Ch.8 Insecticides and Acquisitions: Ages 10–12 (Patreon)

Two weeks passed by in a flash, and the production improved smoothly.

The first 5,000 bars of soap were scented with the essential oils and VOCs I gathered from common flowers and colored using the dyes that came from grinding and boiling the petals.

Since Peggy already owned the Silverbrook Soapmakers Guild, the largest soap-making guild in the region, she had clientele we immediately sold to. After reducing the price from a silver to twenty coppers, an 80% decrease, there was a soap-buying revolution, and business boomed. After all, there was a luxury fit for nobility that the middle class could now afford!

The smaller guilds folded under our progress, sparking unrest. To quell the discord, I presented each guild master with a tempting 1% stake, an offer they couldn't refuse once they saw our towering stacks of high-quality soap. Everyone accepted.

That’s how we monopolized the soap market.

After several Heartbeat Hibiscus giveaways to drum up business and awareness, we sold unbelievable amounts of soap, and money started rolling in. In two weeks, we accumulated 1,000 gold. Over 80% of that came from selling to merchants for one silver per bar.

Timothy built five waterwheels, and Carter halted all other orders to help make different soap molds, a dual pulley system, and various gears for using the same wheel for multiple purposes.

Moreover, he built a conveyor belt using engineering and subtle techniques that were deemed 'genius.' A rolling table was set up with heavy animal skin, rotating it with the press. Soap pressers then simply lined up the soap in premarked spots, and the mold took care of the rest.

Timothy and Carter found it enviable, but I hinted that I’d be helping their businesses soon if they were interested, and they bowed very low.

I didn’t remain idle during that time.

True to my word, I purified the Chime River, stripping it of heavy metals and lessening the phosphorus levels, stunting the spread of poisonous algae. I also implemented safety measures to prevent soap from entering the river and made intentional rule-breaking a serious crime.

In the future, we’ll relocate to a more suitable river. For now, this was the closest to home.

Once that was done, I set to work on the insecticides.

“The Everwood Estate will be sponsoring a massive soap giveaway soon,” I told Peggy, whose eyes lit up at the prospect of the substantial bonus she'd receive. “We’re going to add this to every soap bar we make.”

In my arms was a large jar that looked very similar to crystallized lye.

“Potassium hydroxide?” she asked, furrowing her brow.

“No, this is in addition to potassium hydroxide,” I replied. “This is called stearic acid. You’ll need to gently heat it in water and mix it into the fat ahead of time.”

“What will it do?” Peggy asked in amazement.

“It kills fleas and other insects,” I smiled. “However, it’s rare, so in the future, you’ll have to make this primarily for disease control. Let me take you through the basics.”

I took her into a room, showed her how to melt it over a stove, and gave her the recipe for how much to add to each batch. It was a simple process.

Then I pulled out a tiny jar of pyrethrins from chrysanthemums. “You’ll also add the smallest amount of this,” I continued. “This is a closely guarded secret.”

Modern pyrethrins from chrysanthemums are synthesized, and it would take decades before society caught up, even if I were king. Therefore, I was giving her a literal advantage.

Right now, I aim to eradicate every flea here with ultra-concentrated insecticidal soap. Blitz them, never letting the pestilent creatures gain one evolutionary advantage. Oh, you have an evolutionary mutation that’s resistant to stearic acid and pyrethrins? Guess what? Too bad I eliminated your mother and all the females, so you’ll die a virgin, you mutant flea.

I was out for blood.

“In the next few years, I’ll teach you how to make stearic acid,” I told Peggy. “However, our goal for now is to exterminate fleas by having everyone wash with this insecticidal soap.”

Peggy nodded, and we set to work, preparing it for mass production.

***

After concluding the day, overseeing the installation of the new waterwheels, watching Peggy learn to make the insecticidal soap, and managing the accounts, I returned to the mansion.

Post-dinner, my father led Lyssa and me into his study for a tea-infused discussion.

