My Anime Shopping Tree & My Cold Prodigy Wife!
Episode : 100

Chapter : 199

Rayan’s face contorted with fury. The polite veneer of aristocratic disdain vanished, replaced by raw, unadulterated rage. “You insolent…!” he roared, his voice cracking. “You think you can mock me? Me?! I am Rayan Ferrum! I will crush you! I will break you! I will show this entire clan who the true power in this family is!”

He didn’t wait for the referee’s signal. He didn’t bother with formalities. He simply exploded into motion, his Spirit Stone blazing, Kongor roaring in unison. “KONGOR! PULVERIZE HIM!”

The massive obsidian bear spirit charged, a furry, ten-foot-tall avalanche of muscle and fury, its colossal fists raised, aiming to turn Lloyd and Fang into a pair of unfortunate floor stains. Rayan followed close behind, his practice sword a blur of aggressive, powerful strikes, his face a mask of murderous intent.

The attack was swift, brutal, overwhelming. A display of raw, untamed Ferrum power, designed to shock, to awe, to utterly dominate. The crowd gasped, leaning forward, expecting a swift, decisive, and probably quite messy, conclusion.

But Lloyd Ferrum did not flinch. He did not retreat. He did not even seem surprised. As the roaring behemoth that was Kongor bore down on him, as Rayan’s sword slashed towards his throat, Lloyd moved.

And he moved with a speed, a precision, a terrifying, almost unnatural, grace that stole the breath from every onlooker.

“Fang,” Lloyd’s voice was calm, almost serene, amidst the chaos. “Pattern Delta. Evasive dispersal. Then, target prioritization: limbs. Keep Kongor… off balance.”

Simultaneously, Lloyd met Rayan’s furious sword assault. Not with brute force, not with desperate parries. But with an almost contemptuous ease, a fluid dance of deflection and evasion that made Rayan’s powerful strikes look clumsy, telegraphed, almost pathetically slow. Lloyd’s own hands were empty, yet he seemed to anticipate every move, every feint, every lunge. He wasn't just dodging; he was redirecting Rayan’s momentum, using his cousin’s own aggression against him, forcing Rayan to overextend, to stumble, to fight not just Lloyd, but his own increasingly frustrated rage.

The onlookers stared, dumbfounded. This wasn't the match they had expected. This wasn't the easy victory for Rayan they had anticipated. This was… something else entirely. Lloyd Ferrum, the drab duckling, was not just surviving; he was… controlling the fight. Effortlessly. Almost contemptuously.

“Stand still and fight me, you coward!” Rayan roared, his face flushed, sweat pouring down his temples, his attacks becoming wilder, more desperate, as Lloyd continued to evade him with that infuriating, almost insulting, ease.

“Fight you, Rayan?” Lloyd replied, his voice calm amidst the storm of Rayan’s blows, sidestepping another furious slash that would have taken his head off. “But we are fighting. Or rather,” he added, a flicker of that dangerous, unsettling smile touching his lips, “I believe the more accurate term would be… I am leading, and you, my dear cousin, are rather enthusiastically, if somewhat clumsily, following. Perhaps a waltz next? Or do you prefer a brisk polka?”

The sheer, unadulterated audacity of the insult, delivered with such calm precision amidst a life-or-death struggle, seemed to make Rayan’s brain short-circuit. He let out a strangled yell of pure, incoherent rage and lunged again, all pretence of skill or tactics abandoned, relying solely on brute, desperate force.

This, Lloyd thought, his eyes narrowing, is the opening.

He didn’t need wires this time. He didn’t need Fang’s lightning. He simply focused his will, his Ferrum Steel, his innate understanding of metal, of force, of balance.

As Rayan’s sword arced towards him, Lloyd didn’t just dodge. He moved into the attack, his hand shooting out, not to block, but to meet the flat of Rayan’s blade with his open palm. It looked like an act of suicidal madness.

