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.
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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.
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.