“I hear that you have assumed control of all the soapmaking guilds,” Leon stated, his tone pointed. “And without panic or protest. That’s impressive.”

“That is correct, Father,” I responded, picking up my cup. “Every soapmaker in Silverbrook is now part of Everson Soap Company, and each one of them is wealthier and more content than before.”

“Is that so?” he queried. “How is that possible when the price of soap has dropped by 80%?”

“The production of soap has increased from one thousand bars a week to three thousand a day,” I responded, taking a sip.

“That’s what I’m—” Leon choked on his tea. “What did you just say?!”

I explained that I had developed technology that he needed to safeguard and keep confidential. However, most of the gains were achieved from economies of scale, the distribution and specialization of labor, and all the other aspects of Capitalism Karl Marx complained about in my past life.

Throughout this conversation, I stressed that I wasn’t planning to sell outside our territory unless the king requested it. When I mentioned this, my father’s expression grew grave.

“While you’re wise not to compete with outside elites, we’re already under investigation,” Leon declared. “Your soap making has been 'too' miraculous at disease control. After Princess Ironfall disappeared on a supposed mission to bring a cure to the capital, we’ve been accused of creating this plague.”

“A single scout’s account of Ironfall can convince King Redfield that King Ironfall didn’t possess an antidote,” I chuckled. “They’re scheming to seize my technology and then supplant us to prevent us from becoming too powerful. That’s the real issue at hand, isn't it?”

“Unbelievable,” Leon spat. “You’ve brought the kingdom knocking on our doors to kill and replace us and you’re calm about this?!!”

“Resolve yourself, Father!” I barked, making him freeze.“They’ll blame us, scorn us, and attempt to rob us. However, while they pander and politic, their people will scream, and suffer, and rot until their crops wilt in the sun and return to the earth. Once that happens, they’ll turn to Margrave Everwood. Because whether he's a friend or foe, the son of a saint or a demon lord, they’ll need us to survive.”

“D-Did you plan this?” Leon stammered.

“I didn’t instigate this!” I roared, slamming my hands onto his desk. “But I am the one fixing it. If people won’t listen, they can perish! Anyone who harms you or steals from me while I save this ungrateful world will meet their end. Stop questioning if I’m a demon lord and ask the right question for once!”

My father’s eyes quivered, feeling an oppressive force pressing down on him. “W-What’s the right question?”

“Whether he’s on your side,” Lyssa answered, wrapping her arms around me as if I were a real child. “If the answer is yes, it really doesn’t matter whether he’s the demon lord or not, does it?”

Leon turned to me, collecting himself. “Are you on our side?”

“Of course I am,” I huffed. “So long as I’m alive, I will safeguard you and this estate and ensure it prospers. I’ll do that regardless of the cost. My question is whether you’re on my side.”

He swallowed hard when he heard my tone. “I’ve always been on your side, demon lord or not.”

“Then there’s nothing to worry about,” I stated, heading towards the door. “When I return to the capital, I’ll need you to defend my inventions with your life. As long as you do and the kingdom can’t replicate them, they won’t be able to harm mother, our servants, and the territory. Don’t forget that they need us, lest they wish to decay.”

With those words, I turned and exited the room.

***

“Don’t you think you were harsh on him?” Lyssa asked, walking with me to my room.

“I was gentle,” I countered. “Given his mindset, he would’ve endangered everyone. This is just the beginning. The plague will persist for years. I’m doing what I can to save everyone.”

“Do you actually know what’s causing it?” she asked, expressionless.

“Tiny killer demons called Yersinia pestis,” I answered, entering my room. “The goddess asked me to eliminate them. Good night, Lyssa.”

With that, I shut the door.

***

After strong-arming Leon into defending the family, I just had to distribute a large quantity of soap with an extravagant parade to conclude my journey.

The concept was straightforward: we would provide people with bars of potent insecticidal soap while water mages created a rainfall, encouraging everyone to cleanse themselves in an open field.

