My Anime Shopping Tree & My Cold Prodigy Wife!
Episode-178

Chapter : 355

He carved a mask. Simple. Unadorned. Smooth, featureless, covering the upper half of his face, with two clean, dark eyeholes. He painted it with a single, stark coat of matte white paint he’d had Alaric prepare, a pigment that would absorb the light, rendering him faceless, a ghost in the moonlight. The White Mask. It wasn't a symbol of a hero or a villain. It was a tool of pure, practical anonymity. A way to separate the actions of the night from the identity of the day.

The next morning, he set out from the estate, not in a grand ducal carriage, but on a sturdy, unremarkable horse, with Ken and a small, token squad of four household guards trailing behind. He was dressed in dark, practical traveling clothes, the white mask tucked securely into a saddlebag. They rode west, towards the rolling, wind-swept emptiness of the Whispering Hills.

Once they were several hours out from the capital, far from any prying eyes, Lloyd reined in his horse. “Ken,” he said, his voice quiet but firm. “You and your men will establish a base camp here. You will survey the local logging operations, as per the official mission profile. Gather the data my father expects.” He met the bodyguard’s steady, knowing gaze. “I am going on ahead. Alone. A… personal reconnaissance of the more remote areas.”

Ken Park did not question. He did not argue. He had seen the look in his young lord’s eyes. He had felt the simmering, restless power. This was not a business trip. This was something else. “Understood, Young Lord,” he replied, his voice a flat, unwavering baritone. “We will await your return here. Maintain communication protocols if necessary.” The unspoken message was clear: We will provide your cover story. Go do what you must.

With a final, sharp nod, Lloyd urged his horse forward, leaving the guards and their mundane task behind. He rode for hours, pushing deeper into the desolate, empty heart of the hills, the wind his only companion. The landscape grew wilder, more rugged, the cheerful grasslands giving way to rocky outcrops and stands of gnarled, ancient trees.

He was searching for a specific kind of place, a memory from his first life, a half-forgotten landmark from a long-ago hunting trip with his father. A place of ruin and isolation. He finally found it as the sun began to dip towards the horizon, casting long, stark shadows across the land.

It was an old, ruined watchtower, perched on a high, rocky crag overlooking a dense, dark forest. It was a relic from a forgotten war, its stone walls crumbling, its wooden beams rotted away, a silent, skeletal finger pointing at the sky. It was perfect. Remote. Desolate. No one would come here. No one would see or hear what was about to happen.

He dismounted, tethering his horse in a small, hidden copse of trees. He retrieved the simple white mask from his saddlebag, the smooth, cool wood a familiar, comforting weight in his hands. He tied it securely over his face, the world narrowing to the two dark eyeholes. In that moment, Lord Lloyd Ferrum, the soap tycoon, the awkward heir, vanished. In his place stood the White Mask. A faceless, nameless agent of consequence.

He began the climb up the rocky crag towards the ruined watchtower, the wind whipping at his dark tunic, a sense of grim, exhilarating purpose settling over him. He needed to know the limits of his new power. He needed to feel the thunder.

As he reached the summit, the crumbling ruins of the watchtower stark against the bruised twilight sky, he heard it. Not the wind. Not the call of a lone night bird. A sound that did not belong in this desolate place. A woman’s scream. Sharp. Terrified. Cut off abruptly. Followed by the rough, cruel laughter of men.

Lloyd froze, every sense on high alert. He moved silently, a shadow among the ruins, creeping to the edge of the crag. He peered down into the darkening woods at the base of the watchtower.

And what he saw made his blood run cold. A small clearing. A flickering campfire. A single, overturned merchant’s wagon, its contents—bolts of cloth, small crates—spilled across the ground. And people.

A man, clearly the merchant, lay on the ground, a dark, spreading stain on his tunic, his face pale and still. His wife was on her knees, sobbing, held fast by a burly, bearded man with a jagged scar across his face. Their two small children, a boy and a girl, huddled together near the wagon wheels, their faces streaked with tears, their eyes wide with a terror that was absolute.

