Chapter : 176

  “But a Summit is not merely for grave pronouncements and strategic alliances,” Roy continued, a rare, almost predatory smile touching his lips, a smile that sent a shiver of apprehension down Lloyd’s spine. This was his father’s ‘I’m about to do something completely unexpected and probably deeply inconvenient for someone, most likely you, Lloyd’ smile. “It is also a time for… celebration. For fostering camaraderie. For testing the mettle of our younger generation. To remind ourselves, and our honored guests,” he nodded towards King ‘James’ and the other visitors, “of the enduring strength that flows through Ferrum veins.”

  Oh, no, Lloyd’s internal monologue groaned. No, no, no. I know that tone. This isn't going to be good. This is going to involve public humiliation. Probably mine.

  “Therefore,” Roy declared, his voice booming now, full of false bonhomie, “as is tradition, though perhaps one we have allowed to lapse in recent years, we shall conclude this Summit with a display of Ferrum prowess! A friendly contest of arms! A tournament!”

  A ripple of excited murmurs went through the younger Ferrums. A tournament! Swords! Magic! Power of Spirit Glory! A chance to impress their fathers, their rivals, the pretty daughters of allied houses! This was more like it!

  “This contest,” Roy continued, his smile widening, “will be open to all Ferrum youths present who are below the age of twenty. A test of skill, of courage, of resourcefulness.” He glanced around the hall, his gaze seeming to linger on the eager faces of the younger generation. “I believe we have approximately sixty such promising individuals among us today. Of those, perhaps forty meet the age requirement. A fine showing!”

  Forty? Lloyd did a quick mental calculation. His eyes scanned the clusters of his cousins, most of whom were now practically vibrating with anticipation, their earlier disdain for him momentarily forgotten in the thrill of potential combat. Forty potential opponents. Most of whom probably still thought he was a sausage-obsessed weakling. This was going to be a bloodbath. Likely his blood.

  Thirty-two, Lloyd noted. Still a significant number. He remembered, from his first life, that these ‘friendly contests’ were often anything but. Bragging rights, political positioning, settling old scores – it all played out in the sparring circle under the guise of ‘testing mettle’. Jothi, he recalled, had participated in one or two before his… departure. She’d done rather well, her natural Ferrum aggression and surprising aptitude for Void control making her a formidable opponent despite her youth.

  He watched as Jothi, across the hall, straightened in her seat, a spark of familiar, fierce determination igniting in her dark eyes. She exchanged a quick, confident glance with one of her friends. She would enter. Of course, she would. And she would probably demolish half the field.

  Lloyd, however, felt a profound sense of relief wash over him. Thirty-two chosen by lot out of forty. The odds were in his favor. He could remain a spectator, offering polite, if slightly bewildered, applause from the sidelines. He could focus on his soap, his System Coins, his impending bloodline awakening. He could avoid public humiliation and the distinct possibility of being thrashed by a cousin with a grudge and overly enthusiastic void fists. Excellent.

  Then, Roy Ferrum’s gaze, sharp as honed steel, landed directly, unequivocally, on him. And the Arch Duke’s next words shattered Lloyd’s carefully constructed bubble of hopeful anonymity into a million jagged, terrifying pieces.

  “My own children, of course, will set the example,” Roy declared, his voice resonating with a paternal pride that felt suspiciously like a cleverly disguised death sentence. “Jothi, your prowess is known. You will participate, naturally.” Jothi inclined her head, a small, confident smile touching her lips. No surprise there.

  “And Lloyd,” Roy continued, his eyes still locked on his elder son, the earlier jovial tone vanishing, replaced by that familiar, unyielding command, “after your… recent displays of unexpected initiative and rather… robust… problem-solving skills,” (Lloyd winced, was he referring to the Galla Forest incident, the soap demonstration, or just the general chaos that seemed to follow him like a particularly loyal, if slightly destructive, puppy?) “it is high time you also stepped into the circle. You, too, must participate in this contest.”

  Silence. Absolute, stunned, echoing silence.

  Lloyd stared at his father, his mind a blank, echoing void where his carefully constructed plans for a quiet, non-combat-related afternoon had just been brutally, comprehensively, vaporized. Participate? Him? In a tournament? Against thirty-one other Ferrums, most of whom were probably stronger, faster, more skilled, and definitely holding a grudge against the ‘drab duckling’ who’d somehow snagged the Ice Princess and the King’s investment?

  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.

  Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.

  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.

