My Anime Shopping Tree & My Cold Prodigy Wife!
Episode : 130

Chapter: 259

Together, they were not just building a business. They were crafting a legend. A brand. An Aura. And the world of Riverian commerce, so long steeped in tradition and predictability, would never be the same.

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The partnership between Lloyd and Mei Jing was a potent, alchemical reaction in itself. His visionary, otherworldly concepts, drawn from a future she couldn't imagine, met her sharp, practical, Riverio-honed understanding of markets and human nature. The library became their war room, the vast oak tables their strategy maps, covered not with troop movements, but with pricing structures, distribution networks, and the subtle, powerful art of crafting desire.

The brand name, "Aura," became their mantra. It was more than just a label; it was the core of their entire philosophy.

“Every element must reinforce the Aura,” Mei Jing insisted, her finger tracing the elegant, swirling logo they had designed. “From the product itself to the very way a customer first encounters it. The experience must be seamless, from the moment they hear the name whispered in court to the moment they first feel that luxurious lather on their skin.”

Their strategy was a masterclass in tiered marketing, a concept utterly foreign to Riverio’s largely undifferentiated markets.

Tier 1: The Royal Elixir (The Pinnacle of Aspiration)

“This is our halo product,” Lloyd explained, gesturing to the single, perfect oak-and-steel dispenser they used as their master prototype. “The Royal Rosemary soft soap. It is not for sale. That is its most powerful feature.”

Mei Jing’s eyes gleamed with understanding. “Of course. Its value is not in its price, but in its inaccessibility. It becomes a symbol, a myth. The ultimate status marker.”

Their plan for its distribution was pure, calculated psychological warfare. A limited number of the exquisite dispensers would be crafted by Master Valerius. The first, of course, was already destined for King Liam Bethelham’s personal chambers, a fact they would ensure became known through carefully managed ‘accidental’ whispers in the right circles. Another would be formally presented, with great ceremony, to Arch Duke Roy and Duchess Milody. A few more would be gifted to the most powerful, most influential, most gossipy noblewomen in the capital – the wives of other Dukes, the heads of the most powerful merchant guilds, the kind of women whose pronouncements on fashion and luxury could make or break a new trend overnight.

“We give it to the trendsetters,” Mei Jing elaborated, her mind already composing the delicate, hand-written notes that would accompany each gift. “We create a small, exclusive circle of users. The ‘Aura Circle’. And we let envy do the rest. Every noble who visits their washroom, every lady’s maid who whispers of the strange, wonderful new cleansing ritual of her mistress… they become our unpaid marketers.”

Tier 2: The Noble’s Choice (The Attainable Luxury)

“This,” Lloyd said, picking up one of the beautifully wrapped, stamped hard soap bars, “is where we make our money. At least, initially.”

This was their core product, the one aimed at the vast, wealthy, and status-conscious nobility and upper merchant class. The quality was undeniable, a world away from the harsh lye blocks they were used to. But it was the packaging, the story, that would justify its premium price.

Mei Jing took the lead here, her understanding of her peers’ psychology sharp and unforgiving. “The boxes must be dark wood, lined with silk, not velvet,” she declared. “Velvet is for jewelry. Silk is for personal items. It implies intimacy, a closeness to the skin.” She designed a simple, elegant paper wrap for the soap itself, stamped with the Aura logo, to be tied with a single, scented silk ribbon. “The act of unwrapping it must feel like revealing a secret, a personal treasure.”

The price was set to be deliberately, almost offensively, high. “It should cost as much as a small bottle of decent imported perfume,” Mei Jing argued. “People will complain. They will call it outrageous. And then,” she smiled, a slow, predatory smile, “they will buy it. To prove that they can. To show their rivals that they can afford such an 'outrageous' luxury for something as mundane as washing.”

Tier 3: The Diffusion Line (The Seed of Aspiration)

“But we don’t stop there,” Lloyd insisted, thinking bigger. “We create a path for aspiration. Something for the lower rungs to strive for.”

