My Anime Shopping Tree & My Cold Prodigy Wife!
Episode-190

Chapter : 379

He gestured towards the center of the room. “Then let us not delay. The ritual is simple. But… painful. Power, true power, always has its price.”

Marbes began to chant, his voice a low, guttural litany in a language that made the very air in the room feel thin and wrong. The shadows deepened, pulling away from the walls, coalescing, flowing towards the center of the study, forming a dark, swirling pool on the floor before Rubel. A cold, foul wind, smelling of ancient dust and a deep, cosmic cold, swirled through the room, making the fire in the hearth sputter and die, plunging the study into a near-total darkness, illuminated only by the pale, unholy light now glowing in Marbes’s eyes.

“Kneel, Rubel Ferrum,” the Evil Priest commanded, his voice no longer human, but a resonant, layered chorus of whispers and echoes. “And offer your soul to the service of the Weaver of Shadows.”

Trembling, his heart a frantic, terrified drum in his chest, yet his face set in a mask of grim, desperate resolve, Rubel knelt before the swirling pool of darkness.

“Summon your spirit,” Marbes commanded.

Rubel focused his will, and his great Earth-Bear spirit materialized beside him, roaring in confusion and instinctive terror at the wrongness that now filled the room.

Marbes laughed, a high, chilling sound. He stretched out his pale hands towards the roaring bear. From the swirling pool of darkness on the floor, thick, black, semi-corporeal tendrils of pure shadow shot out, silent and swift as striking vipers. They wrapped around the struggling Earth-Bear, silencing its roars, encasing it in a cocoon of living night. The bear thrashed, fighting with all its primal strength, but the shadow tendrils were inescapable, inexorable. They tightened, squeezed, and began to… sink in, merging with the spirit’s form, corrupting its pure, earthy essence.

The bear let out a final, choked, agonized roar, a sound of such profound pain and violation that Rubel himself cried out, stumbling back, clutching his chest as the agonizing backlash surged through their bond.

The cocoon of darkness pulsed once, twice, then receded, flowing back into the floor.

Where the proud Earth-Bear had stood, something new now crouched. It was still a bear, but twisted, corrupted. Its fur was no longer a healthy brown, but a matted, oily black. Its eyes, once just bestial, now glowed with a malevolent, red-hot intelligence. And its body was wreathed in a faint, sickly aura of black, shadowy energy. It was a Black Spirit. And it was terrifyingly, undeniably, more powerful.

“And now, for you,” Marbes purred, turning his glowing eyes on the gasping, kneeling Rubel. Another shadow tendril, smaller, more refined, emerged from the floor and shot towards Rubel, not to bind him, but to touch him. It struck him in the center of the chest, and the cold was absolute, a soul-deep agony that made him scream, a raw, ragged sound of a man being unmade and reforged in a fire of pure, malevolent shadow.

He felt the demonic aura seep into him, into his blood, into his very soul, twisting his own Iron Blood Void Power, filling him with a new, dark, exhilarating strength. He felt his connection to his newly corrupted spirit solidify, no longer a bond of partnership, but one of master and slave, of shared damnation.

When the agony finally subsided, leaving him a trembling, gasping wreck on the floor, he pushed himself up. He felt… different. Stronger. Colder. The familiar, simmering bitterness in his soul had been replaced by a cold, hard, and utterly ruthless, purpose.

He looked at his hands. The skin seemed paler, the veins beneath darker. He focused his will, and a shard of black, jagged iron erupted from his palm, not the dull grey of his old power, but a shard of solidified night, humming with a new, dark, malevolent energy.

He looked at Marbes, who was observing him with that same amused, proprietary smile.

“Welcome, Viscount Rubel,” the Evil Priest said softly. “Welcome to the service of Lord Malephar. Your new life… and your new war… begins now.”

Rubel Ferrum, the Devil’s newest bargain, simply nodded, a slow, grim smile spreading across his own pale, transformed face. The viper had found its venom. And the world, he knew, would soon feel its bite.