  Chapter : 179

  Silence. Absolute, stunned, jaw-dropping silence filled the Grand Hall. Kenta stared at the empty air where his spirit had been, his mouth agape, his confident smirk completely erased, replaced by an expression of utter, bewildered disbelief. The crowd stared. Jothi stared. Roy Ferrum’s eyebrows had climbed halfway up his forehead. King ‘James’ was actually leaning forward in his seat, a look of fascinated delight on his face. Rosa… well, Rosa’s veiled expression remained unreadable, but Lloyd fancied he saw the faintest tilt of her head, a subtle indication of… analytical reassessment?

  “Spirit… defeated?” the referee stammered, clearly as stunned as everyone else. “Victor of the spirit bout… Lord Lloyd Ferrum and… Fang.”

  “This isn’t over, Cousin!” Kenta snarled, his eyes blazing with fury. He still had his Void power! He’d show this upstart, this lucky fool! Everyone knew Lloyd was a Void dud, barely capable of the most rudimentary Iron Body techniques! “You may have a fancy mutt, but you’re still just a weakling! Prepare to taste Ferrum steel!” (Or, you know, common iron, given Kenta’s branch family lineage).

  He drew his practice sword – a blunt-edged, heavy iron training weapon – and lunged, roaring, aiming a clumsy, overhead chop at Lloyd’s head, relying on brute force and the assumption that Lloyd possessed no defensive Void capabilities whatsoever.

  Lloyd watched the telegraphed attack approach with an almost bored sigh. Seriously? This is his grand counter-offensive? An overhead chop? Even his eighty-year-old self, armed with nothing but a sturdy walking stick and a bad attitude, could have dodged this.

  He didn’t dodge. He didn’t even raise a hand to block. He simply shifted his weight fractionally, a subtle movement, and focused his will.

  As Kenta’s iron sword descended, as he committed his full weight to the clumsy strike, an invisible, whisper-thin filament of gleaming steel – true Ferrum steel, imbued with Lloyd’s Void power – snapped taut from the floor, coiling around Kenta’s leading ankle with impossible speed and precision.

  Trip.

  Kenta, his forward momentum suddenly, inexplicably arrested at the ankle, yelped in surprise, his balance completely destroyed. He stumbled, windmilling his arms frantically, the heavy iron sword flying from his grasp to clatter uselessly on the stone floor. He crashed face-first, with a distinct lack of dignity and a rather impressive series of grunts and flailing limbs, into the unforgiving stone of the sparring circle.

  Before he could even register what had happened, before he could push himself up from his humiliating, prone position, Fang was on him. Not with claws or teeth. But with a low, menacing growl, Fang simply placed one very large, very solid, now faintly crackling azure-lightning-wreathed paw directly onto the center of Kenta’s back, pinning him firmly to the floor. The message was clear: Stay down. Or things get… sparky.

  Lloyd walked over calmly, dusting off his pristine tunic. He looked down at his prone, sputtering, slightly electrified cousin. "Well, Kenta," Lloyd said, his voice mild, almost sympathetic. "That was… invigorating. Though I believe the term you're looking for is 'checkmate'. Or perhaps, 'would you like to reconsider your earlier pronouncements about my tea-drinking habits?'" He paused, then added, for good measure, "And it's actually a wolf. Not a dog. He gets quite offended by the misclassification. Almost as much as I get offended by poorly brewed tea."

  He glanced at the stunned referee, who was still trying to process the speed, the efficiency, the sheer unexpectedness of it all. "Time?" Lloyd inquired politely.

  The referee fumbled with his water clock, then stared at it in disbelief. "U-under… under one minute, my lord," he stammered. "Total elapsed time from spirit summon to… to this… fifty-seven seconds."

  Lloyd Ferrum nodded. Fifty-seven seconds. Spirit bout won. Opponent disarmed, humiliated, and currently being used as a very nervous lightning rod by a slightly smug-looking wolf. Not bad for a drab duckling with rusty skills. Not bad at all. He allowed himself a small, almost invisible smile. The soap empire was looking more secure by the minute.

  ----

  The Grand Hall of the Ferrum Estate, still buzzing with the aftershocks of Lloyd’s shockingly efficient, sub-one-minute demolition of Kenta Ferrum and his unfortunate Fire-Hawk, had transitioned from stunned silence to a cacophony of excited chatter, bewildered speculation, and, in some quarters, grudging reappraisal. The ‘drab duckling’ hadn’t just avoided humiliation; he’d delivered a swift, almost contemptuously easy victory. His ‘dog’ – now correctly identified by a few more astute observers as a remarkably powerful wolf-spirit with a disturbing penchant for lightning – had vaporized an opponent’s spirit in seconds. And Lloyd himself, the supposed Void dud, had effortlessly, almost invisibly, disarmed and neutralized Kenta with a display of subtle control that hinted at a power far beyond the clumsy ‘Iron Body’ techniques everyone had assumed were his limit.

