet, bowing deeply to Ivora with utmost humility, attempting to speak, but her scorched throat could barely produce coherent words.

“So fragile… What use does he have for you? You’re not even fun to toy with.”

The Grand Princess waved her hand impatiently, and a flicker of Blood-flame passed over Marina’s throat, instantly healing her wounds.

“It is I… Thank you for your grace, and for remembering me, Your Highness.”

Marina, hands clasped at her waist, bowed deeply again, her tone humble and respectful, without a trace of resentment.

“Enough with the nonsense. Deliver a message to Anselm—now, immediately.”

Though unsure of Ivora’s intentions, Marina responded respectfully: “Please give your instructions, Your Highness.”

“Tell him: That old thing might be planning to move against you and Flamel. Be cautious.”

Ivora spoke casually, but Marina’s heart stopped.

She opened her mouth, unable to speak at first.

Overcoming her overwhelming fear with her greatly strengthened resolve, she risked Ivora’s wrath and spoke haltingly: “Could you… repeat that, please?”

“What? Think I’m spouting nonsense?”

Ivora sneered but didn’t torment Marina further, only saying coldly: “I didn’t misspeak a single word. Deliver it to Anselm exactly as I said, and quickly.”

With that, her figure vanished from Anselm’s chambers.

Marina stood frozen for a full four or five seconds before bolting out the door in a frenzy, her noble etiquette forgotten.

She stumbled, nearly tripping over her skirt, moving like someone who couldn’t coordinate their limbs.

Five minutes later, Ivora stood atop Hydra Mansion’s roof, arms crossed, watching a carriage speed away from the estate’s gates.

Her gaze then turned to the highest point of the Imperial Capital, her eyes cold.

She had intended to tell Anselm directly, but seeing Marina gave her another idea.

The moment she touched Anticheg’s gate, Ivora knew she had alerted Ephithand.

Though her mother was old and addled, she was always crystal clear when it came to her survival—likely because she poured all her will into it.

If Ivora’s suspicions were correct, Ephithand would kill Marina as a warning, unwilling to let any disruptions derail her plans.

This way, Ephithand’s ire would spare Ivora, keeping her out of danger.

But if Marina emerged unscathed, it would mean… Ivora’s suspicions were wrong, or at least not entirely correct.

The old thing might be gathering strength for something else.

Of course, theoretically, there was another possibility—a disastrously bad one.

That Ephithand was absolutely certain of victory.

But that was merely theoretical.

Ivora looked to the sky, where, at an unreachable ten thousand meters, hung the sword of another god.

“Think you can defeat that monster, Flamel?”

The Grand Princess scoffed disdainfully: “You’re not that mad yet, are you old?”

***

In the private box at the theater’s highest point, Anselm, swirling a wine glass, gazed down at the woman performing a solo under the sole spotlight.

Her graceful, slender figure shimmered in a black backless gown adorned with sparkling diamonds.

The intricate lace of her fingerless gloves accentuated hands so perfect that even the finest dollmakers might fail to replicate them.

Her long, delicate fingers danced swiftly across the black-and-white keys, like sprites in motion.

Yet all this paled compared to her striking, utterly black eyes, imbued with an indescribable, captivating allure, drawing in all light and attention, fathomless as the abyss.

Undoubtedly, she was a woman who would turn heads on any street, but in the theater, filled only with her music, no one seemed captivated by her outward beauty.

Instead, they were wholly enthralled by her music, which held a charm tenfold greater than her appearance.

Yura Nanaka.

A few months ago, when this unknown pianist first took the stage, most assumed she was some noble’s pampered mistress.

But now, she was the Empire’s most celebrated pianist.

Even marquises needed appointments to hear her solo performances.

Miss Nanaka’s tickets sold out instantly, her beauty, her music, and her enigmatic allure making her the dream of countless young elites in the Imperial Capital.

Yet this seemingly backgroundless pianist maintained a pure, aloof independence amid a swarm of suitors.

Holding her delicate hand would be a boast-worthy feat, but no one had succeeded—those who claimed otherwise either vanished or ended up crippled the next day.

As the lingering notes of her melody faded into the theater’s air, Miss Yura Nanaka rose gracefully, smiling and bowing amid thunderous applause before calmly exiting.

