Steam Old Days: The Extraordinary Begins with a Corpse Collector

After hearing Lyndon's question, Iron Anvil couldn't help but laugh out loud.

"Hahaha! You're so greedy! You want extraordinary power but don't want to take any risks."

Laughter echoed in the empty mental space, carrying a hint of mockery and sarcasm.

Lyndon felt no embarrassment or shame at Anvil's mockery. Instead, he mustered his courage and asked Anvil again, "So there's no third option?"

Faced with Lyndon's persistence, the anvil's laughter gradually subsided, and the expression on his face changed from playful to complex.

He explained to Lyndon, "Throughout history, many theologians have tried to tame those beasts, but they have almost all failed. So, until now, there is only one way to deal with mental anomalies: kill them!"

Iron Anvil thought that saying this would dispel Lyndon's crazy idea.

But unexpectedly, Lyndon seized on a key word in his words.

"Basic? So you're saying we didn't find anything at all?"

Lyndon did not give up his greedy idea, but continued to ask questions.

Iron Anvil hadn't expected this young man to be so persistent; it seemed he was willing to do anything as long as there was even the slightest possibility.

He stroked his chin, not answering Lyndon's question, but instead tempting Lyndon with benefits, hoping to make him give up the idea.

"Actually, there's nothing wrong with just eliminating the Nightmare. I'll help you negotiate with Alastor. Once you have the money, if you want to become a superhuman, you can spend money to ask for a blessing..."

"Why won't the master tell me the truth?"

Before Iron Anvil could finish speaking, Lyndon interrupted him.

Upon hearing this, the anvil's expression froze instantly.

Lyndon continued, "Actually, there were people in history who succeeded, right? It's just that the records are so few that later generations can neither verify nor replicate it."

Iron Anvil's pupils suddenly contracted, and even his lips began to tremble.

"How...how did you know?"

“I’ve been to the Porter Library, and I saw a book there that mentioned it briefly,” Lyndon said calmly, as if chatting with a friend about which wine was good. “So I’m here to ask you, Master, if you know any more details?”

Iron Anvil licked his lips, his gaze becoming somewhat unfocused. His large Adam's apple bobbed several times before he spoke:

"Of course, of course I know."

"Then please tell me."

An indescribable light gleamed in Lyndon's eyes. He was not swayed by the anvil's few words; on the contrary, he developed an extreme desire for power.

He repeated the sentence again, this time with an agitated tone.

Please tell me!

"Ugh!"

Anvil let out a long sigh. Only now did he realize that Lyndon was a complete madman, a madman who would stop at nothing to achieve his goal.

Looking into Lyndon's obsessive eyes, he felt as if he were seeing his younger self.

I used to be just as reckless.

The anvil raised its hand again, touching the chains that imprisoned the nightmare.

hum!

Because the anvil struck with greater force this time, the rebounding airflow was also more powerful than at the beginning.

It was so fierce that even the entire mental space began to shake violently.

Lyndon felt an irresistible force coming at him, and the massive, mountain-like body of the anvil in front of him instantly became blurry and distorted, like a stone being thrown into water.

The stones splashed, creating ripples on the water's surface, and the scene before our eyes began to change.

A violent wave of dizziness washed over him, and Lyndon felt his stomach churning.

"Ugh!"

Lyndon groaned and suddenly opened his eyes.

The pungent smell of chemicals and rust instantly filled Lyndon's nostrils.

The originally dark space became bright.

The flickering gas lamp reflected an eerie light onto the glass jar filled with exotic organs.

The ground was littered with drafts, covered with various hastily drawn symbols and diagrams.

Lyndon remained seated in that hard wooden chair, his back pressed painfully against the worktable.

Before him, the cold mechanical hand of the anvil and its calloused hands still cradled his face.

"You're awake! How are you feeling? You two suddenly froze, like wooden statues, and didn't respond no matter how I called you! The anvil was the same. What happened? How are you going to extract the nightmare's consciousness?"

