Year 1458 of the Holy Calendar, September.
It was the second day after Yeats had assumed lordship over Frostridge.
A notice was posted outside the manor.
Given the low literacy rate of this world, Yeats had arranged for someone to blend in with the villagers and read it aloud:
"Starting today, anyone who delivers a pair of intact butterfly wings to the lord's manor will receive a reward of 50 copper coins. Limited to the first 200 participants!"
An uproar erupted among the villagers.
In the Kingdom of the Golden Lion, the currency operated on a copper standard: one gold coin equaled ten silver coins, and one silver coin equaled one hundred copper coins.
Earning 50 copper coins in a day was hard even for a full-grown adult. That amount could feed a family of three for a day.
And now, the new lord was offering that much for butterfly wings—a task even a child could manage.
The crowd in front of the manor was skeptical, whispering among themselves.
Clearly, something was off. Butterfly wings couldn't possibly be worth so much. With the new lord's reputation as the infamous "Brandy House deadwood," many believed he must be mocking them.
Still, few dispersed. The crowd only grew, helped in part by Yeats' planted supporters.
When the atmosphere reached its peak, Yeats himself emerged from the manor. Facing the doubtful villagers, he declared:
"Rest assured—this reward is real."
Just as rumored, the Brandy family's youngest was strikingly handsome, earning natural favor from the crowd.
But no one dared be the first to step forward.
Minutes passed. As people began to drift away, a small, trembling voice called out:
"L-Lord Yeats... I brought the butterfly wings. Will you really give me 50 copper coins?"
Yeats looked around and saw no one—until he realized the crowd had blocked his view.
He followed the voice and the crowd parted.
A small girl in a red hood stood there, clutching a dead butterfly in her basket. She looked up with shy, sky-blue eyes, fearful yet hopeful.
"I... I just wanted one or two coins, not fifty," she murmured.
Yeats smiled and took out his coin pouch. He counted 50 copper coins into his palm, then dropped them back into the pouch.
"Give me the butterfly," he said gently. "Then the coins are yours."
Her eyes widened, a glimmer of light blooming in them. She offered the butterfly with shaking hands.
Yeats took it and handed her the pouch.
Around them, astonished gasps spread.
He was serious. He'd truly paid 50 copper coins for a single butterfly.
Sharp villagers quickly left to catch their share, racing to the forest for butterflies—only the first 200 would be rewarded.
This was exactly what Yeats had hoped for. A gesture to win the people's trust—like the legend of the young George Washington admitting he chopped down a cherry tree: simple, symbolic, and unforgettable.
Also, butterfly wings were key to his improved healing potion.
"A nod to George Washington is fine," Yeats muttered to himself. "Let's not turn it into a school play reenactment, though."
Just then, a flustered woman pushed through the crowd.
Spotting her daughter before the lord, she blanched in horror and dropped to her knees.
"My lord, my daughter is young and foolish. If she has offended you, please forgive her!"
"You misunderstand," Yeats said, lifting her up. "Your daughter did nothing wrong. In fact, she's the first to fulfill my request."
He turned to the little girl. "What's your name?"
"Re-Regilave," she whispered.
Too hard to remember. Yeats thought. Let's just call her Little Red Riding Hood.
The mother looked between her daughter's coin pouch and the boy before her, tears welling in her eyes.
"Go on home," Yeats said gently. Then, turning to the crowd:
"The butterfly wing bounty is still valid. I, Yeats Brandy, always keep my word."
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That night, candlelight filled the manor.
By day's end, all 200 pairs of wings had been delivered. Yeats had spent ten gold coins but noticed a subtle shift in the villagers' attitude. The icy distrust was beginning to thaw.
Inside the office, Gray entered with a bulging sack of butterfly wings.
"Are you going to roast these or something?" she asked, half-joking.
"Do butterfly wings even roast well?" Yeats said, rubbing his brow.
"With you? I wouldn't be surprised," Gray deadpanned.
Yeats gave instructions:
"Frakas, hire two experienced herbalists and one skilled cheesemaker. Offer them 70 copper coins a day."
A generous wage. They'd have no trouble recruiting.
"Also," Frakas added, "The knight from the Flamehorn hunt delivered the five gold coin bounty."
"Perfect!"
They had wheat, blue mountain flowers, and now the wings. All the ingredients were prepared.
"You're making healing potions?" Gray asked.
"Improved healing potions," Yeats corrected. "My own recipe. Adding butterfly wings enhances the effect and makes the brewing process easier."
Gray stared at him.
"You made your own formula?"
Yeats remained calm. "Don't ask. It's a gift."
Given the cold wave's approach, Yeats didn't have time to brew himself. He'd hire two reliable alchemists, teach them the process, and sell the potions to the Starlight Trading Company.
It wasn't a long-term business—no patent laws here. But it could bring his first windfall.
Besides, he knew many more formulas.
Like the pet-catching castor blend. But that was for later.
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The next day, the hired herbalists arrived.
One was an elderly woman named Giselle, who ran a local herb shop.
The other—Yeats blinked—was the red-hooded girl from yesterday.
"Little Red?"
"M-my name is Regilave…" she mumbled.
Beside her, Giselle smiled. "My lord, Regilave has a rare gift—she's attuned to nature. It gives her remarkable insight into herbalism."
Yeats rubbed his chin. Attuned to nature? Sounds like a druid's affinity.
He handed them a scroll.
"This contains the new recipe. Use the 200 sets of ingredients to make as many potions as possible."
Giselle's eyes widened as she read.
"This is… a new variant of the healing potion?"
"Yes," Yeats said proudly. "My invention."
He arranged to use Giselle's workshop, offering her an extra ten coppers a day for facility use.
Later, Frakas introduced a third recruit—a plump, nervous man named Rolf.
"I run a bakery, my lord. I make butter and cheese… When I heard you were hiring cheesemakers, I came."
Yeats flipped open the necromancer's manual to the fermentation section.
"Rolf, have you heard of mold-fermented cheese?"
"I've heard of it, but never made it."
"I'm planning to teach you a new method. The mold will create beautiful marbling inside the cheese."
Yeats smiled.
"Instead of 'moldy cheese,' let's call it something more marketable—like 'Frostridge Cream.'"