Volume 2

Chapter 60 : A Daughter Naturally Trusts Her Father

A black lady’s hat sat tilted on her head, an elegant black pleated dress lending her a refined air.

Black lace gloves enveloped her delicate hands, and semi-sheer black tights clung to her slightly plump legs, covering most of her exposed skin in black.

Round-toed leather boots added a touch of playfulness to the outfit.

This black ensemble emphasized her upper body’s lines, while the wide, flared skirt concealed Mingfuluo’s most alluring feminine curves—her full hips and legs.

This combination made our Miss Doll appear, from a physical perspective, almost like… well, a little girl.

Anselm looked down at the conservatively, almost austerely dressed Mingfuluo: “Something’s… still missing.”

He brushed his hand over her forehead, and a hazy black veil adorned her head, obscuring her mature, far-from-childlike face.

Stepping back, he appraised her for a moment, nodding with satisfaction:

“Now it’s perfect.”

The young Hydra smiled, extending his hand to Mingfuluo: “Anyone who sees you would imagine what a beauty this girl will become in four or five years.”

Mingfuluo silently offered her lace-gloved hand to Anselm.

Honestly, she couldn’t stand this outfit, but she had no choice. She also thought to herself that Anselm, as always, loved black.

“So—”

The wicked devil drawled cheerfully: “First, let’s go meet your usual colleagues.”

He felt the soft hand in his palm twitch slightly.

Clearly, Miss Mingfuluo was entirely unwilling to be seen like this.

Anselm’s smile grew brighter: “Do you know what to call me?”

“…Father,” Mingfuluo lowered her head, her voice trembling slightly.

“Good girl.”

Anselm patted her hair. With his spell’s enhancement, her blue-gray hair turned black, no longer tied in her usual sharp high ponytail but flowing softly down her back, amplifying her refined, ladylike aura.

Elegant, reserved, delicate… gone was the usual decisive, icy demeanor, her voice now fluctuating vividly with her emotions.

Honestly, this contrasting Mingfuluo was quite enticing.

Though she could never match Hitana, in terms of appeal, Miss Doll now stirred Anselm’s appetite, but…

Even at this point, even with Mingfuluo’s willingness to submit, the ideals rooted in her heart remained unshaken. At the final moment of choice, she still wouldn’t choose him.

This made Anselm’s emotions… somewhat complex.

Pure people deserved praise, and those whose purity was righteous, even noble, deserved admiration.

Undoubtedly, both Erlin and Mingfuluo’s ideals, from their motives alone, were beyond reproach, fully worthy of the term “noble,” even great.

But that greatness had nothing to do with him.

The young Hydra now only wanted to increase her conditioning, amuse himself and lay the groundwork for what was to come.

He led Mingfuluo out of the workshop. Miss Mingfuluo, striving for Anselm’s “forgiveness,” was very obedient, but her obedience couldn’t make her seem natural.

Having seemingly forgotten how to be a daughter, she moved like a doll pulled along by Anselm.

In a corner of Babel Tower, all assigned alchemical workshops were clustered in one area to facilitate scholars’ exchanges and mutual help.

Mingfuluo’s workshop was in the most secluded corner—she rarely shared ideas with others, as no one could reach her level.

This was a curious, even absurd phenomenon. In a world dominated by transcendents, higher tiers meant greater power, broader vision, and richer knowledge.

For someone like Mingfuluo, a mere third-tier with talents surpassing many fourth- and even fifth-tier sorcerers, to exist was historically rare.

Of course, there was a special reason—few focused their research on universal, mass-oriented alchemical devices.

Such tools, requiring little in terms of power and not pursuing “strength” in the traditional sense, naturally demanded greater ingenuity and creativity.

This was why Mingfuluo held such a unique position in Babel Tower.

Over the years, everything proved she possessed an absolute talent surpassing all others in the tower.

When Mingfuluo delivered various customized Data Systems to Babel Tower’s recent “clients,” these clients—some top-tier sorcerers themselves, others with talented subordinates—studied the systems thoroughly.

