Chapter : 186
Rosa didn’t care about him. He knew that. She tolerated his presence as a political necessity, a contractual obligation. Their marriage was a sham, their cohabitation a cold war fought with silence and strategically placed potpourri. She had made it abundantly clear, through every gesture, every word (or lack thereof), that she felt nothing for him beyond a detached, almost clinical, curiosity about his increasingly bizarre behavior. If he decided to run off and join a traveling circus, or spontaneously combust in the middle of the Grand Hall, she would probably just make a dispassionate note in her internal logbook – ‘Subject Lloyd Ferrum: exhibited terminal eccentricity / unfortunate incendiary event. Conclusion: Sofa now available for more practical storage purposes.’ – and then calmly return to her advanced curse-breaking studies. The idea of her feeling anything remotely resembling jealousy, possessiveness, or even mild annoyance at another woman showing interest in him was… ludicrous. Hilarious. Utterly, comprehensively, impossible.
Yet… he’d seen the frown.
His internal monologue, usually so cynical, so pragmatic, suddenly found itself adrift in a sea of confused, almost hopeful, speculation. Was it possible? Could the Ice Princess actually possess… human emotions? Beyond ‘mild disdain’ and ‘perpetual ennui’? Could Faria’s enthusiastic, almost fawning, admiration for his ‘hidden depths’ have actually… pricked something? Stirred some dormant, deeply buried, possibly even fossilized, flicker of… something? It was too absurd to contemplate. He dismissed it immediately. Probably just a trick of the light. Or a rogue eyebrow muscle twitching from excessive exposure to Faria’s unbridled enthusiasm. Yes. That had to be it.
Faria, however, seemed oblivious to the fleeting frown, or perhaps chose to ignore it, her own focus still firmly on the fascinating enigma that was Lloyd Ferrum. “Well,” she said, her voice regaining some of its earlier brightness, though now tinged with a thoughtful, almost speculative, gleam, “he is certainly… a man of many surprises, Lady Rosa. One might even say… a diamond in the rough. Requiring only the right… polishing… to reveal his true brilliance.” She shot another appraising, almost predatory, glance towards Lloyd, who immediately pretended to be deeply engrossed in counting the threads in the fern’s fronds.
Rosa’s lips, hidden beneath the veil, thinned almost imperceptibly. The temperature in their immediate vicinity seemed to drop another five degrees. The potted fern suddenly looked a lot less disgruntled and a lot more actively terrified.
Faria, finally sensing the sudden, arctic shift in the atmosphere, the unspoken warning beneath Rosa’s polite, chilling words, blinked. Her enthusiastic smile faltered again. She looked from Rosa’s veiled, unreadable face to Lloyd, who was now trying to blend into the fern with an intensity that suggested he was seriously considering photosynthesis as a viable escape strategy.
“Ah,” Faria said, a flicker of understanding, and perhaps a touch of amused surprise, dawning in her amethyst eyes. She offered Rosa a small, knowing smile, a gesture of female solidarity that Rosa did not, in any way, reciprocate. “Quite right, Lady Rosa. Abrasions are to be avoided. Especially from… particularly sharp diamonds.” She inclined her head politely. “A most… illuminating Summit. I shall leave you to your… observations.”
With a final, enigmatic glance towards Lloyd, Faria Kruts turned and, with a graceful swirl of her Southern silks, made her way back towards her father, leaving behind a very confused Lloyd, a suddenly very frosty Rosa, and a potted fern that was probably going to need therapy.
Lloyd stared after her, then cautiously glanced at Rosa. Her face was still veiled, her expression still unreadable. But the air around her… it definitely felt colder. Considerably colder. As if someone had left the freezer door of her soul wide open.
He had no idea what had just happened. But he had a sudden, sinking feeling that his soap empire, his System Coins, and his general life expectancy had just become significantly more complicated. And it probably had nothing to do with giant snakes or exploding butlers this time.
---
The Ferrum Family Summit tournament, having weathered the initial shockwaves of Lloyd’s unexpected competence and the even more unexpected royal soap investment, had settled into a grim, determined rhythm. The sparring circle, cleared of fallen cousins and the lingering scent of electrified ambition, became a stage for a relentless series of duels. Ferrum youths, eager to prove their worth, to settle old grudges, or simply to avoid the dubious honor of being the next to be effortlessly tripped by an invisible wire and then sat upon by a surprisingly judgmental wolf, clashed with a ferocity that made Lloyd’s earlier encounters look like polite tea parties.
