My Anime Shopping Tree & My Cold Prodigy Wife!
Episode : 62

Chapter : 123

"However," Roy added, his voice hardening instantly, the warmth, if any, vanishing, replaced by the cold steel of command, "this is not a gift, Lloyd. This is an investment from the Ducal treasury. And every Ferrum investment demands a return. Or," his gaze became flinty, "a reckoning." He leaned forward, pinning Lloyd with an unyielding stare that brooked no argument, no excuses. "Should this… soap empire… of yours fail to materialize, should it dissolve into nothing more than scented smoke and wasted capital, should it prove to be a flight of adolescent fancy or a costly misjudgment, then you, Lloyd Ferrum, as head of this venture, will be held personally, financially, responsible. You will repay the full ten thousand Gold Coins to the Ducal treasury. Every last bronze piece. Even if it takes you a lifetime."

The condition hung in the air, stark, absolute, unforgiving. A chance at vast resources, a kingdom to build, but counterbalanced by the crushing weight of potentially ruinous personal debt if he failed. This wasn't just business; it was a trial by fire.

A slow, wide grin spread across Lloyd Ferrum's face. It wasn't a grin of relief, but of pure, unadulterated exhilaration, of a challenge not just accepted, but eagerly embraced. The pressure, the monumental stakes, they didn't daunt him; they ignited him. "Father," he said, his voice ringing with a confidence that bordered on breathtaking audacity, a confidence that seemed to fill the grand study, "you wound me with such talk. Repayment implies the possibility of failure. And failure, I assure you, is a concept that has been deliberately omitted from the foundational charter of this enterprise."

He leaned forward himself, his eyes gleaming with an ambition that mirrored his father's own, yet hinted at a scope Roy was only just beginning to comprehend. "This soap," Lloyd declared, gesturing towards the elegant dispenser, now a symbol of far more than mere cleanliness, "this is merely the vanguard, Father. The first drop in a coming tide of Ferrum innovation. I have visions for revolutionizing our textile production, streamlining our agricultural yields through improved logistics and soil enrichment, optimizing resource management across all our holdings in ways that will dwarf the profits from this humble cleansing agent."

He chuckled, a low, confident sound that held no trace of arrogance, only absolute certainty. "Ten thousand Gold Coins? Consider it the most prudent seed money you have ever sown, Father. Seed money for the future prosperity of this entire Duchy. A future, I might add," his grin widened, "that will smell considerably better, and be far more efficiently managed."

Grand Master Grimaldi suddenly let out a booming, hearty laugh, a sound so unexpected and joyous it seemed to make the very tapestries on the walls tremble. He slapped his knee with a resounding thwack. "By the seven simmering stills of Zosimos of Panopolis!" he roared, his ancient eyes twinkling with unrestrained delight. "The boy has fire in his belly and a vision that could turn lead into… well, exceptionally profitable soap! Arch Duke Roy," he turned to his friend and patron, a wide, infectious grin splitting his venerable face, "forgive an old alchemist's sudden, unprofessional enthusiasm, but if you don’t object strenuously, I should very much like to offer my meager talents, my centuries of accumulated knowledge, as an unofficial, unpaid, but exceptionally keen advisor to Young Lord Lloyd in this… this delightfully fragrant and audaciously conceived enterprise! The sheer elegant simplicity of the chemistry! The potential for refinement! It’s an alchemist’s forgotten dream made manifest!"

Before Roy could even formulate a response to Grimaldi’s passionate outburst, Master Elmsworth interjected, his face flushed with academic fervor, looking slightly affronted at the alchemist's encroachment but also undeniably thrilled by the unfolding drama. "Now, now, Grimaldi, esteemed colleague though you are," he sputtered, waving his charcoal-stained parchment indignantly, "let us not go poaching my most promising, if recently unorthodox, student! Young Lord Lloyd has already demonstrated a remarkable, nay, an unprecedented aptitude for economic theory, logistical optimization, and practical market application! His insights into sustainable forestry and inventory turnover alone were revolutionary! This venture, Your Grace, it requires sound financial stewardship, meticulous cost-benefit analysis, and strategic market penetration as much as, if not more than, alchemical dabbling! Perhaps," he conceded, a crafty look entering his eye, "a joint advisory committee? A synergy of disciplines, so to speak?"

