My Anime Shopping Tree & My Cold Prodigy Wife!
Episode : 91

Chapter : 181

Looking at Jothi now, standing calmly in the center of the sparring circle, radiating an aura of quiet, absolute competence, Lloyd understood. She wasn't just trying to restore the family honor he had tarnished at Bathelham. She was building her own legend. And it was a legend built on skill, discipline, and a mastery of Ferrum power that was, frankly, breathtaking.

His own small victory against Kenta suddenly felt… insignificant by comparison. He had surprised them with Fang’s lightning, yes. He had used a subtle trick with his hidden steel wire. But Jothi… Jothi had dominated, effortlessly, without even breaking a sweat, without even needing to call upon her spirit companion.

He felt a familiar pang, not of jealousy this time, but of something closer to… aspiration? A grudging, almost reluctant, respect. She was good. Damn good. And for the first time since his return, Lloyd felt a genuine spark of something akin to fraternal pride. His sister, the disappointment-turned-prodigy, was a force to be reckoned with. The Ferrum Family Summit, he realized with a dawning, slightly unsettling, clarity, was far from over. And the most interesting battles, it seemed, were yet to come.

—

The Ferrum Family Summit tournament had progressed with a relentless, almost brutal, efficiency. Matches were fought, victories declared, egos bruised, and the occasional piece of ancestral furniture inadvertently damaged by an overenthusiastic Void blast. The initial shock of Lloyd’s surprisingly competent takedown of Kenta Ferrum had slowly given way to a grudging, if still somewhat bewildered, acceptance that the ‘drab duckling’ might, just might, have a few unexpected feathers in his cap. He still wasn’t considered a serious contender by most – Jothi’s effortless dominance and Rayan’s simmering, aggressive power were clearly the main attractions – but he was no longer the guaranteed comedic relief everyone had anticipated. He was… an anomaly. A weird, soap-making, lightning-wolf-owning anomaly who occasionally tripped people with invisible wires.

His tea remained untouched, a silent, bitter testament to Riverian culinary failings.

After what felt like an eternity of watching cousins pummel each other with varying degrees of skill and enthusiasm (and one rather unfortunate incident involving a rogue flock of magically summoned, extremely aggressive pigeons), the herald finally called his name again.

“Next match! Lord Lloyd Ferrum versus… Lord Mike Ferrum of the Stonemill Ferrums!”

Lloyd sighed internally, pushing himself up from the bench. Right. Round two. Time to shatter some more carefully constructed preconceptions. And hopefully avoid any more rogue avian attacks. Pigeons were surprisingly vicious.

His opponent, Mike Ferrum, was a burly youth, a year or so older than Lloyd, with a square jaw, fists the size of small hams, and an expression that suggested his primary mode of communication involved blunt force trauma. He wasn’t known for his subtlety or his powerful spirit, but for his sheer, dogged physical strength and a reckless disregard for his own safety. He was the kind of opponent who would charge headfirst into a brick wall, hoping the wall would fall down first through sheer surprise. He probably saw Lloyd’s earlier victory over Kenta as a fluke, a lucky trick, and was now eager to ‘correct’ the record with some good old-fashioned brawling.

As Mike stomped into the sparring circle, cracking his knuckles with an audible series of pops that sounded suspiciously like small bones breaking, he shot Lloyd a look that was pure, unadulterated disdain. “Heard you got lucky with Kenta, Cousin,” Mike sneered, his voice a low rumble. “Tricks won’t work on me. I don’t bother with fancy spirit dances. I fight like a true Ferrum – with my fists!” He pounded a massive fist into his open palm, the sound like a side of beef hitting a stone slab.

“A bold strategy, Cousin Mike,” Lloyd replied, his voice mild, almost academic. “Let’s see how it plays out.” He didn’t bother with a pre-match bow. Mike probably wouldn’t appreciate the subtlety.

“Combatants, ready!” the referee called, looking slightly apprehensive, as if anticipating the imminent destruction of more ducal property. “Begin!”

Mike didn’t wait for a spirit summons. He didn’t waste time on posturing. He simply roared, a sound like a hungry bear discovering its favorite honey tree was empty, and charged. He moved with surprising speed for his bulk, his massive fists raised, aiming to overwhelm Lloyd with a flurry of haymakers before Lloyd could even think about summoning that ‘fancy mutt’ of his.

Lloyd watched the approaching avalanche of muscle and fury with a calm detachment that bordered on boredom. Seriously? A straight-line charge? Does no one in this family study tactics? Or basic geometry?