But the moment his palm connected with the steel, Rayan felt it. A shock. Not electrical, but kinetic. A jarring, irresistible force that traveled up his sword arm, making his bones ache, his muscles seize. It felt as if he’d struck not flesh, but solid, unyielding Ferrum steel. And then, worse, the steel seemed to… flow. To adhere. To control.

With a subtle, almost imperceptible twist of his wrist, a precise application of his Void power, Lloyd didn’t just stop Rayan’s blade; he seized control of it. He didn’t disarm Rayan in the traditional sense. He simply… took the sword. One moment Rayan was holding it, the next it was gone, Lloyd’s fingers wrapped around the hilt, Rayan’s own hand empty, tingling, numb.

It was done so quickly, so smoothly, so utterly unexpectedly, that Rayan just stood there for a fraction of a second, staring at his empty hand, his brain struggling to process what had just happened.

Chapter : 200

The Grand Hall was a cathedral of stunned silence, Lloyd’s quiet, cutting taunt echoing more profoundly than any shout. Rayan Ferrum stood frozen, the confident sneer on his face curdling into a mask of pure, unadulterated fury. The crowd watched, breathless. The drab duckling hadn't just fought back; he had mocked the lion.

Then, a sound ripped from Rayan’s throat. It wasn't a roar of rage. It was a laugh. A sharp, ugly, almost unhinged bark of sound that was devoid of all humor.

"A waltz, cousin?" he snarled, his eyes blazing with a wild, desperate light. "An excellent idea. But it will be my lead."

He straightened up, his earlier frustration melting away, replaced by a chilling, absolute certainty. "You think you've won because you can disarm a man holding a practice sword? You think your little wire tricks and your surprisingly fast dog make you a warrior?" He shook his head, the laugh turning into a sneer. "You are still just a bug, Lloyd. And you have just made the mistake of annoying a giant."

Before he could even finish his word of humiliation, the practice sword flew through the air. Lloyd had tossed it, end over end, with casual, almost contemptuous disdain. It clattered to the stone floor at Rayan’s feet.

"Pick it up," Lloyd said, his voice quiet but carrying a chilling authority that cut through the murmurs of the crowd. He stood unarmed, his hands loose at his sides.

Rayan’s eyes blazed. The command, the sheer arrogance of it, was a physical blow. He stared at the sword on the ground, then at Lloyd’s calm, waiting expression. To refuse was to admit defeat. To obey was to accept the role of a chastened student being given a second chance by a vastly superior master. Gritting his teeth so hard his jaw ached, hate coiling in his gut, Rayan bent down and snatched the practice sword from the floor. His knuckles were white on the hilt, his entire body trembling with suppressed rage. He rose to his full height, ready to lunge, to wipe that infuriatingly calm look off Lloyd’s face.

But as he met Lloyd’s gaze, he was met not with fear, but with a faint, pitying smile.

"There, you see?" Lloyd said softly, his tone now laced with a kind of weary disappointment, as if explaining something to a slow child. "Even with steel back in your hand, you still look like you're about to lose. The weapon doesn't make the man, Rayan. It only reveals his desperation."

That was it. The final, unbearable insult. The condescension, the psychoanalysis, the absolute dismissal of his strength—it was a humiliation too profound to bear.

A strangled roar of pure, incoherent rage ripped from Rayan’s throat. With a dramatic, almost theatrical flourish, he discarded the practice sword a second time, hurling it away as if it were venomous. He would not play this game anymore. He would not be toyed with.

His hand went not to his empty hip, but to the scabbard on his back—a scabbard holding a weapon many had dismissed as a decorative dress sword, part of his formal attire for the Summit.

But it was no mere ornament.

He drew another weapon. This was no blunt training tool. It was a true sword—a heavy, single-edged blade of dark, gleaming steel. Embedded in its crossguard, pulsing with a faint, angry red light, was a Spirit Stone. The air crackled as live steel was drawn in the sparring circle.

