My Anime Shopping Tree & My Cold Prodigy Wife!
Episode : 105

Chapter: 209

Rubel’s face, which had been ashen, flickered with a desperate, pathetic spark of hope. Was it possible? Was this stranger, this influential guest, about to side with him? To challenge Roy?

James smiled, a slow, disarming smile that did absolutely nothing to reassure the now intensely sweating Rubel. “Therefore,” the King continued, reaching into the inner pocket of his impeccably tailored tunic, “it is perhaps… fortunate… that I came prepared for just such a contingency.”

He withdrew his hand. And in it, resting on the palm of his glove, was a small, deceptively simple object. It was a badge, crafted from what appeared to be a single, flawlessly cut diamond, shaped into the roaring lion sigil of the Royal House of Bethelham. It pulsed with a faint, internal light, a contained, almost overwhelming, aura of royal authority. It wasn’t just a symbol; it was a focus of power, an artifact of immense significance. It was the personal signet of the King’s most trusted inner circle, his direct agents, his ‘Henchmen’, as they were known in the highest echelons of power – individuals who spoke with the full, unshakeable authority of the King himself.

A collective, choked gasp went through the hall. The nobles, the guests who understood the significance of what they were seeing, stared, their faces draining of color. Jason Siddik’s eyes widened in stunned comprehension. Marquess Kruts looked as if he might faint. This ‘James’ wasn’t just an influential guest. He was… a direct agent of the King.

James held the diamond badge aloft for all to see, its light seeming to cut through the gloom, silencing all whispers, all doubts. “As a duly appointed ambassador and direct representative of His Royal Majesty, King Liam Bethelham,” he declared, his voice losing all traces of its earlier casualness, ringing now with the cold, absolute authority of the Crown, “I am empowered to act on his behalf in all matters pertaining to the security and stability of this realm.”

He lowered the badge, his gaze, now sharp as forged steel, locking onto the utterly terrified, completely broken form of Viscount Rubel Ferrum. “And in that capacity,” King Liam “James” Bethelham announced, his voice a death knell for Rubel’s ambitions, his hopes, his very future, “I am here to inform you, Viscount, that His Majesty has already reviewed Arch Duke Roy Ferrum’s proposal regarding the restructuring of the primary cadet branch. And he has, without reservation, approved it.”

He let the words land, each one a hammer blow. “Furthermore,” the King added, his voice becoming even colder, more clinical, “His Majesty has also been made aware of certain… discrepancies… in your management of the Ashworth holdings, and certain… questionable interactions… with members of the Ducal household.” He didn’t need to specify. Everyone knew. “As such, His Majesty has also approved the Arch Duke’s recommendation that your activities, both past and present, be subject to a full, formal, and… thorough… investigation. By the Crown’s own auditors.”

Rubel Ferrum made a small, strangled sound, a noise of pure, abject despair. He staggered back, his face a mask of utter ruin. He wasn't just demoted; he was finished. Investigated by the Crown. There would be no escape, no hiding place, no political maneuvering that could save him now.

King Liam Bethelham turned away from the shattered man, his task complete. He offered a slight, almost imperceptible nod to Roy Ferrum, a silent acknowledgment of a perfectly executed political checkmate. Then, his gaze swept over the stunned hall, finally settling, with a flicker of that familiar, roguish amusement, on Lloyd Ferrum. He gave Lloyd a small, almost invisible, wink.

The message was clear. Welcome to the big leagues, kid. Try not to spill your tea next time.

Rubel, without another word, turned and stumbled from the Grand Hall, his son Rayan trailing behind him like a chastened ghost. Their exit was not one of defiance, but of utter, comprehensive, soul-crushing defeat. The Ashworth Ferrums, for all intents and purposes, were finished.

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The departure of Viscount Rubel and his sullen, defeated son left a vacuum in the Grand Hall, a space quickly filled by a rising tide of excited, almost frantic, murmuring. The political landscape of the Ferrum clan had just been seismically redrawn, live, in front of a captive audience that included a disguised King. It was the kind of high drama that would fuel gossip in noble courts across the continent for months, if not years.