Once that happened, we’d be able to identify swollen lymph nodes and swiftly isolate those individuals. The family’s healers and I would use our healing magic on them and hope it worked. My modest healing magic is intended for flesh wounds, but hopefully, it would help.

During the festival, fire mages would ruthlessly exterminate fleas and rats in the city, and then we’d pray.

That’s it. That’s all we could do. And that’s all we did.

On the 29th day, we held the festival and identified 231 people with the bubonic plague. With the mages on site, we immediately treated them using healing magic, which profoundly shocked everyone. After all, healing magic was a privilege of the rich.

The people celebrated me as their savior as I departed, leaving behind Peggy and the others guarded by a small army of soldiers sworn to secrecy about my inventions.

On the thirtieth day, I packed up 3,000 bars of soap and returned to the capital.

Unlike the previous journey, the trip was exceedingly smooth, with no encounters with bandits or wild animals. Well, there was one group of bandits that Thea detected with a hawk. However, they refrained from attacking when they saw my carriage, exhibiting some intelligence.

Regrettably, they weren’t wise enough to avoid becoming bandits, so Thea plucked their eyeballs with a raven after we bypassed them.

I adore Thea.

Three days later, I arrived back in Verdanthall, where I was greeted by a two-mile-long queue of wagons and carriages attempting to enter the fortified walls, which, similar to Silverbrook, had a lengthy checkpoint—albeit a more militaristic one. However, my guard detail consisted of royal guards, and thus, they allowed us to pass without any issues.

Following a gauntlet of superstitious rituals—from herb sprinklings and incantations to braving burning sage and salt flings—I entered the castle.

The irony was that everyone in the castle possessed soul mana and couldn't contract the plague.

The atmosphere at that time was somber, with most families discussing their dire circumstances. So when I appeared, coming from a land with minimal plague instances, they fell silent, their faces a mix of disdain and resentment. It was subtle, as no one dared to openly insult a high-ranking noble, who was also a sage and a potential match for the crown. Nevertheless, their frosty expressions spoke volumes.

***

The next day, I was summoned to the audience chamber before the king, who scrutinized my every facial expression with hawk-like intensity. “You may rise, Lord Everwood,” King Redfield commanded, gesturing for me to stand from my kneeling position.

“Yes, Your Majesty,” I responded, standing and clasping my hands behind my back.

“I've heard that the prevalence of the plague in Everwood territory is the lowest throughout the entire kingdom,” he began. “Is this true?”

“If the reports I've cross-checked are accurate, then yes,” I confirmed. “We have considerably fewer numbers of individuals stricken with the disease.”

“Is this due to your soap?” King Redfield inquired, his gaze piercing.

“Yes,” I affirmed. “Although it doesn't eradicate the disease, it inhibits its spread. Hence, I have manufactured soap for everyone in the territory.”

King Redfield, the queen, and various nobles present turned their heads toward me in astonishment.

“When you say ‘everyone in the territory,’ what exactly do you mean?” King Redfield queried.

“I refer to everyone to whom we could distribute the soap,” I clarified. “Over the past month, I have produced more than 50,000 bars of soap and reduced the cost of these bars to 10 coppers for a small, unscented bar, 20 coppers for a standard bar, 50 coppers for a small fragrant bar, and one silver for a regular-sized bar.”

“That's preposterous,” a noble scoffed.

Chamberlain Rockwell refrained from reprimanding the man because he was studying me intently. They didn't suspect me of inflating my numbers—they believed I was outright lying.

After seeking permission, I produced bars of soap and distributed them. “I brought three thousand of these back to the capital,” I explained. “This is our standard bar of soap that costs 1 silver. They’re all gifts for Your Majesty and the kingdom. Naturally, I have two bars of luxury soap for every noble, as well as gifts for Your Majesty.”

Following an inspection of the soap, during which he confirmed it was free of magic, the king raised his gaze to meet mine.

“How?” King Redfield questioned.

“I'd prefer to discuss that in a private setting, as before,” I responded. “However, I will publicly state that I will sell these bars at half-cost to any noble who agrees not to inflate my prices.”

