Volume 2

Chapter 33: The Death of a Master

“Mingfuluo, this is Lady Myron.”

Lady Ronggor introduced the elderly woman seated across from Mingfuluo.

“A reclusive soul master, one of my former mentors, whose expertise in soul magic rivals Solen’s. She’s completely trustworthy.”

Mingfuluo bowed to the kind, white-haired elder.

“Greetings, Lady Myron.”

“Hehe… I never thought Ronggor would trouble me one day.”

The old sorceress, whom Mingfuluo had never heard of and who had clearly been in seclusion for years, smiled warmly.

“It’s been over thirty years since we last spoke, hasn’t it?”

Ronggor, like Mingfuluo, bowed her head, somewhat ashamed.

“I wanted to contact you a few times but feared disturbing your ascetic practice. My apologies, Mentor.”

“No blame intended, just curiosity… You’ve achieved so much and never asked for my help. For you to humble yourself like this, it must be something critical.”

Myron turned her gaze to Mingfuluo.

“This young lady must be very important to you.”

“Mingfuluo is Teacher Zege’s granddaughter,” Ronggor said solemnly, meeting Myron’s eyes.

“To me, she’s naturally the most important person.”

“…Zege, Erlin?”

Myron paused, then said with deep sentiment, “So, she’s Erlin’s granddaughter. No wonder she looks familiar.”

Her smile grew kinder. “Good. That makes this trip even more meaningful.”

“Lady Myron, what do I need to do?”

“Nothing at all. Just wait a moment.”

Myron spoke gently, an invisible force brushing over Mingfuluo.

The woman felt a gaze sweep her soul, but it was so faint—compared to the soul magic used on her by Babel Tower’s fifth-tier sorcerers, it was like a passerby’s casual glance on the street.

“Hm…”

After examining Mingfuluo’s soul, Myron fell into thought.

Mingfuluo showed no expression, but Ronggor seemed nervous.

“It’s not a serious issue, don’t worry.”

Seeing Ronggor’s tension, Myron chuckled.

“Her soul was detached from her body and forced into an ill-fitting vessel for too long, causing some damage that indirectly affected her memory. Slow recovery through rest will suffice. If Mingfuluo doesn’t mind, I could repair it directly, though it might involve glimpsing some of her memories.”

Ronggor exhaled in relief.

“That’s wonderful… We’ll let Mingfuluo rest for a while, so we won’t trouble you further.”

Learning of Mingfuluo’s memory issue had alarmed both her and Hendrik.

Babel Tower’s soul-specialized sorcerers had reached the same conclusion as Myron, but fearing Solen might have left contingencies, they sought this reclusive soul master’s expertise.

“…So,” Mingfuluo said softly, touching her forehead, “my memory wasn’t tampered with, correct?”

“Why would you think that?” Myron asked, slightly surprised.

“Has someone tried to do that to you? Solen?”

“No, it’s just…”

The petite woman, seated primly, paused before responding, “That memory is important to me. Its loss feels… too coincidental.”

For years, Mingfuluo had walked on thin ice.

Moments after Marina revealed such a secret, she couldn’t recall the scene of her parting with Anselm or the deeper reasons behind their split.

It was too convenient.

“The cause is indeed just soul adaptation issues. Frankly… for your soul to remain this intact after being housed in a puppet so mismatched with your body is remarkable.”

Myron glanced at the blank-eyed puppet nearby, her eyes widening slightly.

“…Oh, you improved this puppet to enhance its soul compatibility, didn’t you? Impressive work.”

“…”

Mingfuluo didn’t respond, as she hadn’t improved the puppet, and the process… was unforgettable.

Fortunately, the memory loss was merely a soul-body adaptation issue.

Since rest would restore it, it wasn’t a major concern.

“During recovery, be mindful,” Myron tapped her temple.

“As your soul heals and adapts to your body, forgotten memories may flash back unpredictably. It can be uncomfortable, so try to endure. Also, due to your unique situation—your soul being detached for so long and somewhat adapted to the puppet—you’ll experience some rejection and discomfort in your body. That’s normal, no need to worry.”

