My Anime Shopping Tree & My Cold Prodigy Wife! -
Episode-171
Chapter : 341
The painting seemed to glow in the dim, dusty light of the manufactory, a vibrant beacon of color and emotion. The stark, brilliant contrast between the two halves of the canvas was even more powerful here, in this rustic, industrial setting, than it had been in the sun-drenched pavilion. The ‘before’ woman, with her dull skin and weary, resigned expression, seemed to emerge from the very shadows of the old mill, a figure they all recognized, a representation of the harsh, drab reality they were working to change.
And the ‘after’ woman… she was a revelation. A promise. Her luminous skin, the serene, secret joy on her face, the rich, silken lather in her hands… she was not just a woman bathing; she was an icon of a better, brighter, more beautiful world. She was the very soul of AURA, made visible, tangible, undeniable.
Mei Jing was the first to break the silence. Her sharp, analytical mind, which processed the world in terms of profit margins and market penetration, was for once, completely, utterly, silenced by the sheer, raw, emotional power of the image. She took a step forward, her dark eyes wide, her usual cool, professional composure completely gone, replaced by a look of profound, almost reverent, astonishment.
“By the ancestors…” she breathed, the words a soft, stunned whisper. She walked closer, her gaze sweeping over the canvas, taking in every detail—the masterful rendering of the skin textures, the brilliant use of light and shadow, the powerful, unspoken narrative. “It’s… it’s a story,” she said, more to herself than to anyone else. “A story that needs no words. It is desire, aspiration, and fulfillment, all on a single canvas. It doesn't just show the product; it shows the feeling. The promise.” She turned to Lloyd, her dark eyes shining with a new, even deeper, respect. “My lord… this is not an advertisement. This is… a weapon. The most powerful marketing weapon I have ever seen.”
Tisha, her own hazel eyes wide and misty, nodded in fervent agreement. She saw it not through the eyes of a strategist, but through the eyes of the people she served every day. “They will understand this,” she whispered, her voice thick with emotion. “Everyone will understand this. The scullery maid who dreams of having soft hands. The merchant’s wife who longs for the refinement of the nobility. The old soldier who just wants a moment of clean, simple peace. They will see themselves in her,” she gestured to the weary ‘before’ woman, “and they will see their dreams in her.” She looked at the radiant ‘after’ woman. “It’s not just for nobles, my lord. This… this is for everyone. It speaks a universal language.”
Even the pragmatic Lyra was moved. She walked forward, peering at the canvas with her sharp, critical eye, assessing it not for its emotional impact, but for its functional clarity. “The visual communication is… highly effective,” she conceded, which for Lyra, was the equivalent of a gushing, tearful paean of praise. “The before-and-after paradigm is unambiguous. The product benefit is clearly, and persuasively, demonstrated. As a tool for visual communication…” she paused, then offered a rare, thin smile, “…it is without flaw.”
Alaric, the quiet perfectionist, simply stared, his spectacles slightly askew, his mouth slightly open. He was muttering to himself about the ‘pearlescent qualities of the layered glazes’ and the ‘chemically accurate representation of a stable, colloidal foam’. He was, in his own, deeply nerdy way, completely captivated.
It was Borin who, true to form, finally shattered the reverent atmosphere. He had been staring at the painting with a look of intense, almost frantic, concentration, his brow furrowed. Then, his face lit up with a sudden, brilliant, and deeply alarming, flash of inspiration.
“It’s magnificent, my lord! A triumph!” he boomed, clapping his hands together with a loud crack. “But… I have an idea to make it even better!”
Everyone turned to look at him, a collective, weary sigh passing through the team.
“What if,” Borin declared, his eyes gleaming with the manic fire of pure, unadulterated genius, “we infused the pigments with a small amount of powdered glow-moss? Just a trace! So that at night… the ‘after’ side… it would GLOW IN THE DARK! Imagine it! A beacon of cleanliness and refinement, shining through the very gloom of night! It would be… revolutionary!”
A beat of silence. Then, Lyra calmly, deliberately, picked up a nearby fire extinguisher bucket.
