Chapter 11 : The Coming Storm of Blood and Wind

Recently, the winds in the Imperial Capital had shifted slightly.

It was well known that the Grand Princess Ivora and the Ether Academy were at odds.

Of course, it wasn’t that the Ether Academy dared to openly confront Ivora.

After all, her ascension to the Crown was only a matter of time, and no one wanted to face the wrath of this volatile princess.

But this centuries-old, vast sorcerer organization, and the old figures sustaining it… had some degree of confidence.

—Though this confidence was utterly feeble before the Empress, if the Empress were the kind of madwoman who uprooted such massive organizations on a whim, the Empire wouldn’t have lasted to this day.

That sliver of confidence and value allowed the Ether Academy’s elders to ambiguously declare, “We will always support Her Majesty.”

They sided with the current Empress but didn’t refuse to occasionally support Ivora, hedging against her future ascension.

The current Empress, of course, had to be supported.

As for you… you’ll become Empress eventually, so why rush?

Ivora despised this two-faced, cunning attitude, and since the Ether Academy largely leaned toward the Empress, she harbored considerable animosity toward them.

Thus, when Babel Tower was first established, Ivora offered it a bit of minor assistance.

She hadn’t taken this laughable attempt to challenge the Ether Academy seriously, merely wanting to annoy those old figures, just as they annoyed her.

But as time passed, when Mingfuluo demonstrated Babel Tower’s value through revolutionary violence… everything changed.

She began personally endorsing Babel Tower, using her authority to keep the Ether Academy’s suppression of it within limits, allowing Babel Tower to grow into the sorcerer organization representing the forefront of ether academia.

One could say Babel Tower was entirely the Grand Princess’s organization, as they, despite their apparent prosperity, were always walking on thin ice, never having any real choice.

If Mingfuluo hadn’t turned the tide back then, Babel Tower would have inevitably collapsed under fate’s merciless gaze and she would have embarked on a solitary path to heroism.

But all this was altered by the small gun barrel Anselm tossed to Mingfuluo.

And now… fate, long dormant and having woven a new web, was ready to send Mingfuluo back to her destined path.

That destined path—

Naturally, was the future where Babel Tower collapsed, and Mingfuluo embarked on a path of vengeance and exile.

“Speaking of that, Miss Zege.”

In Hydra Mansion, in a reception room decorated with understated elegance, the soul master Lord Solen sat with legs crossed, swirling his wine glass, conversing cheerfully with Anselm: “She actually broke part of my restrictions. A third-tier girl achieving such a thing… Anselm, your eye for talent is as impeccable as ever.”

Sipping his wine, he let out a long, satisfied sigh: “Your taste in wine is equally impressive.”

“Fine wine and skilled winemakers are treasures of the world. I heard there’s a talented bartender in the chaotic lands of the West Kingdom.”

Solen held his glass up, admiring the pale silver liquid with awe: “But after tasting the wine you’ve crafted, Anselm, I doubt I could take an interest in anyone else’s.”

“If you’d like, there are plenty more varieties in the mansion,” Anselm smiled, leaning back comfortably on the sofa, fingers interlaced over his abdomen. “Take as much as you want.”

“…That’s what you say, and I’m not one to stand in ceremony.”

Solen clicked his tongue, chuckling with slight awkwardness: “But thinking about it, I might have done you a disservice.”

“Oh? What does Lord Solen mean?”

“The mechanized armor.”

The man sighed with some frustration: “I hadn’t intended to give that thing to that old fool Nakisai, but…”

Even this seasoned fifth-tier sorcerer sounded shocked: “By some twist of fate, I learned he’d suddenly acquired a soul orb from the previous dynasty, nearly intact, not some fragment!”

“You know,” he spread his hands with a wry smile, “I couldn’t resist that. And its value is indeed comparable to mechanized armor.”

Anselm merely sat up slightly, sipped his wine, and said lightly: “I gave you the mechanized armor’s design. How you use it is your business. Trading it for profit is perfectly normal, isn’t it?”

“Even so… it’s caused you some trouble, hasn’t it?”

The forthright transcendent, who didn’t seem like someone who toyed with souls, said with displeasure: “Nakisai handed it straight to the Grand Princess… That old fox, playing both sides perfectly. He’ll get himself killed one day.”

