Volume 2

Chapter 20: The Devil’s Companion (4)

The Ether Academy’s mechanized armor disintegrated.

After its frenzied rampage, the gold-devouring monstrosity, built with untold resources, collapsed into a heap of scrap.

Now, no one dared speak.

The palace hall was silent enough to hear a pin drop.

The light screen projected the ravaged battlefield.

To say it bluntly, the Black Knight had nearly blasted the plain into a basin.

One swing carved an abyss into the earth, a sweep upheaved the ground, not to mention its array of energy-output light-element spells.

For the Ether Academy, there was good news and bad news.

The good news: they proved mechanized armor was remarkable.

Though alchemical fortresses remained the pinnacle, blending functionality and lethality, mechanized armor was starting to surpass them in “destruction.”

While its raw power couldn’t match a fortress, its high mobility and adaptability promised great potential for future development.

The bad news: well…

Due to this accident, it was now impossible to determine who won or lost.

If someone dared suggest, “Since it’s come to this, why not call it a draw between Her Majesty and Her Highness?” every noble and minister would thank his family and promise to care for his wife and daughters.

Because it was true—the two great powers needed a way out, but whoever offered it would likely not leave a corpse, probably burned on the spot.

So… many quietly turned their gazes to Anselm.

If anyone could provide a way out and escape unscathed…

Anselm, you wouldn’t disappoint us, right?

Amid those hopeful looks, Anselm, staring at the light screen, suddenly said:

“Hm… it seems there’s a survivor.”

The nobles’ hearts sank.

Anselm, what a blunder!

A survivor meant the war, strictly speaking, wasn’t over.

Both sides had exhausted their means; victory now depended on luck.

If Her Majesty won, the Grand Princess’s wrath would claim countless victims.

If the Grand Princess won…

The nobles and ministers dared not imagine the consequences.

Their hearts ached, wondering how the usually balanced, sharp-witted Anselm could make such a grave mistake now.

Couldn’t he just let it pass vaguely, for everyone’s sake?

Or… did this young Hydra have his own calculations at this moment?

The light screen zoomed in, revealing a blood-soaked, unrecognizable youth crawling from the rubble, gasping hoarsely as if his lungs were torn.

Despite his dire state, where death seemed imminent, Kaitomoto Watson knelt on the ground, laughing maniacally:

“I won! I won! Hahahaha! I won!”

The nobles’ scalps tingled.

As a lord, surviving with alchemical lifesaving tools and good luck was plausible.

But surviving was one thing—why court death like this?

“Won?”

As expected, the Empress, who had been in high spirits, hadn’t been this pleased in ages, sneered: “He says he won?”

The nobles and ministers stayed silent. Now… even if someone offered a way out, this couldn’t end.

A victor had to be decided.

Ephithand’s gaze swept the light screen, locking onto a point.

She raised her hand, expressionless, and the distant battlefield began to tremble and hum.

From the rubble where she stared, a figure even more battered than Count Watson was forcibly dragged out and thrown to the ground.

His limbs were broken, blood still pouring, only kept alive by a glowing alchemical device at his chest.

Undoubtedly, the only ones in this war with such powerful lifesaving items were Count Watson and Count Mirror Lake.

“Just these two left, and the rest are dead? Heh, perfect.”

A cruel, savage smile spread across her aged face: “Since two remain, the duel resumes. The last one standing is the victor!”

As she spoke, her power surged, seemingly intent on restoring both to full strength for another fight.

“You—” Ivora turned, glaring furiously.

“This is a war! Not a duel!”

After all, continuing as a war, the outcome was clear.

“This is neither a war nor a duel.”

Ephithand looked down at her daughter, expressionless: “It’s my game.”

“I set the rules, Ivora. So now, I say it’s a duel, and it’s a duel.”

Just as Ivora teetered on the edge of uncontrollable rage and Ephithand prepared to restore the two lords, the young man who started this mess spoke again:

“Your Majesty, I believe this is not fair.”

The nobles were drenched in cold sweat at these words and even the usually composed, impassive grand dukes twitched their eyes.

Ephithand slowly turned her head, staring at Anselm’s face: “Anselm, what did you just say?”

“I said, this is not fair,” the young Hydra said, neither humble nor overbearing.

“Fair… hahahaha, fair? Anselm, are you sure you want to discuss fairness with me?”

Ephithand laughed wildly, her voice laced with a fiery rage that made the ministers tremble.

“Of course,” Anselm said calmly, “because this is not fair to Your Majesty.”

Anselm, don’t keep—

…Hm?

Under the stunned gazes of the ministers, the young Hydra addressed the slightly startled Empress:

“From the battle just now, the outcome is clear—Your Majesty has already won.”

