My Anime Shopping Tree & My Cold Prodigy Wife!
Episode : 4

Chapter : 7

Now came the next item on his mental checklist, one far more daunting than facing down a potentially judgmental Head Cook: visiting his wife. Rosa Siddik. The seventeen-year-old political bride who had, with admirable efficiency and chilling politeness, relegated him to the sofa on their wedding night a week ago. A status quo that had persisted for three long, awkward years in his previous timeline before his untimely, and still frustratingly vague, demise.

He sighed. That had to be sigh number… thirteen? Fourteen? He was losing count, but it felt like a personal best for pre-lunchtime existential angst. Being back in his nineteen-year-old body, brimming with the cynical wisdom and accumulated weariness of an eighty-year-old Earthling, was proving to be a masterclass in cognitive dissonance. His knees didn’t creak, but his soul felt ancient.

He approached the door to their shared suite – her room, his mind automatically corrected, a habit ingrained from years of sofa-bound exile. The heavy oak panel, intricately carved with scenes of Ferrum ancestors looking stoic and vaguely disapproving, seemed to loom larger than usual. He paused, his hand hovering over the polished wood.

Okay, Lloyd, game plan, he coached himself internally. Remember Earth. Remember taxes, traffic jams, terrible reality TV. This is just… interpersonal conflict. With potential magic involved. You handled board meetings where executives threw metaphorical staplers at each other. You can handle a frosty teenager.

But could he? Nineteen-year-old Lloyd certainly couldn’t. That poor sap had been paralyzed by awkwardness, terrified of conflict, and utterly clueless about navigating the complexities of an arranged marriage, let alone the treacherous currents of noble society. He’d defaulted to passive avoidance, hoping the problem would just… go away. Which, technically, he did, by dying. Not the ideal resolution.

This time, he resolved, steeling himself with the memory of lukewarm instant coffee and the sheer boredom of his second retirement, things will be different. No more Sofa King. Time to actually engage. Even if it’s like trying to engage with a particularly beautiful, well-dressed iceberg.

He thought about the System, the tantalizing promise of power flickering at the edge of his awareness. Gaining strength was paramount. But strength in Riverio wasn’t just about Spirit Power or Void abilities. It was about influence, alliances, perception. Having his own wife treat him like an inconvenient piece of furniture wasn’t exactly projecting strength or stability. If he wanted to survive, let alone thrive and maybe figure out why he died, he needed to change the dynamics within these very walls. Starting now.

He took a deep breath, channeling the calm he used to employ before complex physics simulations or explaining to his Earth grandkids why wifi wasn't actual magic (a surprisingly difficult conversation). In… and out. He knocked, the sound echoing slightly in the quiet hallway. Silence. He knocked again, a fraction louder, firmer.

"What?"

The voice from within was muffled, sharp, laced with impatience. Not exactly a welcoming mat rolled out. More like verbal barbed wire.

Lloyd winced internally but kept his external expression neutral. Progress, not perfection.

"Rosa? It's Lloyd," he called through the thick door, pitching his voice to be clear but not aggressive. "May I come in?"

A beat of silence stretched, long enough for Lloyd to mentally inventory the potential projectiles within the room. Then, a resigned sigh, barely audible. "The door is unlocked."

Not quite a 'yes', but definitely not a 'get lost'. He'd take it. Pushing the heavy door inward, he stepped across the threshold, bracing himself.

The room was as opulent as he remembered. Sunlight streamed through the tall, arched windows, illuminating the rich tapestries depicting pastoral scenes, the gleaming dark wood of the vanity table cluttered with silver-backed brushes and delicate vials, the plush velvet armchair angled towards the fireplace. And dominating the space, the enormous four-poster bed, a fortress of silk sheets and embroidered pillows.

The scent of expensive potpourri, predominantly lavender and something vaguely citrusy, hung in the air. But underneath it, fainter, yet distinct to his slightly re-awakened senses, was a low hum. A subtle vibration of energy, like the thrumming of a plucked string just beyond the range of normal hearing. It centered around the bed.

Rosa sat there, perched not defensively this time, but regally, in the exact center of the mattress. Her legs were crossed in a meditative posture, hands resting palms-up on her knees. Her eyes were closed, long dark lashes brushing against her high cheekbones. Her usual severe hairstyle was slightly loosened, tendrils escaping to frame a face locked in intense concentration. The air around her seemed clearer, sharper. The sunlight didn't just illuminate her; it seemed to cling to her, drawn towards the focus of her power.

