Asmodeus System: Stealing My Bully's Mother

​Inside the Duchess’s master bedroom, Isolde von Rosenberg still lay utterly limp on her luxurious mattress.

The platinum blonde woman’s exquisite body was drenched in sweat. Reddish bruises and faint bite marks were clearly printed on her skin. Her slightly parted, navy-blue silk gown could no longer cover the ruins of her shattered pride.

The Archmage’s breath came in ragged, quiet gasps. Her eyes were squeezed shut, attuning herself to the silence.

Meanwhile, Ethan Valen was adjusting his black shirt with absolute calm.

The young man stood near the stained-glass window, gazing out at the fortress courtyard. The top two buttons of his shirt were left undone. The Horned Crown tattoo on his left chest slowly dimmed as the channeling of his Sin Mana ceased.

Outside, right in the upper-wing corridor, a hunched figure was creeping along.

It was Olden, the senior butler of the Rosenberg estate. Carrying a small oil lantern, the old man with thinning white hair was making his routine night patrol.

However, as his frail body passed the massive wooden door of the Duchess’s master bedroom, Olden’s steps immediately jerked to a halt.

His aging ears caught a sound seeping through the gap under the door.

An incredibly bizarre combination of noises. Stifled moans laden with submission. The rough rustling of bedsheets. And the heavy, ragged breathing of a woman he knew intimately well as Lady Isolde. Yet, Duke Alaric was currently leading a patrol outside the fortress.

Olden froze. The lantern in his hand shook violently, casting the shadow of his deathly pale face against the stone wall.

The old servant’s common sense shrieked in horror. As a loyalist who had served for decades, he knew exactly what those sounds meant. Yet, his survival instinct warned him: interfering with whatever was happening behind that door was tantamount to delivering his own neck to the guillotine.

With trembling hands, Olden lowered his lantern. He bowed his head deeply, then backed away as fast as his frail legs could carry him. He fled without making a single sound.

But the echoes of the Duchess’s humiliating moans had already pierced his mind, haunting the rest of his night.

Inside the room, just as Ethan was about to leave through a secret passage...

"Fufufu..."

The intoxicating, raspy voice of the Asmodeus System echoed in Ethan’s head. A crimson holographic glow blinked slowly in the corner of his eye.

"A truly delicious performance, My Lord," Asmodeus teased, dripping like poisoned honey. "But... it seems an old rat just caught the scent of your adultery outside the door. That old servant heard every single moan this slut made."

Asmodeus flicked her holographic fingers with a cruel smile. "Do you want me to fry his brain from the inside out, My Lord? A single pinch of mana, and he’ll die of a heart attack without a trace."

Ethan offered a faint smirk, stepping out of Isolde’s room without looking back.

No need, Ethan replied coldly in his mind. Let the old man live.

"Oh? How unusual. Why is that, My Lord?"

A corpse will only invite a magical investigation from Alaric, Ethan countered, weaving his web of intrigue. But fear and doubt slowly spreading from the mouth of a servant... that is far more effective at destroying this fortress from the inside out.

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

The temperature inside the fortress felt even more freezing. Olden had been awake since dawn. With blue lips and hands that still trembled slightly from the ghosts of last night’s sounds, the old servant prepared the Small Breakfast Hall in the east wing.

Just as the pale sun crept upward, the heavy thud of warhorse hooves echoed loudly across the main courtyard.

Duke Alaric von Rosenberg had returned.

The Duke’s return felt remarkably cold. There were no cheers or lengthy reports. Every passing soldier immediately stood at full attention, keeping their heads bowed low.

Alaric vaulted down from his horse. He strode swiftly through the fortress without bothering to speak a word. His giant white bear-pelt cloak was damp with frost.

From behind an aisle pillar, Olden bowed respectfully. The servant’s dull eyes caught his master’s demeanor. His old instincts shrieked in terror; a colossal storm was brewing beneath the Duke’s icy composure.

In the Small Breakfast Hall, the stone fireplace glowed dimly. A typical Northern spread was served on the old oak table: warm wheat bread, smoked meat, potato soup, and a pot of herbal tea.

Yet, there was absolutely no warmth at that table.

Duke Alaric sat in his grand seat at the head of the table. To his left, Isolde sat elegantly. Across from Isolde, Ethan Valen lounged casually, his legs crossed.

Isolde’s appearance looked flawless from the outside. Her platinum hair was pinned up in a tight, immaculate bun. Her blue silk gown was buttoned all the way to the base of her neck.

However, cold sweat visibly dampened her temples. Her pair of icy blue eyes shot erratic glances at Ethan—a mixed flash of submission and shame—before hastily pinning her gaze back onto her porcelain plate.

Alaric didn’t touch his food at all.

The Duke’s pale blue eyes pierced across the table, locking onto Ethan’s figure.

"I inspected the outermost outposts all night," Alaric declared. His voice was heavy, grating like grinding stones. "And their trail is indeed real. The Serpent’s Tongue network has already touched the borders of my territory."

Alaric leaned his massive frame forward. "Tell me right now, Valen. Give me the name of the political pillar in the Capital pulling the strings behind the Bloodfire Elixir supply."

Ethan didn’t answer immediately. His movements were incredibly elegant. He lifted his porcelain cup, took a slow sip of tea, then set it back down without making even a single clinking sound.

