Volume 2

Chapter 71: The Prelude the Devil Seeks

Food, the foundation of human survival.

Transcendent beings didn't heavily rely on it, but most still had a considerable desire to satisfy their appetites.

Indeed, some transcendent beings transformed farmland or bred special livestock for tastier food, but such things never appeared on commoners' tables.

In Qingling City, at Count Watson's table, a delicately prepared cake emitted an enticing aroma.

After calmly savoring it, the young count took a napkin from his butler, wiped his mouth and sighed softly, "Truly... terrifying."

In Count Watson's eyes, that wheat—no, that soil—was terrifying because... it could produce food that even he found quite impressive.

Watson Territory wasn't particularly wealthy, but as a southern territory, its resources were undoubtedly abundant.

Count Watson had enjoyed fine food since childhood.

Yet even so, he found the food made from that wheat "quite good."

For Count Watson, "quite good" translated to unparalleled for commoners.

He could understand why the so-called "Pelican Guild" could seize Qingling City's entire grain market at a speed that defied logic—because the grain it produced was the most illogical thing.

Not only was the production speed enough to make any grain merchant's scalp tingle with near despair, but the quality ensured that once commoners tasted it, they could never tolerate the quality of cheap wheat or its products again.

This doomed the guild to have no rivals.

With a seven-day harvest cycle—or even shorter for crops with brief growth periods—the low prices this efficiency brought rang a death knell that shattered merchants' eardrums.

However, Count Watson was merely feeling.

He didn't care who controlled the grain market.

Because in this game, he was only temporarily refraining from acting against Little Pelican City and those fields.

Once Anselm's game ended, what was his would not escape.

Even in the current situation, it didn't matter.

After all, taxes were taxes, no matter who paid them.

"Master," the butler said softly behind Count Watson, "Mr. Lairen sent a request for an audience."

"Lairen..."

Count Watson slightly restrained his earlier relaxed demeanor, as this Lairen came from a guild in the Imperial Capital, and that guild's master... was none other than Her Highness Ivora, ever eager to achieve great things.

Of course, the representative sent to develop in his territory was likely of low standing in the original guild, probably never having even met Ivora.

Still, he had to handle this cautiously.

"This is a bit troublesome..."

Count Watson murmured, "If he represents Her Highness's intentions, then with Lord Anselm... wait—"

The young count clasped his hands, his eyes flickering with hesitation yet cold resolve.

Because he thought of Count Mirror Lake.

—That damned lucky man rose to prominence thanks to Lord Anselm.

Why can't I... find a great figure too?

This young count, who could use all transcendent beings' lives as tools for a slim chance at victory in war, murmured softly, "If Her Highness's gaze turns here..."

Count Watson didn't know if Anselm would reclaim that miraculous land after the game ended.

But... given Ivora's character, if she learned of such a thing, she would never let it go easily.

Even if our Grand Princess cared only for violence and not for people's livelihoods, this thing... could make money!

Moreover, the sense of "control" from dominating the commoners' lifelines through food was something the Grand Princess, ravenous for imperial authority, could not possibly resist.

This way, the land could remain in Watson Territory and perhaps... he could hitch a ride on the Grand Princess's war chariot, filled with countless powerful figures.

Even if he could only cower in the smallest corner of that chariot, the benefits would be immense!

Having lost all his transcendent subordinates in that war, ending Watson Territory's internal strife, his foundation was shallow.

But now...

The young man's breathing grew heavy, his eyes gradually revealing a path more efficient—and more dangerous—than guarding an ordinary territory alone.

Scheming, calculating, weighing interests, choosing gambles...

In this chaotic, twisted world, the incompetent and foolish who stood in places they didn't belong had long since perished.

"Let him come, quickly."

Count Watson stood, his decision made.

Only a scant few stood at the world's pinnacle from birth.

Even transcendent beings, in their pursuit of ascent, might face all-or-nothing choices.

And the choices they made were often much the same.

After all, the essence of transcendence was the elevation of life.

And the thirst for such elevation drove transcendent beings... to pursue further possibilities at all costs.

***

Anselm and Mingfuluo walked through Qingling City's bustling streets.

As the central city of Watson Territory, it was far livelier than Chishuang Territory, another central city.

Mingfuluo didn't know why Anselm brought her here.

The game was supposedly confined to Little Pelican City and Breeze City.

But regardless, she had no choice.

"Mingfuluo," Anselm said leisurely, holding her hand, "what do you think the world's transformation truly is?"

The sudden question made Mingfuluo pause.

She felt she'd heard it before.

Her remarkable memory soon clarified why it felt familiar—Anselm had asked her this exact question three years ago, word for word.

Miss Doll glanced at Anselm.

He didn't seem to be deliberately bringing it up, just asking casually.

After a brief silence, Mingfuluo gazed at the bustling street and answered softly, "The world's transformation is... like the ascension of transcendent beings, seeing more possibilities, possessing greater power."