A gasp swept through the nobles who recognized the difference. From the sidelines, Jothi shot to her feet, her voice a sharp, furious cry.

"That's a live blade! Father, he's cheating!"

All eyes snapped to the dais, expecting the Arch Duke to intervene, to stop this gross violation of the contest’s spirit. But Roy Ferrum did not move. He simply raised a single, commanding hand, a silent, absolute order for Jothi—and everyone else—to be still.

His eyes, cold and calculating, remained fixed not on Rayan’s transgression, but on Lloyd’s reaction. He knew. Of course, he knew. An ornament? On his ambitious nephew? He had suspected it from the moment Rayan entered the hall. But this… this was the perfect test. A trial by fire, unscripted and real. Show me, son, the unspoken command hung in the air. Show me if this newfound power is truly enough.

"The time for games is over!" Rayan snarled, his voice raw with hatred, emboldened by the Arch Duke's lack of intervention. He raised the live sword high, the Spirit Stone blazing with incandescent light. "Kongor! ASCEND!"

The air ripped apart. Kongor, the massive obsidian gorilla spirit, let out a roar that was not just sound, but a concussive blast of raw power that shook the very foundations of the hall. The creature’s form began to warp, to swell. Its bestial shape contorted, growing taller, broader, shedding its fur-covered, animalistic form.

In its place rose a new horror. A monolithic, humanoid figure easily twelve feet tall. Its body was no longer fur, but plates of what looked like rough, black iron, interlocking like crude, powerful armor. Its powerful arms and legs were thick as tree trunks, its fists the size of anvils. And atop its broad, powerful shoulders sat the same furious gorilla head, its eyes now burning with a malevolent, sentient red light. It was Kongor, but transformed—a terrifying, armored primate golem, a living siege engine of muscle and metal. This was its Ascended form.

A wave of awe and terror washed over the crowd.

"Ascension!" someone breathed. "He's reached the Ascension stage!"

"By the ancestors… no wonder he beat Jothi," another nobleman muttered to his neighbor. "Her spirit is still at Manifestation! The power gap is immense!"

The mood in the hall shifted instantly. Lloyd’s clever tricks, his surprising speed, his invisible wires… they all seemed like children’s games now, pathetic parlor tricks in the face of this overwhelming, raw power. Jothi’s victory last year, they now realized, had been against a mere 'baby' Kongor. This… this was a different beast entirely.

"Now, cousin," Rayan hissed, a triumphant, almost mad grin twisting his face as he and his Ascended spirit began to advance in perfect, terrifying sync. "Let's see you dance."

Lloyd’s could feel the crushing weight of Kongor’s spiritual pressure, a physical force that made the air thick and hard to breathe. He and Fang together, at their peak, might have stood a chance. But they were both drained from the earlier fights.

Kongor charged, its iron-plated feet making the stone floor boom with each step. It swung a fist the size of a boulder, not aiming for precision, but for utter obliteration. Lloyd moved, a blur of motion, diving sideways, the wind from the passing blow tugging at his tunic. He came up, already backpedaling, as Rayan slashed downwards with his live steel, the blade whistling through the air where Lloyd’s head had been moments before.

For a few desperate moments, he held them off. He was a shadow, a ghost, weaving between their clumsy, powerful attacks. His Void sense screamed warnings, allowing him to anticipate their moves a fraction of a second before they happened. Fang darted in and out, a flash of grey, trying to harry Kongor’s legs, but the Ascended spirit’s iron-like hide deflected its claws with contemptuous ease.

But they were relentless. A two-pronged assault of overwhelming force. Rayan herded him, his sword slashes forcing Lloyd into predictable paths, while Kongor acted as a living battering ram, cutting off escape routes, its every stomp and swing designed to shatter, to pulverize.

The end came swiftly. Kongor slammed a fist into the floor, not at Lloyd, but beside him. The stone cracked, a shockwave erupting outwards. Lloyd stumbled, his balance broken for a fatal instant.

