While My Mage Wife Grinds, I Power Up Idly
Chapter 134: The Old King’s Pressure

Chapter 134: Chapter 134: The Old King’s Pressure

Wilson was brought into the Imperial Palace.

But the King did not summon him immediately—instead, he was ordered to wait outside the royal audience hall.

That wait turned into hours of standing.

He looked up. The sky was not in a good mood today.

Thick leaden clouds had blotted out the sun entirely. The whole palace complex seemed shrouded in a dreary twilight.

He understood: it wasn’t just the weather that was grim—his father, the King, was likely in a grim mood as well.

There would be no mercy today.

At that moment—

The obsidian doors of the Royal Council Hall slowly opened with a deep rumble that pierced the silence like the groan of a great beast’s throat.

Thirty-six gilded columns inside were wrapped with epic dragon reliefs. The ruby-inlaid dragon eyes glowed blood-red in the dim light. Candle flames flickered, casting distorted shadows across the ceiling fresco—a grand depiction of the first King beheading a Demon monarch. Under these twisted shadows, the painting now looked ghastly and monstrous.

Wilson stepped alone into the Royal Council Hall.

Normally brash and arrogant, he now held his shoulders tight and body low like a scolded little boy.

The air inside the hall was thick with the mixed scent of dragonscent incense and cold steel—the opulence of the former and the deadly aura of the latter blended into a dominating, suffocating atmosphere.

The aged King reclined slightly on the towering and majestic Throne of Kings, his right hand clenched into a fist and supporting his cheek.

He wore a black royal robe embroidered with silver star-thread and a golden crown adorned with richly colored gemstones.

His body was tall and powerful—even seated on the throne, he radiated an aura of overwhelming authority.

Time had etched deep wrinkles into his face, yet they did nothing to dull the sharpness and ruthlessness in his eyes. That gaze seemed capable of piercing into one’s soul, unraveling every hidden ruse and scheme.

When he heard the footsteps, he merely shifted his eyes slightly—but even that small motion exuded a chilling aura.

"Wilson."

His voice was like sandpaper grinding against steel—low, cold, and echoing across the vast Royal Council Hall. Each word seemed to carry weight, hammering straight into Wilson’s chest.

He continued, "The smoke from Rose Valley has already reached the royal garden, and you—drove Lawrence to his death, caused Ansarhin’s demise, and lost thousands of elite troops?"

The King’s voice was heavy with undisguised fury and disappointment. His tone of questioning made the very air feel frozen.

The attendants in the hall didn’t even dare to breathe.

Upon hearing this, Crown Prince Wilson dropped to his knees with a thud, his face instantly turning as pale as paper. Cold sweat dripped from his chin onto the carpet’s Atras crest.

His heart thundered wildly in his chest, and fear surged over him like a flood.

"Father!" His voice trembled with panic and desperation, "No—it wasn’t me... It was mainly that girl Isabella! She suddenly appeared and ruined my perfect plan, otherwise..."

"Otherwise?"

The King’s eyes narrowed just slightly, and at once, the entire atmosphere of the Royal Council Hall shifted dramatically—as if the calm sky of a moment ago had suddenly erupted into a violent storm.

"Wilson."

"F-Father, I’m here!"

"Wilson, I named you Crown Prince not so you could make excuses. And certainly not..."

At this, the old King slowly stood from the throne, descending the steps one by one until he stood directly in front of the kneeling Wilson.

"...not so you could collude with Alchir Baishop, and waste the Empire’s Bloodline all for the sake of a luminous saint."

At these words, Wilson’s pupils shrank instantly. He had never imagined that the King would bring that up at a moment like this.

An overwhelming fear crashed down like a tsunami, shaking his mind to its core. It wasn’t just the wrath of a father—it was the pressure of a King. His body trembled uncontrollably under the weight.

He clenched his teeth, trying with all his might to control himself, but the trembling wouldn’t stop.

And at that moment—

One of the people involved stepped into the hall on his own.

"Your Majesty, perhaps we could approach this from a different perspective."

The Archbishop of the Holy Cultivator Guild, Alchir Baishop, emerged from the shadows. The sacred relic embroidered on his silver-white robe was inlaid with twelve pigeon-blood red gemstones, each one gleaming brilliantly under the dim lighting.

He held a golden scepter, his steps steady, and a false smile graced his face.

"Imperial Princess Isabella, as a Michael Divine Chosen—if we could fully awaken her potential... the Demon crisis in Rose Valley could be resolved in an instant."

The old King raised his head, locking eyes with the newcomer.

Wilson, equally stunned, turned to look as well.

Even he couldn’t believe Alchir Baishop would show up at such a moment.

No matter what, thank the heavens—he’d just been saved.

The old King held Alchir Baishop’s gaze for a full five seconds. Then, without saying a word, he turned and walked back to his throne.

A perfunctory smile appeared on that deeply wrinkled face, but it never reached the eyes. That smile was more like mockery—a sneer at the Archbishop’s petty schemes, a clear case of showing off one’s skills before a true master.