"Interesting description." Anselm raised an eyebrow slightly.

"Though a bit abstract, hmm... I understand what you mean."

"Through transcendence, society extends countless possibilities, improving its 'quality,' so individuals within it can live better lives. Something like that, right?"

"...Yes."

When Anselm articulated her words, Mingfuluo grew uncertain.

The abstract, vague concept had felt grounding, but this clear, concise explanation... left her unsure how to respond.

"Then..."

The young Hydra said with a faint smile, "you've now achieved a foundational goal, haven't you?"

He tilted his head slightly, speaking as if praising some grand feat, "Feeding everyone... that's no small accomplishment, Mingfuluo."

Anselm casually pointed at a passerby.

"Do you know what could make someone like him smile like that?"

The man he pointed at carried three heavy sacks, trudging along the roadside.

Clearly a bottom-tier laborer, such a person's face typically showed only the strain of effort or the numbness of exhaustion.

Yet, for some reason, his face bore a pure, radiant smile.

Mingfuluo watched the laborer for a while, answering softly, "Hope... in his heart?"

"Hope? No, no, dear Helen. Ungraspable hope is a cruel curse to them, a silent scorn, a biting mockery. They don't find joy in intangible hope—they'd hate it, and those lofty figures who think they're offering hope."

Anselm spoke earnestly, "What makes them smile like that isn't hope, but something they can tangibly grasp."

He pointed at his abdomen.

"Like a stomach no longer empty and hungry."

He watched the laborer's retreating figure, a faint, different hue creeping into his eyes.

It wasn't pity or sympathy, nor disdain or contempt, but something... no one could comprehend.

The hue flashed and vanished, unnoticed even by Anselm himself.

"For them, this is a thousand, a hundred times better than your so-called 'hope.'"

"But just eating enough..." Mingfuluo frowned slightly, "is far from enough."

Anselm paused his steps, looking at her with a slight smile.

"You're right. It's not enough. They need better. Any ideas on that?"

"Such laborers could be replaced by the lowest-grade puppets. No one should earn a living by wearing out their body like this," Mingfuluo answered without hesitation.

Anselm's smile grew. "I'll let you try that sometime."

—Yet he didn't ask Mingfuluo: If puppets replaced these laborers, what would they do?

Mingfuluo was a genius, undeniably, but even a genius couldn't have deep insights in fields she'd never studied.

The delicate scholar didn't catch the deeper meaning in Anselm's smile.

After a slight pause, she lowered her head and answered softly, "No, maintaining this... game is enough for me, Father."

"All the success we've achieved isn't my doing. It all belongs to you."

"When did you learn to flatter, Helen?" Anselm laughed heartily.

"I'm just stating facts," Mingfuluo said seriously.

"They can eat affordable, high-quality food not because we created the Soil Enhancement Potion, but because you dealt with the biggest obstacle."

"Transcendent beings... have the power and authority to destroy all our achievements. Without your restraint, this transformation couldn't have started... And the potion itself was your idea."

At this, an indescribable feeling rose in Mingfuluo's heart.

Yes... Anselm provided the idea and restrained the other transcendent beings.

Not just talent, but... power.

Three years ago, why hadn't she realized that Anselm offered more than just intellectual support?

Then, Mingfuluo quickly understood—because it was in these three years that she came to more deeply recognize the twisted cruelty of transcendent beings.

Even without Universal Transcendence, even if it was just something to benefit commoners, they wouldn't support it.

They'd either seize it for themselves or destroy it.

The reasons?

Too many—their interests were threatened, they wanted to monopolize more benefits, or even... resentment that commoners could gain from transcendent power could be reason enough.

Why should ants stand on the shoulders of giants, breathing the same air as them?

The frail Babel Tower couldn't prevent such things from happening.

Their theoretical backer, the Grand Princess, cared even less about such matters.

If she did care, it would only mean... she merely wanted to use these things to satisfy her own desires, which would make things even worse.

Only Anselm...

Only Anselm would be willing to do this, capable of doing this.

Mingfuluo gripped Anselm's hand, instinctively tightening her hold.

If I had stood by Anselm back then, would all of this... no longer be just a game?

And if this weren’t a game, if this were reality, how wonderful would that—

“Ah!!!”

A shrill scream rang out on the street, interrupting Mingfuluo’s thoughts.

Anselm had been guiding her along this path, but the current Mingfuluo neither noticed nor cared to think about such things.

An imperceptible, subtle change was silently taking place.

Miss Doll’s gaze instantly pierced through the chaotic crowd, landing on the center of the commotion.

She saw a man covered in blood, sitting dazedly on the ground.

Beside him was a vegetable stall, its glossy, eye-catching produce splattered with the stall owner’s blood.

Anselm, holding Mingfuluo’s hand, leaned toward a bystander and asked softly, “What happened here?”

