Episode : 111

Words : 1550 Updated : Sep 19th, 2025

Chapter 113 of "My Anime Shopping Tree & My Cold Prodigy Wife!" opens revealing intense scenes: Chapter: 221 He held up a finger. "Firstly, it is about trust. Not my trust in... Keep reading!

Chapter: 221 He held up a finger. "Firstly, it is about trust. Not my trust in you, but the trust of the merchants, the suppliers, the guilds you will inevitably need to deal with. Think of it from their perspective. You are the Arch Duke’s heir, yes. But you are also young, your reputation... still in its formative stages." (A polite way of saying ‘everyone still thinks you’re a slightly weird, unpredictable flake who trips people with invisible wires’, Lloyd translated internally). "They might hesitate to enter into large-scale contracts with a new, untested venture headed by you alone. They might worry about supply chain disruptions, about payment defaults, about the venture simply... failing." “But,” Roy continued, his voice resonating with strategic wisdom, “with a formal deed, a contract co-signed by myself, the Arch Duke of Ferrum, it is a different matter entirely. It is a public declaration. A guarantee. It says to the world: ‘This enterprise is not merely the whim of my son; it is a formal venture of House Ferrum itself. It is backed by the full faith, credit, and, if necessary, the intimidatingly large treasury, of the Ducal house.’ It gives them an assurance of stability, of continuity. It tells them that even if your initial orders falter, even if you face unforeseen challenges, they will be paid. That their contracts will be honored. That behind you, stands the unshakeable might of me. It is an assurance, Lloyd. A shield. A tool to build the very trust you will need to make this empire of yours a reality.” Lloyd listened, his initial frustration giving way to a dawning, grudging respect. He hadn't thought of it that way. He’d been focused on the product, the System, the internal logistics. His father was thinking, as always, of the external politics, the perception, the long game. It wasn't a hurdle; it was a foundation. A damn clever one. "And the second reason, Lloyd?" Roy’s voice softened almost imperceptibly, a flicker of something akin to paternal pride, or perhaps just shrewd business acumen, in his eyes. “The second reason is simpler. The investment is sound.” — --- Roy Ferrum’s voice, for once, was not that of the stern Arch Duke reprimanding a reckless heir, but of a seasoned investor explaining a sound financial decision. “This deed, Lloyd, this formal contract between us, it serves a second, equally crucial purpose. It clarifies ownership. It defines the stakes. It turns this from a son’s project funded by his father’s largesse into a true, formal partnership.” He leaned back in his chair, the gesture relaxed, confident. “I have assessed your prototype. I have heard the expert testimony of Grand Master Grimaldi and Master Elmsworth. I have considered the market potential, the innovative nature of the product, the surprising ingenuity of your delivery system.” He paused, his gaze meeting Lloyd’s directly, a flicker of something that might have been genuine, almost grudging, admiration in his dark eyes. “And my conclusion, Lloyd, is simple. This is a good investment. A damn good one.” The praise, so rare, so unadorned, landed with more weight than any of his earlier thunderous pronouncements. Lloyd felt a strange, unexpected warmth spread through his chest. His father, the man whose approval he had subconsciously craved and despaired of for two lifetimes, believed in his venture. Not just as a father indulging a son, but as a shrewd businessman recognizing a golden opportunity. “Therefore,” Roy continued, his voice regaining its familiar, authoritative tone, the businessman reasserting himself over the briefly proud father, “this deed will formalize my position not just as your benefactor, but as your primary business partner. My investment of ten thousand Gold Coins is not a gift, nor a loan to be repaid only in the event of catastrophic failure.” He tapped a decisive finger on the ledger before him. “It is the purchase of equity. Of a stake in this new enterprise you have so audaciously conceived.” He let the words sink in, then delivered the terms with the cool, precise finality of a master negotiator closing a deal. “The deed will stipulate that the Ducal House of Ferrum, in exchange for this initial capitalization of ten thousand Gold Coins, will retain a forty percent share in all future profits generated by the ‘Ferrum Family Finest Cleansing Elixir’ manufactory and its associated product lines.” Chapter: 222 Forty percent. The number was significant, substantial. But... not unreasonable. Lloyd’s mind, the