My Anime Shopping Tree & My Cold Prodigy Wife!
Episode : 128

Chapter: 255

“Then, with all due respect, Lord Ferrum,” Mei Jing said, her voice crisp, efficient, “I have traveled for two days. I am weary of road dust and mediocre inn fare. Shall we dispense with the pleasantries and proceed directly to the assessment? Show me this revolutionary product. And then,” her dark eyes gleamed with a sudden, sharp, almost predatory light, the eyes of a merchant who has just scented the tantalizing aroma of a massive, untapped profit margin, “you can show me the numbers. Because at the end of the day, my lord, no matter how revolutionary the product, the only thing that truly matters… is the bottom line.”

Lloyd felt a genuine, unrestrained laugh escape him. It was a sound of pure, delighted surprise. Elmsworth had not been exaggerating. This woman was magnificent. She was a shark, a beautiful, elegant, impeccably dressed shark, and he had just invited her into his small, fledgling pond.

“Lady Mei Jing,” Lloyd said, his smile widening into a grin of shared, audacious purpose. “I have a feeling we are going to get along splendidly.” He gestured back towards the main estate building. “Very well. No more pleasantries. Let’s talk business. But first,” he added, a mischievous twinkle in his own eyes, “allow me to offer you a demonstration. A first pitch, if you will. Because before we talk about numbers, you need to understand the… experience. The promise. The Aura.”

He had a product. He had a brand name. And now, he had just found his general. The soap empire was about to get its voice. And it was a voice, he suspected, that could indeed sell sand to a desert king. And then, probably, convince him to franchise.

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The arrival of Mei Jing had injected a new, potent energy into the fledgling enterprise. She was a whirlwind of crisp, decisive efficiency, a stark, professional counterpoint to Grimaldi’s alchemical eccentricity, Borin’s explosive enthusiasm, and Elmsworth’s academic fervor. Within hours of her arrival, she had toured the manufactory, her sharp, obsidian eyes missing nothing, her questions direct, probing, focused not on the ‘how’ of the creation, but on the ‘what now’ of its commercial future.

She had listened patiently to Alaric’s detailed explanation of the curing process, then immediately asked for projected weekly output and spoilage rates. She had watched Borin demonstrate his clanking, groaning, but undeniably effective, water-powered stirring mechanism, then immediately asked about its maintenance requirements and potential for scaling up. She had examined the dispenser prototypes with a jeweler’s eye, then immediately asked about production costs per unit and potential failure points. She was, as Lloyd had suspected, a force of nature, a general surveying her new army, identifying its strengths, its weaknesses, and already formulating a plan of attack.

Now, Lloyd stood with her in a small, quiet, sun-drenched parlor in the west wing of the estate, a room rarely used, chosen for its neutrality and privacy. Between them, on a small, polished mahogany table, he had placed the two key exhibits for his impromptu test. One of the newly cured, rosemary-scented hard soap bars, its pale, creamy texture and stamped ‘FF’ monogram looking surprisingly elegant. And beside it, one of the finished oak-and-steel dispenser bottles, filled with the creamy, soft soap, its polished surfaces gleaming, a perfect fusion of rustic warmth and cool, engineered precision.

Mei Jing had remained silent throughout his brief explanation of the two product forms, her expression a mask of cool, professional assessment. She had picked up the hard bar, felt its weight, noted its smooth, non-gritty texture, inhaled its clean, herbaceous scent with a brief, appreciative nod. She had then examined the dispenser, testing the pump mechanism, her long, slender fingers tracing the seamless join between wood and steel, her eyes narrowed in thought.

Finally, she placed both items back on the table with a soft, deliberate click. She looked up, her dark, intelligent eyes meeting Lloyd’s, her expression still unreadable.

“I see the product, Lord Ferrum,” she said, her voice calm, level. “I understand the innovation. The quality is self-evident. Now,” a flicker of that sharp, challenging light entered her gaze, “you wished for a demonstration. You said, ‘convince me to buy it’.” She offered a small, almost imperceptible shrug. “Very well. Consider me a skeptical, high-end merchant from the capital. I have seen a thousand new trinkets, a hundred ‘revolutionary’ elixirs. My time is valuable. My customers, discerning and fickle. Why,” she leaned forward slightly, her gaze intensifying, “should I invest my capital, my reputation, my precious shelf space, in your… soap?”