“This mess will inevitably put more pressure on Babel Tower. If you openly protect that Miss Zege, others will notice, and she’ll face even more. Plus, it might cause friction with Her Highness the Grand Princess.”

The more Solen thought, the worse it seemed.

He slapped his forehead, exasperated: “How did I just happen to learn about the soul orb from Nakisai’s agent at that moment? If I’d waited a bit, with your skills, Anselm, you’d have had that girl under control in no time. It wouldn’t have come to this… Ugh, I got carried away and didn’t consider you. My fault.”

He looked at Anselm, his tone utterly sincere: “Whatever you need, just tell me! This involves your Contract Head. If I messed up your plans… I’d be terrified of Mr. Flamel dragging me off to be refined into a potion!”

Though at that moment, a fleeting thought crossed Solen’s mind—“Anselm wouldn’t hold a grudge”—urging him to retract his words…

If he’d had any doubts about Anselm taking Mingfuluo as a Contract Head, those vanished after sensing the restriction’s partial breach.

The soul restriction was immensely strong, but at Anselm’s request, Solen had left a subtle loophole requiring vast knowledge and talent to exploit—a loophole nearly as difficult to find as forcibly breaking the restriction.

Now, it was clear Mingfuluo had undone part of it herself.

Such terrifying talent—if she became a Contract Head, how powerful she’d be!

After all, no one in the Imperial Capital could forcibly break that soul restriction—except the Empress, who remained in the Anticheg Palace and the Grand Princess, with her immense thirst for power.

The Flame-Feasting Royalty could burn as they pleased, but what clout did Mingfuluo have to make the Grand Princess personally undo a soul restriction?

Ridiculous!

Thus, the flicker of hesitation in Solen’s heart was swiftly consumed by his resolute mindset, leaving no ripple.

The young Hydra gazed at the soul master sincerely apologizing, his face showing no surprise, making it hard to fathom the source of his calm.

“Since Lord Solen has said as much.”

The playwright, watching his script unfold perfectly on the stage, chuckled lightly: “There’s something I might indeed need your help with.”

Solen exhaled in relief, then laughed heartily: “No problem, whatever it is, leave it to me… By the way, Miss Zege… is she really alright?”

Though a neutral figure among the Supreme Nine Seats, rarely involved in affairs, Solen understood the Ether Academy’s direction and its conflict with Babel Tower.

He knew the Ether Academy’s depth better than Mingfuluo or Babel Tower’s people.

Though building the mechanized armor was a colossal task, if the Ether Academy went all-in and collaborated with the Alchemical Association, Babel Tower would have no chance to resist.

If Anselm didn’t plan to directly help Mingfuluo… how could she survive this ordeal?

“Well…”

Anselm set down his wine glass, stood, and looked somewhere, his gentle smile carrying profound meaning: “I’m about to go give her a hand.”

***

In the resplendent palace hall, bureaucrats and nobles, long absent, were arrayed.

The throne, empty for some time, its back and armrests ablaze with blood-flame, finally welcomed its master.

Ephithand Flame, after over a month’s absence from governance, held a rare court session.

This monarch, stingy with her power, refused to waste it on maintaining youthful appearance, squeezing every drop of ether to combat the chaos eroding her self and soul.

From the session’s start, she hadn’t spoken, merely sitting expressionlessly on the throne, looking down at the nobles and ministers below.

Her aged face still radiated undeniable authority.

As long as she wore the Crown, as long as she sat on that throne, the entire Empire, the entire continent, would bow to her.

“This time…”

Her hoarse, decayed voice echoed through the hall.

The Empress finally spoke, posing an enigmatic question: “Has anything interesting happened in the Imperial Capital?”

The nobles and ministers dared not speak, unable to discern her intent, remaining silent.

But in the increasingly uneasy silence, a clear, elegant, and noble voice broke the tension.

“Mother, I think… the most interesting thing could only be Lord Anselm’s arrival.”

Sulun, standing at the end of the imperial bloodline, bowed slightly to Ephithand: “He can surely make the Imperial Capital, dull in your eyes, interesting again.”

“Heh heh heh… you’re right, little Sulun.”

At the mention of “Anselm,” Ephithand’s dim eyes sparked with vivid color.

The aged Empress let out a delighted yet chilling laugh: “Anselm’s arrival in the Imperial Capital is indeed an interesting and joyous event. Speaking of which… he hasn’t come to pay his respects to me even once.”

