She took a deep, ragged breath, trying to regain control. She scrubbed at her eyes with the back of her hand, smearing grime across her cheek, but her posture straightened. The timidity was still there, woven into her very being, but beneath it, a core of resilience, of fierce maternal devotion, asserted itself. She looked up, meeting his gaze directly, her dark eyes shimmering with unshed tears but holding a newfound resolve.
"Yes," she whispered, the word thick with emotion but unwavering. "Yes, Young Lord. I… I accept. Thank you." The gratitude poured off her, raw and potent. "Whatever you need, I will do it. I swear. And… and discretion. You have my word."
"Excellent," Lloyd said, allowing himself a genuine smile this time. Relief mingled with satisfaction. He had his first recruit. "I knew I could count on you." He straightened up, his tone shifting back to business. "Right then. Your first task."
He glanced meaningfully towards the half-butchered carcass hanging nearby. "You handle these daily, yes? Breaking them down completely?"
"Yes, my lord. It is my primary duty."
"And you are… proficient?" he asked, already knowing the answer but wanting her to confirm it. "Despite your appearance, you have the strength, the technique?"
A faint blush touched her cheeks, but she nodded firmly. "My father taught me well, my lord. Before… before the plague took him. He said I had the knack. I can manage a full carcass alone, yes." There was a quiet pride in her voice now, acknowledging her own unusual skill.
"Good," Lloyd nodded, satisfied. "That proficiency is key. For this first stage, I need a specific component you likely discard or send off for crude rendering." He saw the confusion return to her eyes. "I need fat, Jasmin. Beef fat. Tallow."
Her brow furrowed. "T-tallow, my lord? The… the rendered fat?" Why on earth would the Arch Duke's heir want barrels of common tallow? Was he planning to make cheap candles? Lubricate hinges? It made no sense.
"Precisely," Lloyd confirmed crisply, ignoring her unspoken questions. "As much as you can gather over the next few days without raising alarms or causing shortages for the kitchens. Collect the raw trimmings during your usual work. If possible, render it down yourself – cleanly. Find somewhere discreet to store it. I need clean, good quality tallow. Can you manage that?"
Jasmin stared, utterly bewildered by the request but clinging fiercely to the promises made. Tallow. Collect tallow. For triple wages and her mother's health. It was bizarre, nonsensical, but the Young Lord had been specific, emphatic. And he knew about her mother…
"Yes, Young Lord," she said, the confusion still evident in her voice but overridden by determination. "I understand. Collect the beef fat. Render it cleanly. Store it discreetly. I… I will do it."
"Excellent," Lloyd repeated, clapping his hands together softly, projecting enthusiasm. "That's the first step. I'll be in touch within a few days with further instructions and to arrange collection. Remember," he leaned in slightly again, his voice dropping to a near whisper, "absolute discretion, Jasmin. No one needs to know you're collecting fat for me. Let them think… whatever they like. Just do the work."
"Yes, my lord. Discretion," she promised again, nodding firmly, her eyes wide but resolute.
"Good girl." He gave her another encouraging nod, then turned sharply, striding away before the curious onlookers could muster the courage to approach him or bombard Jasmin with questions.
He walked quickly back through the bustling kitchen, ignoring the renewed stares and whispers that followed him like ripples in a pond. Let them wonder. Let them gossip. Phase one was initiated. He had secured his source for the base ingredient – tallow wasn't ideal for luxury soap, but it was readily available, cheap, and perfect for initial experiments in perfecting the saponification process before he invested heavily in expensive oils. Jasmin, with her unexpected skills and desperate motivation, was the perfect operative.
Now, for the tricky part: lye. Sodium hydroxide. Alkali. The chemical counterpart to the fat. Essential for the reaction, but dangerous if mishandled, caustic if left unreacted. He couldn't just buy it; it wasn't commercially available here in purified form. He'd have to make it. Traditionally, that involved leaching water through wood ash, a slow, imprecise process yielding potassium hydroxide (potash lye), better suited for liquid soaps. For hard bars, he needed sodium hydroxide. Could he derive it from salt and limestone using some crude electrolytic process? Maybe. Risky. Explosive, even.
Or… maybe there was another way? Another resource within the estate he could leverage? His mind raced, sifting through chemical possibilities, logistical challenges. The soap business wasn't just about luxury goods; it was rapidly becoming a crash course in applied pre-industrial chemistry and covert operations.
He smirked as he finally exited the kitchens, leaving the scent of roasting meat and bewildered staff behind. One thousand Gold Coins. His father's challenge echoed in his mind. He'd get it. Even if he had to build a soap empire funded by cow fat and borderline-dangerous chemical experiments conducted in secret. The drab duckling was officially becoming a clandestine chemist.
