My Anime Shopping Tree & My Cold Prodigy Wife! -
Episode : 122
Chapter: 243
Ben Ferrum, no longer just a crippled boy but a walking, clanking avatar of overwhelming force, pressed his advantage. He moved with a brutal, relentless rhythm, his iron-and-steel limbs thudding on the conservatory floor, each step a minor earthquake, shaking the very glass in the domed ceiling. He wasn’t fast. He didn’t need to be. He was a siege engine, an inexorable advance that simply… consumed the space between them.
“Your speed is useless here, Major General!” Ben’s voice was a low growl, strained with the effort of maintaining his metallic limbs, but fueled by a cold, triumphant fury. “Your precision is irrelevant! You can dance all you like, but you cannot escape the weight of steel!”
Lloyd, cradling his throbbing hand, retreated, his mind racing, desperately trying to formulate a new strategy. His primary weapons – the slicing wires, the kinetic projectiles – had proven ineffective against Ben’s raw power and mirrored Steel Blood. His speed, his agility, his primary defensive advantage, was being negated by the sheer, overwhelming pressure of Ben’s advance. He was a fencer being forced into a phone booth with a bear. A very large, very angry, partially metal bear.
He needed a different approach. He needed to create distance, to find an opening, to use the environment. He feinted left, then darted right, weaving between the exotic, pulsating plants of the conservatory, hoping to use the dense foliage as cover, to force Ben into a less direct path.
It was a foolish hope.
Ben didn’t bother with the path. He simply walked through the foliage. Rare, priceless, probably magically significant plants were crushed, snapped, and pulverized under his heavy, clanking stride. He was a force of nature, remaking the very landscape to suit his will.
“There is no cover, Major General!” Ben roared, crashing through a thicket of what looked like oversized, vaguely threatening Venus flytraps. “There is nowhere to hide from your past!”
Lloyd’s mind screamed. The Black Ring Eyes! Use the seals! Plunge him into that sensory void again!
He tried. As Ben lumbered forward, Lloyd focused his will, his gaze locking onto Ben’s single grey eye, trying to summon that cold, ethereal power, to place the Seal of Severed Perception.
But it was different this time. Before, with Rayan, Lloyd had been the one on the floor, seemingly defeated, his intent masked by injury. Now, he was in active combat, his intent to attack clear, palpable. And Ben… Ben was ready. The moment Lloyd’s gaze intensified, the moment that cold, alien power began to coalesce, Ben reacted.
He didn’t try to counter it with a power of his own. He did something simpler. More brutal. He raised his steel arm, a solid, gleaming shield of metal, and covered his single eye.
The connection was broken. The nascent seal, deprived of its line of sight, its focal point, fizzled into nothingness, leaving Lloyd with a sharp, stabbing headache from the aborted effort.
“Did you really think,” Ben’s voice was a low, mocking rumble from behind his steel forearm, “that I wouldn’t have studied the Austin lineage as well? That I wouldn’t have anticipated their most infamous, most insidious, technique?” He lowered his arm, his single eye blazing with a cold, triumphant light. “Your eye tricks are useless, Major General. As long as I don't look at your eyes you cannot make me fall for your tricks. I know all your secrets. While you… you are only just beginning to learn mine.”
The psychological blow was as devastating as any physical one. Ben knew. He knew about the Austin power. He had anticipated it. He had a counter. Lloyd’s ace in the hole, his secret weapon, had just been rendered useless by a simple, almost contemptuous, gesture.
The last of Lloyd’s strategic options seemed to crumble into dust. He was out of tricks. Out of surprises. He was left with nothing but his own depleted reserves and a growing, chilling sense of inevitability.
Ben saw it in his eyes. The flicker of despair. The dawning resignation. And he, like any good predator, chose that moment to strike.
He lunged, not with a clumsy, straightforward charge this time, but with a surprising, calculated burst of speed, his iron leg driving him forward, closing the remaining distance in a single, earth-shaking stride.
Lloyd, his mind still reeling from the failure of the Black Ring Eyes, reacted a fraction of a second too late. He tried to dodge, to flow away, but his movements, hampered by his still-aching injuries from the tournament, were sluggish, clumsy.
