"Hey—!"
From atop the castle wall, Weston hurled a rock into the courtyard. With a thud, it landed hard on the training ground below.
One of the new guards flinched in surprise, completely losing focus. Eric immediately stormed over and lashed him three times with his whip.
"What are you looking at!? You're in formation—this is training! The training ground is your battlefield! If you act this distracted on a real battlefield, do you plan to gawk around and get yourself killed? Hold your spear properly!"
Eric shot a cold glare up at Weston on the wall, then turned back to correcting the formation.
Once Eric had looked away, Weston stuck out his tongue and made a goofy face before bursting into a satisfied chuckle.
Lately, Weston had been having the time of his life.
Not only had he escaped the dull lessons of his private tutor, but now he had a front-row seat to a never-ending comedy show.
Rus's training sessions were his daily entertainment—a wellspring of hilarity that never ran dry. Every day brought something new to laugh at.
Take the second day of training, for example. Early in the morning, the guards stood tall in the courtyard, chests out, heads high—they almost looked like real soldiers.
But the moment the drill began, the illusion shattered.
At the command "Right face!", twelve heads in a single squad turned in eight different directions.
And then, Rus got "creative."
He made the men put the left shoe of their leather boots on their right hand and march in place. He even came up with a chant for it:
"Cowhide on the right, manhide on the left!"
To Weston's shock, those half-human oxen could actually shout the ridiculous slogan in unison.
His favorite moment was when he yelled back at them mid-chant with, "Cowhide on the left, manhide on the right!"
The confusion it caused was glorious—one line and their rhythm was shattered for the rest of the day.
But he only got to enjoy that once.
Because Rus's punch was just as effective—left Weston's eye swollen shut for three days.
Still, during those three days, those beasts of men actually learned to tell left from right.
And for that tiny accomplishment, Rus rewarded them with a roast lamb. An entire lamb, roasted by Rus himself.
The aroma was mouthwatering. Just smelling it made Weston lose his appetite for his smoked meat.
But that damn Rus had only given him two bones.
Two bones! What an insult!
Even if… they did smell really good.
Once the left-right problem was solved, Rus moved on to what he called "formation training."
This involved having each squad form up in a column and march while maintaining their spacing.
This time, Rus didn't even wait for them to mess it up.
He somehow managed to scrounge up three long wooden poles, each five or six meters long, and made the squads hold them together while marching—forcing everyone to move in sync.
Weston didn't even need to interfere this time. Just watching them try was pure joy.
The moment Eric shouted, "March!" two of the poles flew straight into the air—one nearly brained Rus—and the third didn't even leave the ground. It jammed into the dirt and scraped two soldiers' fingers open.
It took them two whole days just to learn how to walk while holding the poles.
Then came a new wave of mishaps.
One guy was so focused on moving his arms that he forgot to move his legs—and got dragged like a mop.
Another flailed both arms wildly and accidentally punched the guy behind him in the groin. That ended in a fistfight.
And one man got so nervous he started hopping instead of walking.
Every type of chaos imaginable—and a few no one would've thought possible.
Weston was so hooked, he sometimes forgot to eat. It was better than a circus.
But the fun started to wear off two days ago—the eighth day of training—when they moved on to "standing at attention."
Under Eric's supervision, the men now wore full leather armor and held long spears, standing stiff and straight. If anyone leaned, slouched, or held their spear crooked, they got whipped.
To make things worse, Rus had locked himself in the kitchen for some mysterious task. No one but the cook had seen him in days.
That left Weston bored out of his mind—until he found a new game.
With Rus out of the picture, no one could stop him. He'd sneak around, yelling or making noises to distract the soldiers, which always earned them another round of Eric's whip.
Watching them get smacked, their faces scrunched in pain but too scared to cry, filled Weston with wicked glee.
Serves them right. They'd chosen to serve Rus—that upstart who stole the barony from him! They deserved to suffer.
Now then... who should I pick on today?
A wicked grin spread across his face as he picked up a round, melon-sized rock he had set aside earlier. It was smooth and heavy—perfect for a long throw. Not like the noisy but harmless pebbles he'd used before.
That big guy? Too slow. Boring.
That white-haired one? Too ugly. No satisfaction…
Ah—there!
His gaze locked onto a handsome young man with soft, golden curls—Simon.
How dare a commoner look better than me? And worse, he's a squad leader! Commanding twelve men? Outrageous!
