Taming the Protagonist

Volume 2

Chapter 101 : From the Beginning

Notun, the alchemical fortress forged by Flamel.

Flamel, obsessed with creation, had little interest in wielding violence; Notun’s existence was merely a deterrent to the Flame-Feasting Empress, a symbol of how dangerous this “non-combatant” could be.

An ultimate weapon that, under his control, could potentially annihilate even gods.

At full power, Notun’s main cannon could fire a blast that, if arced perfectly along the continent’s surface, could plow through the entire land from east to west in a single strike.

Not the entire Empire, but the entire continent.

Of course, it couldn’t split the continent in two, as this land, capable of withstanding divine battles in ancient times, was extraordinarily resilient.

But given time, leveling the entire continent was not impossible, and this was far from Notun’s destructive limit—merely the effect of its main cannon.

When Notun, equipped with countless modules and arrays, operated at full capacity under Flamel’s command, no one knew, nor wanted to know, the extent of destruction it could unleash.

If there was any limitation, it was that only Flamel could wield this weapon of destruction.

Even if he left Notun to Anselm, Anselm could only access its most basic functions.

After all, the Empress could incinerate the entire Empire in three days and that was the current, waning, twilight Empress, under the full resistance of all the Empire’s transcendents.

If Ephithand were still in her prime, at the peak of her power, how much shorter that time could be… no one could say.

The violence of divine species was so overwhelming, yet more despairing was that violence was merely the shallowest expression of their authority.

Pursuing ascension, seeking evolution, their supreme souls constantly endured the abyss’s erosion.

The “abyss”… was merely a fearsome name given because no existence in this world could withstand the primal flood of universal information.

It was both a venom that eroded souls, driving them to madness and a treasure trove leading to infinity, achieving supremacy.

Those who could draw supreme authority from this endless venom, strengthening themselves, were gods.

By withstanding the relentless torrent of world information, seizing and mastering the rules of the world’s operation, one naturally became a god.

Just as Hydra’s ancestors could easily inscribe “the secrecy of Hydra cannot be spied upon” into the world’s rules, as constant as the rising sun and setting moon.

This was undoubtedly an enthralling, absolute power, truly above all beings and things, an unassailable supremacy.

But the cost was equally evident.

The moment Helen stepped onto Notun, she felt the chilling aura enveloping the alchemical fortress.

A chaotic, distorted, maddening presence, so tangible it seemed to thicken the air.

The abyss’s blackness stemmed from the amalgamation of all things; when all colors merged, only black remained.

Thus, it wasn’t that the abyss symbolized evil; rather, it was… unrelenting.

Once entangled, one could only fall deeper, until the soul was annihilated, reduced to nothingness, becoming part of the abyss, achieving meaningless freedom.

The abyss held no good or evil, but those who fell into it often, due to their increasingly frenzied minds, manifested uncontrollable chaotic evil.

Helen understood this all too well.

Even without inheriting that crown, Ivora’s name for tyranny was infamous, and when accompanying Anselm to Anticheg, though waiting outside the gates, she could feel Ephithand’s ferocious intent and madness, as if it could burn the entire world.

But… Flamel was different.

By all logic, his condition should have plummeted after Elnilisa’s demise, yet in their few meetings, Helen never sensed any unsettling ferocity from the elder Hydra.

He was courteous, gentle in speech, clear in thought… compared to Ephithand, even Ivora paled in comparison.

Yet now, the deathly aura enveloping Notun told one truth—

Flamel’s condition… had deteriorated to an extreme.

What had happened in this short time?

What exactly was Flamel trying to create?

No one but Anselm knew.

“Are you okay?” Anselm glanced at Helen, visibly uncomfortable. “Bear it a little longer. Handling Mingfuluo’s soul isn’t difficult for Father; it’ll be quick.”

“Mr. Flamel, he…”

Anselm didn’t respond, but even without words, Helen could roughly guess the situation.

Yet, looking at Anselm… She saw no emotion on the boy’s profile.

