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.