My Anime Shopping Tree & My Cold Prodigy Wife!
Episode : 135

Chapter: 269

“No, Master Gildon, I am terribly sorry, offering me an extra five Gold does not move you up the list. It is strictly first-come, first-served… among those who were first to pre-order, that is…”

“Sir! Please do not attempt to climb the gate! You will injure yourself! And our guard has been instructed to be… persuasive!”

It was a nightmare. A well-funded, profitable nightmare, but a nightmare nonetheless. Nobles, accustomed to instant gratification, did not take kindly to being told to wait in line behind a merchant, no matter how wealthy. Merchants, whose entire lives were built on negotiation and leverage, could not comprehend a situation where their gold was simply… not enough. The carefully crafted Aura of serene, exclusive luxury was being threatened by the very real, very ugly reality of a mob. Orders were getting mixed up. Names were misspelled. Tempers flared. A minor Baroness had a public, tearful meltdown when she discovered her rival had received her dispenser a full day earlier. The chaos was becoming unsustainable.

One evening, after a particularly brutal day that had involved a near-brawl between a knight-captain and a spice merchant over a perceived queue-jumping incident, Mei Jing sought out Lloyd in his library-turned-war-room. Her usual crisp, confident composure was frayed at the edges. Her elegant hairstyle had a few rebellious strands escaping, and her dark, intelligent eyes held a look of profound, weary frustration.

She didn't bother with pleasantries. She slammed a thick, disorganized-looking ledger onto his desk. “My lord,” she said, her voice tight, strained. “We have a problem. A very large, very loud, and increasingly aggressive problem.”

Lloyd looked up from his alchemical texts. “The demand exceeds our carefully managed supply, I take it? A good problem to have, is it not?”

“It is a catastrophic problem,” Mei Jing corrected grimly. “Our brand is built on an image of serene, effortless elegance. Our reality, at the front gate, is a chaotic, borderline-violent mob scene. Jasmin is a brilliant production manager, but she is not a diplomat. She is not a bouncer. She is not a therapist for emotionally volatile aristocrats. She is,” Mei Jing’s voice softened with a flicker of sympathy, “on the verge of a complete nervous breakdown. As are Martha and Pia.”

She leaned forward, her hands flat on his desk, her expression stark. “We are a victim of our own success, my lord. Our production is flawless. Our product is desirable. Our marketing was… perhaps too effective. But our customer interface… it is a disaster. It is threatening to poison the very brand we have so carefully crafted. The whispers are no longer just about who has Aura, but about the indignity, the chaos, of trying to get it.”

She straightened up, crossing her arms, her gaze direct, uncompromising. “This is unsustainable. We cannot continue to have Jasmin, a girl whose primary social interaction skill is ‘polite terror’, as the public face of our enterprise. We need a voice. We need a shield. We need an expert. Someone who can stand in front of that gate, face down a furious Duchess and a belligerent mercenary captain simultaneously, and make them both leave feeling not just satisfied, but as if they have been granted a personal, profound favor.”

Her eyes narrowed. “We need someone who can charm a snake, soothe a dragon, and manage a queue of entitled, desperate people with nothing but a smile and a well-chosen word. We need a master of public relations, of customer service, of… of people. And we need them yesterday.”

Lloyd listened, the gravity of the situation sinking in. She was right. He had focused on the product, the production, the grand strategy. He had completely overlooked the most crucial, most difficult part of any business: the customers. Especially when those customers were a volatile mix of the most powerful, entitled, and emotionally fragile people in the entire Duchy.

He needed a different kind of expert. Not an alchemist, not an economist, not even a brilliant marketing strategist like Mei Jing. He needed… a people person. A master of empathy. Someone with an unshakable calm and a preternatural gift for de-escalation.

His mind sifted through the people he knew. His father? Too intimidating. Elmsworth? Too academic. Grimaldi? Too likely to try and solve a customer complaint by offering them a beaker of bubbling purple goo. Jasmin? Clearly not. Him? He could probably manage it, but his time was better spent on strategy and power-ups, and his bedside manner, as Rosa could attest, still needed work.