Without exception, they found no issue with the system itself; the problem was its foundation… a completely independent logic, separate from existing spell systems!

In other words, without mastering this logic, no one could reverse-engineer the Data System.

Some were already trying to analyze this logic from scratch.

A fifth-tier sorcerer’s prowess was undeniable, and perhaps one day they’d crack it. But by then… who knew how far Mingfuluo could advance her Data System?

Even Anselm hadn’t expected Mingfuluo to actually create it—he hadn’t provided specific methods, only a vague idea, a seemingly whimsical notion.

This was the talent even fate acknowledged, betting its chips on her.

Yet now, this immensely talented Miss Doll stood rigidly as Anselm led her to an alchemical workshop.

“First stop,” Anselm said softly. “Lady Ronggor, who’s always cared for and protected you—don’t get found out, or… I’ll have to explain in my own way.”

The young Hydra blinked, leaning down to whisper in Mingfuluo’s ear:

“My… good daughter.”

Mingfuluo’s body trembled, her hand instinctively tightening around Anselm’s.

If she were found out… How would Anselm explain?

How would she face Lady Ronggor?

All these thoughts froze as the workshop’s doors slowly opened.

“I didn’t expect you to have the time to visit, Sir Anselm. My apologies for not greeting you immediately…”

Ronggor, previously busy, hurried to meet them.

After the Ether Academy incident, Babel Tower’s higher-ups adopted an extremely deferential stance toward Anselm, maintaining constant humility.

“No matter, my visit is the sudden one,” Anselm replied, noticing Ronggor’s puzzled gaze fall on the petite Miss Doll beside him.

His lips curved into a pleased smile.

“Oh, right, let me introduce you to Lady Ronggor. This is Helen, my… daughter.”

“…”

Ronggor was clearly stunned, speechless for three or four seconds.

After about five or six seconds, she recovered, exclaiming in realization:

“This is… an alchemical doll you created, right?”

Anselm smiled without answering, which Ronggor took as confirmation.

This assumption let her breathe a sigh of relief, her startled heart resuming its beat.

Creators viewing their creations as “offspring” wasn’t unusual. If this was Anselm’s doll, calling her his daughter made sense, but…

Was she really… an alchemical doll?

The face beneath the black veil was hazy, yet Ronggor felt an inexplicable sense of familiarity.

“Want to touch her?” Anselm suddenly offered the hand of “Miss Helen,” still held in his, to the dignified noblewoman before them.

“…What?”

“My excellent daughter.”

Anselm said with a smile, lips curling: “A remarkable girl.”

Though somewhat confused, since Anselm had spoken, Ronggor wouldn’t be foolish enough to refuse. She reached out to take Miss Helen’s hand.

The moment she touched her fingertips, Ronggor felt Miss Helen’s hand instinctively pull back slightly.

…Shy?

A personified puppet?

Of course, someone like Sir Anselm would never lack mere tools—puppets with personality would hold far more value for him.

Ronggor still grasped Miss Helen’s hand.

The lace gloves prevented her from feeling the skin, but the flexible, soft fingers and the delicate, tender palm sent a surprising feedback.

Crafting puppets was an intricate task.

An organization like Babel Tower, a “commoner” institution, couldn’t afford or need a top-tier puppet master, and such masters wouldn’t care for this place—otherwise, Mingfuluo wouldn’t have had to craft her own puppets.

But Ronggor came from a prestigious family, with a vision far surpassing most Babel Tower members.

Even so, she could tell… in terms of the physical shell alone, she had never seen a puppet with greater realism than this one.

It was practically… a true living being.

“Truly… remarkable craftsmanship.”

The scholar’s curiosity surged.

Ronggor instinctively held Helen’s hand with both of hers, feeling it closely, but the more she felt… the more something seemed off.

This hand shape, why… Why was it so similar to Mingfuluo’s?