Awaken her potential? Was that just a euphemism for letting her die in a deathmatch against a Demon?

To emulate the Holy Cultivator Guild’s method of raising Demon Huntress Nuns—screening from infancy, discarding batches of failures until one survives the ordeal?

He wanted Isabella Atras to fall in battle, letting the Royal Family lose its trump card—so the Cultivator Guild could gain total control over the Royal Family?

The old King said nothing. He simply sat there, gazing down at Alchir Baishop, as if nothing could escape his eyes.

Alchir Baishop returned the gaze. He realized the old King had seen through his ruse in an instant. But given their positions, neither of them could state it outright. So all he could do now was wait for the old King’s response.

To suddenly take back his words—or to apologize outright—would be a loss of dignity.

"Enough."

The old King raised a hand, and the dark-gold signet on his knuckle glinted faintly. In that moment, it felt as if time and space had frozen. The Archbishop could feel an invisible force locking onto him, paralyzing him.

But the old King wasn’t aiming at him. Instead, he turned toward his kneeling son and said,

"Wilson. You have three days. The Demon must be eliminated. I’m assigning this task to you—and only you."

At least when it came to deciphering cryptic commands, Wilson was somewhat competent. He understood immediately what his father meant: the mission was his alone, and no one else was to intervene.

The unspoken message was even clearer:

Do not follow Alchir Baishop’s plan.

Do not involve the Imperial Princess.

This task is yours—yours alone.

No matter how you solve it—just don’t touch Imperial Princess Isabella.

"Y-yes! My... my King!"

As soon as he finished speaking, Wilson scrambled out of the Royal Council Hall, stumbling and nearly crawling. His back was drenched in cold sweat, and his legs were so weak they could barely support him.

He collapsed against the cool marble wall outside the chamber, his father’s stern voice still echoing in his ears.

His heart continued to pound wildly, refusing to calm.

...

At dusk.

Rose Valley Town.

Along the ruined streets of the town, a cold wind occasionally whistled through the broken walls, sounding like a mournful wail. It swept up gravel and slammed it against scorched black stone.

Ashu leaned against a collapsed fence wall, each step he took toward the edge of town feeling like he was treading on cotton—unsteady, drained.

Even someone as strong as he was had to rely on the wall for support to get out.

It had to be said: a Succubus really was a Succubus. The magic was real. She had nearly sucked the marrow out of his bones.

In the past, even after a night with Vivita, he’d only feel a bit tired—just a short rest and he’d be good to go again.

But Lilith was on a completely different level. She was like a supercharged vacuum cleaner. Every time Ashu climaxed, it felt like his soul was about to be sucked out from that part of his body.

"My body is still too weak... If just one Lilith can do this to me..."

Ashu grit his teeth, feeling even the blood vessels in his lower half tremble with every step.

He moved as slowly as he could, relying on his existing regeneration skills to recover his stamina as quickly as possible.

Then, before nightfall, he made a wide detour and returned to the human encampment outside the city.

Inside the camp, bonfires flickered, flames dancing in the wind. The trampled flower fields had begun to emit a sour, spoiled stench.

The fire stretched Isabella’s shadow long and thin, casting it across the white tent behind her. As the flames flickered, her shadow twisted and warped.

She was kneeling on the ground, her war-scarred great halberd lying before her, clearly at its limit.

The weapon was covered in cracks—honestly, it was a miracle it hadn’t shattered already.

If she tried to fight with it again, it would likely crumble instantly.

Isabella was carefully wiping it down, each movement accompanied by faint tremors, as though even this simple act of cleaning was draining her last bit of strength.

This weapon was the strongest one possessed by the Royal Family. Without it, she didn’t even have a replacement worth wielding.

"Ashu, are you alright?"

Vivita, still trapped inside the pillar of light, was the first to notice Ashu’s return.

"I’m fine, Vivita. It’s just... there’s no scouting progress to report," Ashu lied smoothly. "Same kind of cage as yours—trapping a high-level Demon. Nothing else visible, and that fog... I couldn’t figure out what it’s made of either."

As he spoke, Ashu sat down beside Vivita.

He glanced at Isabella, who now seemed to be fully recovered from her injuries. If nothing unexpected happened, she would be able to fight again tomorrow.

Granted, continuing the whole performance meant he’d have to keep "paying taxes" to Lilith, but this was a golden opportunity to rack up rewards. If he let this slip by, he might never get another shot.

All it cost was some kidney strength—and a bit of wear on his "second brother." He had to think long-term: power was the only thing that truly mattered.

"Your Highness, the Imperial Princess," Ashu greeted her, "looks like the Imperial Capital sent a royal carriage for you?"

When he’d returned earlier, he had noticed the presence of the Royal Guard in the camp. Anything royal was a cut above what commoners had.

Just their mere presence—standing there—was enough to set them apart from the rest of the Imperial Capital’s army. Their gear, their horses and carriages, even their aura and cultivation levels—they were on a whole different tier.