Chapter: 260

This was the masterstroke, a concept that made Master Elmsworth’s eyes water with pure, economic joy when they presented it to him. A simpler, more accessible version. The same high-quality hard soap, but perhaps with a less potent rosemary infusion, or a simpler blend. And the packaging would be different. Not a silk-lined wooden box, but a sturdy, well-made cardboard carton, still beautifully designed, still bearing the Aura logo, but clearly a step down from the noble tier.

“We sell this one through the main Guild Halls,” Mei Jing planned, her mind already mapping out distribution channels. “To the successful adventurers, the minor guild masters, the prosperous artisans. It will be priced as a significant indulgence, a luxury, but an attainable one. It allows them to buy into the Aura brand, to feel a connection to the nobility they emulate.”

“And every time they use it,” Lloyd added, finishing her thought, “they will be reminded of the tier above. The silk-lined box. The dispenser on the noble’s washstand. It will fuel their ambition. It will make them strive for more. And our brand will be there, waiting for them, at every step of their social climb.”

The strategy was complete. A perfect, self-perpetuating pyramid of desire. From the mythical, unattainable Royal Elixir at the peak, down to the aspirational but accessible Guild-tier bars, Aura would become synonymous not just with cleanliness, but with success, with status, with the very concept of a refined life.

They presented their finished brand strategy to Roy, Elmsworth, and Grimaldi. Roy listened in silence, his face an unreadable mask, though Lloyd saw a flicker of something that looked like profound, almost startled, respect in his eyes. Grimaldi was fascinated by the concept of tiered scent potencies, already muttering about ‘olfactory hierarchies’.

It was Elmsworth who, once again, had the most dramatic reaction. He stared at their presentation parchments, at the detailed diagrams of target demographics and pricing psychology, his face pale, his hands trembling.

“By the sainted ghost of Adam Smith,” he whispered, his voice filled with a reverence usually reserved for ancient, holy texts. “This… this isn't just a business plan, Young Lord. This is… social engineering. It’s… it’s applied economic warfare.” He looked up, his eyes shining with a terrifying, brilliant light. “It is the most beautiful, most ruthless, most elegant commercial strategy I have ever witnessed in my sixty years of study.” He bowed his head. “I am not your advisor, Lord Lloyd. I am your student.”

Lloyd and Mei Jing exchanged a small, almost invisible smile over the old tutor’s bowed head. Their brand was crafted. Their strategy, flawless. The army was ready. The general was in place.

Now, all they had to do was conquer the world. One dispenser of soap at a time.

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The Elixir Manufactory, nestled in its secluded valley, had become a living, breathing entity. The rhythmic groan of the great water wheel was its heartbeat, the clanking of Borin’s gear-driven stirrers its steady pulse, and the fragrant steam that now perpetually wafted from its high chimney was its breath—a clean, herbaceous scent of rosemary that was a stark, almost defiant, contrast to the industrial smoke of the capital’s smithies.

Inside, the controlled chaos had solidified into a symphony of production. Lloyd Ferrum stood on the mezzanine platform he’d had constructed, a clipboard in hand, looking down at his small but astonishingly efficient empire. He felt a satisfaction that was purer, more profound, than any victory in the tournament. That had been a display of power, a necessity. This… this was creation.

Down on the main floor, Alaric the Meticulous moved like a high priest officiating a sacred rite, his spectacles perched on his nose, checking temperatures, verifying pH levels with his alchemical litmus strips, and making precise, spidery notations in his ever-present ledger. He was the guardian of quality, the bulwark against Borin’s more… volatile… impulses.

Borin, a cheerful, red-headed force of nature, was currently supervising the tallow melting, his boisterous energy somehow channeled into a focused intensity. He’d made a few unauthorized ‘optimizations’ to the hearth design, adding a series of adjustable flues that gave them far greater temperature control, a modification so brilliant that even the pragmatic Lyra had grudgingly admitted its genius, right after she’d finished lecturing him for not submitting a formal design proposal first.