Asmodeus System: Stealing My Bully's Mother

​The crack of dawn embraced the West Wing of Zenithar Academy. The freezing air bit into the skin. The remnants of last night’s storm clung thickly to the windowpanes of the Rosenberg Residence.

Inside the Duke’s private study, the atmosphere was just as freezing as the weather outside. The fireplace was nearly extinguished, leaving only red embers struggling against the chill of the stone walls.

Duke Alaric von Rosenberg sat in silence on his mahogany chair.

The colossal man looked visibly slumped this morning. His white bear-fur cloak was draped carelessly. His pale blonde hair was a mess. The ice-crystal beard on his face reflected the dim light, highlighting an expression of sheer exhaustion. The Duke’s pale blue eyes stared blankly at the dying embers.

Frustration gnawed at him. His son, Kurt, still lay weak. And what infuriated him the most all night: the elite Underworld team he hired had vanished without a trace.

On the other hand, his wife, Isolde, disappeared increasingly often under the guise of handling academy bureaucracy. Amidst this collapse, Alaric felt the only Northern asset he had left was his bloodhound.

Knock. Knock.

A heavy knock shattered the silence. The door opened. Valera Voss stepped inside.

The female knight carried the chill of winter with her. Her exotic skin was pale from the frost, her short hair wet with snow.

Valera stepped forward, then dropped to one knee. A flawlessly executed knight’s gesture of respect.

"I bring a report, My Lord Duke," her voice was hoarse and masculine. Her expression was professional, yet she deliberately slipped in a tone of frustration. A brilliant act to convince Alaric.

Alaric shifted his gaze from the fireplace. "Tell me you brought me the head of that Valen boy, Valera."

Valera bowed her head. "Forgive me, My Lord. I just returned from the rallying point in the Eastern Woods. I waited until dawn, braving the storm... but the assassin team never showed up."

Alaric’s hand on the armrest began to clench.

"I scoured a five-kilometer radius," Valera continued weaving her lie. "There were no traces of a battle. No corpses. No distress signals. They... vanished without a trace."

Alaric gritted his teeth. His breathing turned heavy, exhaling white steam through his beard.

"My Lord," Valera looked up, staring seriously into the Duke’s blue eyes. "It is impossible for eight Underworld elites to just evaporate. I suspect... there is a faction in this academy that discovered our plan and thwarted it. Or... someone incredibly powerful is protecting Ethan Valen from the shadows."

CRASH!

Alaric slammed his fist into the armrest. The sound of cracking mahogany echoed.

However, he didn’t explode blindly. His rage was muffled by mental exhaustion. Alaric didn’t blame Valera. To him, this knight was merely doing her duty. The seed of doubt Valera planted only made the Duke increasingly paranoid towards Sage Cornelius and the other faction councils.

In his eyes, Valera was the only blade that hadn’t gone dull.

"Tch, damn it..." Alaric hissed, massaging the bridge of his nose. "This academy has become a nest of traitorous rats."

"Allow me to remain at Zenithar, My Lord," Valera offered quickly. "I will investigate the mastermind behind all of this. I will sniff out whoever is protecting that boy."

Alaric stared at his best knight for a long moment. He nodded slowly.

"Do it," Alaric commanded absolutely. "Stay here, Valera. Send your reports directly to me via owl. And remember... trust no one, not even the instructors."

"As you command, My Lord."

Exactly at that moment, the door opened without a knock.

Isolde von Rosenberg stepped inside. The Vice Principal looked different. Her platinum blonde hair, usually pinned up impeccably, now hung loose, framing her pale face. Her icy blue eyes were puffy behind her glasses—a sign of sleep deprivation and emotional burden.

Her navy-blue silk gown was buttoned tightly to the base of her neck, perfectly concealing the sprawling black rose root tattoo across her back.

Isolde carried a stack of wax-sealed documents.

"Kurt’s transfer documents are completed, Husband," Isolde said with a weary tone. She placed the documents on the desk. "Our main medical team is already on standby at the academy borders. We can bring him home this afternoon."

Alaric skimmed the papers, then looked at his wife. "Did the healers confirm his condition is stable enough to brave the storm?"

"He is starting to improve," Isolde replied flatly. "His fingers are responding. But he needs long-term recovery using our pure ice crystals in the North, not the limited facilities of this academy."

Alaric fell silent. His eyes shifted from the kneeling Valera to the standing Isolde. The burden of a faction leader forced him to think rationally.

The Duke let out a long sigh, then signed the documents.

"Very well," he decided hoarsely. He stood up, grabbing his white bear-fur cloak. "Valera, remember my instructions. Uncover the truth."