When Alastor saw that the two had finally made a move, he immediately came over with a concerned smile on his face.

Anvil ignored Alastor's incessant questioning, his gaze fixed on Lyndon's face as if trying to read Lyndon's thoughts.

He yelled at Lyndon one last time, "Have you thought it through?"

"What are you considering? What were you discussing just now?"

Alastor didn't know what the two had said in the mental space, but Lyndon knew what Anvil meant.

He grasped the anvil and said firmly, "Of course!"

The anvil fell silent, simply releasing its grip, then silently turning around, its back hunched, and staggering toward the corner piled high with drafts and miscellaneous items.

He dragged the heavy mechanical arm, rummaging through the pile of books.

With withered hands, he parted the papers, picked up book after book, and examined the text on the spines.

Finally, he pulled out a thick, ancient book with a leather-bound cover.

The edges of the leather were worn through in several places.

Iron Anvil, carrying the book, walked heavily to the workbench.

He opened the book carefully.

"Look, the book says that more than 120 years ago, there was an alchemist who compiled a secret recipe that could completely tame psychic monsters without any side effects."

The anvil's spotted fingers pressed heavily on a passage in the book.

His finger slid down the text and then stopped on a list of items below.

Sporangia of *Trifolium repens*

[A three-ounce pure spiritual crystal]

Three pure silver engraved plates

A bottle of Dream-Clearing Moth Powder

"The first three, though precious, can be gathered if we find a way, it just takes some time." Anvil raised his head, his cloudy eyes looking at Lyndon through his thick glasses. "But this one is not so easy to obtain."

"Why?" Lyndon asked, puzzled.

Anvil glanced at Alastor, who had been slacking off, and Alastor, understanding immediately, leaned over to explain to Lyndon:

"The Dream-Clearing Moth is a mid-level mutant species that lives deep in the jungle! It's not found here in Fog City; it usually lives in the eastern city of Veltlin. Although it's a moth, it's bigger than a carriage!"

"It doesn't sound too difficult. We can find more people or bring more weapons," Linden said naively.

"No, no, no! The key is that this species is extremely rare!" Alastor added. "The Dream Moth only lays eggs once in its lifetime, and the larvae have an exceptionally long growth cycle, so during the egg-laying period, the Dream Moth becomes exceptionally ferocious!"

"There is a record of a single Dream Moth killing an entire expedition team, which included several superhumans."

After listening to Alastor's reminder, Lyndon leaned on the worktable, his gaze fixed on the words in the book.

Seeing Lyndon's hesitation, Iron Anvil assumed he would give up and advised again, "I've said before that this isn't a wise choice. Even if you gather all these things, you might still fail. After all, it's a secret formula that no one has successfully replicated for over a hundred years. What makes you think you can succeed?"

"So you should just give up. I'll help you kill the Nightmare, extract its spirit, and you can exchange it for money!"

"No……"

Finally, Lyndon took a deep breath, raised his head, and his eyes no longer showed the hesitation he had shown before, but instead a kind of almost obsessive determination.

His voice wasn't loud, but it was powerful.

"I don't want to become an ordinary person again, I don't want to live on potions for the rest of my life, and I don't want to spend money to sell my freedom to the church."

"I will try, even if there is only a one percent chance of success."

The anvil's gaunt face was expressionless.

He silently closed the heavy ancient book with a dull thud.

His cloudy gaze fell on Lyndon again, filled with pity and deep weariness.

"Young man," the anvil's voice was hoarse and deep, like the turning of rusty gears, "you chose this path yourself. I hope you won't regret it."

"Of course." Lyndon gave the anvil a genuine, bright smile.

"Wait a minute!" Alastor suddenly shouted, his face grim.

He had initially thought the two were discussing how to extract the Nightmare's consciousness, but the more he listened to their conversation, the more something seemed off. He suddenly realized that his business might be in trouble.

Alastor glared at Lyndon, gritting his teeth, and said, "From what I've heard of your conversation, it seems you don't want to sell Nightmare!"