Max out daily currency conversion (1 Gold Coin -> 10 SC) whenever possible. Requires acquiring 1 Gold Coin daily.

  Actively seek and complete System Tasks for supplementary income and potential direct rewards.

  Develop a plausible cover story and begin subtly leveraging his knowledge to generate legitimate income – consulting, optimizing, finding inefficiencies others missed.

  Accumulate 100 SC specifically for the Maternal Bloodline Awakening task.

  Survive. Preferably without ending up back on the sofa permanently.

  It was a tall order. But looking at Fang, feeling the crackle of nascent power within his own blood, Lloyd felt a surge of determination he hadn't known since his desperate, vengeance-fueled years in his first life. This time wasn't just about survival or revenge. It was about building something. Becoming something more.

  And step one, apparently, was figuring out how to make a quick buck without raising too many alarms. The life of a secret, time-traveling, cosmically-empowered protagonist, he reflected wryly, involved a surprising amount of financial planning.

  -----

  The transition from the muted chaos of the Ferrum Estate's day to the heavy stillness of evening always felt abrupt within the confines of Lloyd and Rosa’s shared suite. Outside, torches were being lit, guards changed shifts, the low murmur of servants preparing for night duties might drift faintly down the corridors. But inside? Silence. A thick, almost tangible silence layered over the low-grade hum of unresolved tension and the ever-present, cloying scent of lavender and citrus potpourri.

  Lloyd Ferrum sat cross-legged on the dreaded sofa, eyes closed, attempting meditation. Or rather, attempting the frustrating, often futile process of cultivating Spirit Energy with his singularly unimpressive Spirit Core. He’d spent the better part of the afternoon reviewing Ken Park’s meticulously gathered intelligence on Rubel’s coerced witnesses, cross-referencing it with data gleaned from the dusty estate archives. The case against his uncle was solidifying nicely, the immediate crisis was handled, and the adrenaline subsided. But he needs to be prepared for the future.

  Which left him with the gnawing, persistent problem: money. Or rather, the distinct lack thereof. Three System Coins. A balance so pathetic it was almost insulting. He needed one hundred fresh coins just to unlock his maternal bloodline. He needed thousands for upgrades. His brilliant plan to leverage his Earth knowledge into a consulting gig felt… nebulous. Too slow. Too many variables. What he needed was a product. Something tangible. Something profitable. Now.

  Think, Lloyd, think, his internal monologue prodded, running parallel to his attempts to feel the faint trickle of ambient Spirit Energy in the air. Leverage Earth knowledge. What did Earth have that Riverio desperately needs?

  His mind cycled through increasingly ridiculous options.

  Antibiotics? Requires microbiology, fermentation vats, sterile conditions… yeah, no. Too complex, too likely to get him burned as a plague-spreading warlock.

  Internal combustion engine? Metallurgy nightmare. Fuel refining? Forget it. He’d be lucky to build a steam engine that didn't explode, let alone miniaturize it for a carriage.

  The Internet? He mentally snorted. Right. First, invent computers, fibre optics, global satellite networks, and maybe teach everyone binary. Simple.

  Automated Pizzeria Drone Delivery Service? Okay, brain, now you're just being stupid. Stop it.

  The sheer scale of the technological and magical disparity was overwhelming. Finding a simple, implementable, profitable idea felt impossible. His mind was a whirlwind of advanced concepts – quantum physics, genetic engineering, advanced materials science – utterly useless in a world that considered well-crafted steel a near-miracle and relied on carrier pigeons for urgent news.

  Maybe I should just focus on getting stronger first, he conceded internally, frustration mounting. More power, more options. Which brought him back to the current, equally frustrating task: meditation. Trying to coax his sluggish single Spirit Core into absorbing ambient energy felt less like mindful cultivation and more like trying to inflate a car tire with a bicycle pump. A rusty bicycle pump. With a leak.

  He focused, trying to replicate the techniques Master Arnold had patiently (and fruitlessly) explained in his first life. Feel the flow. Draw it in. Guide it to the core. Refine it. Easy for some, apparently. For him, it felt like trying to catch smoke with tweezers. He could sense the energy, a faint tingling static in the air, richer within the magically saturated walls of the estate than out in the common streets, but drawing it in? That was the bottleneck. His core felt… constipated. Reluctant. Stubbornly inefficient.

  Across the room, shrouded in the deep shadows beyond the lamplight’s reach, Rosa Siddik shifted slightly on the massive four-poster bed. She wasn’t asleep. Her own cultivation session had concluded hours ago, her three efficient Spirit Cores humming contentedly, having absorbed and processed more energy in an hour than Lloyd likely managed in a week of dedicated effort.

