My Anime Shopping Tree & My Cold Prodigy Wife!
Episode-155

Chapter : 309

The Grand Hall of the Ferrum Estate, the very stage of Lloyd’s recent tournament triumph and his father’s political masterstroke, had been repurposed. It was no longer a hall of celebration or judgment, but a court of public opinion, the air thick with a nervous, almost voyeuristic, tension. An audience had been assembled—not the entire Ferrum clan, but a carefully selected group of influential witnesses. Lord Kyle Ferrum was there, his expression grim and resolute. Master Elmsworth and Grand Master Grimaldi stood together, their academic curiosity now replaced by a shared, tense anticipation. Mei Jing and Tisha were present, standing quietly to one side, their faces masks of calm professionalism that belied the frantic beating of their hearts. The reputation of the empire they were building hung in the balance.

At the center of the hall, before the raised dais where Arch Duke Roy Ferrum sat like a stone idol, a single chair had been placed. It was currently occupied by the accusing woman, who was once again clutching her whimpering, red-welted son. Her expression, however, was different today. The raw, hysterical grief had been replaced by a kind of defiant, almost greedy, anticipation. She had been told she was here to collect her compensation, her thousand Gold Coins. She believed she had won. Her eyes darted towards a heavy, clinking purse that rested on a small table beside the Arch Duke’s chair, a tangible symbol of her expected victory.

Lloyd stood a few paces away, his face a mask of calm, patient observation. He had given his instructions. He had set the stage. Now, all he could do was watch the play unfold.

“You have come, madam,” Roy Ferrum’s voice boomed, echoing slightly in the vast, silent hall, “to claim the compensation you demanded for the… alleged… harm done to your son by a product of my house.” His voice was flat, devoid of emotion, giving nothing away.

The woman nodded eagerly, a fresh, crocodile tear tracing a path through the grime on her cheek. “Yes, Your Grace. For justice. For my poor, suffering babe.”

“Indeed,” Roy murmured, his gaze unreadable. “Justice is paramount. However, before any compensation is rendered, it is the standard protocol of House Ferrum, in all matters of physical affliction, to have our own head healer offer a final assessment. A mere formality, you understand. To ensure the record is complete.”

The woman’s triumphant expression faltered for a fraction of a second. A flicker of unease, of alarm, crossed her face before she could suppress it. A healer? This was not part of the plan.

“But… but the harm is plain to see, Your Grace!” she protested, her voice gaining a slight, shrill edge. “He needs no assessment! He needs balms! He needs rest! Not to be poked and prodded by another stranger!”

“As I said,” Roy’s voice became a degree colder, an edge of steel entering his tone, “it is a formality. One you will submit to. If you wish to receive your… compensation.” The unspoken threat was absolute.

Before the woman could protest further, a side door opened, and Mistress Dorathi entered.

She was not what one might expect of the Head Healer of a great Ducal house. She was an elderly woman, small and stooped, her face a roadmap of wrinkles, her grey hair pulled back in a severe, no-nonsense bun. She walked with the aid of a simple, gnarled wooden staff, and her eyes, sharp and clear as winter ice, missed nothing. She radiated an aura not of gentle, bedside sympathy, but of brisk, irrefutable, almost terrifying, competence. She had served House Ferrum for over sixty years, had tended to three generations of scraped knees, battle wounds, and political poisonings. Her authority in matters of health and healing within the estate was absolute, her diagnostic skills legendary, and her tolerance for fools, malingerers, and liars, famously non-existent.

She walked directly to the woman and the child, her sharp eyes sweeping over the boy’s afflicted skin without a flicker of surprise or pity. “Hold out your arm, child,” she commanded, her voice a dry, reedy rasp that held the unshakeable authority of decades of service.

The boy, intimidated by this new, stern old woman, whimpered and tried to hide his face. The mother clutched him tighter. “He is frightened! You will harm him further!”

