The next few minutes were a dazzling, dangerous dance. Fang, embodying speed and lightning, darted in and out, launching feints, testing Redborn's reactions. Crackling blue energy flickered around his claws intermittently as he prepared strikes, the high-pitched chirping sound becoming a herald of near-instantaneous attack. Redborn, embodying earth and fire, held its ground, countering with surprising agility for its size, intercepting lunges with sweeps of its burning horns, launching fireballs that Fang evaded with fluid grace, stamping hooves that sent shockwaves through the ground.

  No more direct hits landed. Redborn, wary of the piercing lightning claws and guided by Ken’s silent commands, defended flawlessly. But Fang's performance was undeniably spectacular. The sheer velocity, the arcs of azure lightning, the constant, unnerving chirp accompanying his attacks – it was a "lightning wolfshow," as Lloyd thought of it, a whirlwind of electric energy against immovable fiery force. It showcased potential, agility, and the raw power of the Thousand Chirp Strike, even if it couldn't consistently breach Redborn’s expert defense after the initial surprise.

  After another near-miss where Fang dodged a searing laser beam from Redborn's horns by a hair's breadth, Lloyd decided he’d seen enough. The point was made. The skill worked. Fang was capable.

  "Enough, Fang!" Lloyd called out. "Stand down."

  Instantly, Fang disengaged, the crackling energy fading completely. He trotted back to Lloyd’s side, panting slightly but showing no sign of serious fatigue, his golden eyes burning with exhilaration. Redborn ceased its attacks, snorting impatiently, the glow fading from its horns, but its furious gaze remained locked on the wolf.

  "Dismissed, Redborn," Ken said calmly. With a final, grudging snort towards Fang, the massive ox spirit dissolved into shimmering heat waves, leaving only the faint smell of sulfur and scorched earth behind.

  Lloyd reached down, running a hand over Fang's head, feeling the powerful thrum beneath his palm. "Good work, buddy. Very impressive." He looked up at Ken, who was approaching slowly, his face back to its usual impassive mask.

  "Assessment complete, Young Lord," Ken stated. "Your Spirit possesses remarkable speed and agility. The lightning-based attack demonstrates significant offensive potential, exceeding expectations for a standard Manifestation-level ability of its apparent rank."

  "Indeed," Lloyd agreed, a satisfied smirk playing on his lips. He still had only 3 System Coins, but the demonstration had been worth far more. He had a weapon. He had a partner whose potential seemed boundless. And he had definitely given the unflappable Ken Park something new to report to his father.

  "Thank you for your assistance, Ken," Lloyd said sincerely.

  Ken merely nodded. "At your service, Young Lord."

  As they turned to leave the training ground, Lloyd glanced back at the scorched earth, the faint scent of ozone still sharp in the air. The journey ahead was long, expensive, and fraught with danger. But for the first time since waking up in this past life, he felt like he truly had claws.

  Lightning claws. That chirped. Weird, but effective. Now, about making some money…

  ----

  The scent of beeswax, old parchment, and faint, lingering ozone from the training ground clung subtly to Lloyd as he approached the heavy oak door of his father's study later that afternoon. The confrontation with Rubel felt like a lifetime ago, replaced by the exhilarating confirmation of Fang’s new power and the simmering excitement of his burgeoning soap enterprise idea. He’d spent the intervening hours sketching rudimentary designs for boiling vats, calculating potential lye concentrations, and mentally inventorying the estate’s herb garden for suitable natural scents. Lavender and citrus were definitely out. Maybe rosemary? Pine? Something… cleaner.

  He needed capital. Serious capital. Not just the one Gold Coin per day for the System conversion, but funds for materials, equipment (however basic), maybe even discreetly hiring a skilled craftsman or two if needed. His fifteen-gold-a-month allowance wouldn't cut it. He needed investment. Which led him here, to the dragon's den itself.

  Taking a deep breath, marshalling the confidence he’d practiced, he knocked firmly.

  "Enter." The command from within was curt, immediate.

  Lloyd pushed the door open and stepped inside. Arch Duke Roy Ferrum sat behind his massive desk, quill momentarily still, dark eyes fixed on Lloyd with unnerving intensity. The study felt different today. The tension from the morning's confrontation had dissipated, replaced by a heavy, contemplative silence. Roy’s face, usually an impassive mask of authority, held a complex expression Lloyd couldn’t quite decipher – sternness mixed with… curiosity? Assessment? Perhaps even a hint of something approaching pride?