Weston hated Simon.
He had been sabotaging Simon's squad's training from the start, hoping to get him punished. Just last night, Simon had been made to stand guard in the courtyard all night without dinner.
His sister had come to visit and left crying.
Yet somehow… his squad didn't despise him. They respected him more.
Unbelievable.
Today, I'll make you pay. Let's see how that pretty face looks all smashed up!
He planted his feet, raised the stone with all his strength, and hurled it with everything he had.
Eric, catching the whistle of air, turned his head. "Simon, get down!"
Simon started to move—but hesitated. In that moment of doubt, the rock smashed into the side of his helmet with a sickening crack. Blood gushed through the cracks in the leather, staining his face red as he crumpled to the ground.
Eric rushed forward and caught him. "Simon! Can you speak? Are you hurt!?"
"I… I'm fine… Commander," Simon said weakly, his lips trembling. "Just a bit… dizzy…"
"You heard the warning. Why didn't you dodge!?" Eric snapped.
Simon gave a faint cough. "If… I moved… it might have hit… my comrade…"
Eric's eyes blazed with fury. He looked up at the castle wall.
"Weston! Get your ass down here!"
Weston flinched but barked back, "I'm a Claydon! You have no authority over me!"
Then he muttered, "It's just a lowborn… what's the big deal…"
Eric's lip curled with rage. "Everyone hold position and rest. Gaul—go fetch Priestess Lux. Link—'invite' Young Master Weston down here. Make sure he stays where he is until I return!"
He scooped Simon into his arms and carried him into the castle, laying him down gently in a guest room.
As soon as he removed the leather helmet, blood poured freely from a wound the size of a walnut, raw and torn.
"…Whew." Eric let out a breath and began bandaging it.
Simon was his favorite of the recruits—sharp, perceptive, loyal, and earnest. He followed every order to the letter and deeply valued his comrades. The kind of man you'd trust with your back on a battlefield.
Fortunately, the injury wasn't fatal. Still, it was far too close for comfort.
After finishing the bandages, Eric crossed the main hall and stopped at the kitchen door. His hand froze for a moment as doubt crept in.
Should I really involve Lord Rus in this?
Weston is technically his brother… will he handle this fairly?
After a moment's hesitation, he pushed the door open—
—and was almost knocked back by a wave of pungent fumes.
What is that smell!?
A mix of raw beef and pork fat, a stinging sourness, and something indescribably foul—like the musty grime found deep in a belly button—hit Eric full in the face. His eyes instantly watered.
Chef Boro hurried over, closed the door behind him, and handed Eric a damp cloth. Eric snatched it and pressed it over his nose, finally able to breathe again.
"Where's Lord Rus?" he asked through the cloth, his voice muffled.
Boro pointed toward the stove. "There."
Sure enough, someone was crouched in front of it, wearing a grease-stained chef's robe and a thick layer of gauze wrapped around his face. He was slowly stirring a large oak basin with a wooden ladle.
Eric rubbed his eyes. "That's… Lord Rus?"
"Absolutely," Boro grumbled. "If it were anyone else making a mess of my kitchen like this, I'd have kicked them out days ago!"
Finally finding an outlet for his frustration, Boro launched into a tirade. "Sir Eric, Lord Rus is going too far! That was top-grade pork and beef tallow! I saved that for proper cooking—and he ruined all of it!"
He pointed to a heap in the corner. "Thirty pounds of pork fat and fifty of beef tallow—all turned into this garbage!"
Eric followed his gesture—and nearly recoiled.
What in the world was that!?
Piled in the corner were dozens of lumpy, wrinkled blobs—gray, black, and yellow. Their surfaces were cracked and rough, some covered in weird, web-like patterns. They looked disturbingly like…
Dung. Just piles of dung.
Was Lord Rus's digestion that impressive!?
"He says it's called… oh right—'soap.' The kind rich city folks use," Boro muttered. "I don't go to Moonen City much, but I've been to Gleaming Gold Town plenty. I know what soap looks like!"
He picked up one of the lumps and shoved it under Eric's nose. "The real stuff is clear, and it actually cleans you. But this? Smell it! What is that!?"
Reluctantly, Eric lifted the cloth just enough to sniff.
His eyes locked for a moment, then he slammed the cloth back over his face with lightning speed.