“Hm... ah? It seems these two vegetable stalls have been set up across from each other for three days. The murdered stall owner, his vegetables were from that... What's it called? Oh, right, the Pelican Guild! Cheap and delicious!”

The bystander smacked his lips.

“Really tasty. I bought a bunch of radishes yesterday. Never had radishes that good, and the price was only one copper coin more than the usual market rate.”

“So...”

Anselm looked at the pitiful stall owner dead at his stall, his tone tinged with feeling, “the other stall owner couldn’t outsell him, so he... killed him?”

“Ha, outsell? That stall owner didn’t get a single customer in three days! Now everyone in the market only buys from stalls with the Pelican Guild’s mark. They don’t even glance at the others.”

“They have that much stock?” the young man asked, his tone innocently puzzled.

“Who knows! Their vegetables are like they’re conjured out of thin air! There’s always someone delivering more, day and night.”

“Hm... so tasty and cheap, isn’t anyone worried about eating something bad?”

At this, the bystander gave Anselm a strange look, suddenly wary.

“Are you a rival of the Pelican Guild?”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because that’s what those guys say.”

The bystander crossed his arms, visibly annoyed.

“They claim the Pelican Guild’s grain must have issues, that eating it will cause problems. At first, some people believed it, but those who bought early have been eating happily for days with no issues! Now, who’d believe that nonsense? Only a fool would!”

He huffed angrily, “They just want us to eat their inferior grain. Hah, as if I’d buy their stuff with a brain like mine!”

“I see...” Anselm said, “This stall owner is truly pitiful, dying so senselessly.”

“No kidding,” the bystander muttered.

“That murderer, what a scumbag.”

“How long had he been selling grain here?”

“Oh... about ten years, I think. I saw him selling vegetables here when I was a kid.”

At this, the bystander’s tone shifted slightly.

“He wasn’t such a violent guy. Three days without selling a single grain... pitiful, sure, but did he have to kill? And isn’t it his own fault? If he can’t grow that kind of grain, who’s to blame?”

Many around him began to chime in, the clamor of discussion and noise growing louder. Amid the talk, some faces grew darker, while others silently turned and left.

They had been watching the crime scene with complex expressions—not at the dead stall owner, but at the murderer, slumped on the ground.

“Don’t you know Old Nuo’s daughter is gravely ill and needs money?” a rough, dark-skinned man couldn’t help but say. “Do you know what it means for a farmer to go three days without selling a single vegetable or grain?”

“So that justifies murder?” someone immediately retorted.

“Besides, what’s that got to do with us? If you can’t grow grain that good... if it’s really that bad, why not sell it to the Pelican Guild?”

“You don’t know anything!”

The man roared furiously, “Their grain has to be faulty! How can grain be so cheap, so high-quality, and never run out?”

“Here we go again... you’re just another Pelican Guild rival, aren’t you? No, wait, you’re just a useless farmer who can’t sell his own grain, haha!”

“What did you say!”

The two who had been talking started fighting, and more people joined the brawl, plunging the crowd into chaos again.

At that moment, in Qingling City’s upper district, Count Watson stood before a floor-to-ceiling window, easily observing the chaos in the lower district’s market through a telescope.

“Excellent...”

Count Watson murmured softly, “Let the garbage destined for elimination... play one last role.”

After meeting with Lairen from Ivora’s guild, Count Watson learned that Ivora hadn’t yet turned her gaze here, but there were faint signs she might.

And what Count Watson needed to do now was... use every means to draw Ivora’s attention.

So, what was the method?

“It’s not fast enough, not enough... We need higher yields, faster production. The entire Empire must know about this to catch Her Highness’s eye.”

The young count licked his lips. “Let me add fuel to the fire for you lucky ones.”

The original farmers were still some time from complete collapse, but what if... he sparked the conflict early?

As long as hatred was ignited between the two sides, Little Pelican City’s farmers, to crush the ordinary farmers faster, would ramp up production at an even more terrifying pace, destroying the existing grain market and ruining all ordinary farmers.

Count Watson smiled, thinking how easily these brainless fools could be incited.

Farmers were just farmers, whether they tilled ordinary fields or enhanced ones—always just farmers.

They had only one... easily plundered life, didn’t they?

At this moment, Count Watson thought himself a genius.

You’re utterly foolish, Count Watson.

Anselm sighed lightly.

This deliberate escalation, this forced acceleration of conflict, bore such obvious traces of human interference—such crude methods were truly low-class.

If he were serious, he could treat Count Watson’s actions as an offense, a violation of his demands, and shoot the count dead from miles away with a single bullet.

You should be grateful...

Anselm glanced at Miss Doll beside him, who stared blankly at the fighting, shouting, cursing crowd, then at the corpse on the stall, watching fresh blood drip onto plump, vibrant vegetables.

Seeing her expression, the devil revealed a genuine smile.

You should be grateful that this is exactly what I want.

The prologue is over. Now comes the storm.

Are you ready, my dear Helen?