Chapter : 187
He saw cousins he vaguely remembered from his first life, now grown into surprisingly competent young warriors, their faces alight with fierce Ferrum pride. He saw others whose ambition clearly outstripped their actual skill, resulting in swift, often comical, defeats. He mentally cataloged strengths, weaknesses, spirit types, Void power manifestations. It was all data. And data, as his engineering background had taught him, was power. Especially when that data involved a large number of heavily armed, magically gifted relatives who might, at some future point, decide that the ‘accidental prodigy’ needed to be… re-evaluated. Permanently.
Then, the herald announced the match that brought a sudden, expectant hush to the hall, a match that everyone, Lloyd included, had been anticipating with a mixture of eagerness and trepidation.
“Next combatants! From the main Ferrum line, Lady Jothi Ferrum! And from the Ashworth Ferrum branch, Lord Rayan Ferrum!”
A ripple of anticipation went through the crowd. This wasn't just another bout. This was a rematch. A grudge match. Jothi, the reigning champion from last year’s Summit, the quiet prodigy whose effortless control over iron had left everyone speechless. And Rayan, the arrogant, powerful scion of Viscount Rubel, his pride still smarting from his previous defeat, his eyes burning with a fierce, almost desperate, need for vindication. This was the true main event, the clash of titans everyone had been waiting for.
Jothi stepped into the circle with her usual quiet, almost serene, confidence. Her dark eyes were focused, intense, her expression calm, betraying nothing of the pressure she must be feeling. She wore simple, practical training leathers, her movements fluid, economical. She looked, Lloyd thought with a flicker of familial pride he quickly suppressed (no need to get sentimental, this was a tactical assessment), like a coiled spring, radiating contained power.
Rayan, in stark contrast, strode into the circle like a conquering hero returning from a particularly successful war against a very small, very insignificant, neighboring village. His handsome face was set in a sneer of arrogant disdain, his eyes, fixed on Jothi, glittering with a predatory light. He exuded an aura of raw, barely controlled aggression, his muscles bunched, his practice sword held in a white-knuckled grip. He clearly intended to overwhelm Jothi with sheer, brutal force, to avenge last year’s humiliation and reclaim his perceived rightful place as the strongest of the Ferrum youth.
“Ready, little sister?” Rayan taunted, his voice dripping with condescension, deliberately emphasizing the familial diminutive, trying to get under her skin. “Or are you still tired from your… diligent studies at Bathelham? Wouldn’t want you to overexert yourself.”
Jothi’s expression didn't flicker. She simply met his gaze, her dark eyes holding a cool, unwavering challenge. “Save your breath for the fight, Cousin Rayan,” she replied, her voice calm, steady, devoid of emotion. “You’ll need it.”
The referee, looking even more apprehensive than usual (these two had a history, and it wasn't a history involving polite handshakes and shared cups of terrible tea), quickly called for the spirit summons.
Rayan roared his challenge, his Spirit Stone blazing. “Come forth, KONGOR!”
With a ground-shaking crash, his spirit materialized. Kongor. A monstrous, silver-backed gorilla, easily ten feet tall, its fur the color of obsidian, its eyes burning with a savage, red-hot fury. Its massive fists, each the size of a small boulder, pounded its chest in a display of primal aggression, the sound echoing through the hall like thunder. It was a creature of pure, unadulterated brute strength, a living siege engine designed to smash, crush, and pulverize. Ascension level, Lloyd noted, though perhaps not as refined as Ken’s Redborn. All power, little finesse.
Jothi, unlike in her previous match, didn't hesitate. She, too, reached for the Spirit Stone embedded in the hilt of her slender practice sword. “Seraphina,” she murmured, her voice barely audible above Kongor’s intimidating roars.
The air beside her shimmered, coalesced, and a creature of breathtaking, savage beauty materialized. Seraphina. A magnificent white tigress, larger than any natural feline, its fur pristine as freshly fallen snow, striped with intricate patterns of shimmering silver that seemed to shift and flow like liquid moonlight. Its eyes were a piercing, intelligent sapphire blue, holding a calm, watchful intensity that was a stark contrast to Kongor’s mindless fury. It moved with a fluid, predatory grace, every line of its powerful body speaking of speed, agility, and lethal precision. Manifestation level, Lloyd assessed, but clearly very close to Ascension, radiating a potent, controlled energy.
The two spirits faced each other, a study in contrasts. Kongor, the embodiment of raw, brute force, roaring its challenge. Seraphina, the personification of elegant lethality, meeting its gaze with a calm, almost disdainful, silence.
Then, the battle began.
