My Anime Shopping Tree & My Cold Prodigy Wife!
Episode : 106

Chapter: 211

Could he, for example, design a better sword? Not just sharper, but with a perfect balance, a differential heat treatment to create a hard edge and a resilient spine? Could he use his power to forge alloys unknown here, combining steel with trace amounts of other metals to create something lighter, stronger?

Could he redesign their armor? Forget heavy, solid plates. Think articulated joints, overlapping scales for better flexibility, an internal framework to distribute weight more efficiently. Could he use his Void power to create a composite armor, layering thin sheets of steel with hardened leather or other materials, creating something that could absorb impact far better than a single, solid piece of metal?

And the siege engines… His mind reeled with possibilities. Forget simple catapults. What about a torsion-powered ballista with a more efficient cam system, granting it greater range and accuracy? What about designing rifled barrels for their crude black-powder cannons, imparting spin to the projectile for a more stable, predictable trajectory? The concept of rifling was simple mechanics, a spiral groove, but the effect on accuracy was revolutionary.

The weapon hall… under Kyle’s new, honest, but likely deeply traditionalist, stewardship… it was a treasure trove of potential, a sandbox for innovation, waiting for a mind that could see beyond the way things had always been done.

The idea was intoxicating. To be KM Evan again, the creator, the innovator, the engineer, not just Lloyd Ferrum, the awkward heir. To build, to design, to revolutionize. The thought made his very soul sing, a familiar, powerful melody he hadn't realized how much he’d missed.

He took a step, an unconscious movement, towards the dais, a half-formed plan already coalescing in his mind. He could approach Kyle. Offer his… assistance. Frame it as a scholarly interest in historical Ferrum smithing techniques. Subtly introduce new ideas, improved designs…

Then, he stopped himself, a wave of cold, pragmatic reality washing over the exhilarating rush of inspiration.

Whoa, there, Major General, his internal cynic cautioned dryly. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. You just, literally, convinced your father and a disguised King to invest a fortune in your revolutionary soap-making venture. You have a factory to build, a brand to establish, a Royal Household to supply with complimentary rosemary-scented cleansing elixir for the next five years. You have a suspicious Ice Princess wife to not actively antagonize, a terrified but loyal butcher girl assistant to manage, and a whole new set of demonic eyeball powers to figure out how to use without accidentally turning someone’s spleen into a decorative paperweight. You are, to put it mildly, a little busy.

He sighed, the thrill of engineering inspiration giving way to the weary acknowledgment of his current, rather crowded, schedule. The weapon hall, the forges, the dream of building a better ballista… it would have to wait. It was a long-term project, a future ambition. For now, the path to power, the path to the System Coins he so desperately needed, was paved not with advanced alloys and rifled barrels, but with tallow, lye, and the sweet, sweet smell of monopolistic profit.

First, the soap revolution. Then, the military-industrial complex. One step at a time, Lloyd. One bizarre, interdimensional, soap-fueled step at a time.

He finally turned, leaving the buzzing hall, the political triumphs, the martial ambitions, behind him. He needed fresh air. And perhaps, just perhaps, another cup of tea. He shuddered. No. Definitely not another cup of tea. Maybe just the fresh air.

---

The chaos of the Grand Hall, with its heady mix of political triumph, familial resentment, and the lingering scent of royal investment, faded behind Lloyd as he sought refuge in the relative quiet of the estate’s sprawling corridors. He needed a moment to decompress, to let the whirlwind of the Summit settle, to organize the sudden, chaotic influx of new projects, new responsibilities, new dangers, into a coherent mental flowchart. Soap factory schematics, maternal bloodline power practice, navigating his father’s newfound, intensely scrutinizing expectations, figuring out what to do about the Altamira threat… his to-do list had just become terrifyingly long.

He was just rounding a corner near the West Wing’s secluded library, a place he usually found blessedly free of overly enthusiastic cousins or disapproving ancestral portraits, when he saw them. The sight made him pause mid-stride, a flicker of genuine curiosity cutting through his mental clutter.