Only calm, an… expected calm.

This calm made Helen swallow her words; the woman lowered her head, her lifeless eyes harboring an even firmer resolve.

She instinctively tightened her grip on the rope, causing Mingfuluo, bound and led by it, to stumble.

Fully restrained, her mouth sealed, Mingfuluo still fixed Anselm’s back with a piercing gaze, silently proclaiming, until the very end, the emotions Anselm least wanted to see—defiance and disloyalty.

But such emotions wouldn’t last long; Mingfuluo would become Helen’s nourishment.

Her three years of arduous study would, in the end, only bolster Anselm, and in no small way.

The four heroes favored by fate possessed talents and abilities worthy of that favor.

Hitana, rootless and unmoored, rose from blood and fire, reaching the pinnacle in thirty years, wielding divine might.

In the realm of knowledge, Mingfuluo achieved a domain no one could comprehend.

Not knowledge for power, but for advancing the entire Empire, the entire society, toward a new world.

Without exaggeration, when the old Empire fell to the heroes’ hands, the new world’s establishment was almost single-handedly driven by Mingfuluo.

Anselm had no intention of building a new world; he wouldn’t allow fate’s desired future to come.

But this knowledge would enable him, in the near future, to better dominate the Empire, to better… oppose fate.

Mingfuluo, secluded in Hydra’s underground library for three years, with her personality, likely spared no time even for sleep, constantly absorbing, digesting, and claiming all she could understand.

She must have hoped to use this vast accumulation to reverse the Empire’s decline in one fell swoop.

Yet, in the end… she became a tool in Anselm’s hands to fight fate.

Ironically, had she compromised even slightly with Anselm, she might have turned that knowledge into reality, instead of becoming nourishment for another “self.”

Truly… ironic.

Thinking this, Anselm felt someone grasp his hand.

“Father,” Helen’s voice sounded in his ear, “trust me.”

At some point, Helen had begun emphasizing those three words.

Anselm could tell it wasn’t from insecurity, but he couldn’t quite pinpoint why.

Perhaps she was perpetually surrounded by insecurity, unable to forgive the self that didn’t trust Anselm, hoping he would trust her now.

This weakness distinguished her from Mingfuluo’s coldness, softening Anselm’s expression.

He could absolutely trust Helen, shaped entirely by him, bearing the shadow of a former friend yet never to leave or betray him, a daughter he imbued with purpose.

Even when told of fate’s existence, she showed no wavering, only deeper hatred for Mingfuluo.

She trusted herself over fate.

For Anselm, that was enough.

Thus, Anselm led Helen through the twisted, terrifying aura, traversing long, dim corridors, passing through gate after gate, toward Notun’s deepest core.

The deeper they went, the more Helen and Mingfuluo suffered; Flamel’s unconscious chaos and madness had become a tangible oppression, a force that could shake the unsteady or even shatter their souls.

Anselm shielded them from direct harm but couldn’t fully spare them pain; his grip on Helen’s hand tightened unconsciously.

“Squeak.”

A soft cry sounded in Helen’s ear; she instinctively turned toward it, but Anselm immediately pressed her head down.

“Don’t look,” the young Hydra said gravely. “You too, Mingfuluo.”

As Helen and Mingfuluo lowered their heads, in the darkness unlit by the faint flames along the corridor, two piercing red glows appeared.

Then four, six… countless tiny red lights, filling every dark corner, all watching Anselm, Helen, and Mingfuluo.

“Laurence,” Anselm said softly, “are you alright?”

“Young… Master?”

From the darkness came an eerie, fragmented murmur, as if hundreds whispered simultaneously: “Ah… yes, it’s the Young Master. The people with the Young Master are… are…”

“My future Contract Head, calm yourself, Laurence.”

“Contract Head… I understand… hehehe… the Young Master finally has a Contract Head.”

The countless red lights in the darkness faded with that chilling laughter, yet Laurence, the usually lively rat, was nowhere to be seen.