It was all they needed. Rayan was on him in a flash, the butt of his sword slamming brutally into Lloyd’s ribs. Pain, sharp and blinding, exploded in his side. He gasped, the air driven from his lungs. As he staggered, Kongor’s massive, iron-plated hand came around in a sweeping backhand. It wasn't a killing blow, just a contemptuous swat, like a giant batting away a fly.

The impact sent Lloyd flying, tumbling bonelessly across the stone floor to land in a crumpled, broken heap. His vision swam, black spots dancing before his eyes. He heard a pained yelp as Fairy, caught in the backlash of the blow, was forcibly dismissed, her spiritual form shattering.

He was alone. Broken. The taste of blood, coppery and sharp, filled his mouth. Through a haze of pain, he saw Rayan and the monolithic form of Kongor stalking towards him, victorious, their shadows looming over him like twin death sentences.

Rayan stood over him, panting slightly, his face flushed with triumph. “Not so smug now, are you, Cousin?” he taunted, his voice dripping with malice. “Where are your fancy wires? Where’s your clever little mutt? Looks like true power, raw Ferrum might, always wins in the end!” He raised his sword, Kongor mirroring the movement with one of its colossal, rock-like fists, preparing for the final, crushing blow. "Time to finish this. Time to show everyone who the real heir is!"

----

The Grand Hall of the Ferrum Estate held its collective breath, a suffocating, palpable silence broken only by Rayan Ferrum’s ragged, triumphant panting and the low, menacing growl of his Ascended spirit, Kongor. Lloyd lay broken on the stone floor, blood staining his lips, his vision blurring, the searing pain in his side a constant, agonizing reminder of his utter, comprehensive defeat. Fang, his loyal companion, was a crumpled, smoking heap near the far wall, whimpering softly, his vibrant lightning extinguished. Despair, cold and absolute, threatened to drown Lloyd in its icy embrace. This was it. The end of his improbable tournament run, the brutal affirmation of his perceived inadequacy.

Rayan stalked towards him, the obsidian giant Kongor a terrifying shadow at his heels, a cruel, victorious sneer twisting his handsome features. “Not so smug now, are you, Cousin?” he taunted, his voice dripping with malice. “Where are your fancy wires? Where’s your clever little mutt? Looks like true power, raw Ferrum might, always wins in the end!” He raised his practice sword, Kongor mirroring the movement with one of its colossal, rock-like fists, preparing for the final, crushing blow. “Time to finish this. Time to show everyone who the real heir is!”

Then, something inside him snapped. Not a bone, though several felt perilously close. But something deeper. A core of stubborn, eighty-year-old, thrice-lived defiance that refused, absolutely refused, to go down like this. Not to Rayan. Not after everything. He had faced down mythological horrors, negotiated with disguised kings, started a soap empire from cow fat and existential dread. He was not going to be beaten by a glorified bully with an oversized gorilla and an ego the size of the Ferrum Duchy.

No.

The word was a silent, internal roar, a surge of pure, unadulterated willpower that momentarily drowned out the pain, the despair, the encroaching darkness. He didn’t have the Void power for Steel wires. He didn’t have the Spirit energy for Fang. But he had something else. Something new. Something… unexpected.

The Black Ring Eyes.

With a grunt of sheer, teeth-gritting effort, fueled by a desperate, almost suicidal surge of adrenaline, Lloyd didn’t try to get up. He couldn’t. But he could move. He dashed. Not physically, not with his broken body. But with his will. With his gaze. He forced his swimming, blood-flecked eyes open, and locked them, with a terrifying, preternatural intensity, directly onto Rayan Ferrum, who was just beginning his triumphant, final downward swing.

Rayan met his gaze. And for a fraction of a second, he faltered. There was something in Lloyd’s eyes… something that wasn't there before. Something cold, ancient, utterly alien. Something that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end, a primal instinct screaming at him to look away, to run.

But it was too late.