My Anime Shopping Tree & My Cold Prodigy Wife!
Episode : 23

Chapter : 45

He pointed a trembling finger at his brother. "Know this, Rubel Ferrum. If you, or any member of your immediate family," his gaze flickered briefly towards the terrified Rayan, "ever attempt anything against the Head Family again – any plot, any manipulation, any whisper of dissent – I will not hesitate. I will strip you of your titles, seize your lands, and banish your entire line from the Ferrum name and blood forever. You will be erased."

The threat hung in the air, absolute and terrifying.

"As for this… transgression," Roy continued, his voice regaining its icy control, "there will be immediate consequence. You will pay a fine of one hundred Gold Coins to the Ducal treasury by sunset tomorrow. A pittance, perhaps, but a public acknowledgment of your offense." He waved a dismissive hand towards the door. "Now get out of my sight. All of you." He included the witnesses, the bandaged figures, and Rayan in the command.

Rubel stared, aghast at the severity of the judgment, the public humiliation, the explicit threat of banishment. But he saw the unwavering resolve in his brother's eyes. He opened his mouth, perhaps to protest, then closed it again, defeated. He bowed stiffly, a mockery of respect, turned on his heel, and stormed out of the study, his face a mask of barely contained fury. Rayan scrambled after him, shooting Lloyd one last look of pure hatred. The witnesses and the bandaged victims scurried out like frightened mice, vanishing into the corridor.

Roy then turned his attention back to Lloyd, his expression still stern, but the overt fury lessening slightly, replaced by a complex mix of assessment and perhaps… grudging approval? He also glanced towards Rosa, who was still processing Lloyd’s impossible revelation about the engagement attempt, her usual composure visibly shaken.

"Furthermore," Roy declared, his voice resonating with authority once more, "the matter of Viscount Rubel Ferrum and the conduct of his branch family will be the primary agenda item at the Ferrum Family Summit next week. His position, his influence… will be reassessed. Thoroughly."

The implication was clear. Rubel hadn't just failed; he had potentially crippled his own standing within the family hierarchy for years to come.

Lloyd stood tall, meeting his father's gaze. He had not only proven his innocence but had turned his uncle's attack into a devastating counter-offensive, exposing Rubel's treachery and solidifying his own unexpected competence in his father's eyes. The game had decisively shifted.

----

Day number Seven.

The number pulsed behind Lloyd Ferrum’s eyelids even before the first intrusive rays of dawn managed to pierce the heavy velvet curtains. Seven days. One hundred and sixty-eight hours since reality had decided to hit the cosmic rewind button, depositing his eighty-year-old consciousness back into this infuriatingly youthful, perpetually awkward nineteen-year-old body. Seven days back on Riverio. Fourteen days married to an Ice Queen. Seven days sleeping on… this.

He cracked an eye open, greeted by the familiar, ridiculously ornate pattern carved into the ceiling plasterwork. Yup. Still the sofa. Still emitting that faint, aggressively floral scent of potpourri that seemed designed to induce headaches. Still boasting lumps in places furniture shouldn't even have places.

Seven days, his internal monologue echoed, already picking up speed like a runaway minecart. Feels like seven years. Or maybe just a particularly long, uncomfortable week trapped in aristocratic purgatory. He pushed himself up, swinging his legs over the side, the floorboards predictably cold against his bare feet. Another day, another ducat… or maybe just another chance to not die humiliatingly before breakfast.

A sigh escaped him, probably number… fifty? Sixty? He’d lost count yesterday amidst the Rubel-induced farce. This body seemed predisposed to sighing. Or maybe it was just the cumulative weight of three lifetimes pressing down. Focus, Lloyd. Today is important.

Today was the seventh day. The final hurdle. The finish line for Operation: Canine Cuisine Upgrade. Five System Coins. That was the prize. Five precious coins that, added to the eight he’d scraped together through furniture destruction, bully slapping, and impromptu economics lectures, would finally… finally… push him over the threshold. Ten coins to open the shop. Thirteen total. Enough. Barely enough, but enough.

Anticipation thrummed beneath his skin, a low-voltage current chasing away the morning grogginess. The System. The Shopping Tree. That bizarre, potentially universe-altering catalogue of power he’d stumbled upon in his first life, understood on Earth, and now, finally, could use. What wonders, what horrors, what ridiculously overpriced upgrades awaited him behind that 10-coin paywall? He had to know.