  Chapter : 180

  The tournament, however, waited for no man’s existential crisis or sudden onset of competence. The brackets were drawn, the matches announced, and the sparring circle quickly became a stage for a dizzying array of Ferrum youths eager to showcase their prowess, settle old scores, or simply avoid being the next Kenta.

  Then, it was Jothi’s turn.

  His sister stepped into the circle with a quiet confidence that was far more intimidating than Rayan’s boisterous arrogance. Her dark eyes, so like their father’s, were focused, intense, her expression calm, almost serene. Her opponent, another Ferrum cousin, this one a girl slightly older than Jothi with a reputation for fierce, if somewhat undisciplined, Void power, looked nervous, but determined.

  Jothi, however, simply stood there, her hands clasped loosely before her. She didn't reach for a Spirit Stone. She didn't even seem to acknowledge the snarling snow leopard that was now circling her warily.

  A murmur of confusion went through the crowd. Was she forfeiting the spirit bout? Or did she intend to fight the snow leopard herself?

  Then, Jothi moved. Or rather, the air around her opponent moved. With a subtle, almost imperceptible gesture of her hand, a graceful flick of her wrist, the floor beneath the snow leopard seemed to ripple. Not the stone itself, but the faint, almost invisible metallic dust that coated everything in the ancient hall, the residue of centuries of Ferrum power, of iron worked and wielded. The metallic particles rose, coalesced, forming thin, almost invisible tendrils that snaked around the snow leopard’s paws, binding them, anchoring the surprised spirit to the floor with impossible strength.

  The snow leopard yowled in surprise and frustration, struggling against the unseen bonds, its icy breath creating clouds of vapor, but the metallic dust-tendrils held firm, tightening with every movement.

  Jothi still hadn't moved from her spot. Her expression remained calm, almost detached. She raised her other hand, fingers splayed slightly. The practice sword her opponent held, a standard iron training weapon, suddenly vibrated, then, with a sharp metallic screech, twisted in the girl’s grasp as if seized by an invisible vise. It contorted, bent, then snapped in two, the pieces clattering uselessly to the floor.

  The girl stared at her empty, tingling hands, then at Jothi, her face a mask of stunned disbelief. She hadn’t even seen Jothi move. She hadn’t felt a surge of Void power. It was as if the very iron in the hall had turned against her, animated by Jothi’s silent, focused will.

  "Opponent disarmed," Jothi stated calmly, her voice carrying clearly in the sudden, shocked silence. "Spirit immobilized. Do you concede, Cousin Lyra?"

  Lyra, her face pale, her confidence shattered, could only nod dumbly. She’d been defeated. Utterly, comprehensively, effortlessly. Without Jothi even summoning her own spirit. Without Jothi even taking a single step.

  The referee, after a moment of stunned hesitation, declared Jothi the victor. A ripple of awed, almost fearful, murmurs went through the hall. This wasn’t just skill; this was a level of Void power control, of precision, of sheer, understated dominance, that was terrifyingly impressive.

  “Iron manipulation,” Lloyd breathed, setting down his teacup, genuine admiration shining in his eyes. His own Ferrum power, the true Steel and Fire, was potent, yes, versatile. But Jothi’s control over basic, unrefined iron, her ability to animate and manipulate it with such finesse, such effortless precision, without even manifesting her spirit as a conduit or an amplifier… that was a different kind of mastery altogether. She wasn’t just strong; she was an artist, a conductor, making the very metal of their heritage dance to her silent tune.

  He remembered the whispers, the rumors that had circulated through the estate after last year’s Summit. That Summit, he hadn't attended, still mired in his own post-Bathelham disgrace and general apathy. But the outcome had been a topic of hushed discussion. Jothi Ferrum, barely fifteen at the time, had fought her way through the youth tournament with a ferocity and skill that had stunned everyone. She had reached the final round, facing off against Rayan Ferrum, who was older, stronger, his obsidian bear spirit a seemingly unstoppable force. The battle, they said, had been legendary, a clash of raw power versus controlled precision. Rayan, it was whispered, had come close, pushing Jothi to her limits. But in the end, Jothi’s superior control, her ability to outthink and outmaneuver her more powerful but less disciplined cousin, had won the day. She had emerged as the champion, the strongest of the Ferrum youth, a title Rayan had coveted, and lost, by the narrowest, most infuriating of margins.