A collective gasp of surprise and frustration echoed in the room, followed swiftly by the sting of my implicit accusation.

“Why undersell yourself?” King Redfield probed.

“If it’s not affordable, people won't purchase it, and then we’ll perish,” I retorted.

“I’m not questioning your logic, I’m asking what you stand to gain,” he shot back.

“I wouldn’t propose a price from which I wouldn't derive a profit, Your Majesty,” I countered. “Moreover, it would establish trade routes and supply chains, bringing economic prosperity to my territory. So I reap plenty of benefits from simply having a solution.”

“A solution that threatens to bankrupt every soapmaker guild,” he added.

“I’ll instruct every soapmaker on how to produce soap and incorporate them into the supply chain, providing them employment,” I reassured. “That’s precisely what I did for all the maker guilds in Silverbrook, and I would do the same here.”

After elaborating in a back-and-forth, King Redfield turned to his chamberlain. “Chamberlain Rockwell, proceed to examine the soap,” he commanded. “As for you, we’ll revisit this issue at a later date after verifying your claims.”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” I complied.

***

Two weeks elapsed, during which I spent most of my time in my room on house arrest or dining in the reception hall with various nobles, informing them about my soap and its benefits. Initially, everyone harbored resentment towards me, but upon hearing the remarkably low prices of the soap, they adopted a friendlier demeanor, if only to purchase some for themselves.

Following that period, the king summoned me back into the audience chamber.

“You may rise,” King Redfield commanded, directing a stern gaze at me. “How did you accomplish it?”

“Manufacture so much soap?” I asked. “I innovated new technology to make that possible.”

The room fell silent.

“What technology?” he queried.

“Technology I’m willing to share in exchange for a small tract of land near a river, a monopoly on it for thirty years, and permission to deploy it immediately,” I countered.

“You insolent whelp!” Chamberlain Rockwell spat. “Do you not comprehend who you’re addressing?”

“I’ll permit it,” King Redfield interjected, locking eyes with me. He discerned my impatience with politics and recognized his part in pulling me along with my monopoly. Now, after confining me under house arrest while the kingdom searched in vain for my waterwheels, he knew that I didn’t want to play this game.

After all, I had concealed the waterwheels, appointed guards to my soapmakers, and bribed the entire city of Silverbrook into silence. I employed code words for everything and leveraged legal measures. I had locked the royals out before they had even arrived.

The message was simple: I don’t trust you. Fuck off.

In light of the current circumstances: Fuck off or die.

Naturally, King Redfield wasn't fond of that ultimatum. However, if he chose to confront me, two outcomes were possible. Firstly, I would perish, and consequently, he’d lose his kingdom to the plague. Secondly, I could reveal myself as the demon lord and eliminate all of them. Both possibilities were equally disastrous, so the third option—treat me with respect and abide by his original promise—emerged as his plan of action.

“Thank you, Your Majesty,” I acknowledged with a bow. “If you could arrange a meeting with the soapmaking guilds in Verdanthall, I’ll conduct business without any political repercussions.”

King Redfield raised an eyebrow. “You are confident you can persuade Verdanthall’s soapmakers?” he asked.

“I’m more than confident,” I affirmed with a smile. “If they decline to meet, then propose a competition for who can produce the best soap in public. If I can't convince at least half of them to join me then, I'll reduce the monopoly to ten years.”

***

Expanding a business by purchasing competitors and utilizing their workforce and equipment for your operations is referred to as acquisitive growth. It’s such a cutthroat approach to business that Hollywood has stereotyped it, with all the ruthless businesspeople and antagonists working in “Mergers and Acquisitions.”

In the eyes of the soapmakers in Verdanthall, I am that ruthless antagonist, and today, I am targeting their businesses.

Three days after my meeting with the king, King Redfield organized a public competition among the various guild leaders in Verdanthall Square. Each leader had at least five master soapmakers accompanying them, a cauldron, and their closely-guarded trade secret—lye water—which made me roll my eyes.