Anselm, eyes slightly lowered, said to Helen: “It’s fine now. Hold on a bit longer; I’ll soon send you back to the mansion.”

“Mr. Laurence, he too…”

“The Contract Heads are ranked by the degree of erosion they bear: first is the Head of Soul, taking the brunt of it; second is the Head of Abyss; third is the Head of Devouring.”

Anselm sighed: “Others might barely maintain themselves, but for Laurence to hold even this minimal rationality… is already very difficult.”

Without the Head of Soul to share the burden, Flamel’s madness had greatly affected his Contract Heads.

But still, the question remained…Why had he deteriorated so rapidly in such a short time?

Soon, Anselm brought Helen and Mingfuluo to a massive, heavy gate, its dark, layered patterns suggesting something immensely terrifying was sealed within.

Anselm placed his hand on the gate, closing his eyes and whispering softly:

“Father, it’s me.”

“…”

No sound came from within, but ripples spreading across the gate seemed to offer some response.

“Come, Helen, it’ll be quick.”

Anselm extended his hand to Helen, though his expression grew serious despite his words: “Remember, once inside, keep your eyes closed.”

“Yes, Father.”

Anselm held Helen’s hand, and Helen secured the bound Mingfuluo; the three passed through the rippling gate.

Helen obediently kept her eyes tightly shut as instructed, but to her surprise… the suffocating oppression she felt outside, which seemed to strangle her, was absent in this room.

Everything was calm and natural, as if in an utterly ordinary world, a paradise compared to the abyssal force outside.

And this room was no potion lab filled with vials, no alchemical workshop with a roaring furnace—it was just… an ordinary bedroom.

Fully furnished, yet lacking a bed, containing only… a crystal coffin.

Within the coffin, Anselm’s mother, Elnilisa Drenan, who had clearly died yet spent much time with Anselm recently, slept peacefully.

Above the coffin floated a softly glowing white orb, its purpose unknown.

Beside the coffin, Flamel Hydra, not engaged in any creation, silently gazed at his wife, like a soulless statue.

After a long time, he slowly turned to Anselm, his voice gentle and calm, showing no trace of madness.

“What’s wrong, Anselm?”

Flamel smiled: “Missing your mother a bit? Let her rest a while longer, and soon she’ll be—”

“Father.”

Despite Flamel’s eerie state, Anselm showed no intent to soothe or even treat him calmly, instead cutting him off directly:

“Helen and Mingfuluo’s matter needs your help. Please use Mingfuluo as material to complete Helen’s soul, ensuring her will isn’t influenced by Mingfuluo.”

“Helen… Mingfuluo?”

The man stood, looking at the two women beside Anselm, and at the same moment, a pained groan sounded nearby.

The young Hydra immediately turned to look; Helen, naturally, obediently followed Anselm’s orders, but Mingfuluo…

For some reason, her mind faltered, and at that moment, she dared to meet Flamel’s eyes!

Anselm yanked the leash from Helen’s hand, pulling Mingfuluo before him, his hand seizing her throat.

“You want… to destroy yourself!”

Rage flared uncontrollably in his eyes, his tightening fingers nearly sinking into Mingfuluo’s throat.

Mingfuluo, nearly strangled by Anselm, couldn’t speak, but her pained yet scornful gaze spoke clearly.

She wouldn’t let her three years of arduous study be handed to Helen, to herself, so easily; even if it meant recklessly facing Flamel now, even if it destroyed her, she wouldn’t let Anselm benefit.

After locking eyes with those unyielding purple pupils, Anselm flung Mingfuluo to the ground.

“What is it… that makes you hate me so much?”

The Mingfuluo with erased memories, after three stable years, showed hostility toward Anselm yet still hesitated at her core.

But the Mingfuluo who spent three years alone in the underground library never once considered Anselm’s struggles, instead amassing… such resolute, deep-seated hatred.

Even Anselm found it absurd.

He drove the tip of his cane heavily into Mingfuluo’s abdomen, looking down at her curled-up form, wracked by the dual pain of Flamel’s gaze and physical injury, and smiled.