  Her senses, sharpened by her cultivation and innate talent, registered the subtle shift in the room’s energy patterns. A clumsy, inefficient draw. A focal point of concentration emanating from… the sofa.

  She didn't turn her head, didn't betray her awareness with any outward sign. Her mind, however, processed the new data point with cool, logical precision.

  Subject: Lloyd Ferrum.

  Activity: Attempting Spirit Energy cultivation.

  Method: Seated meditation.

  Efficiency: Extremely low. Energy absorption rate minimal, comparable to baseline untrained individuals.

  Observation: First recorded instance of subject engaging in dedicated cultivation practice since cohabitation began.

  Correlation: Follows recent pattern of anomalous behavior (increased confidence, unexpected knowledge display, application of previously unknown Void Power, defiance of familial authority).

  Hypothesis: Subject may be initiating rudimentary self-improvement protocols following external stimuli (political threat, marital dissatisfaction?). Motivation unclear. Probability of significant power increase based on current efficiency: negligible.

  Conclusion: Continued observation warranted. Deviation from established behavioral baseline noted.

  No surprise flickered across her impassive features. No curiosity in the human sense. Just the cold, analytical processing of new information, slotting it into the complex, evolving equation that was her new husband. The inconsistency remained baffling, illogical, but the data points were accumulating. The previously predictable variable was becoming erratic. (It's just Lloyd's internal joke about Rosa.)

  Lloyd gritted his teeth, sweat beading on his brow despite the coolness of the room. He could feel something. A trickle. Like trying to sip thick soup through a narrow coffee stirrer. He visualized the energy flowing, pooling, strengthening his core. It felt less like a pool and more like a damp patch forming very, very slowly on parched earth.

  He felt a faint mental nudge, a sense of powerful, watchful presence at the edge of his consciousness. Fang. Even dismissed, the bond remained, a thrumming connection. He could feel the wolf-spirit’s potent energy signature, the contained lightning humming patiently. It was almost mocking, comparing Fang’s effortless power to his own pathetic struggle.

  Yeah, yeah, rub it in, Lloyd thought wryly towards the mental presence. Some of us weren't blessed with supercharged lightning cores, okay? Some of us are working with hamster wheels.

  He persisted for what felt like an eternity, fighting the urge to just give up and read one of the dusty novels hidden under the sofa cushions. The net gain felt minuscule, almost imaginary. Was this even worth the effort? According to the System, Spirit Power stages offered exponential increases. Manifestation was okay, Ascension was ten times stronger, Transcend another tenfold leap. Even a small improvement now could pay dividends later… if he lived that long. If his core didn't actually die of boredom first.

  An hour crawled by, marked by the slow, rhythmic ticking of the unseen clock. Finally, Lloyd released his focus with a weary sigh that ruffled the stagnant air. He felt… marginally less pathetic? Maybe? Hard to tell. Mostly, he just felt cramped from sitting cross-legged on the lumpy sofa, and mentally drained from the dual effort of cultivation and brainstorming failed business ventures.

  He pushed himself stiffly to his feet, muscles protesting slightly. Definitely nineteen. He needed to clear his head, wash away the lingering frustration and the faint scent of failure.

  He padded across the plush carpet towards the adjoining washroom, a small chamber appointed with the usual aristocratic necessities – a porcelain basin, a large ewer filled with cool water, fluffy towels embroidered with the Ferrum crest (the constipated lion again).

  Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

  He splashed cool water onto his face, the sensation sharp and refreshing. He scrubbed vigorously, rinsing away the sweat and the feeling of sluggish energy clinging to his skin. Habit, ingrained from eighty years on Earth, made him reach instinctively towards the side of the basin. His hand closed on empty air where a bottle of facewash should have been.

  He froze, hand hovering, the memory hitting him with the force of a physical blow.

  Right.

  Earth. Facewash. Cleansers specifically designed not to strip away your epidermis along with the grime. Small luxuries utterly absent in Riverio.

  He remembered the 'soap' commonly used here, even in noble households. Harsh blocks made primarily from rendered animal fat (tallow) and lye, sometimes crudely scented with overpowering floral or herbal oils to mask the underlying… funk. It cleaned, yes, in the same way sandpaper cleaned wood – effective, but brutal. Using it on your face was an exercise in masochism, leaving skin tight, red, and begging for mercy. He’d avoided it religiously in his first life, preferring plain water.

  No wonder everyone here looks slightly wind-burned, he thought, a wry smile touching his lips. Their soap probably doubles as paint stripper.

  And then, it hit him. Not with a blinding flash, but with a quiet, insidious click, like tumblers falling into place in a complex lock.