Soap requires potassium or sodium hydroxide. Any "secret" is an indication that something is being done improperly. These centuries-old novices have lost this match before it has even started.

I swiftly surveyed the variously colored robes, which resembled competing factions from a magical school, complete with corresponding names. There was the Golden Glycerin Guild, Verdanthall Hand Crafters, Moonlit Lather Legion, Crystal Cascade Craftsmen, Celestial Aromas Soapcrafters Guild, Radiant Hearth Soapcraft Guild, the Phoenix Foam Fraternity, and three others. Seriously, you can't make this stuff up.

“Where is this ‘Lord Everwood?’” Grandmaster Bigsbie, a man outfitted in red Phoenix Foam Fraternity robes, inquired. “He summons us here and has the audacity to be absent?”

“The king is merely indulging him because he hails from a safe region, Grandmaster Bigsbie,” Guildmaster Trent, a rotund man clad in green robes, responded. “It’s preposterous.”

“I concur, Guildmaster Trent,” Grandmaster Bigsbie retorted. “What’s your opinion, Guildmaster Ellingstein?”

“Is it relevant, Guildmaster Trent?” Grandmaster Ellingstein, a slender woman dressed in purple robes, queried. “His assertion that soap halts the plague is yielding us a fortune.”

“When you phrase it that way, we should be expressing gratitude towards the gentleman,” Guildmaster Trent expressed, leering at the female commoners with his plump hands.

“Regardless, he is tardy, and that is impolite,” Grandmaster Bigsbie grumbled.

I wasn't late. In fact, I arrived half an hour early. However, I had overlooked the fact that these people brought heavy kilns, cauldrons, and bags to create… something. Whatever it was, it wasn’t soap. Perhaps a cake? A potion? It was unclear.

As I approached the Everwood Soap Company table and pulled out three metal bowls, water, a scale, a medieval-era bunsen burner, a pan, measuring cups, five molds, a tub of tallow, four bottles of oil, various exfoliants, occupying barely a fifth of the table, the guild masters scoffed in frustration.

“Hey, young man!” Grandmaster Ellingstein shouted, her hands placed defiantly on her hips. “This isn’t a baking contest. Where’s your master?”

“I’m—”

I attempted to speak, but Guildmaster Trent interjected. “Don't tell me he's not going to set up before the starting time?” the corpulent man chortled. “If that's his plan, I'm leaving.”

The other guild masters began offering their opinions on the situation until I interrupted them.

“My name is Lord Everwood!” I declared. “Welcome to my competition!”

The clamor ceased immediately as everyone stared at me in surprise. They then glanced at my bowls and bottles and back to me.

“Do you think you're here to bake a cake?” Grandmaster Bigsbie snapped, clearly exasperated.

“No, I'm here to make soap,” I said, looking at his kiln. “Not pottery or bricks.”

Everyone followed my derisive gaze to the man's kiln, which was, indeed, universally regarded as absurd.

Grandmaster Bigsbie's face turned a vivid shade of red with embarrassment as people began to snicker. “Is that all you brought? We’re making soap and you only have one tub of tallow?”

“That's correct,” I responded. “That's because I'm only making one batch of soap exclusively from beef fat. I'll be making soap from sunflower oil, canola oil, olive oil, and rice bran oil.”

The area fell silent as I held up the variously colored oil bottles.

I intended to make soft soaps. Although potassium hydroxide was too weak to manufacture independently, including stearic acid allowed me to adjust its hardness as desired. Naturally, no one believed this.

Following a moment's pause, the vicinity exploded with laughter, sneers, and ridicule, the crowd insisted that while people might add oils into soap, they certainly didn't make soap out of oils. Nonchalantly, I shrugged and sat at the table, waiting for the crowd to gather.

At 7 am, when the plaza opened, citizens began to filter through the area. Many were drawn into the spectacle of the top guilds enticing people, inviting them to witness the magic of soapmaking for the first time. After all, the king had advertised it as a promotional event.