Sipping his wine, Anselm asked me, seated in his lap: “What did you think?”

“Even someone like me, with no knowledge of music, felt a slight shock,” I replied softly.

“But it’s not just her skill at the keys. She seems to have used some kind of spell… no, more precisely, an… unconscious… instinct?”

I frowned slightly, encountering something unprecedented: “As a transcendent, she seems unaware of and unable to control her own abilities, like a newborn infant… She must be one of those extremely rare transcendents who fell into the abyss, but something feels… off.”

My commentary on the music inexplicably shifted to Yura herself: “She’s clearly unstable, yet… maintains a subtle stability. And…”

I turned to Anselm: “If I’m not mistaken, during her curtain call, she seemed to be… looking at you?”

The gaze of those pitch-black, mesmerizing eyes left an impression far too profound.

“Heh, because she indeed—”

“Anselm!” The closed door burst open, and Marina, breathless and disheveled, stumbled into the box.

Marina Lansmarlos, sister to Hitana Lansmarlos, that monstrous Contract Head.

But her fame among the Imperial Capital’s elite never stemmed from that identity—it was her own merit.

Gentle, refined, poised, and graceful… she was so perfect that even the most traditional nobles could find no fault.

From her appearance to her etiquette, her knowledge to her cultivation, she was nothing like a village girl from a frigid border hamlet.

Even those raised with the finest noble education could scarcely match her.

Because of her, the elite circles broke an unspoken rule—that poise could not be cultivated, let alone in such a short time.

Yet Marina Lansmarlos had done it.

As Anselm’s liaison with the nobility, Marina was flawless.

The great figures, of course, had no idea how much effort and sacrifice this girl, devoid of transcendent talent, had poured into achieving her current status.

Since meeting Anselm, Marina had not allowed herself a single moment truly her own—not even half a moment.

But now, this girl, so praised by the elites, was frantic, terrified, anxious… as if she had reverted to her earliest days, a timid village girl terrified of angering Anselm, her every word and action steeped in fear.

“Anselm… Anselm…” Marina panted, her panicked and anxious state surprising even me, who had never seen the girl so undone.

“Calm down, Marina,” Anselm beckoned to her, an invisible force gently guiding her to his side.

I, seated in his lap, silently and obediently made way, allowing the seemingly exhausted Marina to collapse onto Anselm’s lap.

“I’m so sorry… Anselm, I… I’ve been too disgraceful.”

Resting on Anselm’s lap, I felt my breathing gradually steady.

I closed my eyes, taking two or three seconds to compose myself.

Then, with a slow exhale, I spoke as calmly as I could: “Please… ensure no one but you and Miss Helen can hear.”

“Rest assured, no one else will hear. Speak,” Anselm replied.

I nodded, struggling slightly to repeat Ivora’s words.

Amid the lingering applause, the private box fell into dead silence, broken only by my labored breaths.

Helen gripped Anselm’s hand tightly, a blazing… murderous intent flaring in her lifeless purple eyes.

“It’s her, as expected…” the petite woman whispered coldly. “She must… be eradicated…”

I looked at Anselm with worry, the world of transcendents far beyond my reach.

Yet, even so distant, I understood what it meant for the Empress to move against Anselm, against the Hydras.

Gazing at the face I longed for day and night, I felt a surge of exhaustion, a profound sense of frailty and powerlessness.

I hated myself as never before.

I hated my own incompetence.

Yet Anselm, at the center of it all, remained the calmest.

So calm, it was as if he had foreseen everything.

“No need to worry, Helen, Marina,” the young Hydra said with a gentle smile. “This matter will be resolved properly.”

After hearing this, Helen stared at Anselm intently for reasons I couldn’t fathom, but she said nothing.

I, meanwhile, remained visibly anxious.

Neither of us knew whether Anselm truly had complete confidence or was simply sparing us worry.

The boy we followed never… never showed weakness before anyone.

“Father,” Helen said, still clutching Anselm’s hand, “when will Mr. Flamel’s creation be complete? I want to claim Mingfuluo’s soul as soon as possible. The knowledge she accumulated over these three years will surely help me serve you better.”

Before Anselm could respond, the door to the box… was knocked on again.

As both girls wondered who it could be, Anselm smiled and said: “Come in.”

As the door slowly opened, a slender, snow-white leg emerged from the slit of a gown.