Mingfuluo had indeed felt a subtle incompatibility between her soul and body, as Babel Tower’s sorcerers had noted.

Overall, Myron’s findings aligned with those of Babel Tower’s soul experts, which was reassuring. No discrepancies meant she could rest easy.

“Thank you for your help, Lady Myron.”

Mingfuluo bowed again. “I’m very sorry for disturbing your seclusion.”

Myron chuckled.

“Whether it’s Ronggor’s request or your identity as Erlin’s granddaughter, I have reason to help. No need for formalities. If you have issues, come to me.”

She waved, her form turning ethereal and vanishing from the room.

Transcendents like Myron were rare, detached from worldly factions.

Some ventured into the Lost Sea, others resided in the Tianlu Mountains, seeking truth in their own way.

Such independent, powerful transcendents were coveted by many factions.

Myron, secluded for years and deemed by Ronggor to rival Solen, a top soul sorcerer of this era, was exceptional.

Her willingness to aid Mingfuluo wasn’t just due to her past with Ronggor but likely because of Mingfuluo’s identity as Erlin Zege’s granddaughter.

Even if that old man’s name was forgotten by most, his bones buried in a common graveyard, some still held pure respect for the former master.

Myron came promptly and left gracefully.

Ronggor, sitting beside Mingfuluo, finally relaxed fully.

The refined noblewoman gently patted Mingfuluo’s head, saying warmly, “The materials I ordered should arrive in a few days. Vikara will make you a soul tonic, and you’ll recover quickly. Don’t worry, Mingfuluo.”

“…Lady.”

Myron’s attitude stirred Mingfuluo’s memories of her grandfather.

That those memories remained unaffected—she didn’t know whether to feel relieved or unfortunate.

She clasped her hands, asking softly, “What really happened with my grandfather’s death?”

Ronggor’s expression stiffened. Before she could speak, Mingfuluo continued, as if to herself:

“Everyone says Grandfather committed suicide, abandoned by his father, mother, and many students, dying in helpless despair.”

“But I don’t believe he’d choose suicide. Even at his lowest, he never thought of giving up.”

“…Mingfuluo, this matter—”

“So, I’ve always believed he was killed—by someone, or some group.”

She slowly turned, the cold cruelty in her purple eyes making Ronggor’s heart ache.

The petite woman, whose aura clashed with her appearance, exuded a chilling danger.

“Lady, I also don’t believe you and Hendrik never investigated his death.”

“Now, Babel Tower is on track, its future secure. With Anselm’s support, all dangers and obstacles are gone. So… Can you tell me the truth about that incident?”

Under Mingfuluo’s gaze, Ronggor couldn’t respond.

After a long silence, she sighed deeply.

“Mingfuluo… as you said, neither Hendrik nor I believed Teacher would take his own life. Not just us—everyone who believed in and followed him until the end didn’t believe it.”

The scholar, with her noble lineage and formidable ability, met Mingfuluo’s eyes earnestly.

“We joined forces, investigated every possibility, but… we found nothing.”

“Nothing… meaning you couldn’t even determine if it was suicide or murder?”

“…Yes.” Ronggor lowered her eyes, resting her forehead in her hand, voice low. “We couldn’t find answers, Mingfuluo.”

“I’m sorry… we couldn’t find answers.”

She repeated, her voice heavy with guilt and sorrow.

Mingfuluo reached to touch Ronggor’s shoulder but hesitated, her hand lingering in midair before settling there.

“…”

Ronggor looked up, surprised, but her expression soon warmed.

She leaned over, gently embracing Mingfuluo’s small, warm body. “I’m not asking you to forget, Mingfuluo, but… we must move forward. The Babel Tower we’ll create is what the Teacher would have wanted.”

Feeling warmth she hadn’t known in years, Mingfuluo thought… reclaiming emotions might not be so bad.

At least for now, it wasn’t bad.

“I know, Lady,” Mingfuluo said softly.

“I’ll move forward, no matter what.”

“…You don’t have to force yourself so much. You said it yourself—there’s no pressure now, right?”

Ronggor patted Mingfuluo’s slender back.

