My Anime Shopping Tree & My Cold Prodigy Wife!
Episode : 3

Chapter : 5

Instead of the resigned trudge back towards the opulent prison cell he technically shared with Rosa, Lloyd found his feet carrying him in the opposite direction. Past the echoing marble hallways, beyond the stern gaze of Great-Uncle Theron the Belligerent (who definitely looked more belligerent today), and out into the manicured expanse of the Ferrum Estate gardens.

He blinked, slightly surprised at his own deviation from the norm. Nineteen-year-old Lloyd usually retreated after breakfast, seeking refuge in quiet corners or, more often than not, simply returning to the dreaded sofa-bed arrangement. But eighty-year-old Lloyd, the one currently piloting this youthful chassis, felt restless. He needed action. He needed… Coins.

Sunlight warmed his face, a pleasant sensation he hadn't properly appreciated in his stuffy second life dominated by artificial lighting and smog alerts. Birds chirped melodies that weren't synthesized ringtones. Flowers bloomed in vibrant colours, their scents rich and real. It was aggressively idyllic.

Alright, System, he thought, strolling deeper into the garden, past sculpted hedges and burbling fountains. Talk to me. What counts as a task around here? Pulling weeds? Appreciating the topiary? Scaring pigeons? Give me something. Anything. I need that shop access.

He remembered his Spirit. The one he’d barely acknowledged in his first life. The one deemed… underwhelming. Pathetic, even, by Ferrum standards. He hadn't even bothered summoning it much after the initial disappointment.

But now? Every potential avenue had to be explored.

He stopped in a relatively secluded clearing, shaded by an ancient, gnarled oak tree. Okay, let's see the little guy.

He reached instinctively for his hip, where a warrior might wear a sword. Nothing. Right. Spirit Stone. Where did nineteen-year-old me keep that thing? His hands patted his pockets, then his tunic. Ah. There. Tucked into an inner pocket, sewn into the lining perhaps, was a small, smooth stone, barely larger than his thumb. It felt cool to the touch.

He focused, channeling a minuscule thread of the nascent Spirit Power he possessed, pushing it into the stone. He remembered the basic principle: provide a flicker of energy, a connection point.

The air shimmered faintly beside him. Not with a grand explosion of light or a terrifying roar, but with a quiet sort of pop, like a damp firework deciding not to bother.

And there it stood.

Lloyd stared.

It was… well, it was a dog. A scruffy, medium-sized dog with dull grey fur, ribs faintly visible beneath its coat, and ears that drooped apologetically. It blinked large, brown, slightly bewildered eyes up at him, then yawned, showing surprisingly pointy teeth. Its tail gave a single, hesitant wag, more of a nervous twitch than a greeting.

This was his Spirit. The companion bound to his soul. A creature meant to embody his potential, his power. And it looked like it had lost a fight with a particularly aggressive tumbleweed.

Wait. Lloyd leaned closer, squinting. Those weren't quite dog ears. And the snout was a touch too long, too sharp. The pointy teeth suddenly seemed pointier.

It wasn't a dog. It was a wolf. A severely underfed, disappointingly unimpressive, decidedly weak-looking wolf.

"Huh," Lloyd murmured aloud. "Always thought you were a Springer Spaniel mix. My bad."

The wolf tilted its head, looking confused. Or maybe just hungry. Probably hungry.

Just as that thought crossed Lloyd's mind, a familiar blue screen flickered into existence in his vision, hovering beside the pathetic lupine specimen.

[New Task Assigned!]

[Task: Operation: Canine Cuisine Upgrade]

[Description: Your Spirit partner looks like it survives on dust bunnies and existential angst. Feed this decidedly wolf-like creature nutritious poultry (specifically, chicken) daily for 7 consecutive days. Goal: Make it less… depressing. Aim for 'vaguely robust'.]

[Reward: 5 System Coins (SC)]

[Note: Consistency is key. Don't skip leg day… or chicken day.]

Lloyd blinked. He read it again. Chicken. Seven days. Five Coins.

A memory surfaced. Hazy, indistinct. Nineteen-year-old Lloyd, seeing this exact screen, the strange symbols swimming before his eyes, utterly meaningless. He’d dismissed it as some weird magical static, a glitch in his underdeveloped Spirit connection. Then, on Earth, vague recollections of the idea of the System, but this specific task? Lost in the decades of data, buried under calculus and coffee-fueled all-nighters.

But now? It was crystal clear. And ridiculously simple. Feed the sad wolf some chicken. Get halfway to opening the cosmic shopping channel.

"Five coins," he breathed, a slow grin spreading across his face. "For chicken." This was almost too easy. Suspiciously easy. But he wasn't about to question his luck.

"Alright, Fang," Lloyd declared, deciding on a temporary, suitably dramatic name for the scrawny wolf. The wolf blinked again, clearly unimpressed. "Looks like your diet is about to get a serious upgrade."