He didn’t move. He didn’t summon Fang. He simply waited.

Chapter : 182

Just as Mike was about to enter striking range, his face contorted in a grimace of anticipated impact, his knuckles white as he prepared to unleash his barrage, Lloyd acted. It was a repeat performance, almost contemptuously casual. A subtle shift of weight. A flick of his will.

The invisible, whisper-thin filament of gleaming Ferrum steel snapped taut from the floor, coiling around Mike’s leading ankle with the silent, inescapable precision of a striking viper.

Trip.

The result was even more spectacular, and arguably more humiliating, than Kenta’s earlier face-plant. Mike, a charging bull suddenly, inexplicably, tethered by one leg, let out a bellow of surprised rage as his momentum carried him forward, his feet scrambling uselessly for purchase. He didn’t just stumble; he went airborne, executing a perfect, if entirely involuntary, somersault over his own entangled ankle, before crashing down onto the stone floor with a resounding, bone-jarring THUD that probably registered on the ducal seismograph. The air rushed from his lungs in a whoosh. He lay there, stunned, winded, looking like a particularly large, angry turtle that had just been unceremoniously flipped onto its back.

Before Mike could even register what had happened, before he could even attempt to push his dazed, aching body upright, Lloyd was there. Not with a sword, not with a Void blast. But with Fang.

The wolf-spirit materialized beside him in a silent shimmer, not with the overt crackle of lightning this time, but with a low, menacing growl rumbling deep in his chest, his golden eyes fixed on the prone, groaning form of Mike Ferrum. Fang didn’t attack. He didn’t need to. He simply stalked forward slowly, deliberately, and placed one very large, very solid paw directly onto Mike’s chest, pinning him with a pressure that was both physically immobilizing and profoundly psychologically demoralizing. The message was clear, delivered without a single spark: Move, and you become a chew toy. A very large, very surprised, chew toy.

Mike let out a strangled grunt, his eyes wide with a mixture of pain, disbelief, and dawning, horrified comprehension. He’d been beaten. Again. By the drab duckling. Without Lloyd even breaking a sweat. Without Lloyd even throwing a punch. Tripped by nothing, pinned by a dog. The humiliation was absolute.

Mike stared up at Lloyd, then at the massive wolf paw pressing into his sternum, then back at Lloyd’s calm, almost smiling face. The fight was gone from him, replaced by a crushing, bitter defeat. He’d charged in like a raging bull and ended up looking like a clumsy calf that had tripped over its own hooves.

“I… I concede,” Mike mumbled, his voice muffled by the stone floor and his own bruised pride.

“Excellent choice,” Lloyd replied cheerfully. He nodded to Fang, who removed his paw with a final, disdainful sniff, then dissolved back into shimmering motes of light. Lloyd offered a hand to his defeated cousin. “No hard feelings, Mike? Just a friendly contest, after all.”

Mike ignored the offered hand, scrambling awkwardly to his feet, his face flushed a furious, mottled red. He shot Lloyd one last look of pure, impotent hatred, then turned and stomped out of the sparring circle, the sound of snickering laughter from the assembled youths following him like a swarm of angry bees.

Lloyd watched him go, a faint, almost invisible smile playing on his lips. Two down. Twenty-nine to go. This tournament might actually be… amusing. In a deeply strange, slightly sadistic, soap-empire-funding kind of way.

He turned to acknowledge the referee, who was looking at him with an expression of profound, almost fearful, respect. Before the referee could even declare him the victor, however, a voice, sharp and authoritative, cut through the lingering murmurs of the crowd.

“That wire! Just now! When young Mike fell!”

Every head turned. Standing near the edge of the dais, his face a mask of stunned disbelief and dawning, almost horrified, recognition, was Lord Kyle Ferrum, head of the Ironwood branch family, a man known for his deep knowledge of Ferrum history, his traditionalist views, and his almost fanatical devotion to the ‘true’ Ferrum ways. His eyes, wide and slightly wild, were fixed directly on Lloyd, not with anger, but with a kind of shocked, almost reverent, awe.

“Arch Duke Roy!” Lord Kyle called out, his voice trembling slightly, turning towards the dais, his gaze never leaving Lloyd. “That… that was not iron manipulation! Not the crude, forceful binding of our common bloodline! That filament… it was too fine, too strong, too precise! It gleamed like… like true steel! Tempered by fire, wielded with impossible finesse!” He took a hesitant step closer to the sparring circle, his eyes still locked on Lloyd, who now felt a cold knot of apprehension forming in his stomach. This wasn't good. This wasn't good at all.