Shock and confusion grew on Ronggor’s face.

As she lightly held “Miss Helen’s” hand, she stared at the black veil for a moment, her thoughts becoming increasingly chaotic.

“Sir… Anselm,” she asked softly, “may I… examine Miss Helen’s condition a bit?”

“Of course,” Anselm smiled even more brightly, “but keep it gentle—she’s very shy.”

Ronggor nodded, cautiously applying the minimal detection spell to the arm.

The next moment, Miss Helen yanked her hand from Ronggor’s grasp.

The noblewoman stared, stunned, at the petite puppet who stepped back, speaking in a… deliberately softened, almost childlike voice:

“I don’t want to be examined… Father.”

“What, do you dislike Lady Ronggor?” Anselm said.

“No, I just… I’m sorry, Father.”

Hearing the girl’s soft, apologetic tone to Anselm, Ronggor felt an inexplicable pang of sympathy and quickly spoke up: “Sir Anselm, I didn’t—”

Mid-sentence, Ronggor realized she had the least right to speak freely here.

“Are you that shy, Helen?”

Anselm sighed, then turned his head, offering his hand, his eyes full of amusement.

The “shy” Miss Helen could only take Anselm’s hand immediately, stepping closer to him to maintain the pretense.

“My apologies, Lady Ronggor,” Anselm turned back to her, “this child’s mind isn’t fully developed.”

“…” The mentally “incomplete” Miss Doll stayed silent.

“A puppet… especially a personified one, I understand,” Ronggor nodded.

“To achieve this level is, in my knowledge, already… terrifying, Sir Anselm. As expected of you.”

“No, no, it’s mostly my father’s work,” Anselm smiled, his words taken by Ronggor as modesty and by Mingfuluo as a lie to enhance credibility.

Her heartbeat still hadn’t steadied.

The moment Ronggor nearly probed her with a spell, that shock… being presented as a puppet, a “daughter,” before one of the few elders she was close to made her throat dry, even… burning.

“Oh! Please, have a seat,” Ronggor, who had been standing and talking with Anselm, finally realized, but Anselm shook his head:

“No need, Lady Ronggor. I’m just here for a brief chat, no need for such courtesy. Let me think… what have you been working on lately?”

Seeing that Anselm genuinely meant no formality, the straightforward scholar didn’t press further, answering: “As you know, I don’t have much talent in alchemy. Lately, I’ve mostly been teaching, occasionally—like just now—helping the alchemy department with what I can.”

She pointed to scattered parts on the workbench: “Strengthening alchemical furnaces, or modifying them for specific needs.”

“So… logistical work.”

Anselm nodded knowingly, then asked with interest: “Lady Ronggor, in your early years, you were known in the Imperial Capital’s sorcerer circles for your radical style. I recall, over twenty years ago, you clashed directly with a senior lecturer at the Ether Academy and were expelled.”

The mature noblewoman tucked a strand of hair, smiling wryly with a hint of embarrassment: “That was long ago… I’d been a Teacher’s student for a while then, so I grew increasingly intolerant of the Ether Academy’s ways. Being expelled was only a matter of time.”

“Mr. Erlin…” The young Hydra sighed, “When I discussed the Empire’s prominent alchemical figures with my father, he said if Mr. Erlin hadn’t died, he would’ve achieved great things.”

This statement stirred both women present. Mingfuluo gripped Anselm’s hand tightly, while Ronggor’s reaction was more evident, her voice trembling: “Did… Mr. Flamel really say that?”

“Of course,” Anselm said candidly, “his abilities, I think, were obvious to all.”

“…Yes.”

After the excitement, a quiet melancholy settled in. Ronggor’s expression darkened: “Teacher’s abilities, his abilities…”

For some reason, the noblewoman’s eyes seemed to hold a trace of pain.

“Speaking of Mr. Erlin’s death, most believe it stemmed from his pursuit of… Universal Transcendence,” Anselm squinted, continuing in a natural tone that raised no suspicion, “Lady Ronggor, what are your thoughts on this?”

