My Anime Shopping Tree & My Cold Prodigy Wife!
Episode-185

Chapter : 369

He looked back at Lloyd, his plan already formulated, the logistical pathways clear in his mind. “The timeframe for acquiring all three components, in their purified states, will be approximately three weeks, my lord. The cost will be minimal, well within my discretionary operational budget.”

Lloyd listened, a profound sense of respect and admiration for the man before him settling in his heart. Ken wasn't just a bodyguard; he was a master of a shadow world, a logistical genius whose reach and resources were terrifyingly vast. He had taken a list of strange, seemingly unrelated materials and instantly formulated a multi-pronged, clandestine procurement plan that was both brilliant and utterly foolproof.

“Excellent, Ken,” Lloyd said, his voice quiet but filled with an unwavering trust. “Proceed as you have outlined. Discretion is the soul of this entire operation. The success of Project Chimera depends on it.”

Ken inclined his head, a single, sharp nod of acknowledgment and acceptance. “Project Chimera,” he repeated, the name logged, filed, and sealed away in the impenetrable fortress of his mind. “It will be done, Young Lord.”

With that, he turned, and with the silent, fluid grace that was his trademark, he stepped back into the corner of the room and simply… vanished, melting back into the shadows from which he had come.

Lloyd was left alone in the lamplit study, the scent of rosemary mingling with the ghost of a new, more dangerous aroma—the faint, sharp, imagined scent of sulfur, saltpeter, and the coming fire. The seeds of his new weapon had been planted. Now, all he had to do was wait for the harvest.

________________________________________

The study of Arch Duke Roy Ferrum was a fortress of silence, a place where the fate of armies and the economies of provinces were decided by the scratch of a quill on parchment. The air was thick with the scent of old leather, beeswax, and the immense, almost tangible, weight of power. Roy sat behind his massive mahogany desk, the late afternoon sun slanting through the high, arched windows, illuminating the stern, unyielding lines of his face. He was reviewing a report on grain yields from the southern territories, his mind a formidable engine of logic and calculation, when a soft, almost imperceptible, knock echoed on the heavy oak door.

“Enter,” Roy commanded, his voice a low rumble, his gaze not lifting from the column of figures before him.

The door opened and closed with a ghost’s silence. Ken Park entered, moving with that unnerving fluidity that seemed to defy his solid frame. He stopped a respectful distance from the desk, a silent, immovable pillar in his dark, immaculate livery, and waited.

Roy finished the line he was reading, made a sharp, decisive notation in the margin with his quill, then carefully set the instrument down. Only then did he lift his head, his dark, penetrating eyes fixing on his most trusted retainer. He did not need to ask for the report. Ken’s unscheduled presence at this hour meant there was something to report, something of significance regarding the one variable that had come to dominate both their attentions: the young lord, Lloyd.

“Speak,” Roy said, his voice flat, inviting no preamble.

Ken Park inclined his head fractionally. He began his report in his usual manner—a calm, level, dispassionate recitation of observed facts, stripped of all emotion or speculation.

He started with the mundane. “Young Lord Lloyd continues to oversee operations at the Elixir Manufactory, my lord. Production of the ‘AURA Silken Bar’ is now at full capacity. The new ‘Radiance’ laundry powder has passed its final quality control tests, with the ‘milled limestone’ additive proving highly effective at preventing moisture-related degradation. Initial production runs are scheduled to begin next week.”

Roy nodded, a flicker of satisfaction in his eyes. The soap venture, his son’s bizarre but shockingly profitable obsession, continued to thrive. It was a solid, undeniable success. But he knew this was not why Ken was here.

“Lady Mei Jing has finalized distribution contracts with the newly appointed leaders of the Bathhouse and Washerman’s Guilds,” Ken continued seamlessly. “Her financial projections, which I have reviewed, are… robust. Master Elmsworth has begun drafting proposals for inter-ducal export licenses.”

More success. More profit. All well and good. Roy’s expression remained impassive. Get to the point, Ken.

“This evening,” Ken’s voice remained perfectly level, but the subject matter shifted, the tone of the report becoming instantly more significant, “Young Lord Lloyd convened a private, secure meeting in his study at the manufactory.”

Roy’s attention sharpened. A private meeting? After hours? Secure?