"Tsk. What a terribly hasty question, Duke Alaric," Ethan replied casually, meeting Alaric’s gaze without an ounce of intimidation. "Information is an expensive commodity. And I have no intention of handing over the head of this conspiracy before Kurt’s therapy is completely finished."

BAM!

Alaric slammed his giant hand onto the oak table. The teacups resting on it rattled violently.

"You dare string me along, Boy?!" Alaric growled. His ice Aura seeped out, instantly freezing the tablecloth near his hand.

Isolde went stiff between them. She held her breath, the terror of a sudden bloodbath choking her throat.

But Ethan didn’t flinch a single millimeter.

"I’m not stringing you along, Duke. I am simply ensuring that the investment in my healer’s safety, as well as my own, remains absolutely guaranteed for as long as we are here."

A heavy silence hung in the air.

Alaric glared at Ethan, his breathing ragged, his brain burning with rage. However, his tie to Kurt’s life completely paralyzed his murderous intent.

The Duke slowly unclenched his fist, then stood up.

"Come to the Map Room tonight," Alaric commanded coldly. "We will settle this information transaction officially."

With heavy, echoing footsteps, Alaric left the hall. The door slammed shut from the outside.

The moment Alaric vanished down the corridor, Isolde instantly released a long, trapped breath.

The Duchess’s body went limp in her chair. Cold sweat poured even more heavily down her temples. She stared at Ethan, her eyes filled with reproach and absolute terror.

"You are playing with incredibly dangerous fire, Ethan..." Isolde whispered hoarsely. "Alaric is not a man you can toy with forever. If he finds out even a shred of what you did to me—"

"He won’t find out. Not unless you leak it yourself, Isolde," Ethan cut in. His faint smirk was remarkably deadly.

Ethan stood up, adjusting his shirt collar. "Focus on your role as a dutiful wife and a loving mother. The rest of the game is my business."

As Ethan stepped out, leaving a silenced Isolde behind, Asmodeus appeared once more.

"That old bear is starting to get very suspicious of you, My Lord," Asmodeus chuckled. "But at the same time, his despair binds him even tighter to you. A truly beautiful piece of political manipulation."

Ethan walked down the corridor, his eyes glinting sharply. Alaric is trapped in his own cage. The harder he tries to crush me, the stronger my position becomes on this land of Granderer.

By late afternoon, Granderer’s sky grew even darker, swallowed by an impending storm.

Olden received his routine duty of changing the compresses in Kurt’s recovery room. The hunched man walked in carrying a silver tray with a copper pitcher and clean cloths.

He gently pushed open the door carved with ice roses.

The air inside was warm, thick with the lingering scent of Crimson Radiance and herbal remedies. On the giant bed, Kurt lay alone. The maids and nurses had been given time to rest.

Physically, Kurt had indeed made rapid progress. His skin was no longer corpse-pale, and his mana circuit pulsed steadily.

However, the blonde youth’s face was completely hollow and expressionless. His icy blue eyes were wide open, staring straight out the window without blinking.

When Olden entered and set the tray down, Kurt didn’t turn his head. He ignored the old servant like a statue.

Olden changed the water in the porcelain bowl with trembling hands. He looked at his broken young prince. Guilt and the turmoil of last night’s secret waged a fierce war in his chest.

Olden moistened his dry lips. He glanced at the closed door, then gathered his courage and inched closer to the side of Kurt’s bed.

"Y-Young Master Kurt..." Olden whispered very softly.

Kurt didn’t respond. His eyes remained fixed on the window.

Olden bowed his head deeply, swallowing a bitter lump in his throat. "I... I beg your forgiveness if my insolence disturbs you. But... last night when this servant was passing the upper floor..."

Olden brought his face closer. Whispering the words that would become the ultimate poison to Kurt’s sanity.

"...this servant heard strange noises and highly unnatural moans... coming from inside Lady Isolde’s master bedroom."

THUMP.

Kurt’s body instantly went rigid.

His icy blue eyes widened. The blood flow in his veins seemed to stop abruptly. In an agonizing reflex, Kurt’s right hand brutally gripped the thick blanket—so tight his knuckles turned bone-white and popped softly.

Kurt’s previously hollow gaze was now crammed with waves of terror, blind jealousy, and the undeniable confirmation of last night’s nightmare.

The old servant’s whisper was absolute proof: Ethan’s atrocity against his mother wasn’t just some coma-induced illusion. It was a reality that the inhabitants of this fortress were now sniffing out.

Realizing his young lord’s horrifying reaction, Olden stepped back with a pale face. "F-Forgive me! I am truly sorry for my insolence, Young Master!"

Olden snatched up his tray and scrambled out of the room, shutting the door tightly.

The room fell silent once more. Kurt von Rosenberg remained lying stiffly in bed.

The youth didn’t scream. Didn’t curse. There was no explosive rage typical of the old Kurt. There was only a silence that choked his very soul.

From the corner of his wide, shell-shocked icy blue eyes, a single clear tear fell soundlessly. It trailed across his pale cheek, then sank into the silk pillow.

His heart had completely died.

Meanwhile, out there...

Wild gossip and suspicion began to slither like snake venom through the stone corridors of Granderer. An unseen threat was rapidly forming behind the cold walls of the Rosenberg’s domain.

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