Lloyd just laughed, a deep, genuine, unrestrained laugh of pure joy. The painting was a success. The team, his strange, brilliant, wonderful team, understood. They saw the vision. They believed in it. Their unanimous, enthusiastic approval was the final, crucial validation of the strange, beautiful thing he and Faria had created.
Chapter : 342
He looked at the masterpiece on the easel, then at the proud, excited faces of his people. The foundation was laid. The product was perfected. And now, they had their banner. Their standard. A work of art that would carry the promise of AURA to every corner of the city. The next phase, the public unveiling, was about to begin. And Lloyd had a feeling it was going to be even more explosive than anything Borin could ever have conceived.
—
The next phase of the AURA revolution began not with a proclamation or a grand event, but with the quiet, methodical work of artisans and the silent, efficient movements of Ken Park’s network. Lloyd, armed with a portion of his now-considerable personal funds, did not risk sending the original masterpiece Faria had painted out into the world. That, he decided, was a treasure to be kept, a symbol of their strange and fruitful collaboration. It was carefully wrapped in velvet and stored in a secure, climate-controlled chamber adjacent to his study at the manufactory.
Instead, he initiated a new, equally ambitious project: replication.
Ken Park, with his usual unnerving efficiency, had identified the three most skilled and, more importantly, most discreet, art copyists in the entire capital. They were masters of their craft, capable of replicating a painting with such fidelity that even a connoisseur might be fooled. They were summoned to the manufactory under a strict oath of secrecy, their workshops temporarily relocated to a secure, private wing of the old mill.
Working from the original, under the unforgiving, perfectionist eye of Faria herself (who had agreed to stay on for a few more days to oversee the process, her artistic pride demanding that any copy of her work be absolutely flawless), the three artisans began the painstaking process of creating high-quality replicas. It was a slow, meticulous process, but within a week, they had produced five perfect copies, each one capturing the light, the texture, the raw, emotional power of the original.
Simultaneously, Lloyd commissioned the city’s finest woodworkers to craft massive, ornate frames of dark, polished ironwood, each one subtly carved with the swirling AURA logo. The paintings were not to be simply nailed to a wall; they were to be presented as works of art, as public treasures.
Then, in the dead of night, the first deployment began.
A team of Ken’s most trusted, silent operatives, moving like ghosts through the sleeping city, erected a large, sturdy art board in the most prominent, most high-traffic location imaginable: the very center of the capital’s main market square. It was a spot no one could miss, a crossroads where nobles in their litters, merchants in their wagons, and commoners on their daily errands would all pass.
Just before dawn, the first of the massive, framed replicas was hoisted into place and unveiled. And then, the operatives simply… vanished, leaving the painting to be discovered by the waking city.
The effect was immediate, and profound.
As the first rays of morning sun touched the cobblestones, as the first merchants began to set up their stalls, as the city slowly began to stir to life, they saw it. This huge, stunning, and utterly baffling work of art that had appeared overnight, as if by magic.
A crowd gathered. At first, it was just a few curious onlookers, then a dozen, then a hundred. The market square, usually a place of boisterous commerce, became a silent, open-air art gallery. They stared, their faces a mixture of confusion, fascination, and dawning comprehension.
They saw the story. The stark, undeniable narrative of the ‘before’ and ‘after’. They saw the weary resignation of the woman on the left, her skin dull, her world grey. And they saw the serene, radiant joy of the woman on the right, her skin glowing, her world filled with light and the promise of a silken, fragrant lather. They didn't know what ‘AURA’ meant. They didn't know what the elegant dispenser was. But they understood the message. They understood the promise.
The whispers began immediately, spreading through the square like a contagion.
“What is it? A painting from the Duke’s own collection?”
“Look at the woman on the right… her skin… it glows!”
“And the one on the left… she looks like my poor mother after a long day at the wash-tub.”
“AURA… what is this ‘Aura’?”
Then, someone in the crowd, a well-to-do merchant’s wife who had been lucky enough to be on the Premier Waiting List, recognized the dispenser. A sharp, excited gasp.
“It’s the soap!” she hissed to her companion, her voice a mixture of smug pride and conspiratorial excitement. “The Ferrum elixir! The one I told you about! See? The bottle! That is what it does!”
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