“Don’t push yourself like before. Teacher… wouldn’t want to see you like this.”

“No.”

At this, the emotion in Mingfuluo’s eyes faded.

She said in a calm, unsettling tone, “It’s exactly because Grandfather wouldn’t make such a choice that he failed.”

“Mingfuluo…”

“I know what to do. Don’t worry, I’m fine.”

Mingfuluo let go of Ronggor, saying calmly, “Goodbye, Lady. I’m going back to my research. Since it’s just an adaptation issue, I don’t need to be distracted anymore.”

“…Alright.”

Ronggor watched Mingfuluo, her hand reaching to pat her head but settling on a gentle shoulder tap.

“Keep going. We’re in this together.”

Mingfuluo, with her usual indifferent expression, nodded slightly and left.

After her departure, Ronggor, the powerful fifth-tier sorceress who’d maintained composure, seemed drained, nearly collapsing.

“…Why, why did Mingfuluo suddenly bring up Teacher?”

The noblewoman leaned wearily against the table, her face full of exhaustion and struggle.

Erlin Zege’s death, fifteen years ago, shook the Imperial Capital’s sorcerer circles.

Though his reputation had faded, many still remembered his former glory.

Even stripped of all else, Erlin was a fifth-tier transcendent.

A fifth-tier transcendent… dying silently in the Empress’s suppressed capital was chillingly bizarre.

Because it was so eerie, despite Erlin’s gruesome death, everyone deemed it suicide.

Silently killing a fifth-tier alchemist—known for complex methods and abundant tools, the strongest sorcerer branch—was nearly impossible.

Even the Order of Time’s leader might not manage it.

Recalling Mingfuluo’s expression, Ronggor felt a pang in her heart.

Mingfuluo Zege was the first witness to Erlin’s death.

At six years old, she saw her grandfather’s body—heart gouged out, head severed.

***

Mingfuluo wouldn’t abandon her pursuit of the truth just because of Ronggor’s words.

This inquiry was a mere probe—information gained was a bonus, but its absence didn’t matter.

She had to find her grandfather’s killer, whether the assassin or the mastermind.

None would escape.

Tracking that assassin was now a priority.

Mingfuluo was recently studying death and necromantic elements.

If time-based elements weren’t so difficult, she’d have leaned into those.

The workshop doors opened, welcoming their busy master.

Mingfuluo decided to focus on creating alchemical tools for this purpose, shelving other projects without issue.

After all, Babel Tower had truly transformed—though the transformation and its cause, had little to do with the tower itself.

“Should I consider hunting elements too? Paired with beast elements, the complexity isn’t high, and—”

Her muttering stopped the moment she saw someone in the workshop.

“Hunting elements? What, got time to go hunting now?”

Anselm, alone this time, lounged on a sofa that definitely hadn’t been there before. “I don’t recall you having that hobby, Arlo.”

“…You don’t need to use that nickname when we’re alone.”

Mingfuluo glanced at Anselm, who looked like he was vacationing in her workshop.

“I prefer you call me by my name, Anselm.”

“Oh…” Anselm nodded knowingly.

“So you mean I should call you that even with others around? Fine, I don’t mind.”

“…”

Mingfuluo paused, then silently walked to the workbench.

With a prototype already forming in her mind, she began working, unwilling to waste time on Anselm.

But Anselm clearly wasn’t here to watch her work.

The young Hydra rose from the sofa, moving behind the petite scholar.

Miss Mingfuluo’s figure wasn’t quite delicate nor childlike—petite captured it perfectly.

Many misunderstood “petite,” especially in memories from the traverser’s world, where it was often tied to overly childish builds.

Barely reaching Anselm’s chin, Mingfuluo wasn’t childlike, just a head shorter than him.

Compared to Hitana, the gap was stark, making Hitana’s bold claims less about Mingfuluo being tiny and more… a matter of perspective.

Anselm placed his hands on Mingfuluo’s shoulders, chuckling.

“Forgot what you promised me last time?”

“…”

Meeting again, she was to show Anselm a genuine smile.

Mingfuluo’s body paused slightly.

She took a deep breath, striving to keep her tone calm.

