My Anime Shopping Tree & My Cold Prodigy Wife!
Episode : 85

Chapter : 169

The loud, discordant crash of shattering porcelain ripped through the tense, rosemary-and-faintly-dung-scented air of Arch Duke Roy Ferrum’s study, a sound as shocking and out of place as a thunderclap in a library. Every head, already turned towards Lloyd after his father’s hushed, momentous revelation, now stared with renewed, almost horrified intensity.

Lloyd Ferrum stood frozen, his hand still hovering where the teacup had been, his face a mask of carefully controlled neutrality that did absolutely nothing to conceal the wild, screaming panic currently doing a frenetic tango with disbelief in his brain.

King Liam Bethelham? Here? Disguised? Interested in my soap? My soap?! The one made with cow fat and experimental lye in a dusty smokehouse? Is this a fever dream? Did one of those Galla Forest spores finally take root in my cerebellum and decide to stage an avant-garde theatrical production starring royalty and questionable hygiene products?

He could feel the heat rising in his cheeks, the sudden, prickling awareness of every eye in the room dissecting his clumsiness, his shock, his very existence. The King of Bethelham. The man who had praised his “cleansing elixir” and “ingenious dispensing contraption” with such charming, almost conspiratorial enthusiasm, was not just some interested nobleman with a penchant for rosemary and a surprisingly astute understanding of market potential. He was Liam. Freaking. Bethelham. Ruler of a neighboring, often rival, kingdom.

Roy Ferrum’s gaze flickered towards the shattered remains of the teacup, then back to Lloyd, his expression unreadable, though a muscle twitched almost imperceptibly in his jaw. It might have been annoyance at the destruction of ducal crockery, or perhaps a flicker of understanding at his son’s rather dramatic reaction to having a monarch casually dropped into conversation. Probably both.

Lloyd’s internal monologue was now a high-pitched, continuous scream. Okay, okay, deep breaths. Don't hyperventilate in front of royalty. Even disguised royalty. Especially disguised royalty who just complimented your soap. Must maintain composure. Must not look like a gibbering imbecile who just discovered the sky is made of cheese. Or, you know, that the random rich guy is actually the King.

"My apologies, Father," Lloyd managed, his voice impressively steady despite the internal chaos. He bent down with what he hoped was dignified grace, though he felt about as graceful as a startled hippopotamus on roller skates, and began to gather the larger shards of porcelain. "Clumsy of me. The… the news was rather… unexpected."

Unexpected? his brain shrieked. Unexpected is finding a gold coin in your laundry. This is 'discovering your pet hamster is secretly a transdimensional warlord' level of unexpected!

"Indeed," Roy murmured, his voice a low rumble that brooked no further discussion on the matter of shattered teacups or royal revelations. He gave a subtle, almost imperceptible nod towards the figure Lloyd now knew to be King Liam Bethelham, a silent acknowledgment that the charade, at least between them, was momentarily suspended, or perhaps, just profoundly complicated.

"My dear Lord Ferrum," the King began, his voice smooth, cultured, utterly devoid of any royal affectation, sounding for all the world like a genuinely concerned fellow nobleman. He subtly steered Lloyd away from the remaining porcelain debris, which a silent, suddenly appearing household attendant began to discreetly sweep away. "No harm done, I trust? A mere accident. Easily remedied. Though," his eyes twinkled with that same roguish amusement Lloyd had noted earlier, "I do hope it wasn’t my rather enthusiastic praise for your… cleansing elixir… that caused such a start?"

Lloyd, still reeling, managed a weak smile. "Not at all, my lord… uh… James," he stammered, remembering the name his father had whispered. Gods, calling a King ‘James’ felt like addressing a thunderstorm by its first name. "Just… a momentary lapse in coordination. The perils of early mornings and… complex family discussions."

Lloyd stared, his brain struggling to keep up. The King was still talking about the soap? After everything? After the reveal? Was this part of the disguise? Or was he genuinely, royally, obsessed with personal hygiene products?

"James" leaned in slightly, his voice dropping to a more confidential tone, though still carrying easily in the sudden, almost reverent hush that had fallen over the study since the teacup incident. Even Master Elmsworth and Grand Master Grimaldi seemed to be holding their breath, sensing that this was no ordinary conversation. Jason Siddik watched with keen, narrowed eyes.

"Your father, the esteemed Arch Duke," James continued, gesturing vaguely towards Roy, who observed them with an expression that could only be described as 'intensely watchful granite', "has already pledged a considerable sum. Ten thousand Gold, I believe? A most generous, and I dare say, prudent investment." He paused, his gaze fixing on Lloyd with a new intensity, the earlier amusement overlaid with a sharp, shrewd assessment. "And I, Lord Ferrum, as a humble admirer of innovation and an individual with… certain disposable capital… find myself similarly inclined."