  "Father," Lloyd greeted, closing the door behind him and approaching the desk. He stopped a respectful distance away, standing straight, meeting his father’s gaze directly. No fidgeting, no avoiding eye contact like his nineteen-year-old self would have done.

  "Lloyd," Roy acknowledged, his voice flat but lacking its usual sharp edge. "Ken reported on your… training session this morning. With Fang." He paused, letting the name hang in the air. "He described the spirit's abilities as… noteworthy."

  "Fang has shown significant development, Father," Lloyd confirmed calmly. "His potential appears greater than initially assessed." Understatement of the century.

  "Indeed," Roy murmured, tapping his quill lightly on the desk blotter. "Much like his master, it seems." The observation was dry, almost offhand, but carried immense weight. Roy Ferrum did not offer compliments lightly, if ever. Lloyd felt a flicker of surprise, quickly suppressed.

  "You requested this audience," Roy continued, getting straight to the point. "State your purpose."

  This was it. Lloyd took another internal breath. Pitch time. "Father," he began, his voice steady, "I require investment capital."

  Roy’s eyebrow arched almost imperceptibly. "Investment? For what frivolous pursuit? More books? Fancier training equipment?" The default assumption was still that Lloyd’s interests were trivial, his needs minor.

  "No, Father," Lloyd countered firmly. "For a business venture. A new product. One I believe has the potential to generate significant profit for the Ferrum household."

  Roy leaned back slightly, his expression shifting towards skepticism. "A business venture? You? Since when have you developed an interest in commerce beyond enduring Master Elmsworth’s lectures?"

  "My perspective has… broadened recently," Lloyd replied evasively. "I have identified an untapped market, a need currently unmet even among the nobility. I have conceived a product to fill that niche."

  "And this revolutionary product is?" Roy prompted, his tone laced with disbelief.

  "Luxury soap," Lloyd stated simply, clearly.

  Silence. Roy Ferrum stared at him. The Arch Duke, ruler of vast territories, commander of armies, master of intricate political maneuvering… stared at his heir, who was apparently proposing to go into the soap business. The silence stretched, broken only by the ticking clock. Roy’s expression remained unreadable, but Lloyd could almost see the internal calculations, the assessment bordering on bafflement.

  "Soap," Roy repeated finally, the word flat, devoid of inflection.

  "Not the harsh tallow blocks currently used, Father," Lloyd elaborated quickly, seizing the opening. "Gentle, cleansing bars crafted from fine oils – olive, perhaps others. Precisely formulated to avoid harshness, scented subtly with natural essences, perhaps even possessing moisturizing properties. A luxury good. Something that signifies refinement, comfort. A product I believe the nobility, wealthy merchants, anyone with disposable income, will readily purchase at a premium."

  He outlined the basic concept, the untapped market, the potential for high profit margins due to low baseline competition and the appeal of genuine luxury. He spoke with confidence, drawing on the business acumen absorbed over his Earth life, translating marketing principles and production concepts into terms Roy would understand: profit, market share, brand prestige.

  Roy listened intently, his initial skepticism slowly morphing into sharp, analytical assessment. He asked pointed questions about sourcing materials, potential guild interference, production scalability, distribution channels. Lloyd answered confidently, outlining his preliminary plans, acknowledging challenges but emphasizing the core viability of the idea. He deliberately kept the chemistry simple, focusing on the end product and market potential.

  "It is… unconventional," Roy conceded finally, steepling his fingers, his gaze thoughtful. "Yet… the logic regarding the market niche is sound. Existing cleansing agents are crude." He looked directly at Lloyd again, his eyes sharp. "You believe you can produce this? Successfully? Profitably?"

  Unauthorized use of content: if you find this story on Amazon, report the violation.

  "I do, Father," Lloyd affirmed without hesitation. "With the right initial investment."

  "And what level of investment do you deem 'right' for this… soap enterprise?" Roy inquired, a hint of dry amusement entering his tone.

  Lloyd took the plunge. "One thousand Gold Coins, Father."

  Roy’s eyebrows shot up. One thousand Gold. That wasn't seed money for a hobby; that was a significant sum, enough to fund a small mercenary company for a month, purchase a respectable plot of land, or bribe a minor baron. For soap?

  "Explain," Roy commanded, the amusement vanishing, replaced by sharp demand.

  "Materials acquisition in bulk requires capital," Lloyd explained calmly. "Olive oil, potentially imported oils, quality lye precursors, essential oil distillation or import, pigments, molds, packaging. Securing reliable suppliers isn't cheap. Initial equipment – controlled heating vats, mixing tools, drying racks – needs fabrication or purchase. Perhaps discreetly hiring one or two skilled artisans – a perfumer, maybe a chemist's apprentice – for specific tasks. Establishing initial distribution channels, even small-scale ones. Contingency funds for unforeseen issues." He broke down the anticipated costs logically, demonstrating he'd thought beyond the mere idea. "One thousand Gold provides the necessary runway to establish production, refine the product, and begin generating returns within a reasonable timeframe."