engineer and strategist, instantly ran the calculations. His father was providing the vast majority of the initial capital, the political backing, the legal framework, the very foundation upon which the entire enterprise would be built. A forty percent stake for that level of foundational investment and risk assumption was... fair. More than fair, even, by the cutthroat standards of Earth-based venture capitalism. It left him, the innovator, the operator, with a controlling sixty percent share. It made them partners. True partners. “This arrangement, Lloyd,” Roy explained, seeing the calculation in his son’s eyes, “benefits us both. It provides you with the massive, immediate capital you require to build your empire correctly, without compromise, from day one. It provides me, and by extension, the Ducal treasury, with a significant, ongoing revenue stream should your venture prove as successful as Elmsworth so breathlessly predicts. It ties the success of your enterprise directly to the prosperity of our house. It aligns our interests perfectly.” He offered a rare, almost invisible smile. “And, from a purely paternal perspective,” he added, his voice dropping slightly, “it gives me a vested, legal interest in ensuring you don’t, in a fit of youthful enthusiasm, accidentally invest the entire ten thousand Gold Coins into developing a soap that spontaneously combusts or smells faintly of despair and regret. I will be a partner, Lloyd. A silent one, for the most part. I trust your vision, your... newfound competence. But I will also be an observant one.” The implication was clear: I believe in you, but I will also be watching. Very, very closely. Lloyd felt a surge of genuine respect for his father’s strategic brilliance. This wasn't just about control; it was about building something real, something lasting. A partnership. It was a far greater sign of trust, of faith in his abilities, than simply handing over a bag of gold coins would ever have been. “I understand, Father,” Lloyd said, his voice firm, sincere. He met his father’s gaze, not as a chastened son, but as a future business partner. “The terms are... acceptable. More than acceptable. They are wise.” He offered a slight, formal bow. “I would be honored to have the Ducal House as my primary partner in this venture.” “Excellent,” Roy said, a note of deep satisfaction in his voice. The deal was struck. “Then there is no further need for delay. I will have the Ducal Scribes draw up the initial deed of partnership immediately. You will review it, we will sign it before the Bursar this afternoon, and the ten thousand Gold will be transferred to your venture account by sunset.” He picked up his quill, his attention already shifting back to the waiting stack of ducal paperwork, the matter, in his mind, settled. Lloyd, however, did not immediately take his leave. There was one more piece to this puzzle, one more unexpected development he needed to understand. “Father?” he began, a hint of his earlier hesitation returning. “The... the King. His Majesty, ‘James’.” He saw his father’s hand pause fractionally over the parchment. “His own investment offer. Five thousand Gold. For... for a complimentary supply of soap.” He shook his head slightly, the sheer absurdity of it still difficult to process. “Why? Why would the King of Bethelham, here in disguise, take such a personal, and frankly, rather eccentric, interest in my... in my soap?” Roy Ferrum set down his quill again. He leaned back in his chair, a slow, almost weary sigh escaping him. He looked at Lloyd, his expression complex, the weight of his ducal responsibilities, of the vast, intricate game of politics he played every day, settling over him. “Lloyd,” he began, his voice low, grave, “you must understand. Kings do not act on whims. Especially not a king as shrewd, as pragmatic, as Liam Bethelham.” He gestured vaguely towards the memory of the disguised monarch. “His presence here, his interest in your venture... it is not about soap, not really. The soap... the soap is merely a pretext. A convenient, almost ridiculously mundane, excuse.” “An excuse for what, Father?” Lloyd pressed, his senses on high alert. “An excuse to engage with you, Lloyd,” Roy stated simply. “To assess you. To build a relationship with you. The future Arch Duke of Ferrum.” He paused, letting the words sink in. “His investment is not in your product, son. It is in you. It is a political maneuver, cloaked in the guise of a commercial one. A five-thousand-gold-coin gesture of goodwill. A way of establishing a direct, personal link to the next generation of Ferrum leadership, bypassing the formal, often rigid, channels of diplomacy.”

Episode : 111

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