Chapter 89 : A Problem That Shouldn’t Exist

Thud, thud, thud.

The heavy sound of footsteps and a cane striking the floor echoed in the vast hall.

As Anselm stepped forward, pale purple flames flickered to life on the torches lining the pillars.

Saville, ever obedient to Anselm, stood behind him, but his posture was unlike usual.

The old man bowed his head, slightly hunched, one hand on his chest, the other behind his back, following Anselm in a reverent manner, as if approaching a great sovereign.

And so it was.

This hall was a treasure from the ancient Celestial Conquest Dynasty, unearthed from the Zero Point Labyrinth by Flamel’s seven Contract Heads—a monumental relic even in the Empire’s history.

Flamel had transformed it into the world’s mightiest alchemical fortress.

Though peace-loving and uninterested in war, he made it formidable for deterrence and amusement.

“Oh, young master’s back?”

A childish boy’s voice rang out in the empty hall.

“…Laurence.”

Anselm paused, looking down at his feet, smiling gently: “It’s been a while.”

“Hm… two months, right?”

At Anselm’s feet stood a… rat, arms crossed.

Yes, a gray-black, whiskered, somewhat plump… rat.

Its long tail bore a snake-shaped ring, mouth open as if devouring something.

It nodded sagely: “First time you’ve gone so far, young master. Old Sav, you took care of him?”

Head of Devouring, Laurence Calamity.

“Mr. Laurence, the young master needs no care. I merely follow his orders.”

Saville maintained his respectful bow: “And on the Notun, show respect to the master.”

“Ugh, always so serious. No wonder he took you, not me.”

Laurence twitched his whiskers, sighing dramatically: “Come on, follow me. No clue why you’re here for the boss, young master, but it’s gotta be big.”

The plump rat led, weaving through the fortress’s maze-like halls, chattering:

“Young master, heard about Tyr? He crawled ashore in Deep Blue Port, dragging a dragon whale. I wondered where he vanished for half a month—vacation in the Lost Sea, no wonder I couldn’t find him.”

“A tornado blew up an elemental tower. The Essence Grand Duke’s livid, hunting the culprit Empire-wide, still clueless.”

“And Longjin… Longjin’s wilder—”

The not-so-dirty, rather comical rat sighed: “Everyone’s life is so exciting. Why’s Laurence stuck scurrying sewers or lying on the boss’s lab table, no chance to shine?”

It glanced at Saville, pitying: “Guess you and I are alike, Old Sav. Wait… I’m better off. Some know Laurence, but no one knows you, hahaha.”

Saville ignored him.

They reached a closed door, and Laurence stopped joking, saying: “Boss was experimenting, but since you’re here, young master, he’s probably stopped. Old Sav and I’ll wait outside.”

Anselm said nothing, silently pushing open the heavy door, his figure vanishing as it closed.

Laurence looked up at the mountain-like door, ensuring it shut, then zipped onto Saville’s shoulder, whispering: “Old Sav, why’s the young master here for the boss? Something huge?”

Honestly, when Laurence heard Anselm was coming to the Notun, he was stunned. As Flamel’s Contract Heads, they knew how complex this father-son bond was.

“…I don’t know.” Saville sighed deeply. “It’s my unforgivable failure.”

“You don’t know either?” Laurence froze, more alarmed—his expressive face rivaled a human’s.

“Something you’re kept from…”

The rat gasped: “How serious is this?”

Inside, in one of the Notun’s countless alchemical labs, Anselm, leaning on his cane, stared at the man in the center of a magic circle, surrounded by strange devices, and said softly: “Long time no see, Father.”

“…Hm? Oh, Anselm.”

The man turned, eyes full of delight, laughing heartily: “Wait a sec, I’m tweaking… tweaking some stuff.”

Something indescribable formed in his palm, between existence and non-existence, its faint outline distorting the space around it.

Anselm closed his eyes, waiting quietly for his father.

Time ticked by. A sudden explosion rang in his ears but vanished instantly, eerie.

“Tricky stuff… alright, Anselm, kept you waiting.”

Anselm opened his eyes, seeing his father finish, smiling warmly.

He looked like a mature Anselm, lacking his sinister charm, with messy, dark hair unlike Anselm’s.

His smile was open, unlike Anselm’s enigmatic one, seeming guileless and kind. No one would believe… this shell housed a near-mad demon.

“Two years, hasn’t it?”

Flamel, the Empire’s truest, most terrifying villain, approached, patting Anselm’s head, marveling: “Two years, and you’ve changed so much… truly—”

“Father.”