-----
The relentless need for capital gnawed at Lloyd like a persistent hunger. The soap venture held immense promise, yes, but it was a long-term play. Experimentation, sourcing, production, marketing… it would take time, weeks, maybe months, before generating the kind of steady income he required for System upgrades and the looming Maternal Bloodline Awakening task. His father's thousand-gold challenge was a potential windfall, but contingent on delivering a prototype within a month – a month during which he still needed daily operating funds for the System's currency conversion.
Fifteen Gold Coins allowance per month. One Gold needed daily to max out the 10 SC conversion. The math remained stubbornly depressing. He needed supplementary income. Fast. Something less reliant on complex chemistry or delicate political maneuvering. Something… direct.
His thoughts inevitably turned to the established avenues for adventurers, mercenaries, and anyone with a modicum of skill and a tolerance for risk: the Central Guild.
Located in the bustling heart of the capital city, not far from the main market square, the Central Guild Hall was a nexus of commerce, contracts, and controlled chaos. It served as a clearinghouse for tasks ranging from mundane deliveries and monster extermination to retrieving lost heirlooms and guarding merchant caravans. It was where fortunes were occasionally made, and lives frequently lost. It was also, Lloyd realized with a sudden jolt of inspiration, a potential source of quick, relatively uncomplicated cash – provided he chose his tasks carefully.
He couldn't exactly take on high-profile mercenary contracts or bodyguard duty – too visible, too many questions, too likely to expose his hidden strengths prematurely. But simpler tasks? Collection missions? Killing a relatively weaker monster? Maybe…
The idea solidified as he endured Master Elmsworth’s afternoon lecture, this time on the fascinatingly dull topic of Guild charter regulations (information that, ironically, proved immediately useful). As soon as the session concluded, Lloyd politely excused himself, bypassing the waiting Ken Park with a brief instruction to "maintain discreet observation, standard protocols," and headed straight for the Guild Hall, melting into the afternoon crowds.
The Central Guild Hall was an imposing stone structure, its entrance flanked by weathered statues of legendary heroes and mythical beasts. Inside, the main hall buzzed with energy. Rough-looking mercenaries clad in dented armor mingled with nervous merchants clutching contracts, grizzled adventurers comparing maps, and hopeful youths scanning the massive wooden noticeboard dominating one wall. The air hummed with a hundred conversations, punctuated by the clang of coin on the reception counter and the occasional boisterous laugh. It smelled of sweat, cheap ale, oiled leather, and ambition.
Lloyd Ferrum’s entrance caused a minor, localized ripple in the chaotic flow. Heads turned. Conversations paused mid-sentence. He was instantly recognizable – the fine cut of his tunic (simple, but clearly expensive), his bearing (less awkward now, more contained confidence), and the simple fact that the Arch Duke’s heir rarely graced the Guild Hall personally. Most recognized him immediately as Lloyd Ferrum, the 'drab duckling', the mediocre heir inexplicably married to the stunningly talented Rosa Siddik.
Whispers followed him like shadows.
"Look! It's him! Young Lord Ferrum!"
"What's he doing here?"
"Slumming it again? Heard he slapped Torvin's crew yesterday…"
"Maybe looking for bodyguards? Though he usually has the Duke's man…"
"Doubt it. Probably just lost."
A few faces remained impassive – seasoned adventurers from other duchies or kingdoms, unfamiliar with local politics, judging him solely on his apparent youth and lack of obvious weaponry. They dismissed him quickly, turning back to their maps or mugs.
You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.
But the local contingent… ah, the locals. Lloyd felt their eyes on him, a mixture of curiosity, disdain, and something else, something sharper, more acidic, directed particularly from the younger men, the aspiring adventurers, the mercenaries trying to make a name for themselves. He could almost smell it, a metaphorical miasma hanging heavy in the air: burning, bitter jealousy.
Jealousy over his birthright, his privilege, his effortless access to wealth and status they clawed and fought for. But mostly? Jealousy over Rosa. The Ice Princess. Beautiful, powerful, talented Rosa Siddik, now bearing the Ferrum name, linked irrevocably to him. The injustice of it, in their eyes, was palpable. Why him? Why the weak, unremarkable heir, when they were stronger, braver, more deserving? He saw it in the tightening of jaws, the narrowed eyes, the contemptuous smirks barely concealed behind rough beards.
Good, Lloyd thought, a cold amusement flickering within him. Let them burn. Their envy is irrelevant.