Chapter : 188
Jothi, however, was already moving. She didn't meet force with force. She danced. Her movements were fluid, precise, almost balletic, as she and Seraphina wove around Kongor’s clumsy, telegraphed attacks. Seraphina, a blur of white and silver, darted in and out, raking at Kongor’s flanks with claws that left shallow, smoking furrows on its obsidian hide, then evading the gorilla’s retaliatory swipes with contemptuous ease.
Simultaneously, Jothi herself engaged Rayan. Her control over her Iron Blood ability was, as before, breathtaking. She didn't need grand gestures, no overt displays of power. Subtle shifts in the metallic dust on the floor created invisible tripwires that hampered Rayan’s aggressive lunges. The iron studs on his boots suddenly seemed to cling to the stone, throwing off his balance. His practice sword felt heavier in his hand, its movements sluggish, as if fighting against an unseen resistance. Jothi didn't attack directly; she controlled the battlefield, using her Void power to disrupt, to unbalance, to frustrate her more physically powerful cousin.
It was a masterclass in controlled, intelligent combat. Jothi and Seraphina, working in perfect sync, were slowly, methodically, dismantling Rayan and Kongor’s aggressive assault. Rayan grew increasingly frustrated, his roars of rage echoing through the hall, his attacks becoming wilder, more desperate. Kongor, bleeding from a dozen shallow cuts, its fury mounting but its movements becoming increasingly clumsy, was clearly outmatched in agility and precision.
Then, something shifted.
Jothi, after executing a particularly elegant evasion that left Rayan stumbling and Kongor roaring in frustration, faltered. Just for a fraction of a second. A barely perceptible tremor ran through her, her breath hitched almost inaudibly, and a fleeting shadow of weariness, of profound exhaustion, crossed her usually composed features. It was gone in an instant, replaced by her usual focused intensity. But Lloyd, his senses honed by eighty years of observation and a lifetime of analyzing subtle tells, had seen it.
She’s tired, he realized with a jolt of surprise. Genuinely tired. Not just the normal fatigue of combat, but something deeper, a weariness that went bone-deep.
The battle continued, but the rhythm had changed. Jothi’s movements, while still precise, seemed a fraction slower. Seraphina’s attacks, while still swift, lacked some of their earlier bite. Rayan, sensing a shift, perhaps mistaking her fatigue for weakness, redoubled his assault, his roars of rage now tinged with a desperate, almost feral, hope. Kongor, battered but still immensely powerful, pressed its advantage, its blows landing with increasing frequency.
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The turning point came swiftly, brutally. Jothi, attempting to create another metallic dust snare, hesitated for a fatal fraction of a second. Her concentration wavered. Rayan, seizing the momentary opening, lunged, his practice sword a blur. Jothi tried to parry, but her movement was too slow, her block too weak. Rayan’s sword slammed into hers, the impact jarring, sending a shockwave up her arm. Her sword flew from her grasp, clattering across the stone floor.
Simultaneously, Kongor, with a final, desperate roar, landed a crushing blow on Seraphina’s flank. The white tigress shrieked in pain, its form flickering violently, then, with a final, sorrowful glance towards Jothi, it dissolved into shimmering motes of light, vanquished.
Jothi stumbled back, disarmed, her spirit defeated, her face pale with shock and a dawning, horrified disbelief. She stared at Rayan, who stood panting, his obsidian bear spirit, Kongor, roaring in triumph behind him, its chest still heaving, but victorious.
The silence in the Grand Hall was absolute, stunned. Jothi Ferrum… defeated? By Rayan? Impossible.
Rayan himself looked almost as surprised as everyone else, his initial triumphant grin quickly morphing into an expression of dazed disbelief, then solidifying into a sneer of pure, unadulterated, gloating satisfaction. He had done it. He had actually done it. He had beaten Jothi. He had avenged last year’s humiliation.
“Well, well, little sister,” Rayan panted, leaning heavily on his sword, trying to project an arrogance he probably didn't entirely feel, his victory clearly as unexpected to him as it was to the crowd. “It seems your… diligent studies… at Bathelham have left you a little… out of practice. Perhaps you should spend less time with dusty books and more time in the training yard. Like a true Ferrum.” He spat the last words, a final, contemptuous dismissal.
Jothi didn't respond. She simply stood there, her face pale, her dark eyes wide with a mixture of shock, shame, and a profound, almost unbearable, weariness. She looked… broken.
Lloyd stared, his own earlier amusement, his strategic assessments, forgotten. He felt a surge of something unexpected, something fierce. At the exhaustion he had seen flicker across Jothi’s face. She hadn’t lost because Rayan was better. She had lost because she was tired. Deeply, profoundly tired.
