Asmodeus System: Stealing My Bully's Mother

​Isolde’s black operational carriage traversed the main road toward the heart of Stadtier City.

Gray stone buildings with pointed roofs lined up sturdily. Villagers who caught a faint glimpse of the Ice Rose crest immediately scrambled out of the way, bowing respectfully with a trace of fear.

The carriage continued uphill, then halted right in front of the main gates of the Rosenberg Family’s primary estate.

The view beyond the window was utterly intimidating. A bluish-black stone fortress towered, piercing through the fog. Its iron gates were flanked by two giant ice wolf statues.

The door opened. Isolde stepped down first.

Her dark coat billowed in the hilltop wind. Her presence made a dozen blue-uniformed guard knights freeze for a moment, before kneeling simultaneously on one knee.

An old butler hurried down the stone steps. His wrinkled face radiated a mixture of relief and terror. ”Madam Isolde! Thank goodness you have arrived safely. Lord Duke is in the main hall, he—”

The creak of massive metal hinges cut the butler off.

The primary oak door was pushed open from the inside. A shadow stepped out, bringing along a true storm.

Duke Alaric von Rosenberg.

The ruler of the northern territory wore a white bear-pelt cloak that framed his shoulders, which were as broad as a wall.

Alaric’s footsteps echoed heavily. However, his eyes were not on Isolde. The butcher’s gaze locked directly onto the figure of the young man in the black shirt who had just stepped down from the carriage.

”For what reason...” Alaric’s voice thundered, saturated with boiling rage. ”...do you dare bring this piece of trash into my home, Isolde?”

Isolde maintained her calm posture. ”Alaric, listen to me. Ethan brought the healer who can cure Kurt, as well as the mastermind behind the circuit-destroying potion used on our son.”

However, Alaric turned a deaf ear. A father’s instinct and a Duke’s ego rejected the youth who had crippled his son.

”I don’t care,” Alaric growled. His large hand dropped, gripping the sword hilt at his waist. ”If this little bastard dares to step even an inch into my home... I will sever his head.”

Along with that threat, the pressure of Alaric’s magical aura exploded.

BWOOSH!

The snow on the courtyard scattered wildly. A sharp layer of ice crept at lightning speed from beneath Alaric’s boots, freezing everything in its path. The air abruptly turned thin and suffocating.

Under the assault of a monster’s aura that had slaughtered thousands of lives, Ethan Valen reflexively took half a step back.

The young man’s brown eyes widened. Both of his hands stood at the ready. His brain spun rapidly, acknowledging one absolute fact: If Alaric swung his sword now, he wouldn’t be able to dodge it. The gap in their strength was still far too vast.

Behind Ethan, Miya Evarett trembled violently without a sound. Her Elf ears pressed flat against her head. The terror emanating from Alaric paralyzed the Priestess’s soul.

Just as Alaric’s ice layer was about to touch the tips of Ethan’s shoes, two figures moved to intercept the path.

Isolde stood directly in front of Ethan, blocking her husband’s view. ”Listen to our explanation first, Alaric. After that, you may judge.”

On the other side, Valera stepped forward. The executioner crossed her arms over her chest in a sign of respect, yet her leg muscles were fully braced to absorb an impact.

”Greetings, Lord Duke,” Valera said in her capacity as an executioner. ”Ethan Valen is not the main perpetrator. That forbidden potion was the cause. And we have brought the culprit as proof.”

Hearing the report from his own bloodhound, Alaric’s rage was slightly restrained.

Ethan didn’t waste the momentum. He gave a hand signal to the coachman. ”Bring them out.”

The secret compartment was opened.

Rolf Haiteler was shoved out first. The once-arrogant youth now looked pitiful. Deathly pale, his tears fell rapidly, nearly freezing in mid-air. The moment his feet touched the snow, he instantly fell to his knees, weeping soundlessly.

Followed by Valera, who roughly dragged The Serpent out. The tall man was dragged like a bag of trash. His mouth was gagged, his body bound by mana-suppressing ropes.

Alaric’s pale blue eyes stared at the two prisoners like the blades of a guillotine.

Seeing the tangible form of the enemies who had destroyed his son’s future, Alaric’s grip on his sword hilt slowly loosened. The icy pressure in the air subsided, allowing lungs to scoop up oxygen once more.

”Explain,” Alaric commanded curtly to Isolde.

”The weeping youth is Rolf Haiteler. The middleman who delivered the potion to Kurt,” Isolde explained in a bureaucratic tone. ”This cloaked man is the head of the Stadtier branch of Serpent’s Tongue. The organizer of the supply.”

Hearing the name Serpent’s Tongue, Alaric’s jaw hardened.

The Duke was clearly still wary of Ethan’s intentions, but he was a veteran war strategist. Punishing traitors and hidden enemies was his utmost priority. A crack of acceptance finally opened.