He ignored the stares and whispers, moving purposefully towards the massive noticeboard. It was plastered thick with parchment requests, tacked haphazardly over older notices, ranging from simple courier tasks ("Deliver package to Mistress Elmsworth - Urgent!") to dangerous monster hunts ("Wyvern sighted near Dragon's Tooth Peak - Experienced parties only!"). Rewards varied wildly, from a few bronze coins to hundreds of gold for the truly perilous missions.
He scanned the densely packed parchment notices, his eyes skimming past mundane delivery requests and high-risk monster hunts. He sought something specific: collection tasks, preferably involving resources valuable to alchemists or enchanters, as they often paid in reagents more easily convertible or valuable than standard coin. His eyes landed on a cluster of similar requests posted by the Alchemist's Guild and several arcane researchers.
One set caught his attention first, familiar and relatively safe:
[Request: Spirit Stone Fragments]
[Source: Minor Elemental Beasts (Type: Lumina Moths / Shadow Wisps / Ember Sprites)]
[Location: Whispering Caves Network (Sector Gamma)]
[Objective: Collect Ten (10) Intact Spirit Stone Fragments.]
[Reward: 5 Silver Coins per Fragment (Total 50 Silver) OR Equivalent Value Trade Goods.]
[Hazard Level: Low-Moderate (Cave Navigation, Minor Beast Encounters)]
Okay, Lloyd thought, considering it. Whispering Caves. Annoying moths and wisps, but not truly dangerous. Fifty Silver total... equivalent to half a Gold Coin. Better than nothing. Could cover half a day's System conversion. It was the sensible choice. The safe choice. The kind of choice nineteen-year-old Lloyd, in his first life, would have reluctantly taken, if he dared enter the Guild Hall at all.
But then, just below it, tacked slightly crookedly, another notice pulsed with a higher implied value, though its hazard rating was noticeably starker:
[Task: Procure Cursed Wool]
[Source: Whispering Hill Wild Sheep (Ovis Somnium Malevolus)]
[Objective: Obtain Ten (10) intact pelts with wool unaffected by scavenger damage or improper handling.]
[Reward: Master Alchemist Grimaldi offers Three (3) Vials of Purified Quicksilver per pelt OR Equivalent Value in Rare Herbs.]
[Hazard Level: Moderate-High (Environmental Hazards, Beast's Curse Aura, Requires Precise Incapacitation)]
Lloyd’s eyes narrowed, rereading the reward. Three vials of Quicksilver per pelt. Purified Quicksilver was incredibly valuable, a key reagent in high-level alchemy and enchanting, easily worth several Silver Coins per vial on the open market. Ten pelts? That was potentially ninety Silver, nearly a full Gold Coin's worth of reagents per sheep. Far more lucrative, and convertible, than the fifty Silver offered for moth fragments. And infinitely more interesting.
But the risk… Whispering Hill Wild Sheep. He remembered the name, the reputation. The psychic miasma emanating from their wool, inducing madness in those who got too close or handled it improperly. Not aggressive beasts, but passively deadly. Taking them down required range, precision, avoiding contamination at all costs. Utterly impossible for the Lloyd Ferrum of his first life, with his pathetic spirit and clumsy Void control.
He glanced mentally at the memory of Fang, crackling with lightning, executing the Thousand Chirp Strike. He felt the familiar thrum of the Steel and Fire Void power coiled within him, the potential for those whisper-thin, burning wires.
Range? Precision? Avoid contamination? A slow, predatory grin touched Lloyd's lips. Wait a minute. I have that now. Fang's strike can hit from a distance. My wires… they can immobilize or kill without me ever touching the wool. The primary danger of the Wild Sheep… might actually be mitigated by my specific, hidden skill set.
The safe, sensible Lumina Moth hunt suddenly seemed tedious, inefficient. Fifty Silver versus potentially thirty Gold worth of reagents? The choice, fueled by his desperate need for capital and his newfound confidence in his abilities, was instantly clear. Risk was relative. And the potential reward here was too significant to ignore.
He reached out, bypassing the moth fragment request, and carefully detached the slightly thicker parchment detailing the Cursed Wool procurement. The paper felt heavy, almost ominous, beneath his fingers. He turned and walked with newfound purpose towards the main reception counter, ignoring the intensified stares and whispers that tracked his movement.
He placed the parchment firmly on the counter before the same young clerk with ink-stained fingers and a perpetually weary expression. The clerk looked up, registered Lloyd, and his eyes widened slightly in surprise.
"I wish to accept this contract," Lloyd stated clearly, tapping the Wild Sheep request form.
