My Anime Shopping Tree & My Cold Prodigy Wife!
Episode-156

Chapter : 311

She was escorted, not to the ducal dungeons, but to a small, secure, and surprisingly comfortable, private chamber. There, in the presence of Ken and a Ducal scribe, she had told them everything, her story punctuated by ragged, terrified sobs, a torrent of confession born not of torture, but of the bone-deep, soul-crushing fear of what might happen if she continued to lie.

Hours later, Ken Park stood once more in Lloyd’s private study at the Elixir Manufactory. The sun had set, and the office was lit by the warm, steady glow of oil lamps, the air thick with the scent of rosemary and old books. Lloyd sat behind his desk, a mug of (now thankfully palatable) tea in his hand, Mei Jing and Tisha seated opposite him, their expressions a mixture of tense anticipation and grim satisfaction.

Ken’s usual impassive demeanor was unchanged, but there was a new, cold edge to his voice as he delivered his report, a quiet, professional fury that was far more intimidating than any overt display of anger.

“The investigation is concluded, Young Lord,” Ken began, his voice a flat, level baritone that filled the quiet room. “The woman’s name is Zora. A seamstress with significant gambling debts. Her son’s… ‘affliction’… was indeed induced, as you correctly diagnosed. She confessed to collecting large quantities of Chrysanthemum pollen and deliberately dusting the boy’s pillow and clothing with it for several hours prior to her performance in the market square. The ‘poison’ was a simple, if cruel, deception.”

Tisha let out a soft gasp of horror. “To do that to her own child… for money?”

“Desperation makes monsters of us all,” Mei Jing commented, her voice quiet but hard, her dark eyes cold with a merchant’s cynical understanding of human nature.

“And who provided the money, Ken?” Lloyd asked, his own voice low, his knuckles white where he gripped his tea mug. “Who paid her to perform this… theater?”

Ken consulted a small, neat scroll of notes. “The initial contact was made by a man named Silas, a known enforcer for a low-level moneylender in the merchant’s district. The same moneylender who, coincidentally, held Elara’s gambling debts. Silas offered to clear her debts and provided a payment of twenty Gold Coins in exchange for her… ‘public testimony’.”

“Twenty Gold,” Mei Jing scoffed. “She sold her child’s health and risked the wrath of a Ducal house for twenty pieces of gold. The price of integrity is distressingly low in this city.”

“Silas, under… persuasive questioning… was remarkably forthcoming,” Ken continued, a faint, almost imperceptible, chilling inflection on the word ‘persuasive’. “He was merely a contractor. The gold, and the instructions, came from a higher source. His employer, the moneylender, was acting as a middleman. A firewall.”

“And who was the moneylender’s client?” Lloyd pressed, leaning forward. This was it. The heart of the conspiracy.

Ken’s gaze met Lloyd’s, his eyes like chips of cold, dark iron. “The funds were provided, my lord, by a consortium. A hastily formed, but surprisingly well-organized, group of concerned local business owners.” He paused, letting the words land. “Specifically, the five most prominent Bathhouse proprietors in the capital city. And the three highest-ranking Masters of the Washerman’s Guild.”

The pieces slammed into place with a sickening, undeniable clarity.

The Bathhouses. The Laundries. The very businesses, the very institutions, that had been most directly, most catastrophically, affected by the AURA revolution.

Lloyd remembered his father’s initial, angry suspicion. He had been right. It wasn’t a complex political plot by Rubel. It wasn't a subtle attack by the Altamiras. It was simpler. Cruder. A desperate, almost primal, act of commercial warfare from the bottom up.

“They were being ruined,” Mei Jing murmured, her sharp, analytical mind instantly grasping the motive. “Our product… it didn’t just compete with them; it rendered their entire business model obsolete. Why pay for a public bath when you can experience a superior, more luxurious, cleansing in the privacy of your own home? Why pay the Washerman’s Guild to scrub your linens with harsh lye, fading the colors, when a scoop of our future ‘Radiance’ powder promises a gentler, more effective result?”

“Their revenues have plummeted by over sixty percent in the last month alone, according to my grandfather’s market analysis,” she continued, her voice cold with a strategist’s detached assessment. “They were facing bankruptcy. Ruin.”

“So they fought back,” Tisha finished, her usual bright cheerfulness completely gone, replaced by a look of sad, weary understanding. “Not with a better product, not with better service. But with lies. With poison. With the suffering of a child.” She shook her head. “I’ve seen a lot in the Gilded Flagon, my lords. But this… this is a new kind of low.”