Chapter : 170

Lloyd’s jaw, which had been slowly returning to its normal position, threatened to detach itself again. Inclined? Inclined to what? The King of Bethelham wanted to invest in his soap? His tallow-and-ash-water, rosemary-scented, smokehouse-brewed soap? This day was officially sponsored by the letter 'W' for 'What is even HAPPENING?!'

"You… you wish to invest, my lord… James?" Lloyd managed, trying to keep the incredulity from his voice. "In… in my soap venture?"

"Indeed!" James declared, beaming as if this were the most natural, most exciting prospect in the world. "I have a keen eye for potential, Lord Ferrum. And your product, coupled with that frankly ingenious dispenser – a work of art, truly! – has 'resounding success' written all over it. Positively screams 'future ducal revenue stream' and 'delightfully soft hands for all'! I confess, I am something of a connoisseur of… creature comforts. And this," he tapped his nose conspiratorially, "this is a comfort the world desperately needs, even if it doesn’t know it yet."

He clasped his hands behind his back, adopting the air of a magnanimous, slightly eccentric, but undeniably wealthy patron. "Consider it a personal investment, of course. From one… gentleman of means… to another burgeoning entrepreneur. A small gesture of faith in your vision. Say," he waved a dismissive hand, as if plucking a figure from the air, "another five thousand Gold Coins? To supplement your father’s already generous contribution? Ensure you have ample resources for those delightful oil explorations and perhaps a slightly larger smokehouse? One with better ventilation, perhaps? The current model, while charmingly rustic, does tend to impart a certain… smoky je ne sais quoi to the surrounding atmosphere."

Five thousand Gold. From the King of Bethelham. Lloyd felt a wave of dizziness. This was beyond anything he could have imagined. His soap empire, not yet possessing a single official employee beyond a terrified but loyal butcher girl, was attracting royal investment. He should be ecstatic. He should be calculating profit margins and inter-ducal trade agreements.

Instead, a small, cynical, eighty-year-old voice in the back of his head whispered, There’s always a catch. Especially with royalty. Even disguised, slightly manic, soap-obsessed royalty.

"My lord James," Lloyd began, choosing his words with extreme care, bowing slightly, "that is… an extraordinarily generous offer. Truly. I am… honored by your faith in my humble endeavor." Humble endeavor involving cow fat and potentially explosive lye reactions. "But… if I may be so bold… such generosity from a… a new acquaintance… often comes with certain… expectations? Or perhaps," he paused, "unique conditions?"

The King’s smile didn't falter. In fact, it widened, acquiring a distinctly wolfish, almost predatory, edge. The handsome, unassuming "James" persona flickered for a fraction of a second, revealing a glimpse of the shrewd, powerful monarch beneath. "Astute, Lord Ferrum! Very astute! I appreciate a man who understands the nuances of… mutually beneficial arrangements." He chuckled again. "Indeed, I do have one small, rather idiosyncratic condition. A personal foible, you might say. Nothing too burdensome, I assure you."

He leaned closer again, his amethyst eyes (wait, were they amethyst? Lloyd’s brain struggled to recall Faria’s eye color, then mentally slapped itself – focus, idiot, the King is talking!) gleaming with that mischievous, almost challenging light. "So, my small condition, Lord Ferrum, for this modest five-thousand-gold investment in your burgeoning empire of cleanliness, is simply this: For a period of, say, five years, you will ensure a continuous, complimentary supply of your finest Ferrum soap – both the delightful solid bars and, most especially, that divine liquid in those magnificent dispensers – to the Royal Household of Bethelham. All of it. Free of charge. Consider it… an extended quality control assessment. Conducted at the highest possible level. By a very discerning, very appreciative, and potentially very influential clientele."

Five years. Free supply. To the entire Bethelham Royal Household. Lloyd’s mind, which had been briefly short-circuited by the sheer audacity of the King’s initial offer, now rebooted with the speed and efficiency of a supercomputer calculating warp trajectories. Free. For five years. The cost in materials alone…

But then, another calculation, sharper, more strategic, overrode the immediate financial concern.

The Bethelham Royal Household. Using his soap. Exclusively. For five years. The King. The Queen. The princes and princesses. The courtiers. The visiting dignitaries. Every noble, every servant, every influential guest within the walls of the Bethelham Royal Palace… smelling faintly of Ferrum Family Finest Rosemary-Infused Cleansing Elixir.

It wasn't a cost. It was an advertisement. An unparalleled, five-year-long, royal-decree-level marketing campaign. The ultimate product placement. The kind of endorsement that money, even ten thousand Gold Coins, couldn't possibly buy. If the King of Bethelham and his entire court were using Lloyd Ferrum’s soap, every other noble house in Riverio, perhaps even beyond, would be clamoring for it. The prestige, the exclusivity, the sheer snob appeal… it was a marketing coup of epic, almost mythological, proportions.