Chapter : 124

Roy Ferrum watched them, the two most respected and notoriously critical scholars in his Duchy, practically vying for the opportunity to mentor his son – the son he had, until so recently, privately despaired of. He saw the genuine, almost boyish excitement in their aged eyes, the clear recognition of Lloyd's unexpected, multifaceted brilliance. He saw Lloyd, standing there amidst the intellectual crossfire, not cowed, not arrogant, but radiating a quiet, potent confidence, an ambition tempered by clear-headed planning. An ambition that, however unconventional its current focus, was undeniably Ferrum in its scale and audacity.

He would never admit it aloud, not now, perhaps not ever, not even to Milody in the privacy of their chambers. It wasn't the Ferrum way to speak of such things. But deep within the Arch Duke’s heavily guarded, often weary heart, a profound, almost painful wave of pride swelled, fierce and undeniable. This was his son. His heir. Not a pale imitation, not a disappointment, but a true successor, forging his own path with intelligence, courage, and a vision that, however bizarrely centered on soap, was undeniably compelling.

Roy cleared his throat, the sound sharp, instantly cutting through the scholars’ enthusiastic, slightly competitive, bickering. He fixed Lloyd with that stern, unwavering gaze, the pride ruthlessly locked away, the Arch Duke mask firmly back in place. "Ten thousand Gold Coins it is," he stated, the words final, irrevocable. "Report to the Ducal Bursar at your earliest convenience; the funds will be allocated to a new venture account under your direct signatory control." He paused, then added, his voice taking on that familiar, razor-sharp edge of command, "And Lloyd?"

"Yes, Father?" Lloyd replied, his own expression calm, respectful, yet unable to entirely conceal the triumphant gleam in his eyes.

"Don't make me regret this," Roy Ferrum said. The words were a command. A warning. And perhaps, just perhaps, hidden deep beneath the layers of ducal authority and paternal reserve, a sliver of profoundly hopeful trust.

----

The ten thousand Gold Coins gleamed metaphorically in Lloyd’s mental vault, a vast, almost intimidating sum. Yet, the Ducal Bursar, a fussy man named Periwinkle with a permanent frown etched by fiscal responsibility, had made it abundantly clear that "allocating to a new venture account" was a process involving ledgers, triplicate forms, and a "cooling-off period for prudent review," which apparently meant at least a week before Lloyd could actually touch a single bronze piece.

A week. Seven more days of scrounging for a single Gold Coin daily to feed the System’s insatiable conversion appetite. The soap empire, however gloriously envisioned, was still in its larval stage, its profits hypothetical, its infrastructure non-existent. Lloyd needed immediate System Coins, not just for the slow drip of daily conversions towards his maternal bloodline awakening, but for upgrades. Fang’s Thousand Chirp Strike was potent, yes, but it was a Manifestation-level skill. To truly contend with the threats he now sensed looming – threats potentially backed by the Altamira dynasty – he needed Ascension, for both Fang and his own Void powers. And Ascension cost a hefty 500 SC per spirit.

"Right," Lloyd muttered to himself, pacing the familiar, lumpy confines of his sofa domain later that evening. Rosa was, as usual, a silent, statuesque presence across the room, engrossed in some dense tome that probably detailed ancient curse-breaking techniques or advanced frost magic etiquette. "Periwinkle's bureaucratic bottleneck means the big bucks are on hold. The soap production line is weeks away from yielding actual profit. Allowance is a joke. Which leaves… the Guild."

He winced internally. The Central Guild Hall. A pit of simmering resentment, petty jealousy, and questionable hygiene. But also, a source of ready coin for those willing to risk life and limb for tasks ranging from the mundane to the suicidal. His last venture there, the Cursed Wool contract, had been… profitable, eventually netting him a good thirty Gold Coins worth of quicksilver. But it had also been dangerous, messy, and attracted unwelcome attention.

He needed something quicker this time, less high-profile. Something local, offering a decent silver payout he could immediately convert. Enough to tide him over until Periwinkle released the soap funds.

The next morning, after the now-routine ritual of feeding Fang (who seemed to crackle with barely contained lightning these days, his golden eyes holding an almost disconcerting level of self-awareness) and converting his daily Gold Coin (leaving him with a meager 3 SC from the allowance and a running total towards the bloodline awakening), Lloyd found himself once again navigating the chaotic, noisy thoroughfares towards the Guild Hall. Ken Park, under strict instructions for "maximum discretion, observation only unless dire mortal peril is confirmed by an actual severed limb," was a ghost somewhere in his wake.