  Soap.

  Not the harsh, lye-heavy blocks currently in use.

  Proper soap.

  His mind raced, the eighty-year-old former army officer and engineer suddenly awake and buzzing with potential. Saponification. The basic chemical reaction wasn't complicated. Fats or oils + Lye (alkali) -> Soap + Glycerin. Earth science 101.

  The key was control. Careful measurement. Using plant-based oils – olive oil, coconut oil (if he could source it), maybe even nut oils – instead of just tallow. Controlling the lye concentration precisely to ensure complete reaction, leaving no harsh, skin-burning alkali behind. Adding natural moisturizers – maybe glycerin itself, a byproduct often removed in crude soap making, or lanolin from sheep's wool. Scenting it delicately with distilled essential oils, not overpowering perfumes. Coloring it with natural pigments. Shaping it elegantly.

  Luxury soap. Gentle cleansing bars. Scented, moisturizing, beautifully crafted.

  He looked at his reflection in the small, polished mirror above the basin. His eyes were wide, alight with sudden, fierce excitement. This wasn't a complex technological marvel requiring unobtainable resources. This was basic chemistry, applied intelligently.

  The potential market… Nobles paid fortunes for imported perfumes from distant lands, for silks, for spices. They valued luxury, refinement, comfort. Would they pay for soap that didn't feel like washing with gravel? Soap that left their skin soft, clean, subtly scented?

  Gods, yes, he thought, the possibilities blooming rapidly. They'd pay through the nose. Wealthy merchants, guild masters' wives, anyone with disposable income and sensitive skin… it was a completely untapped market.

  Production? Relatively simple. He could start small, maybe even use a corner of the estate kitchens off-hours, acquiring oils, carefully sourcing or preparing the lye (the tricky part, requiring care), experimenting with scents.

  Challenges? Guilds, maybe. Existing soap makers (probably operating under some minor craft guild) might object. Sourcing consistent, high-quality oils might be difficult initially. Distribution. Marketing.

  But compared to building a fusion reactor or establishing interplanetary trade routes? This felt… achievable. Scalable. Profitable. Fast.

  He gripped the edge of the basin, his knuckles white, the initial spark of an idea rapidly solidifying into the framework of a viable business plan. Forget consulting for now. This was tangible. This was product-based. This could generate the gold coins he needed, consistently, maybe even quickly. Enough to max out the daily System Coin conversion. Enough to start funding his real goals.

  He splashed more water on his face, not just to refresh, but to ground himself in the sudden surge of adrenaline. Soap. Who knew salvation might come in the form of a well-crafted bar of soap?

  He glanced back towards the main room, towards the shadowed bed where Rosa presumably still sat, oblivious to the chemical revolution plotting itself in her husband's mind next to the washbasin.

  One Gold Coin a day. Ten System Coins. The bloodline awakening. Upgrades for Fang. Refining his own powers. It all started here. With lye, oil, and a desperate need for capital.

  A slow, determined smile spread across Lloyd’s face. Alright, Riverio, he thought, the weariness replaced by focused energy. Prepare to get clean. Whether you like it or not. The soap business was officially open. Mentally, at least. Step one: figure out how to make lye without blowing up the washroom.

  -----

  The air in Training Ground Three smelled faintly of packed earth, old sweat, and the subtle metallic tang that often lingered after vigorous Void Power exertion. Unlike the meticulously manicured gardens surrounding the main estate, this area was functional, almost stark. High stone walls, scarred from countless impacts, enclosed a wide, flattened expanse of dirt. A few weathered wooden posts served as practice dummies, bearing the brunt of swords, energy blasts, and probably sheer frustration. It was secluded, practical, and blessedly free of potpourri.

  Lloyd Ferrum stood near the center of the grounds, the morning sun warming his back. Beside him, radiating a low-level hum of contained energy that made the air around him feel crisp and electric, sat Fang. The seven days of dedicated feeding, coupled with whatever mysterious System shenanigans or innate potential had been unlocked, had transformed him. Gone was the hesitant, scruffy wolf-thing. In its place was a creature of storm clouds and shadow, sleek muscles rippling beneath a coat the colour of twilight thunder, golden eyes burning with unnerving intelligence. He looked less like a summoned spirit and more like a demigod trying very hard to pretend he was just a wolf.

  Standing a respectful distance away, near the scarred perimeter wall, was Ken Park. Immovable. Silent. Dressed in his usual dark, practical livery, his face an impassive mask. He’d followed Lloyd here without a word, accepting the destination as implicitly as he accepted any command from the Ferrum household. He was professionalism given human form, albeit a form likely capable of snapping trees in half.

