Episode-153

Words : 1570 Updated : Sep 23rd, 2025

Chapter 150 of "My Anime Shopping Tree & My Cold Prodigy Wife!" starts with: Chapter : 305 She turned her gaze, now filled with a righteous, accusatory fury, on Lloyd.... Continue exploring!

Chapter : 305 She turned her gaze, now filled with a righteous, accusatory fury, on Lloyd. “You! You and your fancy elixirs! You did this! You poisoned my son! I demand justice, my lord! Not just for the pain, for the fear, but for the scars he will carry for the rest of his life! Justice! And,” her voice hardened, a sharp, avaricious glint entering her tear-filled eyes, “compensation! My husband spent a fortune on your soap! Our lives are ruined! Our child, afflicted! One thousand Gold Coins! That is the price of my son’s suffering! The price of our silence! It is the least you can do to atone for this... this crime!” One thousand Gold Coins. The sum was outrageous, audacious, clearly the true heart of the matter. Lloyd saw it instantly. This wasn't just a grieving mother; this was a well-rehearsed performance, a public shakedown disguised as a plea for justice. The pressure in the room was immense. Every eye was on him. His father’s, cold and furious. Lord Kyle’s, filled with grim disapproval. Elmsworth’s, wide with panicked disbelief. Grimaldi’s, sharp, analytical, waiting. He felt the weight of their collective judgment, the crushing burden of a reputation, an empire, crumbling before it had even truly been built. He could deny it. He could argue. He could point to Alaric’s meticulous tests, to the dozens of noblewomen who had used the product without issue. But what was logic against the visceral, undeniable image of a suffering child? What was a balanced pH level against a mother’s tears? He knew, with a cold, hard certainty, that he was being framed. This was too perfect, too public, too... theatrical. The timing, the location, the specific, dramatic nature of the accusation... it was a carefully planned, flawlessly executed attack designed not just to demand compensation, but to destroy the AURA brand utterly, to poison it in the court of public opinion forever. But who was behind it? Rubel? Still smarting from his humiliation, lashing out from the shadows? It was possible, but this felt... different. Cruder. Less about political maneuvering and more about raw, commercial destruction. Someone else, then. Someone whose own livelihood had been threatened by AURA’s explosive success. His mind raced, sifting through possibilities, a hundred different scenarios playing out in the space of a single, silent heartbeat. He felt the familiar, cold focus of the Major General, the strategist, taking over, pushing aside the initial surge of anger and defensive panic. This wasn’t a battle to be fought with denials or accusations. This was a battle to be won with facts. With evidence. With a truth that was sharper, colder, and more undeniable than any tearful performance. He took a deep, calming breath, stilling the frantic hammering in his chest. He met his father’s furious gaze, not with fear, not with excuses, but with a quiet, unwavering calm that seemed utterly out of place in the charged, accusatory atmosphere of the room. He knew that his next words, his next actions, would determine the fate of his entire enterprise. They had to be perfect. He turned his gaze from his father to the weeping woman and her afflicted child. He let the silence stretch for another beat, allowing the full weight of her accusation, of her demand, to hang in the air. Then, he spoke, his voice quiet, respectful, yet carrying an undertone of unshakeable, almost chilling, authority. “Father,” he began, his voice a calm island in the sea of tension. “May I have your permission... to examine the child?” — The request, so simple, so unexpected, momentarily short-circuited the thick, accusatory atmosphere in the study. Arch Duke Roy Ferrum, who had been expecting denials, excuses, perhaps even a panicked outburst, simply stared at his son, a flicker of surprise breaking through his cold fury. Examine the child? What could he possibly hope to see that wasn't already painfully, graphically, obvious? The accusing woman flinched, a barely perceptible tightening of her grip on the whimpering boy, her eyes darting nervously towards Roy, then back to Lloyd. A flicker of something—fear? Apprehension?