The Empress sighed: “Somewhat displeasing.”

Every noble and minister knew this was merely a jest from an Empress with a particular fondness for Anselm.

She might want him to visit soon, but she wasn’t truly displeased.

If anyone took it seriously and said, “Though Lord Anselm is the next Hydra, such disrespect to Your Majesty is unacceptable,” they’d be incinerated to ashes on the spot by Ephithand.

So they remained silent, but the silence didn’t last long before another imperial broke it.

Ivora, standing at the forefront, hands behind her back, wore a crimson flame gown as magnificent as Ephithand’s, making her appear like a blazing fire.

The woman looked up at the weak figure she despised on the throne, sneering: “Because Anselm doesn’t waste time on meaningless things.”

She tilted her chin slightly, her red lips curving in provocation: “Because he’s a man of action, Mother.”

After saying this, Ivora glanced back at Sulun, now at the rear of the royal bloodline, and said contemptuously: “Not some incompetent clown who can only gain value by currying favor.”

The brazen, arrogant Grand Princess made most nobles and ministers think simultaneously: Why did I come today?

The Empress and Grand Princess’s clashes weren’t new, but this long-absent court session made everyone forget just how intense their “mother-daughter” conflict was—or rather, how much it had escalated recently.

“…”

Ephithand looked down expressionlessly at her daughter, who met her gaze fearlessly.

The aggressive flames in Ivora’s eyes contrasted sharply with the Empress’s nearly lightless, dim pupils.

“You really… haven’t grown up at all, Ivora.”

The aged Empress suddenly laughed, as if looking at a petulant child: “Do you know how ridiculous you look, trying to provoke me, just like your childish games?”

Ivora retorted without hesitation: “If I’m playing childish games, then who’s the dull host of this boring game?”

No one knew why the Empress and Grand Princess were so explosive from the start.

Most nobles silently prayed for the court to end quickly, hoping no heart-stopping incidents occurred in this prolonged ordeal.

Most of those qualified and bold enough to stand here knew the Empire’s true nature.

In a sense, it was indeed just the Empress’s game, only one that affected lives and civilizations… with some weight.

The hall was silent, but all felt the temperature rising.

The dying, world-burning flame of silence clashed with the fervent but less seasoned blazing flame.

There were no mother and daughter, no Empress and princess, only two beings revered as “divine species,” fundamentally distinct from ordinary people and even transcendents… monsters.

And to stop monsters from tearing each other apart…

Only another monster could suffice.

Tap, tap, tap.

In the pin-drop silence of the hall, the sound of a cane lightly touching the floor rang out.

All eyes, openly or covertly, turned to the youth bathed in sunlight, his radiant blond hair gleaming, framing a face like a divine masterpiece.

…No, he was a future god walking the earth.

“Hm… did I come at a bad time?”

Anselm, standing at the hall’s entrance, tilted his head, speaking lightly.

No… no, no! You came at the perfect time, Lord Anselm!

At that moment, the nobles and ministers in the hall were nearly in tears.

Indeed… indeed!

The Empress was senile, the princess ferocious, but Lord Anselm never disappointed!

“An—”

“Anselm.”

Before Ivora could speak, the aged Empress’s voice from the throne overpowered her.

Ephithand’s dim eyes seemed to ignite with fervent flames at that moment.

She laughed delightedly, lightly tapping the blood-flame armrest.

“Come, stand by my side.”

Anselm bowed slightly: “Your will, Your Majesty.”

“…” Ivora silently watched Anselm walk calmly to the throne, her eyes burning with restless flames.

Reaching the throne, Anselm bowed again: “Forgive my lapse in paying respects, Your Majesty.”

“Heh heh heh… between us, such meaningless formalities aren’t needed.”

As if forgetting her earlier words, the Empress stared intently at Anselm, her long-dulled, madness-tangled eyes glinting with… greed?

Anselm merely smiled, as if oblivious to the oddity in the aging Empress’s gaze, saying gently: “But you are the supreme ruler of this land, the sole master of the Empire.”

“In such a setting, respect and decorum for you are necessary.”

Flames.

The entire hall erupted in flames without warning.

As the temperature soared, as the throne’s blood-flame blazed wildly, the Empress’s ecstatic laughter mingled with the bursting of flame flowers, echoing through the vast hall.

