Asmodeus System: Stealing My Bully's Mother

​The night in the Rosenberg estate felt endlessly long and freezing.

In one of the west wing’s guest rooms, Miya Evarett stood with trembling hands, brewing herbal tea. The Elf girl was still shivering. Her brain refused to erase the horrifying memory of how the Duchess of Rosenberg was subdued and violated right before the eyes of her paralyzed son.

Miya turned around to deliver the cup, but Ethan Valen was already standing right behind her.

The young man grabbed Miya’s wrist. His grip was light, but enough to make the tea spill slightly from the cup. A brief surge of scorching heat from his Sin Mana slipped through, making the Lust Brand on Miya’s thigh pulse, slapping the healer’s consciousness with the reality of who her absolute owner was.

"Focus your mind on healing your patient tomorrow, Miya," Ethan whispered, taking the teacup from her hands. "Do not dwell on unnecessary things."

Miya swallowed hard. She bowed her head deeply. "Y-Yes, My Lord."

Right at that moment, the bedroom door opened slowly. Valera Voss stepped inside with calm strides, then shut it tightly behind her. Her black leather armor still carried the cold chill of the corridor. As an executioner still trusted by Alaric, she had no need to hide—she only needed to ensure no servants were tailing her.

Valera scanned the room for a moment, then dropped to one knee before Ethan.

"Reporting, My Lord," Valera spoke in her raspy voice. "The torture yielded results. My cross-interrogation with Duke Alaric on The Serpent uncovered a crucial lead."

Valera’s golden eyes glinted. "The supply of the Bloodfire Elixir doesn’t stop at Stadtier. The Serpent’s Tongue network is directly connected to one of the political pillars in the Imperial Capital who wants to weaken the Northern Faction."

A deadly smirk carved its way onto Ethan’s face. "Perfect."

This piece of information was his ultimate weapon. By controlling the narrative of this high-level conspiracy, Ethan held the trump card that would force the Lion of the North to bend the knee to his agenda.

Morning greeted Granderer with a gloomy, ash-gray light.

In the medical room, Kurt von Rosenberg lay still. His physical condition was beginning to show signs of improvement. However, this physical recovery was entirely inversely proportional to his psychological state.

The moment the door creaked and Ethan’s footsteps entered the room, Kurt’s body beneath the blankets instantly went stiff as a board.

The blonde youth immediately turned his face away, staring blankly at the wooden floor. He didn’t dare lift his chin to meet Ethan’s eyes. The former bully’s ego had been completely razed to the ground.

Miya, who was channeling her Crimson Radiance into Kurt’s chest, immediately noticed the rigidity. Her mana flow was obstructed by the patient’s muscles, which were tensing up in pure terror.

"Young Master Kurt..." Miya chided in a very soft whisper. "Please relax your body. This tension is making your circuit reject my magic."

Hearing the gentle reprimand, Kurt gave a slight jolt. Burning shame flushed his pale face. He suddenly realized just how naked his fear of Ethan was.

Kurt bit his lip. He squeezed his eyes shut, pretending to be asleep so he could sink even deeper into the abyss of his despair, running away from the gazes of Ethan and his mother.

Beside the bed, Isolde sat in silence. The woman tried to appear as calm as possible. But every time the corner of her eye caught Ethan’s figure in the corner of the room, Kurt could feel his mother holding her breath in a heartbreaking display of submission.

Approaching noon. The War Map Room in the heart of the fortress.

A massive oak table strewn with military maps separated two men of different generations. Duke Alaric glared at Ethan with pale blue eyes radiating a feral, murderous intent, like a wolf sizing up its prey’s neck.

"Explain yourself, boy," Alaric growled, his deep voice dripping with threat. "How did you know about the elixir’s middleman when my own intelligence forces couldn’t sniff it out? Who helped you bring him here?"

Ethan stood casually, both hands stuffed into the pockets of his black trousers. A perfect alibi had already been prepared.

"I’m merely a lucky guest, Duke," Ethan answered calmly. "My healer has ears in places your uniformed knights can’t reach. The only thing that matters now is... you know there’s a conspiracy from the Capital trying to tear your family down from the inside."

Alaric’s jaw clenched hard. The veins in his neck bulged. He absolutely loathed being outsmarted by a snot-nosed brat, but the fact slapped him squarely in the face.

"Listen carefully, Valen. I could snap your neck in this very room right now and take over that healer by force," the Duke threatened, leaning his massive frame forward.

"Go ahead and try," Ethan shot back. He stared directly into the monster’s eyes without blinking a single inch. "But that healer is bound to me by a blood oath. If I die, or if you hold me against my will... she will stop her treatments this very day. And your son will rot to death in his bed as a crippled prince."

A blood-freezing silence blanketed the Map Room.

Alaric glared at the youth in front of him, his breathing ragged. The Lion of the North was fully aware that his neck was currently snared in a thin noose called his heir’s life. Alaric’s giant hands clenched so tightly his knuckles turned white, but he was forced to swallow all his rage down to the pit of his stomach.

"You are an untouchable guest in this fortress for as long as Kurt’s treatment lasts," Alaric declared, his voice heavy with suppressed hatred. "But mark my words... the moment my son is cured, your protection ends."