Chapter : 46

He glanced towards the monolithic four-poster bed shrouded in shadows across the room. Silence. No movement. Was Rosa asleep? Meditating? Mentally composing scathing critiques of his breathing technique? Impossible to say. Since the revelation about the failed engagement plot Rubel had orchestrated years ago – a secret he shouldn’t possibly have known – the already frigid atmosphere between them had acquired a new layer of bewildered tension. She hadn't asked how he knew. She hadn't asked anything. Just… observed him with that unnerving, analytical intensity, like he was a particularly baffling physics problem she couldn't yet solve.

Fine by me, he thought, grabbing his tunic. Let her analyze. Less chance of unexpected Spirit Pressure applications while she’s busy running diagnostics. He dressed quickly, foregoing any attempt at nobleman finery. Simple trousers, sturdy tunic. Practical. Today wasn't about impressing anyone; it was about function.

He paused at the door, listening. Still silent from the bed. Good. He slipped out, closing the heavy door softly behind him, leaving the scent of lavender and lingering questions in his wake.

The grand halls of the Ferrum Estate were hushed in the pre-dawn gloom, echoing slightly with his footsteps. Torches flickered in wall sconces, casting long, dancing shadows that seemed to writhe like living things. Ancestral portraits stared down from the walls, their painted eyes seeming to follow his progress with silent judgment. Morning, Great-Uncle Vorlag, he mentally nodded at a particularly grim-looking warrior in elaborate plate mail. Try not to frown so hard; you'll crack the varnish.

He bypassed the kitchens today. The final ritual deserved more significance than a hurried exchange near the larders. He needed space, quiet, a place less steeped in the suffocating formalities and simmering resentments of the estate proper. His steps carried him out through a side entrance, into the cool, damp air of the awakening gardens. Mist clung to the sculpted hedges and dripped from the leaves of ancient oaks, muffling sound, creating a world of grey and green solitude.

He followed a less-traveled path, winding away from the main gardens, the gravel crunching softly underfoot. The air grew cleaner here, smelling of wet earth, decaying leaves, and the faint, metallic tang of ozone that often preceded a storm – or perhaps, just the proximity of potent magic. He reached his destination: a small, secluded pond nestled within a protective embrace of weeping willows, their long tendrils brushing the still, dark surface of the water.

This felt right. Calm. Removed. A place where the mundane rules of court intrigue felt distant, less relevant. He stood at the water's edge, watching the sky slowly bleed from bruised purple to pale rose in the reflection. The silence was profound, broken only by the gentle plip of water dripping from willow leaves and the first tentative chirp of a waking bird.

Okay, System. Seven days. Paid my dues in poultry. He took a deep, centering breath, feeling the cool air fill his lungs. Let's see the payoff.

He reached for the Spirit Stone tucked inside his tunic. Not the smooth, inert pebble it had felt like a week ago. Now, it seemed to thrum faintly against his skin, holding a latent warmth. He pushed his energy into it – not the hesitant trickle of before, but a confident, steady stream. The connection felt instantaneous, solid.

The air before him didn't just shimmer this time. It vibrated, warping the reflection on the pond's surface. Light seemed to bend inwards, drawn towards a focal point with an audible, resonant hum that vibrated deep in Lloyd's chest. It wasn't a simple summoning; it felt like reality itself was being peeled back to allow something powerful to step through.

Then, Fang materialized.

Lloyd’s breath caught in his throat. He’d seen the progression, the daily improvements, but the final leap… it was staggering. This creature standing silently before him bore only a passing resemblance to the scrawny, hesitant wolf-thing of seven days prior.

Fang was magnificent. Terrifyingly so. He stood taller now, radiating an almost visible aura of contained power that made the hairs on Lloyd’s arms stand on end. His coat wasn’t merely grey; it was the deep, shifting colour of a thunderhead heavy with unshed lightning, dark and sleek, with intricate, darker patterns swirling across his flanks like captured smoke. When he moved his head slightly, the light caught subtle undertones of deep indigo and electric blue. His form was lean, honed, every line speaking of speed and lethal grace. Muscles rippled beneath the storm-cloud fur with fluid power, promising devastating speed and strength.