The clerk blinked, his gaze dropping to the parchment. He read the title. Then he read it again, his face visibly paling. His eyes darted up to Lloyd, then around the now-attentive Guild Hall, then back to Lloyd, his expression shifting rapidly from weariness to disbelief, then to outright alarm.
"My Lord Ferrum?" the clerk began, his voice barely a whisper, leaning forward conspiratorially across the counter. "Forgive my bluntness, my lord, but… are you absolutely certain about this contract?" He tapped the parchment nervously. "This isn't… this isn't like chasing cave moths for fragments!"
His voice dropped further, laced with genuine fear. "This is the Whispering Hills, my lord! Wild Sheep! The Cursed Wool… the psychic miasma… people go mad out there! Just touching the stuff, sometimes just getting too close! It requires specialized ranged attacks, precise takedowns to avoid any contact, extreme caution during retrieval! One mistake, one stray strand of wool…" He swallowed hard, unable to finish the sentence, the implication of irreversible insanity hanging heavy in the air.
He glanced desperately at Lloyd again. "My lord, your known… pardon my presumption… your conventional spirit capabilities… are they truly suited for this specific danger? This isn't about brute force; it's about finesse, range, and avoiding a curse that bypasses physical armor entirely!" The clerk looked genuinely terrified, not just for Lloyd, but likely for the Guild's liability should the Arch Duke's heir end up a smiling lunatic because of a contract they approved.
The unspoken words hung heavy in the air: You, the heir known for having a pathetic spirit and no notable combat skills, want to go hunting elemental fragments in a dark cave system? Are you suicidal?
Lloyd met the clerk's worried gaze with cool indifference. "My capabilities are sufficient for collecting cursed wool, thank you." His tone brooked no argument. "Process the contract."
The clerk swallowed, glancing nervously around at the listening Guild members, many of whom now wore expressions of open astonishment or malicious amusement. This was unexpected. And potentially disastrous for the Guild if the Arch Duke's heir got himself killed chasing glowing moths.
"My lord, with respect," the clerk tried again, leaning forward conspiratorially, "perhaps a different task? We have several excellent courier missions! Or perhaps information gathering within the city? Safer pursuits, more suited-"
"Are you refusing to process the contract?" Lloyd interrupted, his voice dropping slightly, gaining an edge of steel. He wasn't asking; he was commanding.
The clerk visibly flinched. Refuse the Arch Duke's heir directly? Unthinkable. The political fallout alone… "N-no, my lord! Of course not!" he stammered, hastily grabbing a quill and dipping it in ink. "Just… expressing standard Guild advisory protocols for member safety…" He quickly scribbled Lloyd's name onto the contract ledger, stamped it with the Guild seal, and slid the accepted contract copy back towards Lloyd, his hands trembling slightly. "Contract accepted, Lord Ferrum. Standard duration is one week. Please report back upon completion or abandonment."
Lloyd took the parchment without a word, folded it neatly, and tucked it into his tunic. He could feel the weight of dozens of eyes on him now. Surprise, disbelief, mockery, and underlying it all, that simmering cauldron of jealous resentment. Many faces held a barely concealed hope – the hope that this foolish endeavor would be his last. Let the 'drab duckling' wander into the caves and get himself eaten by Shadow Wisps or incinerated by Ember Sprites. Good riddance. Then maybe the beautiful, powerful Rosa would be free…
He turned slowly, deliberately letting his gaze sweep across the crowded hall, meeting the hostile stares, the contemptuous smirks, the wishful thinking. He didn't glare back. He didn't scowl.
He smiled.
A slow, easy, almost predatory smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. A smile that held amusement, confidence, and a hint of something dangerous. It acknowledged their jealousy, their ill wishes, and dismissed them utterly.
"Good day, gentlemen," Lloyd said, his voice carrying clearly across the suddenly quiet hall. "Do try not to expire from envy while I'm gone. It wrinkles the complexion."
And with that parting shot, leaving a wake of stunned silence, sputtering indignation, and burning resentment behind him, Lloyd Ferrum turned and walked calmly out of the Central Guild Hall, the contract for collecting moth fragments feeling like the first step towards a much larger, much more profitable hunt. Let them wish for his death. He had other plans. And soon, he’d have the power to enforce them.
----
The bustling energy of the Central Guild Hall faded behind Lloyd like the roar of a receding tide. He walked with a steady, unhurried pace through the winding streets of the capital, the accepted Guild contract tucked securely within his tunic. It wasn't the contract for Lumina Moth fragments, however. While scanning the board, amidst the requests for monster parts and lost items, another, slightly more peculiar notice had caught his eye – one offering a substantial reward not in coin, but in high-grade alchemical reagents for the procurement of unblemished Cursed Wool from the notoriously dangerous Whispering Hills region.
