My Anime Shopping Tree & My Cold Prodigy Wife!
Episode : 50

Chapter : 99

"See that you do," Roy dismissed him curtly, already reaching for a stack of official documents, the soap demonstration apparently concluded in his mind, filed away pending further data.

Lloyd turned, offering a brief, respectful nod to his mother. Milody gave him a small, almost conspiratorial smile in return, her eyes still holding that spark of surprised interest and perhaps a touch of maternal pride carefully hidden beneath layers of noble composure. He glanced towards Rosa, still standing silently by the bookshelves. She met his gaze for a fraction of a second, her expression as unreadable as ever, before looking away towards the window again. But he fancied he saw a flicker, a microscopic shift in the usual icy calm. Calculation? Reassessment? Or just irritation at the lingering smell? Impossible to tell. But she had witnessed it all. Another contradictory data point for her internal analysis.

He gave Jasmin a final, encouraging nod, silently conveying his thanks for her crucial role and promising future instructions regarding the curing soap and further liquid experiments. Then, leaving the lingering scent of rosemary struggling valiantly against the faint memory of cow dung, Lloyd Ferrum exited the study. He headed towards Master Elmsworth's lecture hall, not with dread, but with a newfound spring in his step. The Arch Duke's assessment was just another hurdle, another challenge to overcome. He would provide the data. He would secure the funding. He had to. The soap empire, and the System Coins it would generate, demanded nothing less. The path ahead was clear, even if paved with academic boredom and potential chemical hazards.

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The heavy oak door clicked shut, sealing Arch Duke Roy Ferrum within the sudden, profound silence of his study. The lingering scent of rosemary battled valiantly against the ghost of cow dung, a bizarre olfactory testament to the morning's chaotic demonstration. His wife, Milody, had departed with a thoughtful, almost proprietary gleam in her eye, undoubtedly already strategizing potential marketing angles for "Ferrum Family Finest Cleansing Elixir" or some equally grand title. Rosa Siddik had vanished like smoke, her presence dissolving back into the estate's background hum, leaving behind only the faintest impression of cool, analytical assessment. Lloyd himself was presumably halfway to Master Elmsworth's lecture hall, projecting newfound diligence.

Roy remained seated behind his immense desk, the facade of the stern ruler momentarily shelved. His gaze was fixed, not on the stacks of official documents demanding his attention, nor on the intricate carvings of the ceiling, but on the object resting squarely before him: the oak and steel pumping bottle.

It sat there, solid, elegant, undeniably clever. A tangible piece of innovation that had emerged from the most unexpected source imaginable – his own son. The son he had worried over, despaired of, perhaps even subconsciously written off as a pleasant but ultimately inadequate placeholder in the Ferrum lineage. Soap, Roy thought, the word still feeling absurd in the context of ducal matters. He risked humiliation, my wrath, his mother’s considerable displeasure… over soap.

Slowly, deliberately, Roy Ferrum rose from his chair. He moved around the desk, his steps measured, thoughtful. He stopped before the side table where the bottle rested. He looked at it again, truly seeing it this time, free from the need to project authority or manage the reactions of others. The smooth, warm grain of the polished oak… flawless finish. No tool marks visible. How? Shaped by hand? Impossible to achieve this uniformity. Shaped by… Void power? Possible, Ferrum power interacts with metal, perhaps wood manipulation is a lesser-known aspect? Or was it simply outsourced craftsmanship of the highest order? But who would possess such skill and maintain secrecy? The steel… cool, precise, gleaming with an inner light. Not the dull grey of common iron, but the hard lustre of true steel. Again, shaped with impossible precision.

The mechanism, his mind honed in, the engineer within him stirring from a long slumber beneath layers of political calculation. A piston pump. Valves… one-way check valves, presumably. A spring return. He traced the nozzle's curve with a fingertip. How are the tolerances achieved? For this to work smoothly with a viscous liquid like that… paste… the fit between piston and cylinder must be exact. Any binding, any leakage, and it fails. He ran a finger over the join between the wood and steel neck. Seamless. Threaded? How were threads of this fineness cut into both materials so perfectly?