  "Alright, Ken," Lloyd called out, breaking the quiet hum of the morning. His voice sounded younger than he felt, a constant source of internal dissonance. "Appreciate you meeting me here."

  Ken inclined his head fractionally. "Young Lord. How may I assist?" His voice was the usual flat baritone, betraying nothing.

  Lloyd gestured towards Fang, who rose fluidly to his paws, stretching with a predator's liquid grace that hinted at terrifying speed. "My Spirit partner," Lloyd began, choosing his words carefully. "He's undergone some… development. I require an assessment. A practical evaluation of his current capabilities."

  He saw Ken’s gaze sweep over Fang. Professional assessment, devoid of surprise or curiosity, though Lloyd couldn't help but wonder what the stoic bodyguard really thought of the wolf's dramatic glow-up. Had Ken noticed the near-overnight transformation? Probably. Did he care why? Unlikely. Duty was Ken's operating system.

  "I need a sparring partner for him," Lloyd continued. "Someone strong, controlled. Someone who can provide a genuine challenge without necessarily aiming for incapacitation." He paused, meeting Ken’s steady gaze. "Your Spirit, Ken. Redborn. Would you be willing to summon him for a brief session?"

  Okay, here we go, Lloyd thought internally, a flicker of nervous energy mixing with anticipation. Asking the Arch Duke's top bodyguard, a man whose power level is probably several tiers above mine even with my hidden tricks, to use his main Spirit for a glorified dog-and-pony show. He half-expected Ken to politely decline, citing security protocols or the inappropriateness of using a high-level Spirit for such a mundane task.

  But Ken Park simply nodded again, the movement economical, precise. "As you command, Young Lord. Redborn can provide adequate resistance for assessment."

  No questions. No hesitation. 'Adequate resistance.' Lloyd mentally chuckled. Understatement of the century. He knew Redborn. From fragmented memories of his first life, from whispered rumours among the estate staff, from the sheer weight of Ken’s own power signature. Redborn wasn't just 'adequate'; it was a walking siege engine with a fiery temper.

  "Manifestation level only, of course," Lloyd added quickly, just to be safe. "No need for… advanced forms today."

  "Understood," Ken confirmed. He took a half-step back, creating more space. His hands remained loosely at his sides, but Lloyd felt the subtle shift in the air around him, the gathering focus, the thrum of Void energy specific to Ken’s lineage mixing with the nascent call to his Spirit Core.

  Okay, Fang, Lloyd sent a silent thought towards his partner, feeling the wolf’s heightened awareness respond instantly. Showtime. Let’s see what that hundred-coin bonus skill can really do.

  Ken made no grand gestures, uttered no arcane words. He simply closed his eyes for a brief second, and the ground before him seemed to darken, radiating heat. The air shimmered violently, like looking over scorching pavement on a summer day. A low, rumbling sound emanated from the distortion, growing rapidly into a bass snort that vibrated in Lloyd’s bones.

  With a final, explosive shimmer, reality seemed to tear, and Redborn solidified into existence.

  The creature was immense. Easily twice the size of a normal bull, its body was a powerhouse of corded muscle covered in thick, reddish-brown hide that seemed to absorb the sunlight. Steam puffed from its flared nostrils with every powerful exhalation. Its eyes were intelligent but held a core of primal fury, glowing faintly like embers. And sprouting from its broad forehead were two massive horns, wickedly sharp, dark as obsidian but seeming to pulse with an inner heat. The air around Redborn instantly grew warmer, carrying the faint scent of sulfur and hot metal. This was Ken Park's Spirit partner. A literal force of nature, grounded and brutally powerful, the perfect embodiment of controlled destruction.

  Lloyd felt Fang tense beside him, not with fear, but with instinctive, primal challenge. The lightning energy humming around the wolf intensified, crackling faintly, a stark contrast to Redborn's earthy, fiery presence. Air versus Earth. Lightning versus Fire. Speed versus Brute Force.

  "Impressive as always, Redborn," Lloyd commented aloud, mostly to fill the sudden, heavy silence.

  Ken opened his eyes, his gaze fixed impassively on his spirit. "Redborn is ready, Young Lord."

  Lloyd remembered Redborn's abilities from hazy fragments of memory and deduced knowledge. Fireballs launched from its mouth, concentrated beams of heat lancing from those formidable horns. Raw, destructive power. In its Ascension form – which Ken thankfully wouldn't use now – Redborn became a towering, burly, middle-aged man, still horned, capable of wielding fire magic with terrifying proficiency. Manifestation-level Redborn was challenge enough for today.

  He focused back on Fang. "Alright, Fang," Lloyd commanded, his voice ringing with newfound confidence. "Engage. Attack pattern alpha!" (He didn't actually have numbered attack patterns, but it sounded suitably commanding, he thought).

  The command hung in the air for less than a heartbeat. Fang didn't roar; he exploded into motion. One second he was sitting alertly beside Lloyd, the next he was a blur of storm-grey fur streaking across the packed earth towards the massive ox spirit. The speed was breathtaking, far exceeding what any normal wolf, or even most Manifestation-level spirits, should be capable of.

  As Fang closed the distance, Lloyd felt the familiar tingling surge through their bond. He watched, holding his breath, as Fang lowered his head slightly, pouring energy into his leading foreleg.

  Now!

  The air ripped apart with sound. Not thunder, not a roar, but a piercing, impossibly high-frequency shriek that drilled directly into Lloyd’s ears – the sound of a thousand frantic birds trapped in a lightning storm. Simultaneously, Fang’s right foreleg erupted in a blinding nimbus of crackling, blue-white energy. The fur seemed to recede, replaced by pure, solidified lightning, sparks dancing wildly, illuminating the wolf’s focused, golden eyes.

  Chid@ri! The name screamed in Lloyd’s mind, an echo from another world, another lifetime of stories. Thousand Chirp Strike!

  The sheer novelty, the intensity of the energy signature, the bizarre, ear-splitting sound – it finally, finally cracked Ken Park’s legendary stoicism. Lloyd saw it clearly: Ken’s eyes widened almost imperceptibly, his usually impassive face registering a flicker of pure, undiluted surprise. He hadn't expected this. Not this speed, not this energy concentration, not this sound.

  "Redborn! Defend!" Ken's command was instantaneous, sharp, reacting purely on instinct honed over countless battles.

  The massive ox spirit reacted with surprising speed for its bulk. It let out a bellowing snort, lowering its head, horns angling defensively. It stomped a massive hoof, perhaps preparing a fire shield or an earth barrier.

  But Fang was too fast. The Thousand Chirp Strike connected before Redborn’s defense could fully solidify.

  There wasn’t a massive explosion. Just a sharp crack-hiss as concentrated lightning met dense, magically resistant hide. Fang’s energized claws raked across Redborn’s thick shoulder, leaving behind three shallow but distinct gouges. Smoke curled from the wounds, carrying the sharp, acrid smell of ozone and burned hair. The edges of the scratches glowed faintly for a second before fading.

  Fang recoiled instantly, landing lightly on his paws several yards back, the crackling energy around his leg dissipating, the piercing bird-song fading, leaving only the low hum of his own power. Redborn let out an enraged bellow, shaking its massive head, the ember-glow in its eyes intensifying. It glared at the smoking scratches on its shoulder, then fixed its furious gaze on the lightning wolf.

  Lloyd released the breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. It worked. It actually worked. It wasn't a devastating blow against a powerhouse like Redborn, but it landed. It drew blood, or at least, smoking furrows. It proved the skill’s potency.

  Ken Park’s gaze flickered from the wound on Redborn back to Fang, then briefly to Lloyd. The surprise was gone, replaced by his usual professional assessment, though perhaps with a new layer of calculation behind his eyes.

  "Impressive," Ken stated calmly, his voice betraying none of his earlier shock. He analyzed the damage, the energy signature. "The technique concentrates significant electrical energy into a focused point. Speed and penetration potential are noteworthy." He paused, considering. "Designation… initial-rank skill, perhaps? Yet the output, the sheer firepower for its rank, is considerable."

  Initial-rank? Lloyd mentally scoffed. Maybe the base skill is, but the System likely allows upgrades. This felt stronger than any baseline Initial-rank attack I remember. Still, Ken acknowledging its 'considerable firepower' was high praise from the stoic bodyguard.

  Redborn, now fully alert and enraged, pawed the ground, snorting plumes of smoke. Its horns began to glow with dull red heat.

  "Again, Fang!" Lloyd commanded, wanting to see more. "Probe the defenses!"

  Fang launched forward again, a grey-blue streak against the reddish-brown bulk of the ox. He feinted left, then darted right, lightning gathering around his claws again, the thousand-bird shriek tearing through the air.

  But Redborn was ready this time. It sidestepped heavily, horns sweeping down in a fiery arc, forcing Fang to abort the strike and leap back, landing gracefully. A small ball of fire erupted from Redborn’s mouth, hurtling towards Fang. The wolf dodged with contemptuous ease, the fireball exploding harmlessly against the packed earth behind him, leaving a blackened scorch mark.