“…” Ivora froze for half a second, then roared, “Anselm, you’re spouting nonsense! What are you talking about—”

“Silence.”

The Empress cut Ivora off with a cold, menacing glare and tone, then turned to Anselm, clearing her throat slightly, her voice softening: “Anselm, continue.”

“First, we can confirm one thing: the strength of the Black Knight.”

Anselm smiled confidently: “If they hadn’t overly pursued theatricality, Watson Territory would have been annihilated instantly—no one can dispute that.”

The Empress nodded: “As it should be.”

“But Your Majesty is merciful, magnanimous. The theatricality of this war—er, game—can be seen as Your Majesty’s compassion toward Watson Territory, granting them an opportunity.”

The aged Empress shifted her posture slightly, propping her chin with one hand, her lips curling upward: “Well said. If it weren’t so, it would’ve been too dull.”

“Even so,” Anselm smiled, “Watson Territory exhausted all their transcendents without even scratching the Black Knight.

Even when Babel Tower used a special weapon, it still fell into the Ether Academy’s trap.”

“But, due to some… technical errors by the Ether Academy?”

His words caused the Ether Academy members present to pale, but Anselm continued unfazed: “Things escalated to this point.”

“In other words—the subsequent events were merely an uncontrollable accident.”

The young Hydra raised a finger, smiling gently: “Because Watson Territory didn’t ‘defeat’ Mirror Lake Territory. Even if they destroyed the Black Knight, Mirror Lake’s transcendents would have been enough to crush Watson Territory.”

“Since Watson Territory didn’t defeat their opponent, how can they claim victory?”

“Go to hell, Anselm!” Ivora’s eyes seemed ready to devour him. “A war isn’t decided until the final moment!”

“But this isn’t a war, Your Highness,” Anselm said helplessly, spreading his hands. “The Black Knight caused this chaos, but was it Your Majesty’s fault? Was it Your Majesty’s error? Wasn’t the Black Knight built by the Ether Academy with Your Majesty’s vast resources?”

“So how could the mistake, the failure, be Your Majesty’s?”

Sophistry.

Undeniable, blatant sophistry.

“…”

Ivora stared at Anselm for a long time, then fell silent.

Yes, it was sophistry, but so what?

The Empress didn’t care—or rather, she was likely too addled to see it as sophistry and took it as truth.

Wasn’t that even better?

On the surface, Her Majesty believed she won, suppressing her daughter’s arrogance, and felt immensely satisfied.

In reality, the Grand Princess knew she won.

Though she couldn’t admit it openly, she’d preserved her dignity in such an unfair, difficult situation—everyone understood.

Wasn’t this a win-win?

As for the Ether Academy… with their vast influence, a scolding from Her Majesty meant nothing. It wasn’t their loss.

This outcome was far better than offering a way out for both sides, leaving a hidden bomb unresolved.

Seeing the Empress’s increasingly pleased smile, the ministers and nobles inwardly sighed—Anselm was, as expected, the most reliable. If only the process wasn’t so terrifying.

“Heh heh heh… Anselm, you truly understand who won this game.”

The Empress glanced disdainfully at her daughter, who kept her head lowered in silence, her satisfaction growing.

She turned to Anselm, her tone kind: “This game pleased me greatly, and you’re the greatest contributor. Though Flamel can give you anything you desire, I must reward you. Name your wish.”

Anselm smiled: “I do, in fact, need to request something from Your Majesty.”

“What?”

“Mirror Lake Territory.”

The young Hydra said gently: “I believe it’s time to expand Hydra’s territory, to include more residents and capable people. Though Mirror Lake Territory won, the outcome slightly tarnished Your Majesty’s glory. Stripping their land but retaining their title, merging them and their people into my territory, would meet my needs and serve as a punishment for Robaire.”

“That’s all?” The Empress frowned slightly, seemingly displeased that Anselm asked for so little.

“But you do enjoy managing territories. Fine, then—”

Her words halted.

Her gaze lingered briefly on Sulun, who had remained silent with her head bowed, then shifted to Ivora, a smile spreading across her face.

“No, a reward for pleasing me so much can’t be this meager.”

Ephithand propped her chin with one hand, smiling delightedly: “You need capable people, don’t you, Anselm?”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“Then, I’ll give you Babel Tower.”

In that instant, the temperature in the hall seemed to rise by twenty degrees.

Ivora, who had kept her head lowered since “losing,” slowly raised it, her eyes brimming with ferocity and madness:

“You’re giving what to him?”

“Ivora… who taught you to speak to me with that attitude?”