Chapter : 100

This isn't just craftsmanship; this is precision engineering. Where did Lloyd encounter such concepts? Not Elmsworth. Not the weapons masters. Not the basic texts on architecture or siege engines provided by his tutors. Where did this knowledge originate? The question hammered at him, demanding an answer he didn't possess. Ancient Ferrum schematics found in the archives? Possible, but unlikely. This design felt… efficient. Modern, in a way that defied Riverio's often cumbersome approaches.

Then, his gaze shifted to the faint brown smear on his desk blotter where he'd tested the pump earlier. The rosemary scent still clung faintly to the air. He recalled the demonstration: the shocking initial display with the dung – a calculated risk, bordering on madness, yet undeniably effective in establishing the problem. Lloyd’s calm confidence amidst the chaos. The effortless cleaning demonstrated on his own hands. The sheer effectiveness of the product delivered by the ingenuity of the device.

A decision, swift and unexpected even to himself, formed in his mind. A need to verify, to experience it firsthand, unfiltered by his wife's enthusiasm or his son's presentation. Logic dictated relying on expert assessment, but instinct – the instinct of a ruler, a father, confronting a profound anomaly – demanded direct, personal data acquisition. He needed to feel the difference, understand the tactile reality of this 'miracle soap'.

"Attendant," Roy spoke quietly, his voice resonating slightly in the empty room.

From the deepest shadows near the imposing bookshelves, a figure detached itself, melting into existence without a sound. Clad head-to-toe in concealing dark robes, face completely obscured by a deep cowl, the attendant moved with unnerving fluidity, their very presence seeming to absorb the light. Their identity, their gender, even their exact form, remained deliberately ambiguous – one of Roy Ferrum’s hidden instruments, utterly loyal, existing only to serve and observe in silence.

"Your Grace?" The voice from within the cowl was muffled, toneless, gender-neutral.

"The… demonstration materials," Roy instructed, the slight hesitation betraying his own lingering disbelief at the situation. "Bring them." He didn't need to specify which materials. The attendant would understand.

The robed attendant didn't react, didn't question the bizarre command. It simply bowed its cowled head slightly and vanished back into the shadows as silently as it had appeared. Moments later, it returned, carrying not the elegant bottle, but the rough burlap bundle Lloyd had discarded. The pungent, earthy smell of fresh cow dung once again filled the study, a stark intrusion into the refined space. The attendant placed the bundle carefully on the floor near the desk, then stepped back into the shadows, resuming its statue-like stillness, awaiting further orders.

Roy stared down at the steaming pile of manure. He thought of Lloyd deliberately plunging his hands into it, the calculated shock value, the absolute confidence that followed. There had better be a damn good reason, Roy had thought then. Now, he needed to understand that reason from the inside out. Is the contrast truly so stark? Is the need demonstrated so effectively? Or was it merely youthful theatrics? He had to know. The ruler needed data. The father needed… understanding.

Taking a deep breath, steeling himself against the ingrained aristocratic revulsion, Roy Ferrum did something utterly unthinkable for the ruler of the Duchy. He leaned down, reached into the burlap, and deliberately plunged his own left hand deep into the warm, yielding mass of cow dung.

The attendant remained perfectly still, betraying no surprise, no judgment. Its purpose was to obey and observe, not to react. Its silence was absolute, its presence merely functional.

Roy straightened up, examining his soiled hand with a detached curiosity that warred with his visceral disgust. The feeling was unpleasant, the smell overwhelming. This is the problem, he thought, echoing Lloyd’s earlier statement. The mundane reality of filth. Unavoidable. Persistent. Even for an Arch Duke, though usually dealt with by others. He acknowledged the unpleasant truth. Existing cleansing methods were harsh, inefficient. They cleaned, yes, but at a cost – dried skin, lingering chemical odors, a general sense of abrasion. Lloyd hadn't just presented a product; he'd presented a solution to a universally acknowledged, if rarely spoken of, discomfort.

He then nodded towards the elegant bottle resting on the side table. "Hold this," he commanded the attendant, indicating the dispenser. The robed figure glided forward, picking up the bottle with careful, gloved hands (produced silently from within its robes), holding it steady as instructed.