  Roy listened, his expression unreadable once more. He tapped his quill again, the rhythmic sound filling the study. He looked at Lloyd, truly looked at him – the newfound confidence, the sharp intellect suddenly on display, the ambitious scope of the proposal. He compared this young man to the hesitant, unremarkable boy of only a few weeks ago.

  "You propose a significant gamble, Lloyd," Roy stated quietly. "Based on an untested product and your own… newfound business acumen."

  "Every venture carries risk, Father," Lloyd countered respectfully. "But the potential reward here is substantial. And," he added, playing his final card, "I am willing to stake my credibility on it." He met his father's gaze squarely. "If I can present you with a prototype product – a bar of this luxury soap, demonstrably superior to anything currently available – within less than one month, will you grant the investment?"

  He paused, letting the challenge hang. "A product that could, quite literally, change the history of personal hygiene in this Duchy, perhaps beyond. If I deliver that proof of concept, will you back my venture?"

  Roy Ferrum considered his son. The audacity of the request. The confidence behind it. The strange, almost unbelievable transformation Lloyd had undergone since his marriage. This wasn't the boy who fumbled sword drills and barely scraped through lessons. This was someone different. Sharper. More focused. More… Ferrum, in a way Roy hadn't anticipated.

  Since the marriage, Roy mused internally, his gaze distant for a moment. Is it her? Rosa Siddik? That cold, talented girl… has her presence somehow ignited this change in him? Pushed him? Challenged him? He recalled the reports of Lloyd sleeping on the sofa, the tension between them (Only known by him and his trusted informant) . Perhaps adversity was the catalyst. He mentally praised the Siddik girl – sharp, powerful, seemingly capable of provoking reactions, intended or not.

  But no, Roy corrected his own thoughts, his gaze sharpening again as it rested on Lloyd. The girl may be a factor, a catalyst perhaps, but this… this comes from within him too. This newfound maturity, this strategic thinking… it wasn't just Rosa. He remembered the confrontation with Rubel day before yesterday. The way Lloyd had dismantled the accusations, exposed the witnesses, cornered Rubel with ruthless precision. That hadn't been childish defiance; it had been calculated political maneuvering. Lloyd hadn't just stumbled into helping Roy pin down his treacherous brother; he had orchestrated it. Roy had known Rubel was a viper for years, circling, waiting, but had lacked the concrete proof, the political leverage to act decisively without risking wider family schism. Lloyd, in one afternoon, had provided both.

  He thought of the succession. For years, he’d worried. Lloyd seemed… inadequate. Unsuited for the burdens of the Arch Duchy. He’d considered alternatives – grooming Jothi despite the challenges of a female heir in their patriarchal society, even looking towards talented youths in the branch families, like Rubel's own ambitious son, Rayan, before his recent disgrace. But now… seeing this spark in Lloyd, this unexpected growth… maybe, just maybe, the direct line wasn't doomed after all.

  A flicker of something rare stirred within Roy Ferrum’s chest – hope. Tempered with caution, yes, but undeniably there. Perhaps this 'soap' venture, however bizarre, was another test. Another chance for Lloyd to prove this transformation was real, lasting. And if it succeeded? Profit was always welcome. If it failed? A costly lesson, perhaps, but maybe still a valuable one in Lloyd's development.

  He made his decision.

  "One month," Roy stated, his voice firm, cutting through the silence. "Present me with this miracle soap. Demonstrate its superiority. Convince me of its potential." He leaned forward, pinning Lloyd with his gaze. "Do that, Lloyd, and you will have your one thousand Gold Coins."

  He offered no encouragement, no smile. Just the stark terms of the agreement. A high-stakes gamble, placed squarely on Lloyd’s shoulders.

  "Thank you, Father," Lloyd replied, relief washing over him, quickly masked by calm determination. "I will not disappoint you."

  "See that you don't," Roy retorted dryly. "Now leave me. I have actual Ducal matters to attend to, beyond the speculative future of soap."

  Lloyd inclined his head respectfully and turned, walking out of the study with a newfound spring in his step, the weight of the promise settling comfortably beside the thrill of possibility. He had the chance. He had the deadline. Now, he just needed to figure out the tricky bits. Like sourcing pure olive oil and not accidentally creating explosive glycerin reactions in the process. The path to wealth and power, it seemed, was paved with potential chemical hazards.

