My Anime Shopping Tree & My Cold Prodigy Wife!
Episode : 97

Chapter : 193

Before she could even process the loss, before she could rally her own Void power for a desperate counter-attack, Lloyd acted again. He didn’t move. He didn’t speak. He simply… willed it.

The air around Riva shimmered almost invisibly. Dozens of whisper-thin steel wires, finer than spider silk, stronger than any chain, extruded themselves from the floor, from the air, from seemingly nowhere, and wrapped around her limbs, her torso, her sword arm, with inescapable precision. They tightened, not cutting, not burning, but binding her completely, immobilizing her as effectively as if she’d been encased in solid stone. She struggled, but the wires held firm, a silent, gleaming testament to Lloyd’s absolute, terrifying control.

She was trapped. Helpless. At his mercy.

Fang, who had been waiting patiently, padded forward, circling the ensnared Riva with a low, menacing growl, his golden eyes fixed on her, a faint crackle of azure lightning now playing around his paws. He wasn't attacking. He was just… waiting. Waiting for the word from his master. Waiting to deliver the final, electrifying coup de grâce.

Riva looked at Lloyd, her earlier friendliness, her wry amusement, completely gone, replaced by a stark, undeniable understanding. She had underestimated him. Grossly. Hilariously. Fatally. He wasn't just full of surprises; he was a walking, talking, terrifyingly competent enigma, wrapped in layers of deceptive mediocrity and smelling faintly of rosemary.

“I… I concede, Cousin Lloyd,” Riva said, her voice barely a whisper, her shoulders slumping in defeat. “You… you win.” The words were a bitter admission, but also, perhaps, a profound relief. She had no desire to discover the full extent of Fang’s ‘persuasive’ lightning talents.

Lloyd nodded, a faint, almost apologetic smile touching his lips. He flicked his wrist, and the steel wires vanished as silently and mysteriously as they had appeared, releasing Riva from her bonds. Fang, with a final, slightly disappointed-sounding huff, let the lightning around his paws dissipate.

“A well-fought match, Cousin Riva,” Lloyd said, his voice genuinely respectful. “Your tactics were… inspired. The iron spikes were a particularly nice touch.” He offered her a hand, mirroring her earlier gesture, helping her to her feet. “You have considerable talent.”

Riva took his hand, her fingers still trembling slightly. She looked at him, her eyes searching his, trying to reconcile the polite, almost gentle young man before her with the terrifyingly efficient warrior who had just dismantled her and her spirit with such casual, almost contemptuous, ease. “Lloyd…” she began, then trailed off, shaking her head, still unable to fully comprehend. “You… you are not what you seem.”

“Few of us are, Cousin Riva,” Lloyd replied softly, his smile enigmatic. “Few of us indeed.”

He turned, acknowledging the stunned silence of the hall, the wide, disbelieving eyes of his family, the thoughtful, almost predatory, gaze of King ‘James’ Bethelham. Lloyd Ferrum, the drab duckling, the soap-making heir, the master of invisible wires and lightning wolves, was in the final. Against Rayan. This was going to be… memorable.

He leaned down, pitching his voice low, for her ears only, though the entire hall was probably straining to hear. “Well, my lady wife,” he murmured, a teasing, almost roguish, glint in his eyes. “Two matches down. Still standing. Still, apparently, full of surprises.” He paused, then delivered the line he’d been mentally composing for the past hour, the one that was probably going to get him exiled to the sofa for eternity, or possibly just electrocuted by an irate Ice Princess. “Tell me honestly, Rosa… isn’t your husband… just a little bit cool?”

Behind him, Rosa Siddik, the Ice Princess, the queen of serene indifference, did not speak. But if one had been observing very, very closely, with senses perhaps as preternaturally sharp as Lloyd’s own newly awakened Black Ring Eyes, one might have seen it. A fractional tightening of the delicate silver threads in her veil. A minute, almost imperceptible, clenching of her perfectly manicured fingers. And then, as Lloyd swaggered (yes, swaggered! Lloyd Ferrum! Swaggering!) away, a subtle, almost infinitesimal, upward roll of her visible obsidian eyes. It wasn’t a frown. It wasn’t a glare. It was something far, far worse. It was the ocular equivalent of a world-weary, exasperated sigh. The kind one reserves for particularly trying, inexplicably persistent, and surprisingly competent, if utterly infuriating, household pests. Or husbands.

“My dear Rosa,” he purred, his voice a low, conspiratorial rumble that probably made the potted fern wilt with secondhand embarrassment. “Is that… rosemary I detect? A subtle, yet undeniably delightful, fragrance.” He beamed at her, his eyes sparkling with a mischief that was pure, unadulterated, eighty-year-old troublemaker. “It seems you’ve finally understood the true value of my love, my lady. My deep, abiding, rosemary-scented love. Clearly, my soap has worked its magic, not just on your skin, but on your very soul! You are smitten! Utterly, hopelessly, fragrantly smitten!”