“Hahahahaha… good, very good! Anselm!”

The aged Empress stood, the Flame-Feasting fire, symbolizing supreme sixth-tier power, burning in her eyes, as if scorching and provoking the ambition and pride of the Grand Princess below:

“I remain the supreme ruler of this land, the sole master of the entire Empire—”

Ephithand, who hadn’t felt such exhilaration in a long time, looked down at her daughter, who dared to challenge her yet was laughably weak, declaring with fierce delight:

“The only master!”

At this, Ivora fell silent.

The Grand Princess merely stared expressionlessly at her mother, casting a fierce glance at Anselm.

She harbored no fear of the Empress looking down on her, but Anselm’s stated truth was undeniable.

No matter how aged, how weakened, how close to chaos and madness,

Ephithand Flame still wielded the power to burn the entire Empire to ashes.

From the moment she donned the Crown until she cast herself into the primal flame and vanished, she was a god walking among men, the Empire… itself.

“Little Sulun is right.”

Ephithand sat back on the throne, looking at Anselm with great satisfaction: “Your arrival is indeed the most interesting thing in this dull time.”

“My thanks for the praise.”

Anselm smiled in response, his peripheral vision catching the young princess’s figure.

She smiled softly at him, slightly lifting her skirt in a subtle curtsy.

“Of course—” the Empress propped her cheek, her gaze still fixed on her daughter, “that doesn’t mean there aren’t other interesting matters.”

Having just asked if anything interesting had happened, she now spoke as if she knew exactly what had transpired recently.

This made the sharp-witted nobles’ hearts skip a beat, realizing too late what was coming.

“Ivora.”

Ephithand’s aged, hoarse voice called out: “I hear you’ve been tinkering with some little trinket lately?”

Before Ivora could answer, she shifted her gaze to the forefront of the noble and ministerial ranks.

“Nakisai, you speak.”

“…Your Majesty.”

The speaker was a richly dressed, upright middle-aged man.

Nakisai Sainthue, the Sainthue Grand Duke, one of the Empire’s thirteen grand dukes, a member of the Ether Academy’s Supreme Nine Seats, and one of its current powerholders.

He was among the few who rushed to the Imperial Capital upon hearing of Ephithand’s court session.

Bowing deeply, he said with utmost respect: “Her Highness Ivora is assisting the Ether Academy in developing a powerful alchemical creation called ‘mechanized armor.’”

“Hm…”

The Empress’s fingers idly tapped the armrest, flickering in the blood-flame: “If it’s a powerful alchemical creation, why didn’t you report it to me instead of working with Ivora?”

Her casual words carried a surging, unmistakable killing intent.

The Sainthue Grand Duke showed no panic, bowing even lower, speaking with respectful humility: “Because any so-called ‘powerful’ alchemical creation is but scrap metal before you. Her Highness the Grand Princess still has room to grow, and this adds strength to her and the Empire. Besides, once the mechanized armor is complete, no matter who invested resources, it will ultimately be yours, won’t it?”

His response, aside from slightly angering Ivora, was impeccable.

Clearly, it pleased the Empress, but she seemed not entirely satisfied with just this.

“If it’s ultimately mine, then… there’s no need to wait for that ‘ultimately.’”

Ivora snapped her head up, her gaze tinged with shock and anger, while the Empress, absent from public view for so long, declared in an undeniable tone: “This so-called mechanized armor is mine now.” She waved her hand casually: “Nakisai, manpower, resources—use what you need. I want to see the finished product in seven days.”

The Sainthue Grand Duke showed no surprise, only bowing elegantly: “Your will, Your Majesty.”

At this point, the true purpose of this court session was clear.

This Empress cared little for imperial affairs but was very “concerned” about her rebellious daughter, her increasingly arrogant heir.

The Empress ignored Babel Tower, as it was insignificant to her and essentially Ivora’s creation.

But the Ether Academy… was different.

The Ether Academy’s mainstream leaned toward the Empress.

When Ivora reached into their domain, this outcome was inevitable, in a sense… a direct provocation to the Empress.

But the issue was, the Empress’s reaction… was too swift.

She spent her days in the Anticheg Palace, using primal flame to combat the chaos eroding her soul, too focused on prolonging her life to care about her appearance or recent events in the Capital.

Aside from Ivora, no one dared disturb the Empress, who spent most of her time sleeping in Anticheg.