[Task: Procure Cursed Wool]
[Source: Whispering Hill Wild Sheep (Ovis Somnium Malevolus)]
[Objective: Obtain Ten (10) intact pelts with wool unaffected by scavenger damage or improper handling.]
[Reward: Master Alchemist Grimaldi offers Three (3) Vials of Purified Quicksilver per pelt OR Equivalent Value in Rare Herbs.]
[Hazard Level: Moderate-High (Environmental Hazards, Beast's Curse Aura, Requires Precise Incapacitation)]
The Whispering Hill Wild Sheep. Lloyd remembered the cautionary tales whispered among novice adventurers in his first life. Creatures that looked deceptively like ordinary, albeit large and shaggy, sheep. But their wool… their thick, greasy wool pulsed with a low-level psychic miasma. Touch it directly, get entangled in shed clumps, even breathe too deeply near a panicked flock, and the curse would seep in. Victims became ensnared in vivid, increasingly terrifying waking nightmares, slowly losing their grip on reality, descending into a gentle, smiling madness from which there was rarely a return. Their vacant eyes and placid smiles were said to be deeply unsettling.
They were relatively easy prey in theory. They weren't physically aggressive unless cornered, relying entirely on their passive curse aura. As long as you maintained distance, avoided the wool, and possessed a Spirit strong enough to project power from range, you could take them down. A powerful archer with specialized arrows, a mage with concussive force spells, or a Spirit user whose companion had potent ranged attacks could handle them.
Nineteen-year-old Lloyd, in his first life, wouldn't have dreamed of attempting it. His own Void abilities back then were rudimentary, barely controllable 'Iron Body' tricks. And his Spirit companion? A scruffy, underfed wolf-thing utterly incapable of projecting power, let alone potent ranged attacks. He would have been curse-fodder within minutes.
Now, Lloyd thought, a grim smile touching his lips as he turned onto a less crowded street leading towards the city's western gate, it's a different story entirely. He had Fang, brimming with lightning potential and the newly acquired Thousand Chirp Strike. And he had his own secret weapon – the true Ferrum power, the whisper-thin threads of burning steel, perfect for precise, ranged takedowns without ever getting close enough to sniff the cursed fleece. This wasn't just a hunt for profit; it was a perfect field test for his combined capabilities.
As he walked, the noise of the city gradually fading, replaced by the quieter sounds of residential streets, he felt it – the subtle shift in the background hum of awareness. Eyes watching. Not the overt, jealous stares of the Guild Hall, but something more deliberate, more focused. Hidden. Following.
He didn't slow his pace, didn't look over his shoulder. He simply continued walking, projecting calm indifference.
A voice, so quiet it was barely more than a rustle of leaves against his ear, sounded from the unseen shadows beside him. Ken Park. Master of stealth.
"Young Lord. Four individuals. Maintaining distance. Attempting concealment. Standard street toughs, likely Guild affiliation."
Lloyd kept walking. "Followers from the Hall? Sent to observe? Or interfere?"
"Intent unclear," Ken's disembodied voice murmured. "Possibly opportunists seeking leverage or hoping for failure. Low-level."
"Let them follow," Lloyd replied quietly, his voice firm. "Maintain shadow protocol. Observe them as they observe me." He paused, adding the crucial instruction. "If, and only if, they make a direct, hostile move to physically interfere or attack… eliminate the threat.... No I said wrongly, if they come direct at me let me face them. But eliminate them if they attack me from behind. Swiftly. Silently. Remain unseen throughout."
"Understood, Young Lord," the whisper replied, carrying absolute certainty. "Threat neutralization parameters acknowledged."
Then, silence. The feeling of being watched by Ken shifted, becoming even more diffuse, more deeply hidden. But the other watchers, the clumsy opportunists trailing him… Lloyd could still feel their less subtle presence lagging behind. Fools. Let them watch. Let them follow him out of the city, into the rolling grasslands that led towards the Whispering Hills. They were irrelevant. Gnats buzzing around a dragon.
Two hours later, the city was a distant smudge on the horizon. Lloyd stood on a low rise overlooking a vast, undulating expanse of tall, whispering grass that gave the region its name. The wind sighed through the stalks, creating eerie, shifting patterns and carrying faint, unsettling sounds. The air here felt different – thinner, charged with a strange, low-level psychic static that prickled at the edges of his awareness. This was Wild Sheep territory.
