Episode : 89

Words : 1623 Updated : Sep 17th, 2025

Chapter 90 of "My Anime Shopping Tree & My Cold Prodigy Wife!" kicks off revealing: Chapter : 177 “But... Father...” Lloyd began, his voice a weak croak, all thoughts of soap,... Find out what’s next!

Chapter : 177 “But... Father...” Lloyd began, his voice a weak croak, all thoughts of soap, System Coins, and existential dread momentarily forgotten, replaced by the more immediate, pressing concern of imminent, public, and probably quite painful, dismemberment. “I... I haven’t trained formally in... well, in quite some time. My skills are... rusty. At best. More like... actively decomposing.” Jothi’s head snapped around, her dark eyes wide with genuine, unadulterated shock. Her mouth fell slightly open. Lloyd? Participating? Her brother, who had practically fled the Bathelham Academy’s training yards, who viewed martial pursuits with an almost allergic aversion? The same Lloyd whose primary contribution to family sparring sessions had been to accidentally trip over his own feet and offer profuse apologies? This was... inconceivable. Illogical. Utterly, bafflingly, insane. Across the hall, however, another reaction was far less surprised, and infinitely more malicious. Rayan Ferrum, Viscount Rubel’s arrogant, perpetually sneering son, who had been slumped in his chair looking like a thundercloud that had swallowed a particularly bitter lemon since his father’s public humiliation, suddenly sat bolt upright. A slow, cruel, deeply unpleasant smile spread across his face. His eyes, fixed on Lloyd, glittered with a predatory light. This, Rayan Ferrum thought, his heart thumping with a surge of vicious, triumphant glee, was it. This was his chance. The ‘drab duckling’, the ‘accidental prodigy’, the soap-making fool who had humiliated his father and stolen the spotlight... forced into the circle. Forced to fight. Where his hidden tricks, his smooth words, his lucky encounters with royalty and powerful allies, would mean nothing. Where only strength, skill, and Ferrum power mattered. Rayan’s hand instinctively went to the hilt of the practice sword at his belt. He was over twenty, technically ineligible for the main contest. But surely, surely, his father, the Arch Duke, wouldn't object to a... a pre-tournament demonstration? A friendly spar to ‘test the heir’s newfound mettle’? He glanced at his own father, Rubel, whose face was still a mask of stony fury, but whose eyes, when they met Rayan’s, held a flicker of understanding, of shared, vengeful anticipation. This was perfect. Rayan would expose Lloyd for the fraud he was. He would break him. Humiliate him. In front of the entire clan, in front of that icy bitch Rosa Siddik. He would restore his own honor, his father’s honor. He would show them all who the true future of the Ferrum line should be. Lloyd Ferrum, oblivious to Rayan’s murderous scheming but acutely aware of the thirty-one other potential sources of pain and humiliation now eyeing him with renewed, predatory interest, felt a familiar, cold dread settle in the pit of his stomach. This was not going to end well. Not well at all. His soap empire, his System Coins, his very existence, suddenly felt very, very fragile. He really needed to work on his ‘politely declining invitations to certain death’ skills. They were clearly lacking. — The Grand Hall, moments before a simmering cauldron of familial tension and political maneuvering, had transformed into a buzzing arena of barely suppressed excitement. The news of the impromptu youth tournament, and more specifically, Arch Duke Roy Ferrum’s unexpected decree that his notoriously un-martial elder son, Lloyd, must participate, had spread like wildfire. The sixty-plus gaggle of Ferrum youths, previously engaged in polite disdain or strategic avoidance of Lloyd, were now practically vibrating with a mixture of disbelief, predatory anticipation, and, in some surprisingly numerous quarters, sheer, unadulterated glee. “Lloyd Ferrum? Fighting?” The whisper was everywhere, laced with incredulity. “The one who fainted during the basic sword drills at Bathelham?” “The one whose spirit is rumored to be a slightly asthmatic field mouse?” “This is going to be hilarious! Or tragic. Probably hilarious.” Lloyd, meanwhile, was trying very hard not to spontaneously combust from a combination of performance anxiety, existential dread, and the lingering aftertaste of his father’s truly terrible tea. He stood near the edge of the hastily cleared sparring circle in the center of the hall, feeling like a particularly unpromising sacrificial offering about to be presented to a very large, very hungry pack of wolves. Or, in this case, thirty highly competitive, magically-gifted cousins, and one monster sister, most of whom probably held a PhD in ‘How to Make Lloyd Ferrum Look Like a Complete Idiot’. And Rosa... Rosa, still veiled, still an enigma of sapphire silk and icy composure, watched him with those unnerving, unreadable obsidian eyes. He couldn’t decipher her expression, but he imagined her internal monologue was something along the lines of: ‘Subject Lloyd Ferrum engaging in statistically improbable martial activity. Probability of success: negligible. Probability of tripping over own feet and accidentally setting fire to priceless ancestral tapestry: moderate to high. Commencing data acquisition for future reference regarding optimal sofa placement to avoid stray Void blasts.’ Chapter : 178 Jothi, his sister, looked genuinely, profoundly conflicted. A flicker of something – pity? Sibling concern? – warred with the ingrained disappointment and the fierce Ferrum pride that demanded excellence. She clearly didn’t expect him to last more than ten seconds. The lots had been drawn with surprising, almost suspicious, speed. Thirty-two names pulled from a ceremonial Ferrum helmet that looked suspiciously like it had once belonged to Great-Uncle Vorlag (the one with the perpetually disapproving portrait). And, because the universe clearly had a vendetta against him and a deep appreciation for ironic cruelty, Lloyd’s name had been drawn for the very first match. Of course it had. Why prolong the agony? Get the public humiliation over with quickly. His opponent, a youth named Kenta Ferrum from one of the minor branch families, was already stepping into the circle, a confident, almost predatory smirk plastered across his face. Kenta was seventeen, athletic, with the kind of easy arrogance that came from being reasonably talented and never having been chased through a cursed forest by a mythological horror. He was everything nineteen-year-old, first-life Lloyd hadn’t been. And he clearly saw Lloyd as an easy, almost guaranteed, first-round victory. A warm-up before the real fights began. “Well, well, Cousin Lloyd,” Kenta called out, his voice dripping with mock cordiality that didn’t quite conceal the underlying contempt. He executed a flourishing, overly dramatic bow. “An honor to be your first... and likely last... opponent of the day. Do try not to strain yourself. Wouldn’t want you to miss the afternoon tea service.” A ripple of snickering laughter went through the assembled younger Ferrums. Lloyd sighed internally. Right. Let’s get this over with. He stepped into the circle, trying to project an air of calm indifference he was lightyears away from feeling. He didn’t have a practice sword; he hadn’t even considered needing one. His primary weapons were his wits, his hidden powers, and a burgeoning understanding of the surprisingly complex chemistry of soap. None of which were particularly useful in a formal sparring match. “Combatants, ready!” a stern-faced household guard, acting as referee, called out. “Summon your spirits!” Kenta grinned, clearly relishing the moment. With a dramatic flourish, he thrust his hand forward, his Spirit Stone, embedded in the hilt of his practice sword, flaring with orange light. “Come forth, Cinderwing!” he roared. Every eye in the hall now turned to Lloyd, expectant. What pathetic creature would the ‘drab duckling’ summon? The rumored asthmatic field mouse? A slightly bewildered garden slug? The tension was palpable. “Fang,” he said quietly, his voice calm amidst the expectant hush. “Let’s... try not to break anything too expensive this time.” The air beside him didn't just shimmer; it crackled. Not with fire, but with a low, almost subliminal hum of contained elemental power. A ripple of surprise went through the crowd as Fang materialized. Not as the magnificent, storm-wreathed, lightning-infused demigod Lloyd knew him to be – he’d consciously suppressed that overt display for now – but as a large, powerfully built, dark grey wolf, his eyes a deep, intelligent brown, radiating an aura of quiet, predatory alertness. He looked... formidable. Solid. Definitely not a field mouse. A murmur of surprise went through the hall. “A wolf?” “Bigger than I expected.” “Still just a wolf, though. Cinderwing will roast it.” Kenta’s smirk widened. “A dog, Cousin Lloyd? How... quaint. Cinderwing, burn that mutt to a crisp! Fiery Talon!” The Fire-Hawk shrieked, diving from the air, its talons blazing with intensified orange flame, aiming to rake across Fang’s back. Lloyd didn't even flinch. “Fang,” he said, his voice still quiet, almost conversational. “Thousand Chirp Strike. Leg. Keep it... tidy.” Before Kenta’s Cinderwing had even covered half the distance, before the full impact of Lloyd’s calm command had even registered with the stunned onlookers, it happened. The air ripped. Not with a hawk’s shriek, but with that impossibly high-frequency, ear-splitting chorus of a thousand frantic birds. Fang moved, a blur of dark grey fur so fast he seemed to teleport. His right foreleg erupted in a blinding nimbus of crackling, azure lightning, sparks dancing, the sheer, unexpected intensity of the energy making several nobles gasp and recoil. The lightning-wreathed paw connected with the diving Fire-Hawk’s exposed leg mid-flight. CRACKLE-HISS-SQUAWK! The sound was less a glorious impact, more a deeply unsatisfying, slightly wet, electrical short-circuit. The Fire-Hawk, its fiery momentum instantly, catastrophically arrested, let out a single, choked, gurgling shriek, its flames sputtering erratically. Then, with a puff of acrid smoke and a shower of singed orange feathers, it simply... vanished. Dissipated. Neutralized. Sent back to whatever spirit realm it inhabited with a severe case of lightning-induced indigestion and probably a lifelong aversion to canines. The entire exchange, from summon to dissipation, had taken less than twenty seconds.

Episode : 89

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