Otherwise, the Grand Princess wouldn’t have expanded her influence so easily.

So even if Ivora made waves, the Empress couldn’t have learned of it so quickly.

How many secrets lay behind this court session, what made the Empress react so swiftly to Ivora’s actions… no one knew.

One thing was clear: the Ether Academy… was once again in the spotlight.

Though this was merely the Empress’s casual move to check her heir, regardless of her intent, the fact in countless eyes was singular—the Empress had granted the Ether Academy unlimited resources to act.

That was a favor, regardless of her reasons, as even a sliver of her goodwill could garner terrifying support and allegiance.

“Then, today—”

“Your Majesty.”

Anselm, who had said little since entering the hall, spoke up at this moment: “If you invest resources in creating the mechanized armor only to view it, not use it in combat, it seems rather pointless.”

“It’s a weapon, after all, isn’t it?”

The aged monarch raised an eyebrow with interest: “Well said, Anselm. Do you have a suggestion?”

“It’s well known that Her Highness Ivora has been particularly focused on an organization called Babel Tower, known for producing advanced, powerful, mass-producible alchemical weapons.”

In a few words, the wicked Hydra branded an academic organization as an arsenal of violence, and no noble or minister found anything amiss.

Under Ivora’s increasingly furious gaze, Anselm continued calmly: “Since Babel Tower excels at weapon production, and the mechanized armor is itself an alchemical weapon, why not have the Ether Academy and Babel Tower compete to see whose creation is… stronger?”

He turned to the Empress, bowing slightly: “Ordinary weapon tests are dull. I suggest… you could select some death-row prisoners, arm them with Babel Tower and Ether Academy’s weapons, and let them fight to the death… wouldn’t that be quite interesting?”

The Empress’s eyes grew brighter as she listened, and upon hearing Anselm’s words, she laughed with immense delight, her chilling aged laughter echoing through the hall, intensifying the unease.

“Excellent… excellent! You’re truly the most surprising one, Anselm. I love your idea, but… it’s still missing something.”

Her dim, blood-red eyes flickered with chaotic, tyrannical distortion, her voice carrying a cruelty that made many nobles shudder: “Just this, just mere death-row prisoners, is still boring.”

“Since it’s a weapon, it needs more people, a grander stage, to show its value and meaning. Not a gladiatorial match between prisoners, but…”

The blood-flame on the throne burned fiercely, exuding the monarch’s violence and madness: “A war!”

With ecstatic glee, she spoke of bloody, cruel things: “A war is the best way to showcase a weapon’s power, and it’s… entertaining enough! Anselm… I want to see a war, a masterpiece!”

“Go, Anselm.”

The Empress raised her hand, her fingertip touching Anselm’s snake-headed ring, smiling with great satisfaction: “Put on this long-overdue spectacle for me. Find two prosperous, thriving territories, tell their lords the Empress commands them to wage a grand war. The victor will take all the loser possesses and receive my commendation!”

In the current Empire, with its crumbling order and chaos, conflicts and struggles between territories were endless, but outright, head-on military clashes were rare.

Especially between two prosperous territories that had no need for plunder.

The Empress’s idea was undoubtedly tyrannical and mad, but what could the nobles and ministers here say or do?

They only prayed that Anselm wouldn’t choose their territories.

Of course, not everyone was silent.

“Anselm!”

Ivora’s voice carried uncontainable rage: “What are you… doing!”

“Just doing what I must,” Anselm chuckled lightly. “Hydra always stands with the Empress, doesn’t it, Your Highness Ivora?”

Ivora stared at Anselm for three or four seconds, then wordlessly turned into blood-flame and vanished from the hall.

This so-called competition—was it really just a simple weapon test, or a clash between the Ether Academy and Babel Tower?

Of course not. It was clearly the first… direct collision between the Empress and the Grand Princess.

And the disparity in their strength was rather stark.

One side was the Empress, wielding all the Empire’s resources, backed by a centuries-old elite sorcerer group; the other, a Grand Princess with growing influence but still overshadowed by the Empress, and a fledgling academic organization less than a decade old.

The outcome was obvious.

Anselm and Ivora, both next-generation sixth-tiers, should logically stand together. No one knew why he instigated a conflict Ivora was destined to lose.

But all could feel the coming storm of blood and wind.

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