“I remember. You told me… to prepare.”

“Ah, no, no need for that now.”

Anselm looked down at the petite Miss Doll, who seemed more like a puppet than the actual puppet when nestled in his arms. “You don’t seem in a state to show a heartfelt smile. Forcing it would be too distressing—for both of us.”

He felt her narrow shoulders, which had tensed slightly, relax a bit.

Then, Anselm’s face lit up with a smile again.

“But because of that… you must face a penalty, dear Arlo.”

Her briefly relaxed body tensed again.

Mingfuluo, head lowered, was silent for a moment before saying softly, “I shouldn’t have held any expectations for you, Anselm.”

“So… you still had expectations? You’re quite inconsistent, Arlo. One moment you claim to see my true face, the next you harbor unrealistic hopes… Hasn’t this happened multiple times already?”

His hands slid downward, and Mingfuluo’s breathing shifted slightly—her body, unlike a puppet’s, couldn’t dull sensations and was far more sensitive.

But Anselm merely wrapped his arms around her waist, doing nothing more.

“You’re… no different.”

Mingfuluo struggled to steady her breathing, feeling the warmth of his broad palms on her waist and the solid, warm comfort of his chest against her back as he held her close.

“You say you’ll push me into the abyss of rationality, yet you try to stir memories from three years ago… making me recall your kindness, your deceit, trying to provoke my emotions… Why do this? Is it amusing?”

“Can’t the clever Arlo figure out the answer?”

“Of course.”

Mingfuluo lowered her head slightly, her voice hoarse. “Just as I can’t discern how many lies are in the words you’ve spoken to me.”

“Hm?” Anselm’s brows rose slightly. “I recall telling you… all of them.”

“Yes, all of them.” Mingfuluo tried to pull away from his chest but was held firmly, unable to move, so she continued under the warmth that felt almost scalding to her.

“You told me everything you said was a lie, but I… don’t believe it.”

Marina’s words had, after all, shaken her.

“Anselm, I don’t believe you never spoke a single truth to me.”

Mingfuluo tilted her head up, her refined, aloof face showing faint, complex emotions.

“Now that I think about it, even when you wanted to destroy me, I… still held that belief.”

Anselm’s hand covered her small face.

He was silent for a moment, then shook his head with a smile.

“This isn’t like you, Arlo.”

“You know me and I know you.”

Mingfuluo didn’t resist his touch, her eyes lowering as she got no response.

“But now, it seems I don’t know you, and you… don’t know me either.”

After a brief silence, Anselm suddenly lifted her off the ground, eliciting a soft gasp.

Laughing, he set her back down.

“This is supposed to be your penalty time… how did it turn into your lecture?”

Not letting go, Anselm pinched her chin.

“Your changes are quite noticeable, Arlo.”

“…I don’t fear erasing everything to become a tool. But if it happens too soon, it benefits me nothing.”

“So you’ve set aside your rational defenses and let emotions flow freely?”

“That likely plays right into your hands… Toying with a lifeless block of wood must lack satisfaction,” Mingfuluo said expressionlessly.

Anselm burst out laughing.

“You overestimate yourself, dear Arlo. There are countless ways to get a reaction from you. Do you… lack a clear sense of your own sensitivity? Or have you forgotten what you experienced in my bedroom?”

His fingertips easily tore the fabric of her clothes.

His palm, warm against her tender abdomen, made the woman, five years his senior, tremble slightly.

“Hitana is already sensitive,” Anselm whispered in her ear, “but even she wouldn’t quiver so much from a touch to her stomach.”

The slightly petite Miss Mingfuluo, dressed maturely yet with an icy demeanor, carried a unique… contradictory allure.

But Anselm didn’t use the “penalty” as an excuse to continue.

He merely kneaded her soft abdomen, stopping as her body trembled in his arms.

“I don’t mind forcing others… but force must have meaning. Forcing you now, Arlo, holds no value and adds no thrill.”

“So, I’ll change the penalty… From your muttering when you entered, it seems you’re planning something naughty.”

Feeling the smooth texture, so different from Hitana’s, Anselm said with keen interest:

“Mind… including me?”

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