Asmodeus System: Stealing My Bully's Mother

​That morning, the sky looming over Fortress Granderer resembled a filthy, ash-gray canvas. Snow fell relentlessly, driving its icy fangs into the cracks of the bluish-black stone walls.

Down in the lower wing kitchen, the crackling warmth of the hearth and the rich aroma of freshly baked wheat bread utterly failed to thaw the freezing tension. Instead of the usual cheerful morning banter, the room was suffocated by hushed, stifled whispers.

A cluster of maids huddled close to the dancing flames, trading frantic glances and paranoid murmurs.

"Did you guys hear it?" a curly-haired maid whispered, pulling her woolen shawl tighter around her trembling shoulders. "Last night... coming from the upper floor."

"Shh! Are you out of your mind?!" her friend hissed, her eyes darting frantically toward the heavy oak doors. "I didn’t hear it myself. But they say... there were bizarre sounds coming from the main wing. And the Duke was out on night patrol, wasn’t he?"

Not a single soul dared to utter the name ’Isolde’ or ’Her Grace’. They merely exchanged terrified sidelong glances and grim, knowing nods.

Yet, the morbid curiosity surrounding their ruler’s scandalous secret had already begun to slither out of control. Spreading exactly like diseased rats scuttling through dark, hidden corridors.

Far removed from the gossiping huddle, Olden stood entirely alone in the dimmest corner of the kitchen.

The hunched, elderly butler was aggressively scrubbing a silver tray with a coarse rag. His hands shook violently. He just kept rubbing in a frantic, mechanical rhythm, completely oblivious to the fact that the silver was already polished to a mirror shine.

"Mister Olden?"

The soft, sudden voice caused Olden’s frail shoulders to jolt violently.

Clang!

The silver tray nearly smashed against the stone floor if he hadn’t clumsily fumbled to catch it at the last second. His breath hitched into a ragged gasp.

A young kitchen maid stared at him with deep concern. "Are you alright, sir? You look ghastly pale."

"I-I am fine," Olden snapped back, his voice raspy. His dull eyes adamantly refused to meet the girl’s gaze. "Just... a lack of sleep. The storm is making my old bones ache."

The young maid gave a hesitant nod before quietly scurrying away.

The moment he was left alone, Olden gripped the edge of the wooden counter with all his might. He knew full well that he was ’Patient Zero’ of this vicious gossip plague. The sheer, traumatized look on his face when he returned to the servant’s quarters last night had triggered an avalanche of venomous questions.

Guilt choked him by the throat. But his mortal terror was infinitely stronger.

He was horrified just imagining Duke Alaric’s bloodthirsty wrath. He feared the absolute ruin of Her Grace’s prestige. But above all else, his very soul trembled every time his mind flashed back to the deadly, serene smirk of the brown-haired youth walking out of that master bedroom.

Unable to breathe in a room so thick with poisonous whispers, Olden snatched up his tray, ducked his head low, and practically sprinted down the desolate corridor.

Over at the western stables, the freezing air cut straight to the bone.

Valera Voss sat perched atop a pile of hay, one knee drawn up, her back resting comfortably against the rough stone wall. Her massive Zweihander lay flat across her lap as she methodically polished the deadly steel with an oiled cloth.

Several passing Rosenberg guards threw her glances filled with deep respect, heavily laced with caution. Finally, a younger guard mustered the courage to approach her.

"Lady Valera. Has the Duke issued any new orders for today?"

Valera slowly looked up. Her predatory golden eyes scanned the guard from head to toe, sizing him up.

"Not yet. But if you soldiers are getting lazy just because the Duke is occupied, I can easily reassign you to take over for the lumberjacks freezing outside."

The young guard stiffened instantly, his spine snapping straight. "M-My apologies, Ma’am! We will maintain our posts."

Valera let out a soft, amused snort. "Good. Don’t let me catch you slacking off."

The guard hastily bowed and scurried off.

Valera watched his retreating back until he disappeared around the corner, then went back to polishing her blade. A faint, knowing smirk tugged at the corner of her lips.

This fortress is freezing, she thought, but it only hones my instincts to a razor’s edge. Something massive was brewing in the shadows. And she was more than ready to be its apex predator.

Up on the higher floors, the Main Hall was practically frozen in time.