A delicate black high-heeled shoe stepped onto the soft carpet, black toenail polish accentuating the fairness of her foot.

Following the leg upward, the rounded curve of her hips, her narrow waist, and the full, proud peaks of her chest were perfectly outlined by a form-fitting black gown.

Seductive, graceful, utterly captivating… It was none other than the pianist who had just enthralled the audience, Miss Yura Nanaka.

Her pitch-black, mesmerizing eyes fixed on Anselm, filled with a frenzy and ecstasy that made Helen’s brows furrow deeply.

“Master… my master…”

She caressed her swan-like neck, almost as if choking it, letting out dazed, blissful gasps and whispers: “You’ve finally come for me again. You’ve come to favor me, haven’t you?”

This renowned pianist, the dream of countless youths in the Empire, the ideal of every woman, crawled toward Anselm like a dog.

She kicked off her heels, swaying her hips, her fawning expression—craving touch, affection, favor—enough to drive any man wild.

She licked her rosy lips, the allure in her black eyes unmistakable.

For some reason, I, lying on Anselm’s lap, felt my gaze grow hazy.

I began to pant softly, my face turning toward Anselm’s waist, my breaths growing hotter.

My legs rubbed together unconsciously.

“Ah… Miss Marina, and this adorable little miss,” Yura said, her voice dripping with devotion, kissing and licking Anselm’s fingers with near-mad fervor. “Are you to be favored by the Master alongside me? I’ll make you so happy… so happy…”

Helen stared at the woman who seemed to have fully embraced being a dog, her thoughts unreadable.

After a moment, she looked to Anselm, her gaze questioning.

If Anselm desired it, she would allow Yura’s instinctive mental corruption to take hold, surrendering to the pleasure the woman promised.

But Anselm merely stroked Yura’s head, saying calmly: “Enough, Yura. Play a piece for me.”

Yura, rubbing fervently against Anselm’s hand with a face full of mad longing, froze.

She looked up, anxious and fearful: “Master… Don't you need me? Did Yura displease you? Yura… Yura hasn’t been within twenty meters of any man…”

“Calm down, Yura,” Anselm’s hand slid to her cheek, gently lifting her chin.

He gazed into her pitch-black eyes, asking softly: “Think carefully. Why did you come to the Imperial Capital, to the Royal Theater?”

“For… what?” Yura repeated blankly, then answered cautiously, like a timid beast: “It was… for you, for Master. Master told me to go to the Royal Theater—”

Anselm pressed a finger to her lips, stopping her.

The young Hydra lowered his eyes, sighing silently, his calm, almost indifferent expression suggesting he had witnessed this scene… countless times.

“You came here out of your love and passion for music, didn’t you?” he said patiently. “This is your beloved craft. That’s why you’re here.”

“No… no, how could that compare to Master!” Yura’s emotions surged violently.

The allure in her black eyes, her craving for Anselm, swelled visibly, chilling to behold.

It was as if nothing existed in her eyes but Anselm—not the world, not even herself.

She clutched his hand in panic, on the verge of tears: “Please don’t abandon me… don’t… don’t cast me aside. I exist for you, I—”

Anselm placed his hand on her head, and the near-mad pianist fell into a deep sleep.

As Yura slumbered, I slowly emerged from my uncontrolled state.

Realizing my earlier behavior, I, the snow-haired girl, stood abruptly, my face flushed, covering the darkened spot between my legs with my hands.

“…Father, she—” Helen began.

“Helen, can you discern Yura’s condition?” Anselm asked softly, stroking the woman’s hair.

I glanced at Yura, asleep against Anselm’s leg, and said: “Miss Yura seems to have… an unnaturally intense craving for you. Even her power as a transcendent seems to stem from… this craving.”

My words stunned Marina, who had been mortified moments before.

“…Transcendent?” she murmured blankly, then asked me, almost uncontrollably: “Miss Helen, you’re saying… Miss Yura is transcendent?”

“What’s wrong?” I tilted my head slightly. “Is something off?”

“No, but, she…” Marina hesitated.

Back in Chishuang Territory, she was just an ordinary person, wasn’t she?

I noticed Marina’s unease and glanced thoughtfully at the unconscious Yura but said nothing.