Chapter: 210

Arch Duke Roy Ferrum, having delivered the political equivalent of a flawlessly executed public execution, calmly retook his seat. The faint, satisfied smile had vanished, replaced by his usual stern, authoritative mask, but Lloyd could see a new light in his father’s eyes – the keen, satisfied gleam of a master strategist who had just successfully removed a cancerous tumor from the body politic of his house.

“Lord Kyle Ferrum,” Roy’s voice boomed, cutting through the rising chatter, instantly commanding silence once more. “As the newly appointed head of the primary cadet branch, your duties begin immediately. You will meet with the Ducal Bursar and my captain of the guard at first light tomorrow to begin the formal transition of all Ashworth branch responsibilities. This includes a full audit of the legion payrolls and a complete inventory of the central weapon hall.” He paused, his gaze sweeping over the hall, a silent warning to any other ambitious branch heads who might be getting ideas. “There will be order. There will be accountability. The strength of this house will be reaffirmed.”

Kyle Ferrum, who still looked slightly dazed by his sudden, dramatic promotion, bowed deeply from his seat. “It will be done, Your Grace. I will serve with diligence and honor.”

Roy nodded once, a gesture of finality. The Summit, for all intents and purposes, was concluded. The primary objectives – silencing doubters, reaffirming the main line’s authority, and publicly castrating his primary internal rival – had been achieved with spectacular, almost theatrical, success.

Lloyd, still standing near the epicenter of the shattered teacup incident, felt a wave of profound exhaustion wash over him. The adrenaline from the tournament, the shock of the royal revelation, the tension of the political showdown… it was all catching up to him. He just wanted to find a quiet corner, maybe with a comfortable chair (a concept that felt increasingly mythical in his current life), and try to process the sheer, mind-bending insanity of the past few days.

But his father’s last words had snagged on a hook in his mind. The weapon hall. Stewardship transferred to the trustworthy, traditionalist Kyle Ferrum. A place of immense importance, the heart of the Ferrum family’s martial might. A place that, under Rubel’s ambitious and likely corrupt oversight, had probably been… inefficient.

And suddenly, the eighty-year-old engineer, the military strategist KM Evan, stirred from his exhaustion-induced stupor. The weapon hall. The forges. The armories. His mind, a vast archive of Earth-based technological knowledge, began to hum with possibilities, a silent cascade of ideas that had absolutely nothing to do with soap.

He thought of the practice swords used in the tournament – heavy, poorly balanced slabs of crude iron. He thought of the armor worn by the household guards – functional, yes, but cumbersome, inefficient in its weight-to-protection ratio. He thought of the siege engines depicted in the estate’s tapestries – catapults and ballistae, designs that hadn't fundamentally changed in centuries.

It was all… primitive. So incredibly primitive.

His mind flashed back to Earth. To the laboratories, the R&D facilities, the testing ranges. He remembered the feel of polished alloy under his fingertips, the scent of ozone from a plasma cutter, the satisfying hum of a perfectly calibrated magnetic accelerator. He remembered the long, grueling hours spent hunched over holographic schematics, arguing with fellow scientists about tensile strengths, power-to-weight ratios, the optimal trajectory for a hypersonic projectile.

He remembered his greatest creation. The Flying Mechanical Battle Suit. A marvel of mechatronics, a symphony of articulated limbs, micro-servos, integrated weapon systems, and a personal flight pack powered by compact fusion cells. It had revolutionized warfare on Earth, earned him a Nobel Prize, cemented his legacy. It was a creation born from a lifetime of studying physics, metallurgy, engineering, ballistics.

He looked at the Ferrum guards standing stoically by the Grand Hall doors, clad in their heavy, clanking plate mail. And he almost laughed. The comparison was so stark it was ludicrous.

What if? The thought, quiet at first, then insistent, almost seductive, began to bloom in his mind. What if he could apply even a fraction of that knowledge here? In Riverio?

He didn’t have the technology, of course. No advanced computers, no CNC machines, no fusion cells. But he had the principles. The fundamental understanding of physics, of mechanics, of materials science. And he had something Earth didn’t. He had Void power. The Ferrum Steel Blood, his innate ability to shape and temper metal with his will, to imbue it with fire.