Chapter : 189
Bathelham Academy, Lloyd remembered his father’s pronouncements. The rigorous training. The demanding curriculum. Jothi, striving to restore the family honor, pushing herself, perhaps too hard. The image of her earlier cool dismissal of him, her fierce pride in her own accomplishments, suddenly took on a different, more poignant light. It wasn’t just arrogance; it was the brittle defense of someone carrying an immense burden, someone perhaps stretched to their very limits.
He looked at his sister, truly looked at her, for the first time in years. And he saw not the confident prodigy, not the dismissive younger sibling, but a tired, fiercely proud, incredibly lonely young woman who had just suffered a crushing, public defeat.
The Summit, Lloyd realized with a sudden, chilling clarity, wasn’t just a stage for his own unexpected rise. It was a crucible, testing them all, exposing weaknesses, forging new strengths, and perhaps, just perhaps, offering a chance for connections, however unexpected, to be reforged. Even between a ‘disappointing’ older brother and his fiercely proud, suddenly vulnerable, little sister.
---
The Ferrum Family Summit tournament, a chaotic tapestry woven from unexpected victories, bitter defeats, and enough simmering familial resentment to power a small siege engine, ground relentlessly onwards. The initial shock of Jothi’s defeat at the hands of a gloating, if slightly bewildered, Rayan Ferrum had slowly given way to a new, even more perplexing, focal point of discussion: Lloyd Ferrum.
The ‘drab duckling’, the ‘sausage-obsessed heir’, the ‘kid who probably still needed help tying his own bootlaces’, was, improbably, inexplicably, still in the tournament. Not just surviving, but… winning. His matches, after the initial, almost contemptuous, dismissal of Kenta and the equally effortless takedown of the brawling Mike, had followed a disturbingly similar pattern. Opponents, brimming with confidence, eager to expose the ‘fluke’, would charge in, spirits blazing, Void powers flaring. And Lloyd… Lloyd would just stand there, looking vaguely bored, perhaps offer a dry comment about the weather or the questionable quality of the pre-tournament canapés. Then, with a subtle flick of his wrist, an invisible wire would snap taut, an opponent would execute an involuntary, undignified face-plant, and Fang (who was now radiating an aura of smug, lightning-infused wolfish superiority) would thoughtfully place a very large, very solid paw on their chest until they conceded. Or, if they were particularly stubborn, until they started smelling faintly of ozone and regret.
He hadn’t broken a sweat. He hadn’t drawn a weapon. He hadn’t even bothered to summon Fang for more than a few seconds in most matches, relying almost entirely on those impossibly fine, terrifyingly strong, unseen steel wires. The whispers in the Grand Hall had shifted from mockery to bewildered awe, then to a kind of fearful, almost superstitious, respect. They didn’t understand it. They couldn’t see it. But they could see the results. And the results were… deeply unsettling.
“He’s toying with them.” “Did you see that? Young Marcus just… tripped. Over nothing!” “It’s like he has invisible hands!” “The Steel Blood… it’s more than just strong metal… it’s… something else.”
Lloyd, of course, was oblivious to the finer points of their fearful speculation, or perhaps just chose to ignore it. He was too busy calculating the optimal trajectory for a non-lethal ankle-trip wire while simultaneously trying to remember if he’d left the lye solution properly sealed back in the smokehouse. Priorities.
And now, impossibly, almost ludicrously, he found himself in the semi-finals. Lloyd Ferrum. The youth everyone, including probably himself, had expected to be the first casualty, the comedic warm-up act, was one match away from the final. The Grand Hall buzzed with a tension so thick you could spread it on toast (though, given the quality of the ducal catering, Lloyd suspected the toast would probably taste better).
His opponent for the semi-final bout was announced, and a new ripple of surprise, this one tinged with a different kind of anticipation, went through the crowd.
“Semi-final match! Lord Lloyd Ferrum versus… Lady Riva Ferrum of the Silverstream Ferrums!”
Riva Ferrum. Lloyd felt a flicker of genuine surprise, quickly followed by a strange, almost reluctant, warmth. Riva. He actually remembered Riva. Not from his first life’s hazy, disconnected memories, but from these past few weeks, since his reawakening. She was a cousin, a few years younger than him, from one of the more distant, less politically ambitious, branch families. And she was, as far as he could recall, the only Ferrum youth who hadn’t treated him with either outright disdain, fearful avoidance, or that particularly grating brand of condescending pity reserved for hopeless cases.