The colossal room, lined with imposing black pillars, was illuminated solely by the roaring hearth. Duke Alaric stood before the fire like a stone gargoyle. His giant white bear-pelt cloak draped heavily over his broad shoulders. But the man wasn’t seeking warmth; his pale blue eyes were staring daggers into the far end of the east wing corridor.

Emerging from the corridor’s suffocating shadows, Ethan Valen strolled forward with infuriating nonchalance.

Both hands were casually tucked into his trouser pockets. His pitch-black shirt allowed him to blend seamlessly into the fortress’s gloom, like a specter born of the darkness itself.

Alaric didn’t say a single word. His glare sharpened to a murderous point, as if trying to physically flay the flesh from the youth’s skull to unearth his secrets.

Ethan easily sensed the crushing bloodlust radiating from the man. He merely cast a brief, sidelong glance at the Duke, returning the hostility with a mocking nod and a crooked smirk.

"Morning, Duke," Ethan greeted simply, continuing his leisurely stride toward Kurt’s room without missing a single beat.

Alaric’s jaw locked so hard his teeth ground together. He hadn’t yet caught wind of the cheap gossip brewing down in the kitchens. But his primal instincts as a veteran Master Knight were roaring in alarm.

There is a foreign predator sniffing around my territory, his gut screamed.

The Duke’s massive fists clenched until the leather of his gloves creaked. The ambient temperature around him plummeted instantaneously, flash-freezing the moisture in the air and forming a vicious layer of frost at the hem of his cloak.

Over in the east wing, Kurt von Rosenberg’s recovery room was drenched in a psychologically suffocating atmosphere.

A thin crust of ice covered the windowpanes, distorting the gloomy gray light outside. Kurt lay perfectly still on his oversized bed. His physical shell was mending; his skin had lost its corpse-like pallor. Yet, the blonde youth’s icy blue eyes were completely hollow—staring up at the ceiling without a single spark of life, like a freshly carved puppet.

Kneeling dutifully by his side was Miya Evarett. The Elven healer meticulously focused her Crimson Radiance—a dull, soothing red healing magic—directly into Kurt’s chest. Her pointed ears twitched subtly every few seconds, hyper-sensitive to the terrifying, invisible tension crushing the room.

On the opposite side of the bed, Isolde sat completely rigid.

Her outward appearance was utterly flawless. Her platinum blonde hair was pinned into an immaculate bun, and her heavy silk gown was buttoned perfectly to the neck. But hiding behind her gold-rimmed glasses were deep, dark bags shadowing her exhausted, icy blue eyes.

Isolde didn’t dare to look at her own son. She kept her head bowed in shame, staring blankly at the thick blankets. Every so often, her eyes would frantically dart toward the corner of the room, only to immediately snap away in terror.

It was in that very corner that Ethan Valen stood lounging. His back rested casually against the stone wall, both arms confidently crossed over his chest. He was watching the entire miserable display like a twisted director presiding over his own macabre stage play.

The dark red glow of the Crimson Radiance slowly faded. Miya took a deep, shuddering breath, wiped a sheen of sweat from her smooth brow, and nervously looked up at Ethan.

"The mana circuit connected to Young Master Kurt’s heart has repaired by approximately forty percent, My Lord," Miya reported softly. "His body should be able to process normal nutrition starting today."

Ethan gave a faint nod of approval. His predatory gaze slowly shifted, locking onto the platinum blonde woman across the bed.

"Did you hear that, Isolde?" Ethan called out. His tone was casual, yet undeniably authoritative. "Make sure your servants prepare highly nutritious meals for him."

Isolde swallowed hard, a bitter lump forming in her throat. Her fingers dug so violently into the fabric on her lap that her knuckles turned stark white. Her arrogant, noble ego had been entirely pulverized over the course of last night.

"I... understand..." Isolde whispered. Her voice was raspy, trembling violently with utter submission. "Thank you... Master."

THUMP.

Upon the grand bed, Kurt’s eyelids gave a faint, agonizing flutter.

His numb ears had caught that single word with horrific clarity. Master.

His mother—the most powerful ice mage in the North, the absolute pride of the Rosenberg territory, an Archmage who had always stood fiercely arrogant even in the presence of the Emperor himself... had just bowed her head and addressed an F-Caste trash student from the academy as her Master?

The last remaining, jagged shards of Kurt’s soul housed within his chest were crushed all over again. Ground down into the most pathetic, humiliating dust.