“The attendees,” Ken recited, “were the three alchemist apprentices currently assigned to his project: Alaric, Borin, and Lyra. The manufactory was sealed. All other personnel were dismissed.”

Chapter : 370

Roy leaned forward slightly, his fingers steepled before him. The pieces were moving.

“I maintained discreet surveillance, as per standard protocol,” Ken stated. “The subject of the meeting was… theoretical. A new, long-term research initiative, designated by the Young Lord as ‘Project Chimera’.”

Project Chimera. The name was evocative, almost poetic. It hinted at the fusion of disparate, powerful things. Roy felt a flicker of intrigued curiosity.

“The Young Lord,” Ken continued, his voice never wavering, “introduced the concept of a ‘catalytic combustion powder’. He described it as a stable, solid compound, created from three mundane reagents, capable of near-instantaneous phase transition upon ignition, resulting in… immense propulsive force.”

Roy Ferrum’s hands, which had been steepled calmly on his desk, froze. His blood ran cold. He stared at Ken, his dark eyes widening almost imperceptibly, the full, terrifying, world-altering implications of what he was hearing crashing down on him with the force of a physical blow.

A stable powder. Ignition. Immense propulsive force.

It was not a concept he had ever encountered in any military treatise, in any alchemical text. It was alien. It was… terrifyingly elegant. He, a master of warfare, a man who had commanded armies and planned campaigns his entire life, instantly grasped the potential. It was not just a new weapon. It was a new paradigm. A force that could render the thickest castle walls, the most heavily armored knights, the very foundations of their current understanding of warfare, obsolete.

He listened, his mind reeling, as Ken continued his dispassionate report, detailing Lloyd’s descriptions of metal tubes, of projectiles fired at impossible speeds, of a power that could be wielded not just by a gifted few, but by any common soldier.

When Ken finished describing the concept, he moved on to the final, most damning, piece of his report. “Following the meeting, the Young Lord tasked me with a clandestine procurement mission. He provided a list of three specific reagents, to be acquired in small, pure quantities, with absolute discretion.” Ken paused. “The items requested were: purified cave-wall salt, refined yellow brimstone, and finely milled heartwood charcoal.”

Saltpeter. Sulfur. Carbon.

Roy Ferrum did not know the precise chemical formula. He did not know the name ‘gunpowder’. But he was a brilliant strategist, a man whose mind was a fortress of logic and calculation. And the connection, the implication of these three specific, seemingly unrelated, ingredients, requested in secret for a project designed to create a ‘catalytic combustion powder’ for ‘future military development’… the conclusion was inescapable. And it was breathtaking.

Ken finished his report and fell silent, a statue of stoic professionalism, awaiting his master’s reaction. He expected, perhaps, a surge of anger at the sheer, dangerous audacity of the project. He expected a command to shut it down immediately, to confiscate the materials, to reprimand the young lord for delving into such volatile, unknown territory. He expected the Arch Duke, the guardian of stability, to react with caution, with fear.

But Roy Ferrum did not move. He did not speak. He simply sat there, staring at the polished surface of his desk, his face a mask of profound, stunned, almost reverent, silence. The grain yield reports, the tariff ledgers, the mundane realities of running a Duchy… they had all faded into insignificance.

He thought of his son. The quiet, awkward boy he had so often despaired of. The heir he had feared was too weak, too gentle, for the brutal world they inhabited. The son whose sudden transformation had been a source of constant, perplexing, bewildering surprise.

He had thought the soap was the pinnacle of his son’s innovation. A clever, profitable, but ultimately… domestic, achievement. He had been proud of Lloyd’s victory in the tournament, of his dismantling of Rubel’s plot, of his budding business acumen. But it had all been… small. Contained within the known rules of their world.

But this… this was different. This was not about improving the present. This was about seizing the future.

His son was not just thinking about commerce. He was not just thinking about personal power. He was thinking, with a terrifying, brilliant, long-range strategic foresight that Roy himself had never dared to contemplate, about the very foundations of their house’s security. He was not just reacting to threats; he was proactively seeking to create a power so overwhelming, so revolutionary, that it would render all current threats obsolete. He was thinking not like an heir. Not even like a Duke. He was thinking like an Emperor. He was thinking about a legacy that would echo for a thousand years.