—crossed her tear-streaked face before being quickly masked by a fresh wave of indignant grief. “Examine him?” she wailed, her voice rising again. “What more is there to see? My poor babe’s skin is ruined! Do you wish to poke and prod at his wounds for your own morbid curiosity, my lord?” “I wish,” Lloyd replied, his voice remaining unnervingly calm, his gaze fixed not on the woman, but on the child, “to ascertain the true nature of his affliction. Nothing more.” He looked at his father again, a silent plea for trust, for a chance. “Please, Father. Allow me.” Chapter : 306 Roy studied his son for a long, silent moment. He saw not the panicked, cornered youth he had half-expected, but a young man of strange, focused composure. There was a quiet confidence in Lloyd’s eyes, an analytical stillness that was utterly at odds with the chaos of the situation. It was the same unsettling confidence he had displayed during the Summit, during the tournament. Against his better judgment, against every instinct screaming at him to take control, to end this humiliating spectacle, Roy found himself... intrigued. He wanted to see what Lloyd would do. “Very well,” Roy conceded, his voice a low, grudging rumble. “Proceed, Lloyd. But be quick about it. This... farce... has gone on long enough.” Lloyd inclined his head in thanks, then rose from his chair. He didn't approach the woman directly. Instead, he moved to the side, kneeling down on the expensive rug so that he was at eye-level with the small, whimpering boy in her lap. The movement was slow, deliberate, non-threatening. He was no longer the imposing Arch Duke’s heir, but a quiet, concerned figure. “Hello there, little one,” Lloyd said softly, his voice gentle, devoid of any hint of accusation or anger. He offered the boy a small, reassuring smile. “That looks very sore. I am sorry you are in pain.” The boy, who had been hiding his face in his mother’s dress, peeked out, his own tear-filled eyes, red and puffy, meeting Lloyd’s. He saw not a monster, not a threat, but a calm, kind face. His whimpering subsided slightly. The mother watched, her posture rigid, her expression a mixture of suspicion and a growing, palpable unease. What was he doing? Why wasn't he defending himself? Why was he talking to the child? Lloyd didn’t look at the angry red welts that covered the boy’s cheeks and arms. He knew, with an instinct born of a lifetime of scientific observation and a deep understanding of cause and effect, that the most obvious symptom was often not the most revealing one. He was looking for something else. Something... inconsistent. His gaze, sharp and analytical, swept over the child. And he found it. “May I see your hands, little one?” Lloyd asked gently. The boy, hesitant at first, slowly, reluctantly, held out his small, chubby hands. The welts were there, yes, angry and red across the backs of his hands. But his palms... his palms were relatively clear. Interesting. Then, Lloyd did something that made everyone in the room frown in confusion. He leaned closer to the boy, not to look at his skin, but to... smell. He gently took the boy’s small hand and brought it close to his face, inhaling softly. There was the faint, clean scent of rosemary, yes, the signature of his soap. But it was weak, almost an afterthought, overlaid with the smells of childhood—of sweat, of dirt, of something faintly sweet, like honey-cake. And beneath it all... nothing. No hint of a chemical reactant, no smell of a corrosive agent, none of the sharp, medicinal odors one might associate with a severe chemical burn or a magical poison. His gaze then moved from the boy’s hands to his face. The welts were angry, yes. But his eyes... Lloyd looked closely. The whites of the boy’s eyes were bloodshot, irritated. And as the child sniffled, rubbing his nose with the back of his clearer palm, Lloyd saw it. The inside of his nostrils was red, inflamed. The pieces clicked into place with the cold, satisfying certainty of a mathematical proof. Topical skin reaction? Unlikely. A true corrosive agent, a poison in the soap, would have affected every part of the skin it touched equally. The palms, where the soap would have been most concentrated during washing, would have been the most severely affected, not the least. The weak scent suggested minimal exposure, not a full, lathered bath. But the eyes... the nasal passages... they were the gateways for airborne particles. Pollen. Dust. Allergens. This wasn’t a contact reaction. This was an inhaled reaction. The welts on the skin were a secondary, systemic response to a primary irritant that had entered the body through the respiratory system. He knew what this was. He’d seen it before, on Earth. A severe, acute allergic reaction. Not to his soap. To something else entirely. Something the boy had been deliberately, heavily, exposed to just before being brought here. He let go of the boy’s hand gently. He had all the information he needed. He straightened up, rising from his kneeling position, his face a mask of calm, quiet certainty.

Episode-153

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