While each guild master had five workers laboriously shoveling fat into cauldrons and kindling fires with flint and steel, I calmly brought out my medieval Bunsen burner that Carter had crafted for me in Silverbrook. A standard coil stood atop a cone-shaped piece of iron, inverted in orientation.

'Incendium Mansuetum, Illumina Viam Meam,' I thought, invoking elemental fire magic to gently heat up the pan on top.

The heat was highly regulated at the bottom, allowing me to adjust it before it became hot and maintain it for a prolonged duration. Consistency was critical when fermenting and incubating substances in labs, and it was dreadful to operate without it. Nevertheless, for a process as fundamental as making soap, it was overkill.

"Was that magic?!" a boy about my age exclaimed, dashing over while his mother pursued him.

"Sure was," I responded with a smile. "Do you like magic?"

The boy began enthusiastically explaining how incredible he thought magic was, and I listened until his mother apologized. "I'm sorry if he's disturbing you," the blonde woman said. "You seem preoccupied."

"I was actually about to invite a passerby to participate," I declared. "Would you like some free soap?"

"Soap?" she furrowed her brows. "I love soap, but what's the catch?"

"It'll take 15 minutes to make, and you'll need to tell me what your ideal soap is like," I responded. "I'll guide you through it. For instance, do you prefer your soap to be soft or hard?"

After some consideration, she preferred semi-soft soap that produced a rich lather and left her hands feeling soft.

“Alright, Jenny,” I said. “I'll give you a tallow bar with olive oil and canola oil to make it soft, smooth, and with a creamy lather.”

Naturally, the stearic acid would actually make it into a bar, but I kept that detail concealed to let the guilds attempt, and inevitably fail, to duplicate it until they came groveling for the secret.

As I spoke, I combined all of the oils into the pan to heat them uniformly.

While they melded, I calculated the ideal ratio of lye to water and combined them.

"Woah!" the boy exclaimed, watching the water instantly boil when I introduced the crystalline lye. It was a momentary event but nonetheless visually impressive. "Was that magic?"

"Sort of," I replied with a smile. "That was what's known as a 'trade secret,' which is somewhat akin to magic."

As I merged the two components in the bowl, they immediately began to solidify.

"Okay, here comes the fun part," I told Jenny. "Let's choose some essential oils to soften and moisturize your hands and a scent that you adore."

Her eyes lit up as she smelled the various oils, then she expressed her delight over the diverse fragrances.

Predictably, the different guilds grew increasingly nervous as I mixed the soap, which progressively appeared more and more... soap-like... with each passing second, until it turned green and emitted a fragrance of roses.

A sizable crowd had formed around me as I worked, and the onlookers were growing excited.

When the mixture was ready, I kneaded the dough and fetched my stamp, slicing and pressing it into four bars. Lastly, I hovered my hands over it and uttered a cooling incantation.

"Aura mitis, pelle ardenti meae levamen esto."

A refreshing cool breeze wafted through the crowd, eliciting laughter and applause as the soap solidified.

"Was that magic?" the boy queried.

The crowd cheered when I nodded, gave him a high five, and presented the soap to Jenny.

"Try it out," I requested.

Whispers circulated through the plaza, and the guild masters approached to observe as she submerged her hands and the green soap into the water.

"W-Wow!" Jenny exclaimed. "It's exactly as you described! It smells like roses, it's gentle on the skin, and the lather is so rich!"

The lather was pure white and enveloped her hands completely.

"So, do you like it?" I chuckled.

"Do I like it? I love it!" Jenny affirmed.

After that, I designed a dozen other people's dream soaps, adjusting their hardness and softness, adding oatmeal, modifying them to be creamy or sudsy, and scenting them like food or flowers.

I always reserved two bars for the competition, gave one bar to the participant, and divided the remaining bar among the bystanders. This inevitably led to cheers and celebratory cries whenever someone received a piece.

The guilds had never felt more embarrassed. Even if they revealed their trade secrets, they could never succeed in producing soap from oil—let alone customize bars!