The challenge was laid. The stage was set.

Chapter: 256

Lloyd took a deep breath. He could do this. He had the knowledge, the vision. He had eighty years of Earth-based marketing, branding, and human psychology to draw upon. He just had to translate it into a language she, and this world, would understand.

He didn't pick up the soap. He didn't extol its cleansing properties. He started, instead, with a question.

“Lady Mei Jing,” he began, his voice quiet, thoughtful, drawing her in. “What is the ultimate luxury?”

Mei Jing’s eyebrow arched slightly. It was not the opening she had expected. “Luxury, my lord? Silks from the far East. Spices that cost more than gold by weight. Jewels from the deepest mines. Power. Influence. These are the currencies of luxury.”

“Indeed,” Lloyd conceded. “Tangible things. Status symbols. But I propose that the true, ultimate luxury is not something you wear, or eat, or display. It is an experience. A feeling. An unspoken statement.” He paused, letting the idea settle. “It is the subtle, pervasive, and undeniable assurance of refinement. Of cleanliness. Of… effortless superiority.”

He picked up the simple, harsh block of standard lye soap he had brought for contrast, placing it on the table beside his own elegant creations. It looked crude, brutish, almost offensive in comparison.

“This, Lady Mei Jing,” he said, gesturing to the lye block, “is what everyone uses. From the humblest scullery maid to the Arch Duke himself. It is functional. It scours away the grime. It does its job.” He leaned in, his voice dropping conspiratorially. “But what does it say? It says ‘I am cleaning away filth’. It is a tool of necessity, a reminder of the grime of the world.”

He then picked up the oak-and-steel dispenser, its weight solid, balanced, in his hand. “And this, Lady Mei Jing… this is the masterstroke. This is not merely a bottle. This is a ritual. Think of your target customer. Lady Seraphina, the wife of a wealthy guild master. She enters her private washroom. Does she reach for a crude, slimy block of tallow soap sitting in a pool of grey water? Or,” he made a smooth, elegant motion, depressing the steel pump with his thumb, “does she perform this simple, clean, precise gesture, dispensing a perfect, fragrant, pearlescent dollop of cleansing elixir into her palm? An action that is hygienic, efficient, and in its very mechanics, whispers of advanced thinking, of a life lived beyond the crude necessities of the common man.”

He looked directly at her, his eyes shining with the conviction of his vision. “You are not selling soap, Lady Mei Jing. You are selling an identity. You are selling the unspoken message that its user is a person of taste, of refinement, of a status so secure that even the most mundane, private act of washing one’s hands is an experience of elevated luxury. You are selling the quiet, confident, fragrant aura of being… better.”

He set the dispenser down gently. “Every time a guest uses the washroom in a noble house and encounters this, they will be confronted with a choice. The world they know, of harsh lye and crude blocks. And this new world, this world of effortless elegance and fragrant refinement. Which world do you think they will aspire to join, Lady Mei Jing? Which status will they covet?”

He leaned back, his pitch complete. He hadn't talked about lathering properties, or moisturizing agents, or the specifics of the formulation. He had sold the dream. The brand. The Aura.

Mei Jing was silent for a long, long moment. Her sharp, obsidian eyes were no longer just assessing; they were gleaming, shining with a light that was pure, unadulterated, commercial avarice. The cynical, skeptical merchant was gone, replaced by a visionary who had just been shown the map to a continent of untapped gold.

She finally looked up, a slow, predatory, utterly brilliant smile spreading across her face. It transformed her, softening the severe lines, igniting her features with a fierce, almost terrifying, intelligence.

“Aura,” she breathed, the word a soft, appreciative hiss. “The unspoken promise of refinement.” She picked up the dispenser, turning it over in her hands, her earlier professional assessment now replaced by a kind of reverence. “My lord Ferrum,” she said, her voice dropping, filled with a new, profound respect. “You are not, as I initially suspected, a mere nobleman with a clever idea.”

She met his gaze, her dark eyes shining. “You are a merchant king in disguise.” She paused, then her smile widened into a grin of shared, audacious purpose. “Where do we begin? And,” she added, her eyes twinkling, “what is my commission structure?”