Anselm cut him off, showing no interest in reminiscing, despite two years apart, despite still calling him “Father.”

“I have an important matter to ask.”

Flamel paused, then smiled, raising a finger. A cup of pale gold liquid appeared: “For Anselm to come just to ‘ask,’ that’s rare.”

Anselm didn’t waste words, locking eyes with his father’s sea-blue gaze, saying earnestly: “In forming Contract Heads, have you ever failed?”

“…”

The alchemical master, whose knowledge reached unknown heights, froze for seconds.

“Uh… Anselm, what did you say?”

Flamel rubbed his temple.

“I failed,” Anselm said. “I found my Contract Head, but she didn’t bond with me.”

He fell silent.

Flamel did too, sipping his drink, brow furrowing. After a few seconds, he said: “Anselm, understand—for us, ‘signing’ a Contract Head is just a term.”

“…I know.” Anselm murmured, eyes lowered.

Between Hydra and Contract Head, there was no true contract.

The process was Hydra’s supreme essence assimilating another, a conquest through pure force.

The Contract Head’s will had no role.

“Then there’s only one possibility.”

Flamel shrugged: “Our status and elements didn’t overpower them, so assimilation failed… wait—”

His expression shifted, eyes gleaming with excitement: “Anselm, you’re making Ovillena’s daughter a Contract Head? Really? If so, I’d—”

“No.” Anselm cut off Flamel’s fervor. “Not Flame-related.”

“…Then it’s impossible.”

Flamel, hearing it wasn’t royalty, lost interest: “If not Flame, it can’t be Dragon King or Deep Callers. You can’t yet escape those places unscathed.”

Only three other sixth-tier “divine” beings could resist Hydra’s assimilation.

Then, his interest sparked: “But if this person exists, they’d be at the Endpoint. A fifth Endpoint on this continent?”

“…She’s not.” Anselm rubbed his cane. “Not now, at least.”

“Not now… even so, this shouldn’t happen.”

Flamel, his father, had no answer—Anselm’s lack of one meant Flamel likely didn’t either.

For Hydras, forming Contract Heads was instinctual, never failing across generations.

Thus, Anselm’s issue was… perhaps unsolvable.

“Something like that?”

Flamel’s brows rose: “Bring her here. I could solve it.”

Anselm closed his eyes, bowing slightly after a long silence: “No need, Father. Sorry for disturbing you. I’m leaving.”

“Now?” Flamel blinked, then said, “Let me tune up Gleipnir, or take some useful stuff? I’ve been—”

As he began rambling about his research, Anselm repeated calmly, without emotion: “No need, Father.”

“…”

The animated man opened his mouth, not angry or sad, just smiling, ruffling Anselm’s hair.

“Let Laurence see you out.”

Anselm nodded, turning. The door opened automatically.

Flamel watched his son’s back, downing his drink, eyes on Anselm vanishing through the closing door.

But as it nearly shut, Flamel suddenly shouted: “Anselm.”

Time froze. His voice slipped through the near-closed gap.

“…What, Father?”

Anselm stopped, showing only a profile.

“I was thinking, if it’s not her issue, then—”

Flamel paused, then smiled, shaking his head.

“No, impossible. Forget I said it. I won’t mess with your thoughts.”

He raised his cup: “Visit the capital when you can. Your mother misses you.”

“…”

Anselm said nothing, leaving without hesitation.

As the door shut, Flamel scratched his head, sighing: “My dear wife, raising kids is tough. Anselm’s at that parent-hating age—what to do?”

“Whatever, Anselm’s got his own plans. No need to worry.”

Flamel had meant to say, if the issue wasn’t her, could it be… the Hydra himself?

If Anselm didn’t intend her as a Contract Head, how could it work?

But knowing his son’s character and ability, Flamel dismissed it.

How could Anselm Hydra be indecisive on this?

Outside the door, on the path leading to the teleportation array, Saville and Laurence walked behind, watching Anselm, who walked alone ahead.

Neither spoke.

They sensed Anselm’s mood was bad, very bad.

The intense oppressive aura was something Flamel rarely emitted.

But fear? There was none.

Among Flamel’s Contract Heads, Saville and Laurence were the closest to Anselm.

They grew up with Anselm, so at this moment, rather than fear, Saville and Laurence felt… heartache.

Because even during Anselm’s growth, he always maintained that admirable courtesy, gentleness, and composure… but some things were still noticed.

At some point, their young lord, this young Hydra—

He was always alone, unwilling to walk with anyone else.

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep