My Anime Shopping Tree & My Cold Prodigy Wife!
Episode : 86

Chapter : 171

The eighty-year-old capitalist inside Lloyd did a silent, joyful, fist-pumping jig. This wasn't a condition; it was a gift horse the size of a small battleship, practically begging him to look it in the mouth, discover its teeth were made of solid gold, and then ride it all the way to the Ducal Bank.

A slow, wide grin spread across Lloyd’s face, a grin that mirrored the King’s own in its sheer, unadulterated, slightly terrifying enthusiasm. He looked "James" directly in the eye, a spark of shared, audacious understanding passing between them.

He extended his hand, not in supplication, but as an equal sealing a mutually, incredibly, beneficial pact. "You have yourself a deal, my lord. A most excellent, most fragrant, deal."

King Liam Bethelham, the disguised monarch, the soap-obsessed investor, the master of understated geopolitical maneuvering, took Lloyd’s hand. His grip was firm, strong, the grip of a ruler. His eyes, no longer just amused, but holding a spark of genuine respect, met Lloyd’s.

"Excellent, Lord Ferrum," the King declared, his smile genuine now, the last vestiges of the "James" persona momentarily receding, allowing a glimpse of the true royal authority beneath. "I foresee a long and… remarkably clean… partnership ahead."

The deal was struck. Amidst the shattered remains of a teacup, the lingering scent of rosemary and dung, and the silent, astonished observation of the Arch Duke of Ferrum, an empire of soap, funded by two kingdoms and built on audacious innovation, had just taken its first, fragrant, and incredibly high-stakes step. And Lloyd Ferrum, the drab duckling turned accidental prodigy turned fledgling soap tycoon, suddenly felt like he could conquer the world. Or at least, make it smell considerably better. One royal bathroom at a time.The Grand Hall of the Ferrum Estate vibrated with a low hum of anticipation. The initial shock of King Liam Bethelham’s disguised presence, followed by the almost surreal negotiation over soap futures, had settled into a wary, watchful silence. Lloyd Ferrum, still feeling the phantom weight of a royal handshake and the exhilarating, terrifying burden of a fifteen-thousand-gold-coin investment (ten from his father, five from a monarch with a penchant for rosemary), stood near the shattered remains of his teacup, which an attendant was now diligently, almost reverently, sweeping into a silver dustpan as if collecting sacred relics.

His mind, a chaotic whirlwind of soap formulations, System Coin calculations, and the lingering image of Ken Park casually vaporizing mythological monsters, was struggling to process the sheer, unadulterated weirdness of the past twenty-four hours. King Liam – no, ‘James’, he had to remember the charade – was now animatedly discussing the potential for a ‘pine-scented variant for the royal hunting lodges’ with a visibly intrigued Jason Siddik, who looked like a man trying to understand a particularly complex new board game while simultaneously juggling live badgers.

Arch Duke Roy Ferrum observed the scene from his imposing chair on the dais, his face an unreadable granite slab. Lloyd suspected his father was mentally redrafting the entire Duchy’s five-year economic plan to include a ‘Strategic Soap Reserve’. Master Elmsworth was still scribbling furiously on his parchment, occasionally muttering things like “economies of scale!” and “monopolistic potential!” Grand Master Grimaldi, meanwhile, looked like he might spontaneously combust from sheer alchemical excitement, his beard practically vibrating.

“So,” a smooth, amused voice drawled from beside Lloyd, making him jump slightly. He turned to see ‘James’ – King Liam – regarding him with that disconcerting twinkle in his eyes. The King had detached himself from Jason Siddik, who now looked faintly dazed. “Lord Ferrum. A most… stimulating morning, wouldn't you agree? Full of unexpected opportunities and… robust negotiations.”

Lloyd managed a weak smile. “Stimulating is certainly one word for it, my lord… James. ‘Whirlwind of geopolitical soap-related fiscal policy’ might be another.”

The King chuckled, a rich, genuine sound that made several nearby nobles flinch and edge away, clearly still unnerved by this overly familiar ‘rich stranger’. “Indeed. But tell me, young innovator,” he leaned closer, his voice dropping conspiratorially, “this rather… unique condition of mine. The five years of complimentary supply to the Royal Household. You agreed with remarkable alacrity. Most entrepreneurs, faced with such a seemingly disadvantageous term, would haggle. Protest. Perhaps even offer me a lifetime supply of slightly inferior, less fragrant soap as a counter-offer.” His eyes narrowed playfully. “You, however, seemed almost… delighted. Why is that, Lord Ferrum? What grand, strategic calculation was whirring away behind those suddenly very astute Ferrum eyes?”

Lloyd felt a bead of sweat trickle down his spine. The King wasn’t just a soap enthusiast; he was sharp. Razor sharp. He’d seen the calculation, the immediate recognition of advantage. There was no point trying to feign reluctance now. Honesty, or a carefully curated version of it, seemed the best approach.

Chapter : 172

“My lord James,” Lloyd began, choosing his words with the precision of a bomb disposal expert. “Your request, while… unconventional… struck me not as a burden, but as an unparalleled opportunity.” He met the King’s gaze directly, a spark of his own newfound confidence, the confidence of a man who had stared down giant snakes and negotiated with monarchs, albeit disguised ones, igniting in his own eyes. “Consider the implications.”

“Oh, I am, Lord Ferrum,” the King murmured, his smile widening. “Believe me, I am.”

“The Royal Household of Bethelham,” Lloyd continued, his voice gaining momentum, the strategic possibilities clear and compelling in his mind, “is the very pinnacle of society in your esteemed kingdom. Its tastes, its preferences, its… chosen cleansing agents… they set the standard. They become the aspiration.” He allowed himself a small, almost wolfish grin. “If the King, the Queen, the entire Bethelham court, are known to favor Ferrum Family Finest Rosemary-Infused Cleansing Elixir,” (he rather liked the sound of that, he’d have to run it by Grimaldi) “then every noble house, every wealthy merchant, every individual with aspirations to refinement and status within Bethelham, and indeed, beyond its borders, will desire it. They will demand it.”

He gestured expansively, his earlier exhaustion momentarily forgotten, replaced by the thrill of strategic articulation. “Your five-year ‘quality control assessment’, my lord, is not a cost to my fledgling enterprise. It is the most effective, most prestigious, most far-reaching advertising campaign imaginable. It is an implicit royal endorsement. It is word-of-mouth marketing amplified to the power of a thousand town criers shouting from the palace ramparts. The value of that association, that unspoken seal of royal approval… it is worth far more, in the long term, than the mere cost of materials for five years of complimentary supply.”

He paused, letting the implications sink in, then added, a touch of playful audacity in his tone, “Frankly, my lord James, if you hadn't suggested it, I might have been tempted to offer it myself. Though perhaps not for quite so long a term. Or with quite so many… enthusiastic recipients.” He winked, a gesture so bold it momentarily startled even himself.

King Liam Bethelham threw back his head and laughed, a genuine, unrestrained peal of royal amusement that echoed through the suddenly silent Grand Hall, making Arch Duke Roy Ferrum’s eyebrows twitch almost imperceptibly. The King clapped Lloyd heartily on the shoulder, a gesture of camaraderie that would have scandalized the court had they known his true identity.

“By the sainted grandmothers of Bethelham, Ferrum!” the King roared, wiping a tear of mirth from his eye. “You are wasted on mere soap! You should be my Royal Treasurer! Or perhaps my Minister of Propaganda! Such vision! Such delightful, ruthless pragmatism!” He shook his head, still chuckling. “I knew I liked you. Not just for your remarkable product, but for that keen, calculating mind lurking beneath that surprisingly well-tailored tunic.”

He sobered slightly, though the amusement still danced in his eyes. “You are correct, of course. The association is… beneficial. Mutually so, I trust. Bethelham gets wonderfully clean hands and a delightful hint of rosemary, and House Ferrum gets… well, let us just say the potential for significant market penetration.” He grinned again. “An excellent arrangement. For both of us.”

With a final, firm nod and a smile that promised both royal favor and rigorous quality control, King Liam Bethelham turned and, with that same deceptively casual grace, rejoined the waiting Jason Siddik, leaving Lloyd Ferrum standing amidst the lingering scent of rosemary, the ghosts of vaporized snakes, the faint echo of royal laughter, and the dawning, exhilarating, slightly terrifying realization that his humble soap empire was about to go international. Royal international.

He picked up another teacup – a fresh one, thankfully provided by a still-slightly-traumatized-looking attendant – and took a slow, deliberate sip. It still tasted like despair-steeped dishwater. But somehow, today, it didn’t seem quite so bad. The future, it seemed, smelled surprisingly, wonderfully, of success. And rosemary. And perhaps, just perhaps, a hint of pine and sandalwood.

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