My Anime Shopping Tree & My Cold Prodigy Wife!
Episode : 31

Chapter : 61

She took a deep, ragged breath, trying to regain control. She scrubbed at her eyes with the back of her hand, smearing grime across her cheek, but her posture straightened. The timidity was still there, woven into her very being, but beneath it, a core of resilience, of fierce maternal devotion, asserted itself. She looked up, meeting his gaze directly, her dark eyes shimmering with unshed tears but holding a newfound resolve.

"Yes," she whispered, the word thick with emotion but unwavering. "Yes, Young Lord. I… I accept. Thank you." The gratitude poured off her, raw and potent. "Whatever you need, I will do it. I swear. And… and discretion. You have my word."

"Excellent," Lloyd said, allowing himself a genuine smile this time. Relief mingled with satisfaction. He had his first recruit. "I knew I could count on you." He straightened up, his tone shifting back to business. "Right then. Your first task."

He glanced meaningfully towards the half-butchered carcass hanging nearby. "You handle these daily, yes? Breaking them down completely?"

"Yes, my lord. It is my primary duty."

"And you are… proficient?" he asked, already knowing the answer but wanting her to confirm it. "Despite your appearance, you have the strength, the technique?"

A faint blush touched her cheeks, but she nodded firmly. "My father taught me well, my lord. Before… before the plague took him. He said I had the knack. I can manage a full carcass alone, yes." There was a quiet pride in her voice now, acknowledging her own unusual skill.

"Good," Lloyd nodded, satisfied. "That proficiency is key. For this first stage, I need a specific component you likely discard or send off for crude rendering." He saw the confusion return to her eyes. "I need fat, Jasmin. Beef fat. Tallow."

Her brow furrowed. "T-tallow, my lord? The… the rendered fat?" Why on earth would the Arch Duke's heir want barrels of common tallow? Was he planning to make cheap candles? Lubricate hinges? It made no sense.

"Precisely," Lloyd confirmed crisply, ignoring her unspoken questions. "As much as you can gather over the next few days without raising alarms or causing shortages for the kitchens. Collect the raw trimmings during your usual work. If possible, render it down yourself – cleanly. Find somewhere discreet to store it. I need clean, good quality tallow. Can you manage that?"

Jasmin stared, utterly bewildered by the request but clinging fiercely to the promises made. Tallow. Collect tallow. For triple wages and her mother's health. It was bizarre, nonsensical, but the Young Lord had been specific, emphatic. And he knew about her mother…

"Yes, Young Lord," she said, the confusion still evident in her voice but overridden by determination. "I understand. Collect the beef fat. Render it cleanly. Store it discreetly. I… I will do it."

"Excellent," Lloyd repeated, clapping his hands together softly, projecting enthusiasm. "That's the first step. I'll be in touch within a few days with further instructions and to arrange collection. Remember," he leaned in slightly again, his voice dropping to a near whisper, "absolute discretion, Jasmin. No one needs to know you're collecting fat for me. Let them think… whatever they like. Just do the work."

"Yes, my lord. Discretion," she promised again, nodding firmly, her eyes wide but resolute.

"Good girl." He gave her another encouraging nod, then turned sharply, striding away before the curious onlookers could muster the courage to approach him or bombard Jasmin with questions.

He walked quickly back through the bustling kitchen, ignoring the renewed stares and whispers that followed him like ripples in a pond. Let them wonder. Let them gossip. Phase one was initiated. He had secured his source for the base ingredient – tallow wasn't ideal for luxury soap, but it was readily available, cheap, and perfect for initial experiments in perfecting the saponification process before he invested heavily in expensive oils. Jasmin, with her unexpected skills and desperate motivation, was the perfect operative.

Now, for the tricky part: lye. Sodium hydroxide. Alkali. The chemical counterpart to the fat. Essential for the reaction, but dangerous if mishandled, caustic if left unreacted. He couldn't just buy it; it wasn't commercially available here in purified form. He'd have to make it. Traditionally, that involved leaching water through wood ash, a slow, imprecise process yielding potassium hydroxide (potash lye), better suited for liquid soaps. For hard bars, he needed sodium hydroxide. Could he derive it from salt and limestone using some crude electrolytic process? Maybe. Risky. Explosive, even.

Or… maybe there was another way? Another resource within the estate he could leverage? His mind raced, sifting through chemical possibilities, logistical challenges. The soap business wasn't just about luxury goods; it was rapidly becoming a crash course in applied pre-industrial chemistry and covert operations.