She was cultivating. Drawing in the ambient Spirit Energy from the world, funneling it into her core, refining it, making it her own.

Chapter : 8

Lloyd watched, a complex mix of emotions swirling within him. Awe, certainly. Even in his first life, he’d known she was talented, far more than him. Seeing it now, with the perspective of age and a rudimentary understanding of the underlying mechanics gleaned from the System's cryptic hints and Earthly scientific parallels, her skill was even more apparent.

He felt the familiar, bitter tang of inadequacy, the echo of nineteen-year-old Lloyd’s frustration. He remembered Master Elmsworth’s patient, yet ultimately fruitless, attempts to guide his own cultivation. While other students felt the flow, the pull of energy, Lloyd mostly felt… itchy. Like his awareness was scraping against a rough, unyielding surface. He could sense the energy, vaguely, like static electricity on a dry day, but drawing it in? That was another matter entirely. It was like trying to fill a swimming pool with a teaspoon, while Rosa wielded a firehose.

His internal estimate hadn't been far off. If she absorbed nine units of energy in a given time, he was lucky to scrape together one. Maybe one and a half on a good day, with a following wind and favourable astrological alignments.

It all comes down to the Spirit Core, Lloyd mused again, his gaze fixed on the subtle intensity radiating from Rosa. His inner eighty-year-old scientist and engineer took over for a moment, analyzing. That little metaphysical engine, nestled somewhere near the soul, they say. Everyone’s born with at least one. It’s the gateway, the processor. It draws in the raw, untamed energy flowing through nature – the air, the earth, the light – and converts it into usable Spirit Power, unique to the individual.

But the number of cores… that’s where the real lottery happens. Most people? Just the one. Like me. He felt a phantom frustration, a memory of straining, concentrating until his head pounded, only to feel the barest trickle entering his core. My single core feels… sluggish. Inefficient. Like a clogged filter.

Then you have the blessed ones. The heaven-favoured few. Two cores are rare, a sign of significant potential. But three? His gaze drifted back to Rosa, still lost in her meditative state. Three cores, like Rosa has. That's exponentially better. Three engines working in parallel, drawing in energy at triple the rate, or perhaps even more synergistically. It explains her speed, her effortless absorption.

He pictured the stages of power again, visualising them like levels in the game the System resembled. Manifestation: gather enough processed energy, get yourself a Spirit Stone – usually jammed into a sword hilt because those Anti-Spirit Stone sheaths are damn convenient – and poof! You can summon your spirit companion. Like Fang, my little chicken-loving wolf.

Ascension: Keep gathering, keep refining. Get strong enough, talented enough, maybe bribe your Spirit with enough treats, and you can start actually using its innate abilities directly. Fire breath, shadow steps, whatever its specialty is. Still need the rock, though. Power boost is significant, maybe tenfold what Manifestation offers. Most dedicated Spirit users reach this.

And then… Transcend. He let out an involuntary breath, the word itself feeling heavy with significance. The final stage. Forge such a bond with your Spirit, understand it so deeply, that you can merge. Become one entity. No more Spirit Stone needed. You are the power. They say it’s another tenfold leap, maybe more. But less than five percent of users ever manage it. It requires talent, dedication, and a connection most people can only dream of.

He looked at Rosa, the sunlight haloing her focused form. With three cores humming efficiently, she wasn't just on the fast track; she was practically driving a magical bullet train towards Manifestation and likely beyond. While he… well, he was still trying to figure out how to hotwire his own sputtering engine, armed only with poultry and a mysterious digital shopping list.

But, a new thought intruded, sharp and hopeful, sparked by the memory of the System interface, maybe the base specs don't matter as much now. The System lets me buy Spirits. Plural. Maybe even more Cores, though that wasn't explicitly listed. It lets me upgrade them. Maybe my single, crappy core can be… overclocked? Modified? Maybe Fang, despite his scrawny start, can become something formidable with enough System Coins invested. The possibilities, vague but intoxicating, bloomed in his mind.

His contemplation was shattered as Rosa’s eyes snapped open. The serene, focused energy around her vanished as if switched off. The air grew still, heavy. Her dark eyes, cold and sharp as obsidian shards, fixed directly on him, standing just inside the doorway. The transition was jarring, from tranquil cultivator to wary sentinel in the blink of an eye.

She tilted her head, a minute, precise movement, like a predator assessing potential prey. Or perhaps just an annoying insect that had wandered into its territory. Her gaze swept over him, taking in his presence, his posture, the very fact that he was there, apparently uninvited and unwelcome.