Chapter : 190
She was… nice. A genuinely pleasant, intelligent young woman with bright, curious eyes, a quick smile, and a refreshing lack of overt Ferrum ambition. She’d actually spoken to him, on several occasions, at meals or in the gardens, asking polite, if slightly bewildered, questions about his… unusual interests. She’d listened, actually listened, without judgment, without mockery. She’d treated him like… well, like a person. A slightly odd, possibly demon-eyed person, perhaps, but a person nonetheless. It was a novel experience.
He watched as Riva stepped into the sparring circle. She was slender, almost willowy, with long, sun-streaked blonde hair tied back in a practical braid, her movements graceful, almost bird-like. She wore simple, well-maintained training leathers, and her expression, as she looked across the circle at him, was not one of fear, or arrogance, or predatory anticipation. It was a mixture of surprise, rueful amusement, and a hint of genuine, almost apologetic, regret.
“Well, Cousin Lloyd,” Riva said, her voice clear, melodic, carrying easily across the suddenly quiet hall. She offered him a small, wry smile. “This is… unexpected. I confess, when the lots were drawn, I never imagined I’d be facing you at this stage. Or,” she added, her eyes twinkling with a humor that was refreshingly devoid of malice, “at any stage, if I’m being perfectly honest. You’ve been… rather full of surprises today.”
Lloyd felt a genuine smile touch his own lips, a rare occurrence in this den of vipers and simmering resentments. “The sentiment is mutual, Cousin Riva,” he replied, his voice warm. “I believe ‘full of surprises’ is rapidly becoming my new family motto. Right after ‘questionable tea and a hereditary predisposition to brooding’.”
A ripple of surprised laughter went through the crowd. Actual laughter. Not derisive snickers, but genuine amusement. The tension in the hall seemed to ease fractionally. Riva’s open, friendly demeanor, her lack of overt hostility towards Lloyd, was a refreshing change.
“I… I’ve never fought you before, Lloyd,” Riva continued, her smile fading slightly, replaced by a look of thoughtful assessment. “I’ve seen your matches today. Your control… it’s remarkable. Unlike anything I’ve witnessed.” She paused, then added, her voice dropping slightly, a hint of genuine curiosity in her tone, “You’ve hidden your strength well, Cousin. For a very long time.”
“Perhaps I was merely… waiting for the right moment to unpack it,” Lloyd replied cryptically, offering a slight shrug. “Or maybe I just misplaced the instruction manual for a few decades.”
Riva chuckled again, a light, pleasant sound. “Well, misplaced or not, you’ve certainly found it now.” She drew her practice sword, a slender, well-balanced blade, its surface gleaming. “I won’t underestimate you, Lloyd. I may not possess the… raw power… of some of our cousins,” (a subtle, pointed glance towards the still-fuming Rayan Ferrum did not go unnoticed) “but I have a few surprises of my own.”
“I would expect nothing less, Riva,” Lloyd said, inclining his head respectfully. He liked her. Genuinely. He didn’t want to humiliate her, or trip her into an undignified face-plant. This match… this one felt different.
Riva closed her eyes for a moment, her brow furrowed in concentration. Her Spirit Stone, a pale, almost translucent crystal embedded in the crossguard of her sword, pulsed with a soft, silvery light. “Aria!” she called, her voice clear, ringing.
With a rush of wind and a piercing, melodic cry, her spirit materialized. It was a magnificent eagle, its plumage the color of polished silver, its wingspan easily twice Riva’s height. Its eyes were like molten gold, sharp, intelligent, and fiercely loyal. It circled once above Riva’s head, its cry echoing through the hall, then settled onto her outstretched, gauntleted arm, its talons gripping lightly, its gaze fixed, with unnerving intensity, on Lloyd.
“An Aetherspear Eagle,” Lloyd murmured, impressed. Manifestation level, but a powerful one. Known for their incredible eyesight, their speed, their aerial maneuverability, and their ability to channel and project blasts of concussive force, or ‘Aether Bolts’. A formidable opponent.
He glanced at Fang, who was sitting patiently beside him, his tail thumping a slow, rhythmic beat on the stone floor, his golden eyes fixed on the Aetherspear Eagle with a look of intense, almost professional, curiosity. Ready for another lightning-fast takedown, Lloyd? Fang seemed to be asking. Or are we going to try something… different… this time?
Lloyd considered. He could win this quickly, easily. A focused Thousand Chirp Strike, Fang’s speed would overwhelm the eagle before it could even launch an Aether Bolt. Or another subtle steel wire trip, followed by the ‘paw of doom’ maneuver. But against Riva… it felt wrong. Disrespectful, somehow. She deserved better than a humiliating, sub-one-minute defeat. She deserved a proper fight. Or at least, the illusion of one.