Alaric strode hurriedly past the two women, heading to the medical ward to oversee his son’s preparations.

The moment the Duke’s footsteps faded away, absolute silence enveloped the study.

Valera was still kneeling; Isolde stood near the desk. Slowly, the two Northern Faction elites turned their heads. Exchanging glances.

No words. No smiles.

Yet behind those two pairs of eyes—icy blue and golden-yellow—hid a dark truth: the Duke had just abandoned his already crumbled kingdom. And the two most lethal women in the Northern Faction... now belonged completely to the Demon Lord, Ethan Valen.

Several hours later. The VVIP Medical Ward.

The sharp scent of antiseptics and mana potions hung thick in the air. In the center of the room, a large bed was surrounded by dimly glowing magical medical equipment.

Kurt von Rosenberg lay weakly there.

Bandages still wrapped his chest and arms. His skin was pale, but his breathing was steady, and his body temperature was warmer.

Isolde stepped closer.

Her hand trembled as she reached for Kurt’s bandage-free fingers. She gripped them tightly, channeling the warmth of a mother.

Feeling the touch, Kurt’s fingers twitched.

His eyelids remained tightly shut, but the young man’s lips trembled faintly.

"Mother..." Kurt murmured hoarsely. Barely audible. A whisper on the threshold of dreams and reality.

It wasn’t full consciousness, merely an instinctual reflex. Yet, that single word shattered Isolde’s defenses.

Tears fell, dampening the Duchess’s pale cheeks.

Isolde bit her lower lip hard. Her sobs were stifled in a heart-wrenching silence.

"Yes, Kurt. Mother is here," she whispered quiveringly, kissing the back of her son’s hand. "You are going home today, my child. I’ve taken care of everything. You will be safe..."

Kurt didn’t respond again. His breathing returned to a steady rhythm.

Isolde stared at her son’s face with a suffocating guilt. She had sold her soul and body to the Devil for the life of this young man.

Someday Kurt would wake up, and Isolde didn’t know how she would ever be able to look her son in the eye again.

With trembling hands, Isolde released her grip. She wiped away her tears, took a deep breath, and corrected her posture. In a matter of seconds, the professional mask of the Archmage was back in place. She turned around and walked out toward the courtyard.

That afternoon. The West Wing Courtyard.

A giant carriage ornamented in silver with the ice rose crest halted in the middle of the snow. Drawn by four massive, thick-furred steeds.

The magical stretcher carrying Kurt was carefully transferred into the carriage.

Duke Alaric stood tall, his cloak billowing. He gave his final instructions to the guard knights surrounding the carriage.

Far across the courtyard, beneath the shadow of the watchtower, Valera Voss leaned against the stone wall.

The knight watched the procession in silence. There was no sorrow, no reverence. Only a feral smirk etched onto her lips. The gaze of a predator watching her Alpha rival leave voluntarily, leaving the remaining territory unguarded.

The carriage bearing the ice rose crest rolled forward. The sound of hooves shattered the silence, crossing the gates before being swallowed by the snow fog.

Seeing her target depart, Valera turned and dashed toward the Main Tower.

That night. Ethan Valen’s VIP Room.

The stained-glass window rattled softly. Valera vaulted in, landing soundlessly on the carpet, then dropped to her knee.

"Alaric has left, My Master," Valera reported proudly. "He doesn’t suspect a thing. The fool fully believes I will be investigating the other factions."

Ethan stood near the mahogany desk. A black shirt wrapped his broad posture. His eyes were calm. Beneath that shirt, the Horned Crown tattoo pulsed softly, radiating absolute authority.

On the desk, a parchment map was unrolled. Ethan’s fingers traced the worn lines, stopping at a tiny point in the far north surrounded by jagged mountains.

"Good work, Valera," Ethan said. "With Alaric gone, there are no more Northern spies obstructing my path."

He folded the map and slipped it into his pocket.

"I leave for the north tomorrow morning," he instructed seriously. "You are coming with me. I will head out first; make sure you follow once I’ve entered the northern woods..."

"I know exactly what I must do, My Master," Valera cut in quickly, smirking with bloodlust. The Zweihander across her back seemed to chime in response to her master’s intent.

"Good."

Ethan walked past Valera, heading to the giant window overlooking the academy grounds. Snow began to fall again, blanketing Zenithar in a cold silence.

The first stage of the cleansing was complete. It was time to expand their reach.

Tomorrow, the Demon Lord would depart for that remote village. Hunting the Priestess—the Hidden Sage who harbored miracles beyond the logic of magic. If the rumors were true, he wouldn’t just cure Elara, but also bring home a new pawn capable of shaking the kingdom to its core.

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