Before the time for the public evaluation of our soaps, when the commoners would select their preferred soap, I addressed the guilds.

“A plague is upon us, and the world needs soap,” I declared. “If you join me, we can distribute soap widely, and you will all earn more than you previously did. Moreover, I'll instruct you on how to produce soap from oils, add moisturizers, and even convert it to liquid form. If this appeals to you, please withdraw from this competition, and we can negotiate details. If not, prepare your soap for the blind test, and we can discuss matters afterward.”

A chilling message reverberated through the competition: align with me or suffer public humiliation.

“T-There’s more to soap making than just texture and fragrance,” Grandmaster Bigsbie of the Phoenix Foam Fraternity argued. “There's prestige and sophistication to consider. We cannot conduct a fair test here in public.”

Another three guilds voiced similar sentiments, so I shrugged and retrieved liquids and dyes from my bag. “If that's your preference, I still have thirty minutes,” I replied with a smile. “I'll create a lotion soap that hydrates the skin and keeps it supple throughout the day. Are you sure you want me to introduce your clientele to true luxury?”

Fear, terror, and hostility emanated from the various guilds, all wary of my threat and unappreciative of being intimidated.

“I’d rein in that bloodlust if I were you,” I warned, my tone ruthless and chilling. “Considering my position, I’m being rather accommodating by allowing you to save face and extraordinarily generous for offering to make you wealthy. Mistake my kindness for weakness, and I’ll bankrupt your guilds while your hands are tied. Or have you forgotten who arranged this meeting?”

A sword of realization hung over each of them, functioning as a guillotine, compelling them to reconsider silently.

“Is this your way of saying we have no choice?” Valeria Score, the blonde guild master from the Golden Glycerin Guild, inquired.

“No, you have two choices—one’s just a really bad one,” I responded. “Given that the kingdom’s demand for soap surpasses your political influence, the king will support the person who can produce three thousand bars a day at 10 coppers a bar.”

Valaria’s expression disintegrated along with the others. “D-Did you just say three-thousand…?”

“Yes, and I can double that within a month if necessary,” I answered. “I have standardized production, thousands of recipes, and nuanced knowledge you lack. Finally, I hold a monopoly on magical soap production. Competing with me is a suicide mission.

That’s why I recommend you join me, become extraordinarily wealthy, and be hailed as this kingdom’s heroes. If you don’t, I’ll bankrupt you almost immediately simply by existing.”

“I refuse to listen to such absurdity!” Guildmaster Trent asserted, his pudgy face flushed red with rage. “Proceed with the event.”

“Yes, start it!” Grandmaster Ellingstein commanded, her voice arrogant. “No one will—”

“I’ll withdraw, pending proof of your claims,” Valaria declared, approaching me and picking up one of the soap bars from the table.

“I’ll concede this event to you, and I’ll hear you out, but don't expect more than that,” a muscular bald man stated. “I wasn't prepared to face this level of competition and I refuse to humiliate my guild.”

A collective groan resounded when the choices available were public embarrassment or bowing out. That was the bare minimum.

“W-What are you fools doing!” Grandmaster Bigsbie bellowed. “You can’t be serious about aligning with this boy!”

However, they didn’t heed his words. Instead, they walked over, scrutinized the soap, and tried it out for themselves. When the three dissidents didn’t back down, everyone stepped aside to let the competition proceed.

The blind test was relatively straightforward. A neutral party would invite people to try the soap while the soap maker was kept concealed. Furthermore, our backs were turned to ensure the nobles couldn't lash out at the testers.

Naturally—it was a massacre.

“Why is there gross soap with the pretty soap? Does this one have special properties?”

“I don’t think so… this soap is softer, smells better, and cleans hands. If this soap has something special, I don’t want it.”

“Do you think this is art? Where it’s contrary to things that are… good, but it’s considered trendy?”

“No way. There’s avant-garde, and then there’s… this. Whatever this is.”