Chapter : 310

Dorathi’s icy gaze settled on the woman. “Madam,” she said, her voice dangerously quiet, “I have successfully set the broken bones of the Arch Duke himself after a rather unfortunate incident involving a wild boar and questionable judgment. I have diagnosed and cured a strain of Red Rot that baffled the Alchemist’s Guild for a month. I assure you, I am perfectly capable of examining a simple skin rash without causing a four-year-old to expire from terror. Now, present the child. Or this assessment is concluded, and you may take your leave. Empty-handed.”

The woman paled, her defiant act crumbling in the face of Dorathi’s unyielding authority. She knew she had no choice. With a trembling hand, she pushed her son’s small arm forward.

But just as the woman greedily reached for the purse of gold that Dorathi held out as a deliberate, tantalizing lure, Dorathi’s other hand, surprisingly fast and strong for a woman of her age, darted out. She did not take the boy’s arm gently. She grabbed it. Her gnarled fingers, strong as old roots, closed around the child’s small wrist in an inescapable grip.

The boy yelped in surprise. The mother cried out, trying to pull him back. “What are you doing?!”

Dorathi ignored her completely. Her full attention was on the child. Her other hand, which had been holding the purse, was now free, and a soft, gentle, golden-green light, the unmistakable glow of potent, life-affirming healing magic, began to emanate from her palm. She didn't press her hand to the boy’s welts. She simply held it close, her eyes closed in concentration, her will extending, probing, reading the boy’s vital signs, his energy flows, the very story his body was telling. The diagnostic spell was swift, silent, and absolute.

The green glow faded. Dorathi opened her eyes. She looked at the boy’s arm, then at his red-rimmed eyes, then at his inflamed nostrils. She released his wrist gently.

She turned to face the Arch Duke, her expression grim, certain. “As I suspected, Your Grace,” she declared, her dry, reedy voice ringing with the finality of a judge’s gavel. “There is no trace of alchemical poison. There is no sign of a topical curse. The boy’s dermal layers show no evidence of caustic agent exposure.” She paused, then delivered the damning verdict. “This is a severe, acute, allergic inflammation. The primary vectors of entry were respiratory. The cause is botanical. Specifically,” her icy gaze settled on the now-terrified mother, “a recent, massive exposure to Chrysanthemum pollen. A variety known for its highly allergenic properties, and one that, conveniently, is in full, glorious bloom in the public gardens just outside the city walls at this very moment.”

The woman’s face, which had been pale, now went a stark, chalky white. She had been so careful to scrub the boy’s skin, to remove any trace of the pollen itself. She had never imagined that a healer could diagnose the cause not by what was on the skin, but by what was in the blood, in the very air of the lungs.

She was trapped. Exposed. The lie was shattered.

With a strangled cry of pure panic, she shoved her son into the arms of a nearby, startled guard, turned, and tried to flee.

She didn't get two steps.

A shadow detached itself from the deeper gloom near the main doors. A silent, imposing figure in dark livery, moving with a speed that was utterly, terrifyingly, inhuman.

Ken Park materialized in her path, a solid, immovable wall of stoic, implacable authority. His face was an unreadable mask, but his eyes, when they settled on the panicking woman, held a coldness that promised a very thorough, very unpleasant, and very, very truthful, debriefing.

The trap had been sprung. The verdict delivered. And the hunt for the true culprits, the ones who had paid this desperate woman to poison her own child with flowers, had just begun.

The confession did not take long. Faced with the quiet, chilling finality of Ken Park blocking her only escape route, and the stern, unyielding gazes of the Arch Duke, Mistress Dorathi, and the assembled nobles, the woman’s desperate, theatrical defiance had crumbled into a pathetic, sobbing heap on the Grand Hall’s stone floor.

Ken had not laid a hand on her. He had not uttered a single threat. He had simply… stood there. An immovable object of quiet, overwhelming authority. And in the face of that silent, absolute power, the woman’s will, already frayed by the public exposure of her lie, had simply… shattered.