  The transition from the echoing formality of the estate’s upper levels to the controlled pandemonium of the main kitchens was like stepping through a portal into another world. The air, thick with the competing aromas of roasting boar, simmering root vegetables, sharp onions, sweet baking spices, and the underlying metallic tang of blood from the butchery section, hit Lloyd with almost physical force. It wasn't unpleasant, exactly, just… overwhelming. A stark contrast to the rarefied atmosphere of his father’s study, which smelled primarily of old paper, beeswax, and unspoken judgment.

  Right, Operation: Soap Tycoon, Phase One, Lloyd thought, his internal eighty-year-old strategist kicking into gear. Secure primary resources and essential personnel. Step one: acquire Agent J.

  He paused just inside the massive arched doorway, letting his eyes adjust to the dimmer light and the whirlwind of activity. Cooks in sweat-stained white aprons brandished knives with terrifying speed, pot boys staggered under the weight of steaming cauldrons, maids scrubbed furiously at unseen grime, and overseeing it all, like a conductor leading a particularly boisterous orchestra, was Martha, the Head Cook. Her expression, currently fixed on a pot that threatened to boil over, suggested imminent eruption.

  Best avoid the General for now, Lloyd decided. He needed subtlety, not a public interrogation about his sudden interest in kitchen operations.

  His presence hadn't gone unnoticed. The relentless rhythm of chopping and stirring faltered slightly as nearby staff registered the incongruous sight of the Young Lord, Arch Duke Ferrum's heir, standing hesitantly in their domain. Whispers erupted like escaping steam.

  "Look! Young Lord Ferrum!"

  "Again? What's he doing down here?"

  "First the wolf-chicken business, now this…"

  "Maybe he's finally developed an interest in decent food?" A snort followed this.

  "Hush! Martha'll have your hide!"

  Lloyd ignored them, letting the whispers fade into the background noise. He scanned the room, his gaze methodical, sweeping past the pastry section where delicate tarts were being assembled, past the huge hearth where spits turned rhythmically, towards the far end of the vast, cavernous space. The butchery section. Less glamorous, smelling more intensely of raw meat and iron, often populated by tougher, quieter staff. His target wouldn't be center stage. She preferred the shadows, the periphery.

  Where is she… Ah.

  There. Almost hidden behind a massive side of beef hanging from a thick iron hook, a slender figure worked with focused intensity. Head bowed under a plain white cap, dark hair escaping in damp tendrils, apron liberally stained. Her movements were precise, economical, as she wielded a long, wickedly sharp trimming knife with a dexterity that belied her unassuming frame. Methodically separating fat from muscle, her concentration absolute.

  Jasmin.

  Target acquired, Lloyd confirmed internally. He began to move, weaving through the organized chaos, nodding politely but vaguely at any staff member whose eye he caught, deliberately projecting an air of purpose that hopefully discouraged interruption. He sidestepped a boy carrying a tray piled high with skinned rabbits, skirted around a puddle of questionable origin near the scullery sinks, and ignored the increasingly curious stares directed his way.

  Why was the Young Lord heading there? Towards the butchery corner? Towards Jasmin? The quiet girl? The whispers intensified, curiosity piqued.

  Jasmin, utterly absorbed in her task, didn’t notice his approach until his shadow fell directly across the thick wooden chopping block where she worked. She looked up, startled, her hand freezing mid-slice. Recognition dawned in her large, dark eyes, quickly followed by wide-eyed alarm. The trimming knife clattered onto the block as she hastily wiped her hands on her stained apron, her breath catching in her throat. She dropped into a deep, flustered curtsy, her head bowed so low her cap threatened to slide off.

  "Y-Young Lord Ferrum!" Her voice was a thin thread of sound, barely audible above the kitchen's roar. She trembled slightly, like a startled fawn cornered by a wolf – or perhaps, in her eyes, something even more intimidating: nobility descending into her mundane world.

  Okay, calm down, Lloyd, he coached himself. Need her relaxed, not terrified. Project calm authority, not 'potentially insane heir demanding weird things'.

  He remembered her from his first life. The quiet competence beneath the crippling shyness. After the assassinations, when Rubel’s faction tightened its grip and paranoia reigned, she’d been one of the few faces he instinctively trusted. He’d discovered her secret then – not just her surprising skill with a butcher’s knife, but her uncanny ability to navigate the estate’s hidden passages, her knowledge of the servant grapevine, her quiet loyalty to the memory of the main family. A hidden gem. One he intended to polish and utilize far earlier this time around.