Amidst the thickening storm, Ethan straightened his posture. He looked straight into the Duke’s pale blue eyes.

”I didn’t come to this land to make friends, Duke Alaric,” Ethan said, reclaiming his calm dominance. ”I came to cure your son.”

Silence. Only the howling wind replied.

The two men of different generations stared at each other—a wounded Northern Lion, and a young Demon Lord offering poison wrapped in honey.

Finally, Alaric turned his body.

”Take these two rats to the dungeon,” he ordered the guard knights. ”Ensure they stay alive until I skin them myself.”

The guards acted instantly. Rolf was forcibly dragged away. The Serpent was hauled off mercilessly. Valera gave a brief nod to Ethan and Isolde, then trailed behind Alaric into the fortress to ensure the prisoners reached the dungeon safely.

Now, only Isolde, Ethan, and Miya remained in the courtyard.

”Let us go inside,” Isolde said softly, ”before he changes his mind.”

Isolde guided Ethan and Miya into the heart of the Rosenberg power.

The moment they passed through the primary entrance, a majestic Main Hall welcomed them. The fire magic of a giant fireplace drove out the freezing air from outside. Black stone pillars supported the ceiling. Magical blue torches illuminated the hallways adorned with Ice Rose tapestries.

Whenever they crossed paths, servants and knights bowed respectfully to Isolde, while stealing inquisitive glances at the foreign youth beside her.

They arrived at the east wing. Their steps halted in front of Kurt von Rosenberg’s room.

Isolde pushed it open.

The air inside was very warm, thick with the scent of herbal brews. Around the large bed, six personal servants and one expert healer stood watch in silence.

Ethan swept the room with a cold gaze. ”Leave us. All of you. Now.”

The servants exchanged hesitant glances. They didn’t move until Isolde gave a nod.

”You heard him. Out. Guard the door from outside,” Isolde decreed.

They bowed and exited quickly. The door was shut tight.

Now there were only Ethan, Isolde, Miya, and the bedridden Kurt.

Upon the bed, Kurt lay pitiably.

The once arrogant and fierce heir was now like an empty shell. Ashen pale. His breathing was heavy and ragged. His forehead was soaked in cold sweat, enduring the pain from his burned mana circuit.

Miya stared at Kurt. Her fingers squeezed the hem of her white robe.

”My Master... did he... hurt you in the past?” Miya whispered softly, hesitating.

Ethan turned his head. ”That is in the past. What matters now is that you can cure him.”

Miya stared at Ethan for a few seconds. Then she nodded. ”I will do my best... Because this is for My Master.”

The Elf girl stepped closer to the bed. She pulled a small potion pouch from her satchel, preparing several bottles of stabilizers and herbal powders. Her hands were still trembling slightly, but her gaze turned serious.

Ethan stood beside the bed. He looked down at the bedridden Kurt.

”You once wanted me to crawl. Now you lie here like trash,” Ethan said softly, devoid of emotion. Not vengeance—merely an affirmation of standing.

Isolde behind him clenched her fists tightly. Her heart ached hearing those words, but she didn’t object. She was merely a mother whose life was bound to the Devil.

”Examine him, Miya,” Ethan ordered.

Miya closed her eyes. She extended her palm over Kurt’s chest. Crimson Radiance ignited. A soft red light glowed, penetrating Kurt’s skin to scan the damage.

A few minutes passed. Miya pulled her hand back.

”His mana circuit is indeed severely burned due to the poison rejection effect,” Miya reported professionally. ”However... the circuit is not totally destroyed. The Mana Core at his heart’s center is still intact. The network can be rebuilt.”

Miya turned to Isolde. ”He can be cured. But it will require several days of intensive magic therapy from me to restore him to how he was before.”

Hearing the Hidden Sage’s diagnosis, Isolde immediately covered her mouth with both hands.

The Duchess’s emotional defenses collapsed. She wept uncontrollably. Tears of relief flooded her exhausted cheeks. Her son was saved. A flame of hope that had nearly died out flared up once more.

Seeing that moment of a mother’s happiness, Ethan instead stepped closer.

The young man closed the distance, standing right beside Isolde. He leaned his face in, then whispered a single sentence directly into the Archmage’s ear.

A sentence demanding payment for the promise made in the VIP Room. A sentence that could be heard by no one other than the two of them.

Isolde’s body instantly froze as if struck by lightning.

The hands covering her mouth slowly dropped. Her eyes, wet with tears of joy, now radiated utter despair.

A bitter reality slammed back into her sanity—her son was indeed saved, but that life was paid for at a price that would shatter her pride.

Isolde smiled bitterly. An extraordinarily heart-wrenching smile. A single tear fell soundlessly, dampening the wooden floor.

The woman lowered her gaze, accepting her destiny.

”I am ready, My Master,” Isolde whispered faintly.