My Anime Shopping Tree & My Cold Prodigy Wife!
Episode : 136

Chapter: 271

Ken Park remained silent for a long moment, his impassive face giving nothing away. His mind, Lloyd knew, was processing the request, cross-referencing it against the vast, unseen database of individuals his network constantly monitored. He wasn't just thinking of guards or spies. He was thinking of tavern keepers, of respected guild mediators, of charismatic market vendors, of anyone known for their ability to handle people with grace and skill. Ken’s network wasn't just about threats; it was about assets. And a person with the skills Lloyd described was a very valuable asset indeed.

“The profile is… specific, Young Lord,” Ken said finally, his voice the usual flat monotone, yet Lloyd detected a faint, almost subliminal, note of something that might have been… intrigued surprise? Or perhaps just the quiet hum of his formidable intelligence apparatus kicking into high gear. “Empathy, calm, rhetorical skill. Not a common combination, particularly when combined with the resilience required to face down enraged nobility.”

“I know,” Lloyd conceded. “But such a person must exist. Find them, Ken.”

Ken simply nodded. A single, sharp, decisive gesture. It was not a promise to try; it was a statement of intent. “The network will be tasked. A search will be initiated. I will report my findings within forty-eight hours.” The certainty in his voice was absolute. The might of the Ferrum heir’s clandestine intelligence network was now being brought to bear on a recruitment problem for the marketing department.

With a final, silent nod, Ken rose, turned, and melted back into the evening shadows, leaving Lloyd alone in his office with the scent of rosemary and a renewed sense of hope. If anyone could find this paragon of public relations, this messiah of customer service, it was Ken Park.

Two days later, true to his word, Ken appeared again, as silently and suddenly as ever. He did not have a list of candidates. He did not have a dossier. He had a location.

“I have identified a potential asset, Young Lord,” Ken stated, his voice devoid of any triumph, merely delivering a factual report. “Her skills align with your specified parameters. However, an assessment of her capabilities in a… high-stress, chaotic environment… is recommended before any formal approach is made.”

“Excellent,” Lloyd said, rising from his desk where he and Mei Jing had been wrestling with production schedules. “Where can I observe this… asset?”

Ken’s answer was not what he expected. “The Gilded Flagon tavern, Young Lord. In the heart of the city’s central merchant district. At midday.”

Mei Jing’s eyebrow arched. “The Gilded Flagon? Ken, that’s the busiest, most chaotic, most notoriously difficult-to-manage tavern in the entire city. It’s a hive of drunken mercenaries, aggressive traders, and professional arguers. Managing that place during the midday rush is less a job and more a form of active combat.”

A faint, almost invisible smile touched Ken’s lips. “Precisely,” he said. “An ideal testing environment.” He looked at Mei Jing, a flicker of something that might have been shared understanding in his eyes. “Your own recommendation was a key factor in her identification, Lady Mei Jing. Your insights into her character proved… accurate.”

Mei Jing’s own expression softened with a flicker of pleased surprise. “You found her, then? Good. I had a feeling you would.” She turned to Lloyd. “My lord, if Ken’s asset is who I believe it is… then our problem is solved.”

Intrigued, and trusting the combined judgment of his ruthless marketing guru and his terrifyingly competent spy-butler, Lloyd agreed. That midday, he and Mei Jing, dressed in the simple but well-made attire of prosperous merchants to avoid drawing undue attention, made their way to the Gilded Flagon.

The moment they stepped inside, they were hit by a wall of noise, heat, and chaotic energy. The place was packed, a seething mass of humanity. Mercenaries slammed tankards on tables, arguing over maps. Traders shouted negotiations over the din. The air was thick with the smell of spilled ale, roasting meat, sweat, and sawdust. It was, as Mei Jing had described, less a tavern and more a barely contained riot.

And at the center of it all, a whirlwind of calm, efficient, indomitable cheerfulness, was a single young woman.

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Lloyd and Mei Jing found a small, blessedly unoccupied table in a shadowy corner of the Gilded Flagon, a strategic observation post from which to witness the chaos. The roar of a hundred conversations, the clash of tankards, the scrape of chairs on the stone floor—it was an overwhelming symphony of commerce and camaraderie, constantly on the verge of collapsing into a full-blown brawl. And at the heart of this storm, moving with a grace and purpose that was utterly captivating, was the young woman Ken had identified.