Ivora’s chest heaved, the hall bursting with blazing flames, but Ephithand made no move to stop her. Instead, she sneered, as if enjoying her daughter’s impotent rage.

In the end, Ivora, without a word, turned into flames and vanished from the hall.

“Heh heh heh… just an immature child.”

The Empress chuckled pleasantly, then turned to Anselm: “Pay her no mind. From now on, Babel Tower is yours.”

“My gratitude for Your Majesty’s grace.”

Anselm bowed slightly to the Empress.

His peripheral vision caught the quiet, refined little princess winking at him.

This absurd war—no, game—finally concluded perfectly under the mediation of our kind, sensible Anselm.

What followed was what the nobles needed to consider.

The Empress was on the verge of collapse, destined to embrace the Source Flame, as every Empress before her had.

Once Ivora ascended, no one wanted to be the old regime swept away by the new.

As for the situation, Hydra’s position wasn’t optimistic either, especially since he’d reached the Imperial Capital. It was time to make contact.

As for the two next-generation divine seeds…

After this incident, their relationship seemed to have hit rock bottom.

***

“Anselm… Anselm! My perfect man!”

At this moment, the two deemed by ministers and nobles to have a “rock-bottom relationship” were locked in a passionate kiss by the door.

More accurately, Anselm was pinned against the door by Ivora, who was kissing him forcefully.

The fiery Grand Princess wore a sheer, pale red veil, pressing Anselm firmly against the door while calling his name seductively.

Anselm initially resisted, but after a token struggle, he gave in.

After about five minutes, as Ivora began moving southward, poised to breach his defenses, the young Hydra raised a hand to stop her.

“Your Highness, any further would cross a line.”

“…Tch.” Ivora frowned. “I’ll burn it clean and not leave anything inside—can’t that work?”

Anselm smiled brightly: “Sorry, I don’t trust you.”

“You’re too cautious… cautious to the point of being annoying. You need to change that, Anselm.”

His response clearly dampened Ivora’s enthusiasm, but she didn’t bother changing clothes. Instead, she pulled Anselm to the sofa in the room—his room, though Ivora navigated it with ease.

The woman deftly opened a bottle of wine on the table, pouring glasses for herself and Anselm. Leaning back contentedly, she swirled her glass.

Staring at the wine, she couldn’t help but scoff:

“Those two idiots, do they still think they won?”

“Mind your words, Your Highness.”

“I never watch my words around you.” Ivora tossed her hair, sipped her wine, then propped her chin with one hand, turning to Anselm.

Her vibrant red hair slid to one side, revealing her smooth, pale neck.

She exhaled a sweet, slightly alcoholic breath toward Anselm: “I can’t think of any reason to be wary of you.”

Anselm chuckled: “Then Your Highness should beware of my betrayal.”

“Hahaha, perfect.” Ivora laughed, her greed and desire unmasked. “That’d give me a reason to ruin you, lock you up, and keep you for my enjoyment day and night.”

“…” The young Hydra sighed softly.

“I’d rather not hear such dangerous fantasies after our cooperation.”

“You said it yourself—it’s just a fantasy.”

She shrugged, passing the glass toward Anselm: “But our cooperation is real.”

This cooperation, this game that seemed to leave Ivora utterly defeated, was the product of her and Anselm’s collaboration.

That day, when Anselm convinced Ivora to spare Mingfuluo, he told her he’d share a secret about Sulun.

That secret was… Sulun had already aligned with Ephithand. She was the third person in the Empire, besides Ephithand and Ivora, who could enter Anticheg.

In other words… She could report on Ivora to Ephithand at any time.

That’s why the Empress learned of the mechanized armor so quickly and decided to punish Ivora.

Unfortunately, Anselm informed Ivora of this, and despite her raging fury, she unhesitatingly asked for his help.

Anselm agreed, leading to… that day’s court scene.

—Ivora, uncharacteristically irrational, openly provoked Ephithand, pushing the Empress into a dangerous rage.

At that moment, Anselm stepped in, controlling the situation and redirecting the conflict toward Babel Tower and the Ether Academy, inducing them to settle it with a duel.

The death row prisoners were merely bait.

Anselm knew exactly what kind of person Ephithand was now—she’d crave a grander, crueler spectacle, even if just to humble Ivora.

Even if the Empress agreed to a duel with prisoners, Anselm had a backup plan.

In short, everything proceeded methodically according to his design.

“Speaking of which, how did you make the Black Knight go berserk?”

Ivora, resting her feet on Anselm’s lap, asked curiously: “Nidhogg? Didn’t that fool Zege fail?”

The Black Knight’s rampage was the key to the chaotic, ambiguous outcome.