________________________________________

—

Chapter : 380

The East Wing of the Ferrum Estate was the Duchess’s domain. Here, the air was different, free from the heavy scent of politics and old leather that permeated Roy’s study. It smelled of dried flowers, beeswax, and the faint, almost imperceptible, fragrance of jasmine tea. The rooms were filled with light, the furniture elegant and graceful, the walls adorned not with stern ancestral portraits, but with beautiful, serene landscapes and delicate works of art. It was a sanctuary of quiet, refined, and distinctly feminine power.

It was to this sanctuary that Rosa Siddik was summoned, two days after Lloyd had made his peace offering of the miniature ‘baby’ dispenser. The summons had been a simple, polite note, delivered by Milody’s personal handmaiden, its elegant script belying the undeniable, absolute authority of the request.

Rosa arrived at the door of her mother-in-law’s private sitting room, her posture a study in perfect, icy composure, her face concealed, as was now her habit in the more formal areas of the estate, by the delicate, silver-threaded veil. She felt a flicker of… not nervousness, her logical mind did not permit such inefficient emotions, but of analytical anticipation. A private tea with the Duchess was a rare occurrence, one that suggested a matter of some significance was to be discussed.

She entered to find Milody Austin Ferrum seated in a high-backed armchair near a window overlooking the rose gardens, a small, elegant tea service set on a low table before her. The Duchess was a vision of serene, aristocratic grace, her silver-blonde hair perfectly coiffed, her gown of pale, lavender silk flowing around her like a soft cloud. She offered Rosa a small, polite smile as she entered, a smile that did not quite reach her intelligent, observant eyes.

“Rosa, my dear,” Milody greeted, her voice the usual light, melodic tone. “Thank you for coming. Please, be seated. The jasmine tea is freshly brewed.”

Rosa inclined her head in a perfect, shallow curtsy and took the seat opposite her mother-in-law, her back ramrod straight, her hands resting calmly in her lap. She accepted the delicate porcelain cup Milody offered, the fragrant steam rising in a gentle plume before her veiled face.

They sat in silence for a moment, a ritual of polite, noble propriety. The only sounds were the faint clink of porcelain on saucer and the distant chirping of birds in the garden. Rosa waited, her mind calm, her senses alert, ready to receive and analyze whatever information was about to be presented.

“You have been with us for some months now, Rosa,” Milody began finally, her voice still pleasant, almost conversational, yet with an underlying note of seriousness that instantly captured Rosa’s full attention. “And you have conducted yourself with the grace and decorum befitting a daughter of House Siddik and the new wife of the Ferrum heir. Your composure is… commendable.”

Rosa simply inclined her head again, a silent acknowledgment of the lukewarm compliment.

“However,” Milody continued, her smile fading, her gaze becoming sharper, more direct, “decorum and composure, while admirable qualities, are merely the foundation of a successful noble marriage. They are not the structure itself.” She set her own teacup down with a soft, deliberate click. “A marriage, my dear, especially one of such political significance as yours and Lloyd’s, is a partnership. An alliance. It requires more than just shared living quarters and polite silence. It requires… engagement. Support. A unified front presented to the world.”

She paused, letting the words hang in the air, her gaze unwavering. “And in that regard, Rosa, I must confess… I find your performance… lacking.”

The words, though delivered with a perfect, aristocratic calm, were a direct, undeniable blow. Lacking. Rosa felt a flicker of something—surprise? indignation?—stir within her, but she ruthlessly suppressed it, her face remaining a perfect, unreadable mask behind her veil.

“I am a quiet person by nature, Your Grace,” Rosa replied, her own voice a cool, level monotone. “I prefer observation to participation. It is my way.”

“It is a way that is no longer sufficient,” Milody countered instantly, her voice losing none of its calm, but gaining an edge of unyielding steel. She leaned forward slightly, her eyes, so like her son’s in their sudden intensity, locking onto Rosa’s. “My son, Lloyd… he is changing. You have seen it. We have all seen it. The boy who arrived at this marriage, the quiet, unremarkable heir… he is gone. In his place is a man of unexpected power, of surprising vision, of a competence that has stunned this entire household.”