My Anime Shopping Tree & My Cold Prodigy Wife!
Episode :51

Chapter : 101

Roy approached, positioning his filthy hand beneath the gleaming steel nozzle. But unlike Lloyd instructing Jasmin, Roy didn't tell the attendant to pump. He reached out with his clean right hand, his fingers exploring the unfamiliar mechanism, feeling the smooth travel of the pump head, the subtle resistance of the internal spring. Impressive resilience, he noted. Simple enough for anyone to operate, yet feels robust. He pressed down himself.

Click-hiss.

The rosemary-scented cream dispensed onto his soiled hand. He pumped again, ensuring a generous amount. Then, signaling the attendant for the water bucket (also retrieved silently), he began the cleansing process, just as Lloyd had done.

He worked the creamy soap into the dung, feeling the same surprising richness of the lather, smelling the clean rosemary scent battling the earthy odor. The lather itself feels different, he analyzed. Not thin and quick to dissipate like cheap soap. Dense. Stable. Clings effectively. He rinsed under the stream of water the attendant poured. He watched, fascinated despite himself, as the muck dissolved, washed away completely, leaving his skin feeling… astonishingly clean. Cleaner, somehow, than scrubbing with the harsh lye blocks ever achieved. No residue. Rinses completely. Remarkable.

He dried his hand carefully on a fresh linen towel the attendant provided. He examined his skin closely. No redness. No tightness. It felt smooth, comfortable, carrying only the faint, pleasant scent of rosemary. He compared it to his right hand, untouched by the experiment. The difference was subtle but undeniable. The washed hand felt… better. Revitalized. Less… punished by the act of cleaning. Milody was right. Velvety.

"Revolutionary," Roy murmured aloud, the word escaping him unintentionally. He wasn't just talking about the soap anymore, though its effectiveness was undeniable. He picked up the dispenser bottle again, turning it over and over, his engineer's mind, long dormant beneath the layers of ducal responsibility, clicking into high gear. "This mechanism… the pump, the valves, the spring return…" He peered closely at the nozzle, the precision fit of the steel cylinder into the oak body. "Where did he learn this? Master Elmsworth teaches resource allocation and trade theory, not fluid dynamics or precision mechanics! The weapons masters teach bladework and tactics, not valve seating and spring tension! Even the court artisans, skilled as they are, work primarily with precious metals and ornamentation, not functional micro-mechanics like this!"

He knew, with absolute certainty, that this wasn't something Lloyd had been taught. Not by Elmsworth, not by any other tutor Roy had employed. Lloyd’s formal education had been broad but conventional, focused on estate management, history, diplomacy – the skills deemed necessary for a potential administrator, compensating for his perceived lack of martial or magical prowess. Nothing in that curriculum covered the design and fabrication of miniature hydraulic pumps from scratch using shaped Void steel. Unless... A thought flickered. The true Ferrum power... the Steel and Fire... I know its potential for shaping, for destruction. Could it also possess such intricate creative capability? Could Lloyd have unlocked an aspect of the bloodline even I haven't fully explored? It seemed unlikely, yet the evidence was in his hands.

"Alchemy," Roy mused, thinking of the soap itself – the transformation of fat and ash water (according to his informant), the perfect saponification, the balanced essence temper implicitly demonstrated by the lack of irritation. That required knowledge, precision, control over chemical reactions. "And craftsmanship," his gaze returned to the bottle, "of an incredibly high order." He felt the smooth finish of the oak, the flawless gleam of the steel. This wasn't the clumsy work of a novice; it demonstrated an innate understanding of materials, of form, of function.

Where did this come from? Roy asked himself again, the question echoing in the quiet study. This sudden flowering of unexpected talent? He had always kept a subtle but pervasive watch over his son – tutors reported diligently, retainers like Ken provided observations. There had been no hint of this hidden aptitude, this sharp, inventive mind, this… genius, lurking beneath the surface of the quiet, unremarkable boy. Could he have been hiding it all along? Practicing in secret? Why? Fear of judgment? Lack of opportunity? Or was it truly… new?

Unless… The catalyst theory returned, stronger now. The marriage. Rosa Siddik.