Chapter: 212

It was a young man, seated in a wheelchair, his posture straight, dignified, despite the obvious physical limitations. A beautifully crafted woolen blanket was draped across his lap, concealing the lower half of his body. His face, pale and fine-featured, held a quiet, almost scholarly intensity, though it was marred by a stark, black leather patch covering his left eye. His right arm ended just below the elbow, the sleeve of his fine tunic neatly pinned. He looked no older than seventeen or eighteen, yet his remaining eye, a startlingly intelligent shade of grey, held a maturity, a weary gravity, that seemed far beyond his years. He was handsome, in a fragile, almost tragic, way.

Pushing the wheelchair, her hands resting gently on its high back, was a young woman of breathtaking, almost ethereal, beauty. She was blonde, her hair the color of spun gold, braided intricately with small, white flowers. Her face was serene, her smile gentle, her blue eyes, when they briefly glanced up, radiating a warmth and kindness that felt utterly out of place in the often-cold, political atmosphere of the Ferrum estate. She moved with a quiet, unassuming grace, her simple but elegant gown a soft counterpoint to the sharp, almost severe, dignity of the young man in the chair.

Lloyd stopped, his brow furrowing in genuine confusion. Who were they? He scanned his memory banks again, the hazy nineteen-year-old ones and the more robust, but still frustratingly incomplete, archives of his first life. Nothing. A complete blank. He prided himself on remembering faces, on cataloging people, a skill honed over decades of military command and corporate maneuvering on Earth. But these two… they were a void.

He was certain he had never seen them before. Not at any family gathering, not at the wedding, not even during the chaos of the Summit earlier. A severely disabled youth, particularly one with such striking features, accompanied by a woman of such remarkable beauty… they would have been noticed. They would have been a topic of gossip, of speculation. Yet, his memory held no trace.

Were they new arrivals? Guests of one of the branch families who had shown up late? But the wheelchair… it was expertly crafted, the wood dark and polished, the wheels moving with a silent, smooth precision that spoke of custom, expensive artisanship, not some hastily procured medical device. This was a long-term reality, not a recent injury. And a Ferrum youth, a cousin, so grievously injured… surely he would have known? Surely, that would have been a major event within the family, a tragedy spoken of in hushed, respectful tones?

As he stood there, wrestling with the anomaly, the young man in the wheelchair looked up. His single grey eye met Lloyd’s, and a slow, knowing smile touched his lips. It wasn't a friendly smile, not exactly. Nor was it mocking or challenging. It was… a smile of recognition. Of quiet, patient, almost unsettling, understanding. As if he had been waiting for Lloyd to notice him.

He spoke, his voice quiet but clear, carrying easily in the silent corridor. "Lord Lloyd Ferrum. A pleasure to finally make your acquaintance formally. Or," he added, a flicker of something unreadable in his gaze, "perhaps I should say… our re-acquaintance."

Lloyd felt a chill, unrelated to the corridor’s draft. Re-acquaintance? “My lord…?” he began, his confusion deepening. “Forgive me, but I fear you have me at a disadvantage. I do not believe we have met.”

The young man’s smile widened slightly. He gestured with his remaining hand towards himself. "Of course. Where are my manners? Allow me to introduce myself. I am Ben Ferrum. Third son of Lord Kyle Ferrum of the Ironwood branch."

Ben Ferrum? Kyle’s son? Lloyd’s mind raced. Kyle, the newly appointed head of the primary cadet branch, the staunch traditionalist, the man who had first recognized the Steel Blood. He had three sons? Lloyd vaguely remembered two – older, robust, competent youths who were already making a name for themselves in the Ducal Guard. But a third son? A disabled son? He had absolutely no memory of him. It was as if Ben Ferrum had been deliberately erased from his first life’s timeline, or perhaps, had simply never existed within it. The implications were deeply, profoundly, unsettling. Was his return, his interference, already changing the past in such fundamental, tangible ways? Or was his original memory simply that flawed, that full of gaping, inexplicable holes?

The beautiful blonde woman beside Ben offered a gentle, serene smile and a slight curtsy. "And I am Inari, my lord," she said, her voice soft, melodic. "I am Ben’s fiancée."