Ronggor paused, glancing at the silent, head-lowered Miss Helen, then answered softly after a moment: “My thoughts… from my perspective, I naturally supported Teacher, but…”

“But?”

The wicked devil raised an eyebrow, while his “daughter” stiffened at the word.

“But… Sir Anselm, you should understand.”

Ronggor sighed: “Hendrik, I, and the few remaining classmates discussed it. At that final moment, the teacher’s choice… was too far-reaching.”

“Far-reaching? You mean, he overstepped?”

“Something like that,” the noblewoman smiled bitterly. “We followed Teacher initially because he showed us broader possibilities—breaking through the Ether Academy’s centuries-old spell system, offering boundless hope. No sorcerer could resist that, which is why, at his peak, Teacher had so many students and followers.”

“But over time, Teacher shifted his focus from ‘more possibilities for transcendents’ to ‘more possibilities transcendents could bring to the world.’”

Anselm nodded slightly: “From self-interest to altruism.”

“Yes, Teacher was a remarkable man. None of us could reach his heights.”

Ronggor’s tone was tinged with loss: “So, many chose to leave him. And as that idea—what you called ‘Universal Transcendence’—emerged, droves left, leaving only a few of us.”

“So, Lady Ronggor, you understood and supported Mr. Erlin’s ideals. Why then think his choice was too far-reaching?”

“Because it…”

Ronggor hesitated for a long time before saying with difficulty:

“It… wasn’t realistic, or rather, utterly impossible.”

Anselm could feel blunt nails digging into his palm.

Yet he only asked, surprised: “Impossible? Is that what you think, Lady Ronggor?”

“Because it… truly is impossible,” Ronggor shook her head. “Without wielding Ether, alchemical creations can’t be used. Creating devices usable by ordinary people means finding a way for them to briefly wield Ether.”

“That’s no longer just an alchemical issue—it’s about overturning the entire… entire world.”

“Even the teacher couldn’t achieve that.”

“Hm… we have ways to turn ordinary people into transcendents, but giving all ordinary people the ability to wield Ether is indeed unthinkable,” Anselm echoed her.

“Yes,” Ronggor lowered her eyes, looking weary, unwilling to dwell on those dark memories.

“But this lady is still pursuing that, isn’t she?”

The speaker wasn’t Anselm but his daughter, Miss Helen.

Her tone was well-controlled, hiding the faint yearning for the answer she hoped for.

Ronggor was slightly startled, unsure why the shy puppet asked this, but answered instinctively: “It’s Teacher’s dying wish, and we do yearn for the world he described, full of possibilities.”

“But you don’t believe it can come?” Anselm placed a hand on his daughter’s head, chuckling softly.

“…Yes, it’s not a good look, is it, Sir Anselm?”

Though she said this, Ronggor seemed relieved: “Many of Babel Tower’s departments work toward this, but none of us… believe that the future will come. Most current members don’t even care much about that ideal.”

“If we used changing the world or Teacher’s goal as a slogan, we couldn’t recruit or grow to this scale. So, our mission is more about ‘exploring new boundaries of Ether and transcendence.’”

Anselm comforted gently: “Recognizing reality isn’t weakness, Lady Ronggor.”

“Weakness… perhaps,” Ronggor smiled helplessly. “Maybe it’s more guilt toward the teacher, and… toward that girl, Mingfuluo.”

“Mingfuluo?”

“You must know her. She’s different from us all, steadfast in Teacher’s beliefs, willing to give everything for them.”

Ronggor’s expression was both proud and guilty: “Everything she’s created is genuinely aimed at changing the world. None of us in Babel Tower—everyone—can make what she does… She’s a remarkable girl.”

“She’s paid… too much for it,” the woman lowered her eyes, her guilt stark.

“If she knew she’s the only one in Babel Tower believing in that future, she’d be… heartbroken, wouldn’t she?”