Grandmaster Bigsbie, Guildmaster Trent, and Grandmaster Ellingstein grimaced, flinched, and squirmed after each test until Grandmaster Bigsbie finally called an end to the match. “I’ve had enough of this abuse!” he bellowed, seizing his five apprentices and hauling away his enormous kiln.

Capitalizing on the man’s shameful exit, the other two stormed off, leading everyone to realize that the ten-year-old was indeed a competitor and the person who created the ten-scented bars.

Within moments, I was surrounded by the testers, further driving the public enthusiasm for my soap.

After the event concluded, I packed up in a comical five minutes and then sat at my table, watching the guild masters pack up with dejected expressions.

“Until my monopoly on my soap-making technology is secured, and I am able to sell without any obstacles, anyone who joins me will only be able to sell my soap,” I declared. “However, you can sell it for twice what I charge you, and there is no cap on how much you can sell. If you sell 1,000 this week, I’ll send you 2,000 next week. Additionally, I’ll fill custom orders for you as well, demonstrating that there’s no limit to the wealth you can amass from my talent.

Everyone working with me will become extraordinarily wealthy for doing very little and will eventually learn soap making. Who wants to discuss details?”

***

Seven guild masters followed me back to the castle that night, ready to join the Everwood Soap Company.

The king watched, astonished, as the proud guild masters humbled themselves before me. I may not have been a demon lord, but he knew I was something dangerous, and I can’t deny that.

Regardless, King Redfield conceded and granted my monopoly, and under close supervision, I oversaw the production of 110,000 bars of soap over the next month, bringing unprecedented prosperity to Silverbrook as various guilds and their merchants traveled through the area.

The insecticidal soap spread through the baronies, reducing mortality rates.

Once the kingdom observed the decline and the low costs, they studied Silverbrook before appointing me to a council to combat the disease. Thus, I became highly influential in developing sanitation techniques and protocols, making us the kingdom with the lowest death rates.

After the results, orders surged. I ramped up production to 10,000 bars a day, setting up a supply chain for the necessary fat and lye.

That was fine, because now every soap guild was selling their tallow to me.

I struck deals with blacksmiths, bakers, and pottery guilds to burn woods that produced lye upon burning and then obtained it for free in exchange for offering a service to clean out their stoves.

Things became easier over the next three months as the other guilds shared their trade secrets with me, revealing what native trees contained lye. That information alone facilitated a significant boost in production.

By the time I turned eleven, I was already earning 500 gold daily, with another 1,000 going to the Everwood Margrave estate. My parents were thrilled and threw their full support behind the venture.

A year later, I was making over 3,000 a day, resulting in a projected million, and Leon was in the running for a dukedom.

Once that news broke, King Redfield capitalized on it with a real “antidote,” which enabled us to expand our territory by 1/3, making it the largest land acquisition in Valeria’s history.

Finally, when I turned twelve, a grand feast was held to honor me as a savior from the black death. It was filled with countless people I had enriched, and notably absent were a few conspicuous soap makers who likely perished from the black plague… probably. They were not nobles, so I hadn't seen them, but fingers crossed.

The following day, King Redfield summoned me to the audience chamber, and after a lengthy proceeding and warnings that I would be under scrutiny and couldn’t avoid the Suitors’ Trial, he announced that I could finally commence magical soap production and said the words that I yearned to hear most:

"By the authority vested in me as the sovereign ruler of this realm, I hereby confer upon Ryker Alexander Everwood the esteemed title and rights of Baron of Elderthorn. May you bear this honor with dignity, loyalty, and unwavering dedication to the welfare and prosperity of our kingdom. With this grant, you are entrusted with the stewardship of Elderthorn, its lands, subjects, and resources. May you govern with wisdom, justice, and compassion, upholding the principles that define our realm. Rise now, Baron Everwood, as the new Baron of Elderthorn, and accept the responsibilities and privileges that accompany this noble position."

“As you will, Your Majesty,” I rose with an internal grin. It was time to restart modern civilization.