  "Jasmin," he began, pitching his voice low and calm, deliberately gentle. He offered what he hoped was a reassuring smile, though smiling didn’t come naturally to his default eighty-year-old internal setting. "Please, stand up. There’s no need for such ceremony between us."

  She rose hesitantly, still avoiding his gaze, her eyes fixed firmly on the floor near his boots. She fidgeted, twisting a corner of her apron between her fingers. Pure, unadulterated intimidation radiated off her in waves.

  "I hope I'm not disturbing you," Lloyd continued, glancing around pointedly, acknowledging the curious onlookers without directly engaging them. Most quickly looked away, pretending renewed interest in their tasks, though he knew ears were straining. "I wished to speak with you privately, if possible."

  "P-privately, my lord?" Jasmin echoed, sounding even more alarmed. What could the Young Lord possibly want with her privately? Had she done something wrong? Was she about to be dismissed? Or... As long as she knows Lloyd doesn’t have any scandal record. In fact before his marriage he never had even a single female friend or attendant. Her mind likely raced through a thousand terrifying possibilities.

  "Just for a moment," Lloyd assured her. "I have a proposal. A project, you see. Separate from your usual duties here." He leaned in slightly conspiratorially, lowering his voice further, forcing her to focus on him rather than her fear. "A personal venture of mine. And it requires someone with… particular skills. Someone discreet."

  Jasmin blinked rapidly, confusion replacing some of the fear. Skills? Her skills? "My lord, I… I only work with the meats," she stammered, gesturing vaguely at the carcass nearby. "I butcher, I trim… it is simple work."

  "Simple?" Lloyd allowed a hint of amusement in his tone. "Perhaps to you, Jasmin, because you possess a rare talent. But crucial for my initial phase." He paused, letting the implied compliment sink in before delivering the hook. "I require your assistance, Jasmin. Directly. And I am prepared to compensate you generously for your time and discretion."

  Her eyes widened again, flickers of hope warring with ingrained disbelief. Compensation? Directly from the heir?

  "How generously?" Lloyd preempted her unspoken question. "Let's say… triple your current wages. Paid directly by me, for as long as you assist me on this project."

  A soft gasp escaped her lips. Her hand flew to her mouth, eyes round as saucers. Triple? It was a fortune beyond imagining. Enough to… enough to perhaps finally afford…

  "And," Lloyd pressed his advantage, playing the card he knew held the most weight, the information in own his own dim memories, "there is the matter of your mother."

  Jasmin flinched as if physically struck. Her head snapped up, eyes locking with his, fear flooding back, mixed now with desperate hope and profound confusion.

  "Your mother," Lloyd repeated softly, holding her gaze. "The River Cough worsens, doesn't it? The damp winters are cruel. She needs specialists, the physicians at the Grand Infirmary in the capital. Their fees…" He let the sentence hang, the implication clear.

  "How…?" she whispered, her voice trembling, raw. "How do you know of my mother's illness, my lord? Who told you?" It was a closely guarded family sorrow, spoken of only in hushed tones, a constant, gnawing worry.

  Lloyd offered a small, enigmatic smile. He needed her to see him not just as the Young Lord, but as someone capable, knowledgeable, perhaps even slightly dangerous in his awareness. "Jasmin, I assure you, I do my research. When I choose someone to work closely with me on a sensitive project, I make it my business to understand their situation, their motivations, their… needs." He let the unspoken message linger: I see things. I know things. Working with me brings benefits beyond mere coin. "Let's just say I believe in rewarding loyalty and competence appropriately."

  He watched her process this. The shock, the hope warring with fear, the dawning realization that this impossible offer might actually be real.

  "If you dedicate yourself to assisting me faithfully," Lloyd continued, his voice firm but kind, "consider your mother's medical expenses covered. I will personally ensure she sees the best physicians the capital has to offer. Whatever treatment she requires, it will be provided. Consider it… part of your compensation package."

  The combination was overwhelming. Financial security beyond her wildest dreams, coupled with the potential salvation of her ailing mother. Tears welled instantly, blurring her vision. She swayed slightly, overcome.

  Got her, Lloyd thought with grim satisfaction. A bit manipulative? Maybe. Necessary? Absolutely. Loyalty bought with coin is fleeting. Loyalty bought with hope, with the life of a loved one… that runs deeper.

  "So, Jasmin," he asked gently, but with an underlying firmness that demanded an answer. "My offer stands. Triple wages. Your mother's care secured. In return, your skill, your time, and your absolute discretion for my project. Are you willing?"