Chapter : 312

“A desperate, foolish, and ultimately, self-destructive act,” Lloyd said, his voice quiet but hard as steel. He looked at Ken. “They conspired to destroy a Ducal-backed enterprise. They knowingly endangered a child to do so. They publicly defamed the Ferrum name.” He took a slow, deliberate sip of his tea, the warmth doing nothing to thaw the ice in his veins. “My father will not be pleased.”

“The Arch Duke,” Ken confirmed, his voice utterly devoid of emotion, “has already been informed of my findings. He has… reviewed the confessions.” A faint, almost terrifying, smile touched Ken’s lips. “He has already dispatched a squad of the Ducal Guard. The Guild Masters and the Bathhouse proprietors are, at this very moment, being ‘invited’ to the estate for a… private audience. I believe the Arch Duke wishes to discuss the finer points of commercial ethics with them. Personally.”

The unspoken implication hung heavy in the room. The web had been unraveled. The culprits identified. And the full, terrifying, righteous wrath of the Arch Duke of Ferrum was about to descend upon them like a vengeful, aristocratic avalanche. Justice, Lloyd knew, would be swift. And it would be absolute.

---

The Grand Hall, which had so recently been the stage for a tournament and a political coup, was once again repurposed. This time, it was not a court of public opinion, but a chamber of private, terrifying, ducal judgment. The mood was not one of excitement or tension, but of cold, heavy, inexorable dread.

The eight men—the five portly, sweating Bathhouse owners and the three grim-faced, self-important Masters of the Washerman’s Guild—stood huddled together in the center of the vast, empty hall. They looked small, insignificant, their usual air of commercial bluster and civic importance completely stripped away, leaving only the pale, clammy skin of fear. They were surrounded, at a respectful but inescapable distance, by a double ring of the Arch Duke’s personal guard, silent, steel-helmed figures whose very stillness was more menacing than any overt threat.

On the dais, Arch Duke Roy Ferrum sat upon his throne-like chair, not as a father, not as a business partner, but as the embodiment of the law, of power, of the state itself. His face was a mask of cold, implacable fury. Lloyd stood a few paces behind him and to his right, a silent, watchful witness. Ken Park stood in the shadows near the great doors, an unseen, but deeply felt, presence.

The eight men had, initially, tried to bluster. They had denied everything. They had protested their innocence, claimed to be respected pillars of the community, victims of a slanderous, hysterical woman.

Roy Ferrum had listened to their denials in absolute silence, his expression unchanging, letting them spin their web of lies, letting them dig their own graves a little deeper with every desperate, self-serving word.

When they had finally, breathlessly, finished their chorus of indignant denial, Roy had simply looked at them, a faint, almost pitying, smile touching his lips. It was a smile that promised not mercy, but annihilation.

“You have spoken,” Roy said, his voice quiet, yet echoing with a terrifying finality in the silent hall. “You have made your claims of innocence. And you have, with your own mouths, sealed your own fates.”

He gestured, and a Ducal scribe, who had been waiting silently in a corner, stepped forward. The scribe unrolled a large, official-looking parchment, its surface covered in the elegant, sharp script of the Royal Court, a large, intimidating wax seal bearing the roaring lion of the Bethelham monarchy dangling from its base.

“Before we proceed to the… presentation of evidence…,” Roy continued, his voice laced with a cold, almost playful, irony, “I feel it is my duty, as your liege lord, to inform you of a recent development. A new Royal Decree, issued by His Majesty, King Liam Bethelham, just this morning. A decree pertaining to matters of… economic stability and ducal enterprise.”

The eight men exchanged nervous, confused glances. A new decree? What did that have to do with them?

The scribe began to read, his voice clear, formal, and utterly devoid of emotion. “‘By the grace of the ancestors and the will of the people, I, King Liam, do hereby decree the following: That any enterprise formally sanctioned and financially backed by the head of a Ducal House shall be considered a venture of strategic importance to the stability and prosperity of the Kingdom itself.’”

The scribe paused, then continued. “‘Therefore, any act of conspiracy, sabotage, or malicious defamation directed against such a Ducal-sanctioned enterprise shall henceforth be considered not merely a commercial dispute, but an act of high treason against the Crown.’”

A wave of cold, nauseating dread washed over the eight men. Treason? Their petty commercial sabotage… treason?