How could there be so many visionaries transcending their era, bordering on madness?

Ronggor, Hendrik, and the last few followers of Erlin who built Babel Tower yearned for the era he envisioned, but their ability, vision, and mindset destined them… to never believe it could be realized.

Rather, under such circumstances, building Babel Tower to carry Erlin’s legacy and work toward universal alchemical devices already marked them as remarkable idealists.

“So, will Babel Tower’s direction change in the future?”

Anselm naturally posed the question.

“Of course,” Ronggor nodded.

“We can’t trouble you and must ensure Babel Tower’s operations… Hendrik could give you a more precise answer, but roughly, it’s about creating broader-use alchemical devices while nurturing theoretical and creative talent.”

The young Hydra pondered, then nodded with satisfaction:

“It seems Babel Tower’s plan is indeed more reasonable. Mr. Erlin’s ideas were, indeed… a bit excessive.”

“Right, daughter?”

As if unaware of his palm being gripped tightly, he said leisurely:

“But this way,” Miss Helen’s tone was hollow, more doll-like, “control remains with transcendents. Nothing changes.”

Society would only inch forward slightly, then stagnate again—alchemical devices would become tools for transcendents to further dominate ordinary people.

Mingfuluo knew this better than anyone.

She had seen her creations suppressed or killed for threatening transcendent interests, or forced into deals with “big figures,” becoming their tools.

And in the end… Did those things help the people they were meant to?

Mingfuluo didn’t know. She only knew this path wouldn’t lead to the future she envisioned.

To her, this was a transitional method, injecting vitality into the world, preparing it for change.

She hadn’t imagined that what she saw as a transition was, to the organization carrying her grandfather’s legacy, the… endpoint.

Nor had she considered that everyone—everyone but her—didn’t believe her grandfather’s envisioned future could be realized.

“…But it’s more reasonable, after all, ordinary people can’t—”

“Why not?” The puppet’s voice rose slightly.

“As creators, we should tackle the impossible. Why bow to the so-called impossible?”

Ronggor was stunned, while Anselm placed a hand on Miss Helen’s shoulder, saying gently: “Be polite, Helen.”

“…”

The lips beneath the veil moved slightly, her increasingly intense, emotional words reduced to a short response:

“I’m sorry, Father. I’m sorry… Lady Ronggor.”

“No, I…”

The strange feeling grew stronger, the petite figure overlapping with the black-clad girl in her mind.

“My apologies, Lady Ronggor,” Anselm smiled.

“It seems my fatherly confidence has influenced her. I’m sure you understand.”

“…Having seen Mr. Flamel’s abilities, it’s natural to think alchemists can do anything.”

Ronggor forced a smile: “I’m not upset, please don’t mind, Sir Anselm. Your… daughter is very lively, very vibrant.”

“Heh, I think so too.”

Anselm affectionately stroked his daughter: “Helen, be polite. Share your thoughts on Mr. Erlin and the current Babel Tower.”

“Based on our discussion, Mr. Erlin’s… ideals.”

Miss Doll lowered her head, maintaining a detached tone that no longer seemed difficult.

“Babel Tower’s current choice is just a transitional means, not the final endpoint.”

“Hm…” Anselm tilted his head. “So you still think someone can achieve this impossible thing?”

Ronggor could only smile bitterly.

“Yes.”

Mingfuluo Zege, the undying idealist, shifted her gaze from her grandfather’s former student, one of her few close elders.

“I believe such people exist, those who share Mr. Erlin’s ideals.”

“So…”

The devil crouched down, his cheek affectionately close to hers, speaking softly: “Who’s this remarkable person? Do I know them?”

After a brief silence, Miss Doll slightly lifted her veil, revealing soft, pink lips, and gently pressed them against Anselm’s cheek.

She wrapped her arms around Anselm’s neck, but her gaze turned to the stunned Ronggor, speaking deliberately, word by word:

“It’s you, my… Father.”

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