Ben’s steel fist, a solid, unyielding meteor of metal and Void power, swung not at Lloyd’s head, not at his chest, but in a devastating, sweeping arc aimed at his legs.
Chapter: 244
Lloyd tried to leap clear, but the blow connected with his shins with a sickening, wet crunch of snapping bone and tearing flesh. Agony, white-hot and absolute, exploded through his lower body. His legs buckled beneath him, no longer able to support his weight. He cried out, a sharp, choked sound of pure, unadulterated pain, and crashed to the conservatory floor, his world a dizzying, nauseating swirl of green leaves, shattered glass, and overwhelming, blinding agony.
He lay there, gasping, trying to push himself up, but his legs were a useless, broken ruin. He was helpless. Utterly, completely, helpless.
Ben Ferrum stood over him, a hulking, clanking silhouette against the eerie, moon-like glow of the light-stones. He was panting, the effort of the short, brutal fight clearly taking its toll, sweat glistening on his pale brow. But his single grey eye held no triumph, no gloating satisfaction. Only a kind of weary, almost sorrowful, finality.
“It’s over, Major General,” Ben said, his voice a low, almost gentle, rumble. He looked down at Lloyd’s broken form, at the pain and defiance still blazing in his eyes. “I told you. Your precision… your speed… they mean nothing against overwhelming, absolute force.”
He raised his steel fist again, not in a wild swing, but in a slow, deliberate, almost merciful, preparation for the final, finishing blow. “This is not personal, Evan,” he whispered, the name a ghost on his lips. “This is… necessary. A lesson. For both of us.”
The fist descended.
Lloyd saw it coming, a gleaming harbinger of oblivion. He tried to move, to shield himself, to do anything. But his body, broken and screaming in agony, would not obey. All he could do was watch as the inevitable impact rushed towards him.
The world exploded. Not into darkness. Not yet. But into a single, blinding, white-hot starburst of pure, concussive pain. He felt a sensation of weightlessness, of flying, as the force of the blow lifted him from the ground, sending him hurtling backwards through the air. He crashed, with a sound that was both sickeningly wet and brutally final, against the wrought-iron frame of the conservatory wall.
The last thing he registered before the darkness claimed him completely was the sharp, shattering tinkle of glass raining down around him, and the faint, almost gentle, scent of a thousand exotic, night-blooming flowers. The power disparity had not just been significant; it had been absolute. And the lesson had been driven home with bone-crushing, world-ending, certainty.
—
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Consciousness returned not as a gentle dawn, but as a slow, agonizing crawl out of a deep, dark, pain-filled well. Lloyd’s first sensation was a dull, throbbing ache that seemed to permeate every cell of his body, a symphony of bruised ribs, protesting muscles, and the sharp, insistent memory of snapping bone. He groaned, the sound a low, pathetic rasp in his own ears, and tried to move. A mistake. A fresh wave of agony, sharp and blinding, lanced through his legs, and he bit back a cry, his vision momentarily greying out.
He forced his eyes open. The world swam into focus slowly, reluctantly. He wasn't in the conservatory. He wasn't lying in a pile of shattered glass and existential despair. He was… in a bed. A surprisingly comfortable bed, with soft, clean linens that smelled faintly of lavender and antiseptic herbs. Sunlight, warm and gentle, streamed through a high, arched window, illuminating a room that was tastefully appointed, yet simple, austere. The walls were paneled in dark, polished wood, a single, non-disapproving landscape painting hanging opposite the bed. It was a guest room. A very nice guest room. In the Ironwood Manor.
He pushed himself up slowly, hissing in pain as his body protested the movement. He looked down at himself. His torn, filthy tunic had been replaced by a simple, clean linen nightshirt. And his legs… his legs, which he remembered with vivid, agonizing clarity as being a broken, useless ruin, were… whole. They were wrapped tightly in clean white bandages, and a faint, warm, golden-green light seemed to pulse from beneath the linen, a soothing energy that hummed against his skin, knitting bone, mending tissue, easing the worst of the throbbing pain. Healing magic. Potent healing magic.
“I would advise against any sudden movements, Major General.”
The voice, quiet and calm, came from a chair pulled up near the window. Lloyd’s head snapped towards the sound, every muscle tensing, a surge of adrenaline momentarily overriding the pain.
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