“Did you… underestimate Father too much?”

Anselm leaned slightly, his smile radiant: “Even if your soul is crushed to dregs now, I can make you Helen’s nourishment… traitor.”

Though he once said Mingfuluo’s past actions were akin to companionship in his eyes, Anselm had never truly called her a traitor, for objectively, he was the one who betrayed her.

But now, there was no need for objectivity.

“Father,” Anselm turned to Flamel, who seemed pensive for some reason, “please, proceed.”

“Helen… Mingfuluo…”

The man rubbed his chin: “Who are they again? Never mind, since there’s traces of me shaping a soul… I must have helped you with this before, Asa. Doing it again is no trouble—you want the girl on the ground to be nourishment for the one with closed eyes?”

Mingfuluo’s pained groans had turned to screams; the moment she met Flamel’s eyes, she was beyond saving, the abyss’s venom already invading her soul, but for Flamel, handling it was no challenge.

“A matter of ten minutes or so.”

Seeing Anselm nod, Flamel said casually: “Go spend some time with your mother first; she’s missed you these past days.”

“…There’ll be plenty of time later; it’s not necessary now.”

Flamel, about to start, tilted his head slightly, glancing at his son.

“Not even these ten minutes?”

He asked softly, his calm expression starkly different from the carefree demeanor a moment ago, as if his face had changed in an instant, sending a chill down the spine.

Yet his tone carried no coercion, only pure… daze.

Like Anselm, who, immersed in the abyss, forgot what he said, did, or even who he was.

Anselm was silent for a moment, then quietly walked to the crystal coffin, kneeling halfway beside it.

Seeing this, Flamel suddenly smiled again; if not for the eerie shift in his expression, his smile now was genuinely warm and radiant.

“Stay with her properly,” the man said gently. “You said it yourself, there’s plenty of time.”

Anselm and the Elnilisa in the coffin vanished from the strange bedroom simultaneously.

“Now…” Flamel turned to the two identical petite women, “you two, whispering through that little bug in my ear, what exactly are you hiding from Anselm?”

He glanced at the black bracelet on Helen’s wrist, his brow slightly raised, as an identical one appeared on his own wrist instantly.

“Interesting… structure.”

The divine species, pinnacle of creation, looked at the “Nidhogg” endlessly flowing from the bracelet, murmuring softly: “Containment, expansion, transformation… ha, a versatile material, like a lesser version of my Spiritual Essence, but this kind of thinking isn’t something ordinary people could achieve.”

Flamel nodded approvingly: “Anselm found a good Contract Head. So, tell me—”

“What’s this about… helping Anselm?”

Mingfuluo, her restraints undone, collapsed to the ground; despite the soul-rending agony, she staggered, struggling to rise.

Meanwhile, Helen, who had always shown clear hatred toward Mingfuluo, remained silent with closed eyes… reached out to support her!

“This is… the pain divine species must bear.”

Mingfuluo, leaning on Helen’s shoulder, barely stood, covering her distorted face with her other hand, her voice hoarse:

“Will Anselm… have to endure this pain too?”

Flamel shook his head: “What you’re enduring is less than a millionth of it.”

“…How cruel.”

Mingfuluo looked up at Flamel: “Do you think it’s cruel, Mr. Flamel?”

“Why does he… have to bear such a fate?”

“…”

Flamel didn’t speak, gazing into Mingfuluo’s eyes; the abyss’s erosion intensified instantly, and she let out an irrepressible, agonized wail.

“You’re… drawing power.”

He suddenly said, “You’re not self-destructing as Asa claimed; you’re trying… to adapt to the abyss?”

“You want to help Asa… so who are you? Helen? No… since you’re the material, you must be Mingfuluo.”

“There is no Helen, Mr. Flamel.”

The “Helen” supporting Mingfuluo spoke softly, words that would stun Anselm:

“From the beginning, there was only Mingfuluo.”