Anselm, unperturbed by Marina’s interruption, sighed: “Truly… a disastrous situation, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” I nodded, shifting my gaze from Yura. “She’s ruined. Her will, her soul, have been utterly… warped. Like the abyss’s corruption of transcendents, no… even more dangerous. This pathological pursuit of you will destroy her completely—”

I stopped abruptly.

Anselm’s presence corrupted this individual named Yura, much like the abyss corrupts transcendents.

It was as if Anselm himself… was the abyss.

Meeting Anselm’s meaningful gaze, I fell silent for a moment before saying softly: “Is this why you brought me here, Father?”

Anselm only smiled and shook his head: “You’re not like Yura, Helen.”

Of course, my situation differed from Yura’s.

At most, I had been manipulated by Anselm in terms of my mindset, but this manipulation was intangible, a transformation that ultimately returned to my own self.

But Yura… had clearly been altered by some direct force.

“But because of this, you don’t want me to become like her, do you?” I said, never releasing Anselm’s hand.

I gazed at Yura, leaning against his leg, and said softly: “Abandoning self, dignity, even true ideals, just to gain your favor.”

The petite woman stared into Anselm’s deep sea-blue eyes: “You don’t like, nor need, such an existence.”

“You’re worried… I’ll become like her.”

“I hope you don’t think my concern is unnecessary,” Anselm said with a smile.

Even if my life was fabricated, my beliefs imposed, Mingfuluo became Helen because “Anselm could fulfill that ideal.”

Her pursuit never wavered.

Attending this performance, meeting this pitiful Miss Yura, was Anselm’s sincere warning.

He genuinely hoped I could maintain myself while being utterly loyal, even though I… was no longer Mingfuluo.

Yet, facing Anselm’s earnest caution, I, after a brief silence, said calmly: “Your concern is indeed unnecessary, Father.”

“…”

As Anselm paused, I reached out, cradling his face.

“Ask me,” I said, meeting his sea-blue eyes without flinching.

“Ask me that question.”

Staring into those familiar yet unfamiliar purple eyes, Anselm instinctively shifted his gaze slightly but returned it the next moment.

He fixed his eyes on mine, not missing a single emotion, his tone growing grave and earnest: “Your ideals or me—what do you choose, Ming… Helen?”

“I won’t abandon either, Father,” I answered without hesitation.

The corners of Anselm’s mouth lifted slightly: “But you’ll have to choose one eventually. Because I’ll betray you. Because it’s all a lie.”

“No, that’s not true. You would never betray me, and nothing you’ve said is a lie.”

“You must have reasons you cannot speak of.”

“Even if I refuse to tell you anything?”

“Then it means your reasons are even greater, too vast for you to bear.”

My small face drew closer to Anselm’s, and I, holding his face, pressed a gentle kiss.

“I will do everything to help you, even if you tell me nothing—or rather, because you tell me nothing, I must do everything.”

“I will never let you bear your burdens alone.”

In my lifeless eyes, a faint but, to Anselm, brilliantly vivid spark bloomed.

I said: “Anselm, trust me.”

“…”

Anselm gazed into my purple eyes again, the spark he saw perhaps just an illusion, an unrealistic hope.

I was still Helen; Mingfuluo was still Mingfuluo.

But… that was fine.

“This is good,” Anselm said, pulling me into his arms, murmuring softly with closed eyes: “This is good, Helen.”

The current Helen was good too… Having lost a friend, having such a daughter wasn’t bad.

When he opened his eyes again, the young Hydra of old returned.

“Not wanting to abandon either—how greedy, Helen,” Anselm said, chuckling as he pinched my cheek. “Truly… my daughter.”

A faint smile appeared on my face: “As it should be, Father.”

“Then… let’s go. The purpose of this outing has been fulfilled.”

“What about Miss Yura?”

“The more contact she has with me, the worse it is for her. When she wakes, she’ll forget what happened… Marina, I’ll leave the aftermath to you.”

Snapping out of her fixation on Yura after learning she was a transcendent, Marina nodded quickly: “I understand, Anselm.”

Holding Anselm’s hand, I looked up at him: “Where to next, Father?”

“Where do you want to go?” Anselm asked with a smile.

I fell silent for a moment, then said softly: “To… the cemetery.”

“To pay respects to those who have passed.”