Chapter : 6

He turned on his heel, determination radiating from him. The wolf padded silently behind him, a grey shadow of unmet potential. Lloyd marched back through the gardens, past the fountains, ignoring the suddenly very judgmental-looking topiary animals, and headed straight for the heart of the estate's culinary operations: the kitchens.

He burst through the kitchen doors with purpose, startling a small army of white-aproned staff who were busy chopping, stirring, and generally making deliciousness happen.

"Cook!" Lloyd announced, his voice louder than intended. Heads snapped up. Whisks paused mid-air. A pot lid clattered to the floor.

The Head Cook, a stout woman named Martha whose glare could curdle milk from fifty paces, turned slowly, wiping her hands on her apron. "Young Master Lloyd? Is everything alright?" Her tone suggested she suspected everything was very much not alright.

"Perfectly alright, Martha," Lloyd beamed, trying to project 'confident heir' rather than 'man on a bizarre System-mandated mission'. "I require… chicken."

Martha raised a skeptical eyebrow. "Chicken, sir? For breakfast? You just had sausages."

"Not for me," Lloyd clarified, gesturing vaguely behind him. The small wolf poked its head nervously around Lloyd's legs, eliciting a collective gasp from the kitchen staff. "It's for… the dog."

"Dog?" Martha squinted at the creature. "Looks more like a skinny wolf, if you ask me, sir."

"Details, details," Lloyd waved dismissively. "He requires sustenance. Urgently. A large portion, please. Cooked. Preferably roasted, if it's not too much trouble. Breast meat is good. Maybe a leg?" He was mentally calculating the nutritional requirements for rapid wolf strengthening. Protein. Lots of protein.

Silence descended upon the kitchen, broken only by the nervous shuffling of feet and the timid whining of the wolf, likely overwhelmed by the sudden attention and the overwhelming smell of food it wasn't eating.

"A… large portion?" Martha repeated slowly, exchanging bewildered glances with her sous-chefs. "For… the wolf-dog?"

"Indeed," Lloyd confirmed crisply. "As much as you can spare. Immediately."

Martha hesitated for only a second before decades of ingrained service kicked in. "Right away, Young Master Lloyd." She barked orders, and suddenly the kitchen staff scrambled into action, albeit with numerous confused backward glances towards Lloyd and his scrawny companion.

Minutes later, Lloyd was presented with a platter piled high with glistening, roasted chicken. Enough chicken to feed a small family.

"Excellent!" Lloyd declared, taking the heavy platter. He turned to leave, the wolf trotting eagerly at his heels now, its nose twitching.

As the kitchen doors swung shut behind him, he could already hear the hushed, frantic whispers erupting.

"Did you see that? Young Master Lloyd?"

"Feeding a wolf? In the house?"

"Said it was a dog! Blind as a bat, that one…"

"And the amount of chicken! Enough for the Duke's hunting hounds!"

"Has he gone mad? First the sofa business with the new mistress, now this…"

"Maybe it's a phase?"

"Feeding a scrawny wolf roast chicken? That's not a phase, that's a cry for help!"

Lloyd ignored them, a smirk playing on his lips. Let them gossip. He had a mission. He carried the platter back to the secluded clearing in the garden.

"Alright, Fang," he said, setting the platter down. "Feast."

The wolf needed no further encouragement. It fell upon the chicken with a ferocity that belied its frail appearance, tearing into the meat, crunching bones, its tail now wagging with genuine enthusiasm. Lloyd watched, fascinated. This was… progress? Maybe? 5 SC worth of progress, hopefully.

He sat on the grass, leaning back against the oak tree, watching the wolf eat. The System. Chicken. A weak wolf spirit. It was all bizarre. But it was his bizarre reality now. And he finally had a tool, a path forward. Even if that path started with poultry.

He spent a good hour there, watching the wolf demolish the chicken, occasionally glancing at the System interface, which remained stubbornly unchanged. No immediate coin reward. Right. Seven days. Consistency. Fine. He could do consistent. He’d managed eighty years of consistency on Earth, after all. Mostly consistently showing up for work and complaining about the commute.

The wolf, eventually satiated, licked its chops, looked significantly less pathetic, and curled up near Lloyd’s feet, letting out a contented sigh before promptly falling asleep.

Lloyd looked down at the sleeping spirit. Maybe it wasn't so bad. Just needed some TLC. And a metric ton of chicken.

The lingering scent of roast chicken, a surprisingly persistent aroma for such an ethereal concept as Spirit Power cultivation, seemed to follow Lloyd Ferrum like a particularly savory ghost as he navigated the upper corridors of the Ferrum Estate. He’d successfully completed Day One of ‘Operation: Canine Cuisine Upgrade’, his scrawny wolf spirit—now tentatively dubbed ‘Fang’—was currently digesting enough poultry to alarm a small village, and Lloyd possessed precisely zero System Coins for his efforts. Still, progress. Baby steps. Or rather, chicken-fueled wolf steps.