Even if it was destroyed, Watson had no transcendents left to fight, and its sudden “berserk” state, wiping out everyone, made the ending absurdly comical.

Anselm smiled: “First, it wasn’t berserk. If it was, how could it conveniently leave those two counts alive? As for the method, it’s a little secret. I made a small deal with Robaire—place a little something in the Black Knight’s cockpit, and I’d give him what he needed most.”

“What he needed most…” Ivora paused for two seconds, then said incredulously, “That’s why you merged him into Hydra’s territory?”

The young Hydra smiled without answering.

“…I knew it. I knew you wouldn’t expand your territory for no reason.”

The woman laughed, catching on: “Punishment… ha, joining Hydra’s territory, a punishment? Only that senile old fool would believe your nonsense!”

Hydra’s territory was universally recognized as a near-utopian paradise in the Empire—resources, order, environment, rules… countless people flocked to it daily.

Mirror Lake Territory, with its ether veins polluted and nearing collapse, needed new land.

Now, with a chance to merge into Hydra’s territory?

Count Mirror Lake’s face must be beaming—how could he refuse?

Even if the risk was great… if it succeeded, he’d have no worries.

What grand duke would dare experiment in Hydra’s territory, fail, say “I’ll handle it,” and walk away?

Besides, Anselm likely promised he could still manage his people, only losing the title of great lord.

Trading that for being a vassal of Hydra… It was a massive gain!

“You’re… a genius, Anselm. My genius, my devil.”

Ivora sighed softly, exhaling a heated breath.

She poured wine onto Anselm’s neck, wrapped her arms around his shoulders and gently kissed his throat and collarbone.

Sulun was reporting to Ephithand, making conflict with the old Empress inevitable.

This time it was mechanized armor; next time, it’d be something else.

The rift between Ivora and Ephithand ran too deep.

Yet she couldn’t easily move against Sulun, as it would mean a complete break between the aging divine seed and the young one.

So… to resolve the immediate crisis, it was better to ignite the conflict first.

Ivora could never accept being utterly defeated in this conflict’s eruption, nor could she allow Ephithand to completely dominate her.

Though that was the reality… she simply couldn’t accept it.

So… Anselm orchestrated this outcome with his final move.

—Ephithand got what she wanted, “punishing” Ivora; yet Ivora didn’t truly lose her dignity, as anyone could see the Grand Princess hadn’t lost. Only the senile, muddled Empress was fooled by Anselm’s few words.

The key was that no one dared remind her.

The outcome was uncertain, but whoever spoke up would surely die.

Thus, though Ivora appeared to submit, her actual losses were nearly zero.

Well… if not for the Babel Tower matter, they’d truly be near zero.

“I didn’t expect that old hag to disgust me one last time.”

Ivora lightly licked the wine from Anselm’s collarbone: “But it doesn’t matter. You’ve helped me so much, so Babel Tower is my gift to you.”

She straddled Anselm, hooking her pale red veil, chuckling softly: “Or… do you want a different kind of gift?”

“That’s enough, Your Highness.”

Anselm gently held Ivora’s waist, smiling warmly.

Just as he never told the Empress of his schemes with Ivora, Anselm never—nor would he ever—tell Ivora that he’d met Sulun in person, pushed for the floating cannon’s revival, and claimed it was for himself.

He wouldn’t tell Ivora that the cautious, cunning Sulun would surely embellish this to the Empress, letting her know he was aiding Babel Tower, hinting he coveted it.

Best to let him take Babel Tower, weakening Ivora’s forces.

Thus, Babel Tower falling into his hands wasn’t the Empress’s last-minute jab at Ivora—it was a foregone conclusion, set long before.

Knock knock knock.

“…Damn it, just when I was getting in the mood, it’s gone.”

Ivora stood, gave Anselm a deep kiss, and said: “Fine, I’ll find you later. After this, she’ll quiet down for a bit, which is my chance to act.”

With that, she turned into flames and vanished from Anselm’s room.

Anselm touched his lips, chuckling silently.

Above all, he’d never tell Ivora that his help wasn’t for her.

It was for Babel Tower… and for someone else.

“Come in.”

“…My dear Aluo.”

This war, this game.

Anselm initiated it, guided it, controlled it.

In the end… Ephithand seemed to win, Ivora seemed to win, Sulun seemed to win, and even the two lords in the game got what they wanted.

But in truth, there was only one true victor.

The audacious devil who dared deceive Ivora, deceive everyone, treat the Empress as a pawn, and manipulate everything to perfectly achieve his desires—while earning everyone’s gratitude, recognition and praise, maintaining his flawless image, and effortlessly dominating all.

Anselm Hydra.

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