Chapter : 62

He smirked as he finally exited the kitchens, leaving the scent of roasting meat and bewildered staff behind. One thousand Gold Coins. His father's challenge echoed in his mind. He'd get it. Even if he had to build a soap empire funded by cow fat and borderline-dangerous chemical experiments conducted in secret. The drab duckling was officially becoming a clandestine chemist.

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The relentless need for capital gnawed at Lloyd like a persistent hunger. The soap venture held immense promise, yes, but it was a long-term play. Experimentation, sourcing, production, marketing… it would take time, weeks, maybe months, before generating the kind of steady income he required for System upgrades and the looming Maternal Bloodline Awakening task. His father's thousand-gold challenge was a potential windfall, but contingent on delivering a prototype within a month – a month during which he still needed daily operating funds for the System's currency conversion.

Fifteen Gold Coins allowance per month. One Gold needed daily to max out the 10 SC conversion. The math remained stubbornly depressing. He needed supplementary income. Fast. Something less reliant on complex chemistry or delicate political maneuvering. Something… direct.

His thoughts inevitably turned to the established avenues for adventurers, mercenaries, and anyone with a modicum of skill and a tolerance for risk: the Central Guild.

Located in the bustling heart of the capital city, not far from the main market square, the Central Guild Hall was a nexus of commerce, contracts, and controlled chaos. It served as a clearinghouse for tasks ranging from mundane deliveries and monster extermination to retrieving lost heirlooms and guarding merchant caravans. It was where fortunes were occasionally made, and lives frequently lost. It was also, Lloyd realized with a sudden jolt of inspiration, a potential source of quick, relatively uncomplicated cash – provided he chose his tasks carefully.

He couldn't exactly take on high-profile mercenary contracts or bodyguard duty – too visible, too many questions, too likely to expose his hidden strengths prematurely. But simpler tasks? Collection missions? Killing a relatively weaker monster? Maybe…

The idea solidified as he endured Master Elmsworth’s afternoon lecture, this time on the fascinatingly dull topic of Guild charter regulations (information that, ironically, proved immediately useful). As soon as the session concluded, Lloyd politely excused himself, bypassing the waiting Ken Park with a brief instruction to "maintain discreet observation, standard protocols," and headed straight for the Guild Hall, melting into the afternoon crowds.

The Central Guild Hall was an imposing stone structure, its entrance flanked by weathered statues of legendary heroes and mythical beasts. Inside, the main hall buzzed with energy. Rough-looking mercenaries clad in dented armor mingled with nervous merchants clutching contracts, grizzled adventurers comparing maps, and hopeful youths scanning the massive wooden noticeboard dominating one wall. The air hummed with a hundred conversations, punctuated by the clang of coin on the reception counter and the occasional boisterous laugh. It smelled of sweat, cheap ale, oiled leather, and ambition.

Lloyd Ferrum’s entrance caused a minor, localized ripple in the chaotic flow. Heads turned. Conversations paused mid-sentence. He was instantly recognizable – the fine cut of his tunic (simple, but clearly expensive), his bearing (less awkward now, more contained confidence), and the simple fact that the Arch Duke’s heir rarely graced the Guild Hall personally. Most recognized him immediately as Lloyd Ferrum, the 'drab duckling', the mediocre heir inexplicably married to the stunningly talented Rosa Siddik.

Whispers followed him like shadows.

"Look! It's him! Young Lord Ferrum!"

"What's he doing here?"

"Slumming it again? Heard he slapped Torvin's crew yesterday…"

"Maybe looking for bodyguards? Though he usually has the Duke's man…"

"Doubt it. Probably just lost."

A few faces remained impassive – seasoned adventurers from other duchies or kingdoms, unfamiliar with local politics, judging him solely on his apparent youth and lack of obvious weaponry. They dismissed him quickly, turning back to their maps or mugs.

But the local contingent… ah, the locals. Lloyd felt their eyes on him, a mixture of curiosity, disdain, and something else, something sharper, more acidic, directed particularly from the younger men, the aspiring adventurers, the mercenaries trying to make a name for themselves. He could almost smell it, a metaphorical miasma hanging heavy in the air: burning, bitter jealousy.

Jealousy over his birthright, his privilege, his effortless access to wealth and status they clawed and fought for. But mostly? Jealousy over Rosa. The Ice Princess. Beautiful, powerful, talented Rosa Siddik, now bearing the Ferrum name, linked irrevocably to him. The injustice of it, in their eyes, was palpable. Why him? Why the weak, unremarkable heir, when they were stronger, braver, more deserving? He saw it in the tightening of jaws, the narrowed eyes, the contemptuous smirks barely concealed behind rough beards.

Good, Lloyd thought, a cold amusement flickering within him. Let them burn. Their envy is irrelevant.