Chapter : 102

He pictured Rosa again, her cool beauty, her formidable talent, her icy reserve. He remembered the reports from informant about the initial tension, Lloyd’s exile to the sofa. Could that friction, that challenge, that constant proximity to someone so obviously powerful and perhaps dismissive, have somehow… ignited something in Lloyd? Forced him to confront his own perceived inadequacies? Awakened a dormant potential through sheer force of ego, of needing to prove himself? She wouldn't have intended it, of course, Roy mused. Her motivations seem entirely focused on her own power, her own path. Detached. Logical. He recalled Jason Siddik, Rosa's father – a pragmatist, shrewd, protective of his family, especially since his wife Nilufa's long illness. Rosa likely inherited that focused pragmatism. Her presence wasn't meant to be motivational, merely… present. Yet the effect… the timing was undeniable. Before Rosa? Lloyd drifted. After Rosa? Lloyd… ignited.

Thank you, Lady Rosa, Roy thought, a rare, genuine smile finally touching his lips as he stood alone in his study, the revolutionary soap dispenser resting in his hand. Your presence, your coldness, your likely unintentional pressure… it seems you have inadvertently done this family, done my son, a greater service than any political alliance could have achieved. You provided the flint. His own hidden steel provided the spark.

He looked at the bottle again, the smile lingering. Lloyd wasn't a fool. He wasn't mediocre. He possessed a hidden brilliance, a unique blend of talents Roy hadn't foreseen. This invention, born from whatever strange confluence of events had transpired, was proof. His heir was not a liability. His heir was… intriguing. Full of surprises. A complex equation Roy was only beginning to understand.

The thousand Gold Coin investment no longer felt like a gamble on a foolish whim. It felt like seeding the first venture of a mind capable of seeing the world differently. A mind potentially capable of leading the Ferrum family into a new era. The soap was secondary. The mind that conceived it, the power that crafted the dispenser – that was the real asset. This investment wasn't just about potential profits; it was about fostering this unexpected brilliance, understanding its source, harnessing its potential for the good of the Duchy. He needed to know more, see more. The assessments by Elmsworth, Grimaldi, the artisans – they weren't just due diligence anymore; they were intelligence gathering on his own baffling, suddenly remarkable son.

The future felt suddenly, unexpectedly, brighter. And it smelled faintly of rosemary.

—--

The heavy oak doors of another place, the Central Guild Hall swung inward, admitting Lloyd Ferrum into the familiar cacophony of the main chamber. The air, thick with the usual blend of sweat, ale, oiled leather, and simmering ambition, seemed to part slightly around him. It was his second visit in as many days, a frequency unheard of for the usually reclusive heir.

Heads turned. Conversations didn't just pause this time; some ceased entirely, replaced by watchful silence. The whispers were still there, frantic currents beneath the surface noise, but the tone had subtly shifted. Yesterday's open mockery, the blatant disdain fueled by jealousy over his status and his wife, had curdled into something more complex. Wary curiosity. Grudging acknowledgment. Resentment, perhaps, now sharpened by the undeniable fact that the 'drab duckling' had taken a notoriously dangerous contract – the Cursed Wool – and walked back out, apparently unscathed, leaving terrified scavengers in his wake (news, Lloyd suspected, traveled fast on the Guild grapevine, likely embellished with every telling).

Perception management, stage one: complete, Lloyd thought, a flicker of grim satisfaction warming him despite the ever-present need for more System Coins. They don't have to like me. They just need to stop assuming I'm helpless prey. He scanned the hall, noting the hardened adventurers who now met his gaze with neutral assessment rather than dismissal, the younger hopefuls whose sneers were replaced by uncertain frowns. Even the air of jealousy felt different – less dismissive, more… grudgingly intense. Good. Let them wonder.

He walked directly towards the main counter, his stride measured, confident. The same young clerk with the ink-stained fingers was on duty, looking perpetually harassed by the demands of a dozen adventurers clamoring for attention. As Lloyd approached, the clerk looked up, recognized him instantly, and his reaction was telling. No wide-eyed alarm this time. No panicked warnings or desperate attempts to dissuade him. Just a flicker of surprise at his quick return, immediately masked by professional efficiency. The clerk straightened slightly, offering a brief, almost imperceptible nod – not of deference, exactly, but of acknowledgment. An acknowledgment that Lloyd Ferrum, against all odds, was apparently capable of handling himself, at least sufficiently to survive a trip into cursed territory.