Chapter : 356

And standing over them, laughing, wiping a bloody knife on his leather breeches, was a man whose cruel, sneering face was illuminated by the firelight. He was surrounded by four others, all armed, all radiating an aura of casual, brutal violence. Bandits. Not common highwaymen, but a hardened, professional-looking crew. They had already killed the father. And the look in their leader’s eyes as he stared down at the weeping mother, a look of cold, predatory avarice, made it chillingly clear what they intended to do next.

The perfect, morally unambiguous justification. Lloyd’s hand, resting on the hilt of a knife he hadn't intended to use, tightened. The desolate ruin he had sought for a power test had just become a stage. A stage for a very different kind of demonstration. The Spear of Justice had found its first, and most deserving, targets.

—

The clearing below was a tableau of brutal, casual cruelty. The flickering campfire cast dancing, grotesque shadows on the faces of the five bandits, illuminating their sneering triumph and the stark terror of their victims. The merchant lay still, a discarded object, his life’s blood soaking into the greedy earth. His wife, her sobs now reduced to a choked, hopeless whimpering, was being dragged by her hair towards the leader by the burly, scar-faced brute. The two small children huddled by the wagon wheel, a single, silent, shaking entity of pure, unadulterated fear.

The leader, a tall, wiry man with cold, dead eyes and a cruel twist to his lips, laughed again, a harsh, grating sound that scraped at the twilight stillness. He sheathed his bloody knife and reached out, grabbing the woman’s chin, forcing her to look at him.

“There now, pretty thing,” he sneered, his breath a foul cloud of cheap ale and rot. “No need for tears. Your man was a fool. Should’ve paid the toll. But you… you can still be… useful.” His gaze raked over her, possessive, predatory. “And after we’re done with you, the brats’ll fetch a decent price at the slave markets in the border towns. A tidy night’s work, all in all.”

His men chuckled in agreement, their own eyes, hungry and cruel, fixed on the weeping woman. There was no mercy here. No humanity. Only greed, violence, and the casual, soul-crushing indifference of predators to their prey.

From his vantage point on the high, rocky crag, concealed by the crumbling ruins of the old watchtower, Lloyd observed the scene. The simple white mask felt cool against his skin, a stark, emotionless barrier between him and the horror below. He felt no surge of righteous anger, no hot flash of indignation. The Major General, the cold, pragmatic soldier, had taken over completely. He assessed the situation with a chilling, detached clarity.

Five hostiles. Armed with a mix of short swords, axes, and long knives. Professional-looking, but likely lacking any formal military training. Their formation was loose, sloppy, their attention focused entirely on their victims, their situational awareness nonexistent. They felt secure, isolated, confident in their power over the helpless. A fatal mistake.

The terrain offered him a perfect, elevated firing position. The dying light provided concealment. The wind, sighing through the ruins, would mask any sound he made. The tactical advantages were all his.

He felt Fang Fairy stir within their shared consciousness, her silent presence a coiled spring of contained lightning, awaiting his command. Master? her thought was a whisper of a storm. The prey is marked. The judgment is yours.

Stand by, Fang Fairy, Lloyd replied silently. This requires… a demonstration. A lesson in overwhelming force. They will not even know what killed them.

He rose from his crouched position, a tall, faceless white silhouette against the bruised purple of the twilight sky. He stepped to the very edge of the crag, looking down upon the scene of casual brutality below. He did not shout a warning. He did not offer a chance for surrender. These men were not soldiers; they were vermin. And you do not negotiate with vermin. You exterminate them.

He extended a single, pale hand, palm open towards the sky. He closed his eyes behind the mask, reaching into the deep, thrumming well of his bond with Fang Fairy. He envisioned the blueprint. Not the massive, crater-forming lance he had tested in the training hall. Something smaller. Faster. More… personal. A javelin of pure, solidified lightning, honed to a razor’s edge, its purpose not obliteration, but swift, silent, surgical execution.