For a split second, it felt like he'd shoved his whole head into a cow pen—he could practically hear six bulls charging around in his brain.
Eric's mind whirled.
Two days ago, Rus had claimed he'd discovered a way to get rich and shut himself in the kitchen. Was this it?
Soap was a decent product, sure—but not in high demand. A single palm-sized bar cost fifty copper coins, far too expensive for common folk. Even if Rus had figured out how to make it—and somehow fixed the stench—Hawk Town didn't have the manpower or infrastructure to mass-produce it.
If he relied on small-scale, workshop-style production, the profits might barely hit a dozen gold coins a year. Hardly worth the time.
Eric was about to advise him to stop when Rus glanced over and muttered, "If no one's dead, wait until I'm finished."
Rus knew Eric's calm nature well—but what he was doing now couldn't afford any interruptions.
The blobs in the corner were soap—but that wasn't Rus's final goal.
Right now, he was stirring a basin of limewater.
Quicklime—calcium oxide—reacts with water to form calcium hydroxide. Just like in his old chemistry classes back in his previous life, Rus added small amounts of quicklime, stirring carefully and waiting between each addition to let the mixture cool.
This reaction released a lot of heat—if he rushed it, the whole thing could explode.
After two days of experimenting, he was finally comfortable with the process. As Boro looked on with bitter resentment, Rus reached for a small tin and slowly added baking soda—sodium bicarbonate—while continuing to stir.
Once the liquid had turned into a cloudy, paste-like substance, Rus stopped. He then carefully pulled out a wide-mouthed glass flask from under the table.
Thanks to magic and alchemical research, glassware already existed in this world—but most of it was low-quality, filled with impurities. The castle windows were made of such cheap glass.
The flask he now held, however, was of much higher purity—expensive and rare.
It only held about a liter, but it cost a staggering two gold coins. Combined with the funnel, separator, and fifty sheets of filter paper, the full set had cost five gold coins—and there'd been no stock locally. Rus had ordered it two days ago and had been waiting for its arrival.
"Calcium hydroxide plus sodium bicarbonate, heated… gives sodium hydroxide…" Rus murmured, the words meaningless to anyone but himself, though his actions were precise and methodical.
He placed an iron pot on the stove, filled it halfway with water, and set a ceramic bowl inside it to serve as a makeshift double boiler. Into the bowl went more water, then the flask filled two-thirds of the way with the cloudy mixture.
The stove in this era couldn't finely control heat, and Rus wasn't a master chemist. But he knew one thing: don't let the flask overheat and explode.
That flask cost two gold coins—he wasn't about to let it break!
As the mixture began to react, Rus barked, "Boro! Watch that pot! Don't let the pork fat burn again!"
"I'm a chef, not an idiot!" Boro grumbled, but moved over to the stove to monitor the rendering process.
Inside the flask, the liquid gradually came to a boil. Tiny bubbles rose steadily, and fine white sediment began to settle at the bottom—calcium carbonate, formed from the reaction of calcium hydroxide and sodium carbonate.
Rus watched closely. When no more sediment formed, he carefully removed the ceramic bowl and set it on the table.
"How's the lard?" he called.
"All done, my lord," Boro replied in his usual gruff tone.
"Good. Set it aside—don't let it overcook."
Rus pulled out a funnel and a conical flask, lined the funnel with filter paper, and slowly poured the mixture through it. The murky liquid gradually transformed into a clean, transparent solution—it looked just like water.
"My lord… what are you doing?" Eric asked, utterly baffled. He stepped forward and reached toward the flask.
"Don't touch it!" Rus snapped sharply. "Nothing here is to be touched without my permission!"
That flask now contained sodium hydroxide, also known as lye—a highly caustic substance that could corrode skin and eyes just as viciously as sulfuric acid.
"Boro, bring the lard."
Eric, curiosity now burning, took the pot from Boro and set it on the table.
Rus nudged him aside. Holding the conical flask in one hand and a ladle in the other, he began to slowly add the sodium hydroxide to the hot fat, stirring gently.
"Oh—" Eric gasped.
Before his eyes, something astonishing began to happen.
As the clear liquid met the bubbling lard, tiny brownish-yellow granules began to form. At first, they looked like dust—but as more liquid was added, the granules multiplied, becoming dense and golden, like feathers drifting to the bottom of the vat.
"My lord… this—is this alchemy!?"