Ethan simply offered a faint smirk, then turned and left the Map Room with an absolute political victory.

That night, the seeds of intrigue Ethan had planted bore sweet fruit.

Provoked by the intel regarding the Capital’s conspiracy and the Serpent’s Tongue, Duke Alaric personally led his elite forces on a sudden border patrol. The Duke left the fortress, creating a gigantic security breach in his own home.

A breach that the Demon Lord had been waiting for all along.

On the upper floor, the Duchess’s Master Bedroom—the most sacred and untouchable private chamber—was incredibly silent.

Not a single knight stood guard at the door. Isolde had intentionally dismissed all her personal maids since dusk. She knew exactly who was coming tonight.

The carved wooden door opened without a knock.

Ethan Valen stepped inside. The grand chamber was obscenely luxurious. In the corner of the room, Alaric’s giant white bear-pelt cloak was draped over a reading chair. The Duke’s spare sword leaned against the study desk. And on the wall, right above their massive bed, hung a majestic family portrait—the dashing Alaric, the elegant Isolde, and a young Kurt.

In front of a silver-framed vanity mirror, Isolde stood frozen like a statue.

The woman wore an incredibly sheer, navy-blue silk nightgown. Her platinum blonde hair cascaded down, covering a portion of her back. Her trembling hands gripped the edge of the vanity, desperately trying to maintain what little dignity she had left as a Duchess.

"Alaric is out hunting shadows at the border," Ethan stated as he locked the door. His voice echoed softly. "It is time for you to settle your payment in full, Isolde."

Isolde squeezed her icy blue eyes shut, surrendering her pride. "I... understand, My Master."

Ethan stepped closer. He stood right behind Isolde, staring at their reflection in the mirror.

Ethan’s hands moved to caress Isolde’s pale shoulders, then slipped the straps of the silk gown down, letting it pool onto the floor. The Archmage’s exquisite body was exposed to the cold air of the bedroom.

Without any hesitation, Ethan touched Isolde’s bare back and channeled a highly concentrated dose of Sin Mana.

The Lust Brand, shaped like black rose vines on Isolde’s back, reacted. The tattoo glowed a bright purple, its magical roots gnawing away at the ice magic circuit within her body.

"Aah...!"

Isolde threw her head back. Her breath instantly hitched. The scorching heat of the curse melted her ice magic defenses from the inside out. The psychological wall she had so painstakingly built in front of the mirror crumbled to dust in a matter of seconds.

Ethan grabbed Isolde’s waist, forcefully spun her around, hoisted her up, and threw her onto the grand bed.

Under the piercing gaze of the Demon Lord, and directly beneath the majestically hanging Rosenberg family portrait, the territorial defilement began.

There wasn’t a single shred of gentleness. Ethan dominated Isolde with the brutality of a conqueror. Every touch was designed to tear down the woman’s marital loyalty, crushing her dignity as a Duke’s wife.

Isolde’s ice mana circuit was now completely melted, becoming the fuel for a corrupting lust that tortured her sanity. Inside her own bedroom, surrounded by her husband’s belongings, Isolde von Rosenberg was brought to her knees.

The Archmage’s body arched in helpless surrender upon the silk sheets. She clutched the pillows in despair. Tears streamed from her icy blue eyes, yet her red lips ceaselessly moaned the name of the youth who was destroying her.

"M-My Master... ahh... M-My Master... hic... mercy..."

Ethan silenced those humiliating whimpers with a possessive kiss. Claiming the woman’s soul, body, and territory with absolute finality.

A few hours later. The storm of lust subsided.

Isolde lay utterly limp on her luxurious mattress. Her pale body was drenched in sweat, decorated with reddish marks left by the Demon Lord as a stamp of ownership. Her breathing was ragged, her glassy eyes staring up at a bedroom ceiling that suddenly felt incredibly foreign.

"Do not look so relieved just yet, Isolde."

Isolde turned her head weakly.

"As long as I am in this fortress... you will never feel safe."

The Duchess swallowed hard, her body trembling faintly. She knew exactly what those words meant.

Ethan stood at the edge of the bed. He buttoned up his black shirt with absolute calm, looking as though he had just stepped out of a highly successful business meeting.

The youth walked over to the stained-glass window, pulling the curtains aside slightly. From this tower, he could gaze out over the entirety of Fortress Granderer, frozen under the snow.

Behind him, Isolde forced her battered body to move.

Using what little strength she had left, the woman slowly crawled across the mattress. She glanced toward the right wall—the direction of Kurt’s room, located far down the hallway. Remembering her sacrifice as a mother, and simultaneously her betrayal as a wife, a single tear fell and stained the bedsheets.

However, the choice had been made. She had sold her soul to the devil for the sake of her son.

The most powerful woman in the North knelt upon the mattress. She crawled closer to Ethan, bowing her head in absolute obedience. With a voluntary movement, Isolde took Ethan’s right hand, then softly kissed the young man’s fingertips.

An absolute gesture of surrender from the Duchess of Rosenberg to the Demon Lord.

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