Chapter: 272

Her name, Mei Jing whispered to Lloyd with a proud, almost proprietary smile, was Tisha.

Tisha was not classically beautiful in the way of the noblewomen Lloyd knew. There was no icy, untouchable perfection like Rosa’s, no fiery, dramatic elegance like Faria’s. Her beauty was of a different, more vital, more alive, kind. She was of average height, with a sturdy, capable build, her simple tavern-wench attire clean but practical. Her brown hair was tied back in a simple, no-nonsense ponytail that bounced as she moved, and her face, dotted with a light spray of freckles across her nose, was open, expressive, and currently dominated by a bright, genuine, utterly unshakable smile.

But it was her eyes that truly defined her. They were a warm, clear hazel, and they seemed to see everything, constantly scanning the room, not with suspicion, but with a kind of profound, almost supernatural, awareness. They saw the half-empty tankard in a mercenary’s hand, the frustrated frown on a merchant’s face, the subtle shift in posture that signaled an argument was about to escalate.

She was a whirlwind of charisma. She moved through the packed, chaotic room not like an employee battling the tide, but like a master conductor guiding her orchestra, her every movement, every word, every gesture, perfectly timed, perfectly pitched.

Lloyd and Mei Jing watched, fascinated, as she single-handedly managed what should have been an impossible situation.

An argument erupted near the bar. Two massive, bearded mercenaries, their faces flushed with ale and bruised pride, were squaring off, their hands hovering over the hilts of the long-knives at their belts. A dispute over a shared bounty, it seemed. The air crackled with imminent violence.

Tisha was there in an instant. She didn't shout. She didn't call for the bouncer. She simply slid between them, placing a hand gently on each of their massive, leather-clad arms, her bright smile never faltering.

“Now, now, boys,” she said, her voice clear and cheerful, yet carrying an undertone of firm, no-nonsense authority that made both giants pause. “Gunnar, Boris, you know the rules of the Gilded Flagon. All blades stay sheathed, and all arguments are settled with either more ale or a game of dice. Preferably both.” She looked from one furious face to the other. “And besides,” she added, her hazel eyes twinkling with mischief, “you’re frightening the new barmaid. She’s from the countryside. She thinks all city folk are this loud.”

She glanced over her shoulder at a non-existent, terrified barmaid. Gunnar and Boris, their murderous rage momentarily short-circuited by this bizarre, unexpected appeal to their better natures, actually looked abashed.

“Tell you what,” Tisha continued smoothly, already pouring two fresh, foaming tankards of ale from a nearby pitcher. “The next round is on the house. A toast. To your successful hunt, and to your continued, and hopefully much quieter, partnership.” She pressed the tankards into their hands. “Now, drink up. Or I’ll have to tell everyone you were scared off by an imaginary farm girl.”

The tension broke. Boris let out a reluctant, rumbling chuckle. Gunnar grunted, but he took the tankard. The argument, which had been moments away from bloodshed, was defused, transformed into a grudging, ale-fueled truce. Tisha gave them both a final, brilliant smile, then was already moving away, her attention already on the next potential crisis.

“Remarkable,” Lloyd murmured, genuinely impressed. “She didn’t just de-escalate; she reframed the entire situation. Turned their aggression into a joke, reinforced the house rules, and made them feel magnanimous for not brawling. All without raising her voice.”

“That,” Mei Jing replied, a proud, satisfied smile on her own face, “is Tisha. She has a gift.”

Next, they watched as she approached a table where a wealthy, sour-faced silk merchant was complaining loudly about the quality of the stew. His face was puce, his voice a whining drone of displeasure.

Tisha listened patiently, her head tilted, her expression one of pure, sympathetic concern. She didn't interrupt. She didn't argue. She just let him vent, nodding in all the right places. When he finally wound down, sputtering about the unacceptable stringiness of the carrots, she leaned in conspiratorially.

“You are absolutely right, Master Corbin,” she whispered, her voice a balm of soothing empathy. “The carrots are a disgrace today. Cook tried a new supplier. A terrible mistake, and one I assure you will not be repeated. He is inconsolable in the kitchen, truly.” She patted his arm reassuringly. “Please, allow me to bring you a slice of my own personal honey-cake, fresh from the oven this morning. As a sincere apology from the entire Gilded Flagon for the… the carrot-related trauma… we have inflicted upon you.”