The moment the therapy session concluded, Ethan and Miya departed, leaving behind a suffocating, graveyard silence.

Isolde remained frozen in her seat. Her fraying sanity was being brutally ripped apart in three different directions: the inevitable, bloody wrath of her husband should this secret leak, the terrifying, hollow void currently staring out of her son’s eyes, and the demonic grip of Ethan Valen’s Lust Brand that had now corrupted her to the very marrow.

The Duchess drew in a ragged, trembling breath, desperately fighting back the tears threatening to spill. Her mask of icy elegance was now fractured beyond repair.

Out in the narrow corridors near the east wing, Ethan walked at a leisurely pace with Miya trailing obediently in his wake.

They weren’t in any rush. The ambient air in the hallway was biting cold, and the flickering candlelight cast long, dancing shadows against the rough stone walls.

Right at the intersection, Olden suddenly rounded the corner from the opposite direction.

The instant his eyes landed on Ethan’s figure, the old servant’s body went stiff as a board—like a helpless deer caught in the gaze of a starving wolf. The empty silver tray in his hands began to rattle uncontrollably.

Ethan slowly drew his footsteps to a halt.

He looked Olden up and down. Ethan’s crimson eyes were as placid as a frozen, bottomless lake—devoid of anger, devoid of amusement. It was a terrifyingly empty stare that promised nothing but death.

"That lantern of yours... make sure it doesn’t fall."

Ethan’s short, cryptic warning hung in the freezing air like a guillotine blade.

Olden immediately bowed so deeply his forehead nearly scraped the floor tiles. "M-My deepest apologies... this servant..."

Ethan didn’t even bother waiting for him to finish babbling. He simply resumed walking, brushing past the terrified old man.

Miya continued to trail behind him, keeping her head firmly bowed, absolutely terrified to even glance in the butler’s direction.

Olden remained glued in his bowing posture until the sound of Ethan’s footsteps vanished completely down the hall. Finally, with knees practically turning to jelly, he slumped back against the stone wall. A freezing, sickly sweat drenched his frail body.

By late afternoon, the sky over Granderer darkened into an oppressive pitch black.

Isolde sat holed up in her private study, staring blankly at the towering piles of bureaucratic parchment strewn across her oak desk. But her glazed eyes weren’t registering a single word.

The candles melted away slowly, hot wax dripping silently down the sides of their copper stands.

A maid timidly entered the room, reporting that Young Master Kurt’s meal had been fully prepared. Isolde merely offered a lethargic nod.

"Leave it in his room. I will join him shortly."

Her voice was devastatingly hoarse, utterly devoid of her usual commanding vigor.

The maid cast a deeply concerned look at her Lady, but lacked the courage to pry. She politely curtsied and slipped out the door.

Isolde squeezed her eyes shut. She desperately massaged her throbbing temples, trying to ward off the blinding migraine splitting her skull.

Night finally swallowed Granderer whole. Kurt’s recovery room plunged into a profound silence after Isolde ruthlessly dismissed all the attending servants.

She had stubbornly insisted on keeping watch herself. However, the sheer, crushing physical and mental exhaustion that had been torturing her since last night finally won the battle. Isolde fell into a deep, troubled sleep in her chair, her head resting heavily against the edge of her son’s mattress.

Several hours bled away. Kurt slowly stirred, waking from his own nightmare-plagued slumber.

The blonde youth weakly turned his head. Illuminated by the pale moonlight piercing through the frosted glass, his gaze fell upon his mother’s sleeping face.

For the very first time in his entire life, Kurt bore witness to something he previously believed was absolutely impossible for a woman like Isolde von Rosenberg to possess.

Weakness.

His mother’s face looked devastatingly fragile, heavily lined with an unfathomable amount of regret and profound sorrow.

Moving at a glacial pace, Kurt lifted his bony, deathly pale right hand into the cold air. His fingers trembled fiercely. This was the exact same hand that used to effortlessly conjure roaring flames, he thought bitterly. The hand I used so freely to crush the weak and assert my dominance.

The room fell back into a deafening silence, save for the rhythmic, exhausted breathing of Isolde asleep by his side.

Kurt’s vision blurred heavily as hot tears he could no longer hold back flooded his eyes. Staring at the snow piling up against the windowpane, a single, broken whisper escaped his pale, cracked lips.

"Why... have I become like this?"

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