Success once could be dismissed as luck.
Success twice required structure.
Duke did not allow the previous sale to intoxicate him.
One gold and twenty silvers sat wrapped in cloth beneath a loose board in the floor. It was more money than the house had seen in years. But without replication, it meant nothing.
He rose before sunrise.
The air still carried night's chill when he stepped outside with a small pouch of silver.
This time, he negotiated differently.
"I need more fat," he told the butcher.
The man glanced at him briefly. "For what?"
"Experiment."
The butcher snorted but weighed out a larger portion than before. Duke paid without argument. Volume mattered more than minor savings at this stage.
From the communal fire pits, he collected ash again — but more selectively now. He sifted it thoroughly at home, separating coarse charcoal fragments from fine powder. Impurities had caused instability in the first batch.
Variables had been identified.
Now they would be controlled.
He adjusted water ratios carefully.
Measured by container markings rather than guesswork.
Heat moderated by adding and removing small pieces of wood rather than allowing the fire to flare unpredictably.
When the fat melted into the alkaline solution this time, the mixture thickened more evenly.
He stirred steadily.
Not rushed.
Not impatient.
Saponification required time.
The medieval constraints were inconvenient — no thermometers, no pH indicators — but the reaction itself remained universal. Fat and alkali, properly combined, would produce soap.
Chemistry did not change simply because the century had.
The mixture held better than before.
He poured carefully into molds carved more cleanly than the previous set. Cera stood nearby, watching closely.
"It smells different," she said quietly.
"It's cleaner," he replied.
He allowed the bars to rest longer before unmolding.
When he lifted the first finished piece, the surface was smoother than any he had seen in the market.
Edges firm.
Texture consistent.
He cut a small sliver and tested it in water.
Foam formed immediately.
Dense.
Stable.
He washed his hands thoroughly and examined the skin afterward.
No harsh residue.
No cracking.
Good.
He wrapped ten bars again and walked toward the merchant stall without hesitation.
The same merchant looked mildly irritated when he saw him.
"You again?"
"Yes."
The man dipped the bar into water.
Rubbed.
Paused.
Rubbed harder.
Foam bloomed thickly across his fingers.
He wiped his hands and scraped the edge with his nail.
The bar held firm.
"This isn't city stock," the merchant muttered again.
"No."
"How much?"
Duke let a small silence form before answering.
"Ten."
The merchant's brows lifted.
"Ten?" he repeated slowly.
"Yes."
The man looked back down at the soap and tested it again, this time slower.
The lather did not thin.
He glanced toward his own stock — rougher bars stacked nearby, edges chipped from handling.
"This is better," he said flatly.
Duke did not react.
The merchant leaned back slightly, studying him.
"You're underpricing."
Duke tilted his head faintly.
"How much would you pay?"
The merchant hesitated.
"Twelve," he said finally. "If the rest are like this."
"They are."
The man counted silver deliberately.
Twenty.
Forty.
Sixty.
Eighty.
One hundred.
One hundred and twenty.
Duke closed his fingers around the coins.
This time, the weight felt different.
Less surprising.
More validating.
"Bring more next time," the merchant said. "Same quality."
"I will."
He did not return home immediately.
Instead, he walked toward the food stalls.
For the first time, he did not calculate each coin before spending.
He purchased thicker cuts of meat.
Fresh vegetables rather than wilted ones discounted at day's end.
A small sack of higher-grade grain.
He paused briefly before a clothing stall and ran his fingers across sturdier fabric.
Then he purchased enough cloth to make proper winter cloaks for his mother and sisters.
Not extravagant.
But durable.
When he returned home carrying the supplies, Evelyn froze at the doorway.
"Duke," she said carefully, "where did you get all this?"
He set the food down and unwrapped the cloth pouch slowly.
Silver spilled across the table.
"One gold and twenty silvers," he said evenly.
Cera stared.
"Again?"
"Yes."
Evelyn's expression tightened slightly.
"You didn't take something that wasn't yours?"
"No."
He met her gaze calmly.
"I made it."
She exhaled slowly, relief softening her features.
"You're seven," she murmured.
"I can stir a pot," he replied gently.
That night, they ate until no one felt the need to pretend.
The meat was richer than anything they had tasted in months. Jocelyn smiled openly between bites. Cera's quiet composure cracked into visible satisfaction.
Evelyn did not eat first this time.
She ate with them.
Duke observed carefully.
This was not indulgence.
It was stabilization.
After the meal, he separated coins once more.
Two gold set aside for household security.
One gold reserved for expansion.
Remaining silver allocated for larger material purchase.
Soap was scalable.
But not infinitely here.
He knew that already.
Still, before thinking of larger markets, he needed consistent production.
That night, after the house quieted, he sat cross-legged near the hearth.
Inhale.
Guide downward.
The violet core responded more readily now.
Warmer.
Sharper.
The increased nutrition supported recovery. The medicine from Maren had reduced internal strain.
But when he attempted to form the circulation loop described in the manual—
The warmth dispersed before stabilizing.
He exhaled slowly.
The wall remained.
Economic growth was easier than physical transformation.
Money obeyed logic.
Aura obeyed structure.
He would master both.
He opened his eyes and looked at his hands.
Stronger than a month ago.
Not yet enough.
But no longer fragile.
The staircase was rising steadily now.
And this time, he intended to climb it completely.