Chapter : 194

For the first time since Lloyd had known her, across two lifetimes and several near-death experiences, Rosa Siddik’s carefully constructed mask of icy indifference didn’t just crack; it shattered. Her veiled face, which usually betrayed nothing, seemed to contort. Her shoulders, usually so regally still, trembled almost imperceptibly. Her visible obsidian eyes, which had just executed a world-class eye-roll, now widened, not with shock, not with anger, but with an expression of such profound, unadulterated, almost visceral disgust, it was a masterpiece of pure, unadulterated revulsion. It was the look one might reserve for discovering a particularly large, particularly sentient, slug attempting to propose marriage with a bouquet of wilted swamp gas.

Then, she rolled her eyes again. Not a subtle, infinitesimal roll this time. But a full, dramatic, almost theatrical, 360-degree ocular rotation that clearly communicated, in no uncertain terms, her utter, comprehensive, and deeply personal loathing for his current existence, his olfactory observations, his misguided romantic pronouncements, and quite possibly, the entire concept of rosemary-scented love.

Lloyd just grinned, utterly delighted. The Ice Princess had emotions after all. And they were, apparently, highly flammable when exposed to excessive levels of smug, soap-related affection. This, he decided, was even more entertaining than winning the tournament.

---

Lloyd Ferrum versus Rayan Ferrum.

The ‘drab duckling’ turned ‘accidental prodigy with a penchant for invisible wires and surprisingly effective soap’ versus the arrogant, powerful scion of the ambitious Ashworth branch, the youth who had, until recently, been considered the most likely, if not the most desirable, successor should Lloyd continue his trajectory of underwhelming mediocrity. It wasn’t just a tournament final; it was a battle for perception, for pride, for the very future of the Ferrum heirship, played out on a public stage under the watchful eyes of their entire clan, their allies, and, most significantly, a disguised King who seemed to find the whole spectacle vastly entertaining.

He was just contemplating the strategic advantages of marketing a ‘Rosemary-Infused Aura of Icy Disapproval’ perfume (targeting discerning noblewomen with a penchant for silent judgment and really good skin) when a familiar, unwelcome voice cut through the pre-match buzz.

Viscount Rubel Ferrum, his face a mask of forced cordiality that did little to conceal the furious ambition still simmering in his eyes, had approached the dais. He stood before his brother, Arch Duke Roy Ferrum, his posture one of deep, almost exaggerated, respect, yet his words, when they came, were laced with a subtle, reptilian challenge.

Roy Ferrum’s eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly. He knew that tone. Rubel wasn't just making polite pre-match conversation; he was maneuvering, positioning, preparing to strike. “Your intentions, Brother Rubel?” Roy inquired, his voice flat, cold, giving nothing away. “Speak plainly.”

The barb, though veiled in polite phrasing, was clear. Lloyd’s past mediocrity, his Bathelham disgrace, his years of drifting – all subtly, poisonously, invoked.

“Now, however,” Rubel continued, his voice gaining a note of magnanimous, almost paternal, consideration, “we see… encouraging signs. Young Lord Lloyd has indeed displayed certain… unexpected talents today. A commendable spirit, a surprising aptitude for… unconventional tactics.” (The way he said ‘unconventional tactics’ made it sound suspiciously like ‘questionable trickery and possibly witchcraft involving invisible wires and an overly aggressive dog’.) “He has done well. Better than many, myself included, might have anticipated.”

He paused again, his gaze sweeping towards his own son, Rayan, who stood near the edge of the sparring circle, practically vibrating with suppressed aggression and arrogant confidence, his obsidian bear spirit, Kongor, a hulking shadow of brute force beside him. A look of fierce, almost desperate, paternal pride filled Rubel’s eyes.

“But let us be honest, Your Grace, esteemed kin,” Rubel declared, his voice ringing with a conviction that was both passionate and profoundly self-serving. “While Lloyd has shown… improvement… my own son, Rayan, has consistently demonstrated the raw power, the martial prowess, the unwavering Ferrum spirit, that has always defined the true strength of our line. His victory over Lady Jothi, while perhaps unexpected by some, was a testament to his superior strength, his relentless determination.” (He conveniently omitted the fact that Jothi had been clearly exhausted and that Rayan’s victory had been more about brute force opportunism than superior skill).

Rubel straightened, drawing himself up to his full, if somewhat diminished, height, his eyes gleaming with ambition. “Therefore, Your Grace,” he announced, his voice ringing with theatrical finality, “as we stand on the cusp of this final, decisive match, a match that will pit these two promising young Ferrums against each other in a true test of their abilities, I humbly propose that the outcome of this contest carry… significant weight. That it serve as a clear, undeniable demonstration. That the victor, the one who proves himself the strongest, the most capable, be formally recognized, here, before our entire clan and our honored guests, as the undisputed, primary heir to the Ferrum Arch Duchy!”