He needed to recruit. Again. But this was a different kind of role, requiring a different kind of skill set. Not martial prowess. Not alchemical genius. But a kind of social magic he himself did not possess.

Chapter: 270

Where would he even begin to find such a person?

Then, he thought of the man whose entire life was a study in observation, in understanding people, in moving through the world unseen, gathering information from the most unlikely of sources. The man with the network that extended from ducal courts to grimy taverns. The man who could find anyone, anything.

He needed more than just a bodyguard today. He needed Ken Park, the master intelligence operative.

---

The crisis at the factory gate was a fire that needed to be extinguished, and quickly, before it consumed the very brand they were trying to build. Lloyd knew, with the cold, hard certainty of a strategist facing a logistical nightmare, that they needed a new kind of weapon for this new kind of war. Not a sword, not a spell, but a person. A specialist. A master of the subtle, often infuriating, art of human relations.

He summoned Ken Park that evening, not in a shadowed corridor or a formal study, but in the relative privacy of the now-operational manufactory office. The air still hummed with the day’s chaotic energy, the ledgers on Mei Jing’s desk a testament to the overwhelming demand they had unleashed.

Ken materialized from the evening gloom outside the office door as silently as ever, a pillar of stoic competence in his dark, practical livery. He stepped inside, his impassive gaze sweeping the room, taking in the charts, the ledgers, Lloyd’s own weary but determined expression, and the faint but persistent scent of rosemary.

“Young Lord,” Ken acknowledged, his voice the usual flat, unwavering baritone.

“Ken,” Lloyd began, forgoing any preamble. He gestured towards the chair opposite his desk, an invitation for the bodyguard to be seated—a small but significant gesture that shifted their dynamic from master-and-servant to commander-and-trusted-operative. Ken took the seat without a word, his posture as ramrod straight as ever.

“We have a problem,” Lloyd stated baldly. “A good problem, perhaps, but a problem nonetheless. Our success has outpaced our infrastructure. Specifically,” he steepled his fingers, adopting the focused mien of a commander delivering a mission briefing, “our customer-facing infrastructure.”

He quickly, concisely, outlined the situation at the factory gate. The chaos, the frayed tempers, the mix of entitled nobles and aggressive merchants, the overwhelming pressure on Jasmin and her small team. He explained the threat it posed not to their profits—the gold was still pouring in—but to their brand identity, to the carefully crafted aura of serene, exclusive luxury.

Ken listened, his expression unchanging, but Lloyd saw the subtle flicker of understanding in his eyes. Ken, the man who managed the logistics of the entire Ducal household, who navigated the treacherous social currents of the court daily, understood the danger of a tarnished reputation better than anyone.

“We need to recruit someone, Ken,” Lloyd continued, his voice low, serious. “And this is not a role for a guard, or a clerk, or an alchemist. The skill set is… unique. Highly specific.” He leaned forward, locking his gaze with his bodyguard’s. “I am not asking you to find me a soldier or a spy. I am asking you to use your other network. The one that hears the whispers in the taverns, the gossip in the markets. The one that knows who is respected, who is persuasive, who can calm a storm with a word.”

He began to list the required attributes, painting a portrait of the person he needed. “I need someone with immense, innate empathy. Someone who can genuinely listen to a furious Baroness complaining about a perceived slight and make her feel heard, understood, validated. Someone with an unshakable, almost preternatural, calm. Someone who can stand in the face of rage, entitlement, and desperation and not flinch, not falter.”

He paused, then added the most crucial requirement. “And they need a tongue, Ken. A tongue that can turn an insult into a compliment. A tongue that can soothe a dragon, charm a snake, and politely, cheerfully, convince a mob of angry, powerful people that waiting in a very long line is, in fact, a rare and delightful privilege. We don't need muscle. We need magic. Social magic.”

He leaned back, letting the unusual, highly specific recruitment request settle. He was asking his master assassin, his Transcended battle-butler, to act as a headhunter for a customer service representative. The absurdity was not lost on him.