Look at you—acting like you've never seen the world!
Rus smirked to himself at Eric's awestruck reaction but kept his hands moving steadily.
Inside the vat, one of the most basic chemical reactions from Rus's previous life was taking place—one that nearly every middle school student would learn: saponification.
The sticky, clumpy substance settling at the bottom of the vat was sodium stearate, the primary component of soap.
Simple as it seemed, Rus had hit no shortage of roadblocks along the way.
At first, he added too much quicklime and blew up an earthen pot. Then he forgot to heat the mixture, leaving the reaction incomplete. When he finally managed to produce lye correctly, he made the mistake of using a cast iron pot for the final step. That resulted in an unwanted reaction with sodium bicarbonate, giving him a mix of iron hydroxide and fat—a sludgy, brown mess.
"Stick," Rus said, reaching out a hand.
Boro quickly handed him a peeled willow branch.
Rus dipped it into the fat mixture. Almost immediately, the green surface of the stick turned hard and yellow-brown. He grabbed a bottle of vinegar and poured it in, watching closely. Only when the stick stopped changing color did he finally breathe a sigh of relief.
In past failed attempts, it was leftover lye that hadn't been fully neutralized that caused the problem.
This time, Boro was one step ahead. He placed a large wooden basin, covered with a linen filter, onto the table.
"Did you clean it?" Rus asked.
"Scrubbed it three times with soap," Boro said proudly. "It's cleaner than my face!"
Rus looked at his thick, bushy beard and fell silent.
Eric took over the heavy lifting. Under Rus's instructions, he hoisted the barrel of fat and poured the contents into the basin. With a thick, sludgy plop, nearly twenty pounds of soap collected on the cloth.
Boro expertly lifted the cloth and with a flick of the wrist, flung the newly formed soap into the corner with the others.
Eric, eager to report Simon's situation, grabbed the basin and headed for the wastewater bucket.
"Stop!" Rus roared. "What do you think you're doing!?"
"Huh?" Eric froze. "Dumping this stuff out for you."
"If you do, I'll kill you myself!" Rus snatched the basin back. "I've been holed up in here for three days—failed over a dozen times! You think it was for soap!?"
"No. This is what it was for!"
He set the basin carefully back on the table, removed his gloves, and scooped out a small amount with a spoon. He brought it to his lips and touched it to his tongue.
A blissful smile spread across his face.
Sticky, slightly sweet, and incredibly familiar—just like honey.
No doubt about it. Glycerin.
It wasn't pure, of course. The process left behind a slight porky smell, but it was good enough to work with.
Trying to hide his excitement, Rus said calmly, "Bring the wine."
Boro brought over a jar of grape wine and placed three silver cups on the table.
Seeing Eric's excited face at the thought of tasting real wine, Boro muttered under his breath, "Don't get your hopes up too high."
Eric raised an eyebrow. Then, to his growing horror, Rus scooped up some glycerin and stirred it into the wine.
His eyes widened like saucers.
What kind of blasphemy is this!? That was premium grape wine—worth five silver and seventy copper coins per jar! And the Baron just mixed it with soap runoff!?
But Rus didn't even flinch. After stirring for a moment, he took a sip—and smiled.
Then he poured the blend into the cups and said, "Go on, try it."
Eric hesitated, mentally rehearsing how to politely critique this disaster without offending the Baron. But the moment the wine hit his tongue, he froze.
He slowly lowered the cup, blinking at the reddish-purple liquid.
Then he took another sip. Set it down. Picked it back up. Sipped again. His eyes sparkled like a child seeing snow for the first time.
"My lord… this is… it's unbelievable!" Eric stammered. "I've never tasted anything so smooth, so sweet—not even in my dreams!"
Wow, Rus thought. Didn't know you had it in you. For a straight-faced Nord with eyebrows like steel, that's some world-class flattery.
Boro raised his own cup skeptically—but after just one sip, his hand went limp. The cup fell to the floor with a clang.
How can anything taste this good!?
There wasn't even a hint of bitterness. It flowed smoother than silk, sweeter than honey—yet retained the rich body of real wine. It was better than any red wine he had ever imagined.
"My lord… is this magic?"
Rus couldn't help grinning. His pride and relief surged together. He gave a mysterious smile.
"That's a secret."
The bitterness in red wine came from tannins produced during fermentation. And glycerin? It was one of the best natural agents for neutralizing tannins.
He took another sip himself. To him, the wine still wasn't top-tier—it was worse than the cheapest supermarket bottle back on Earth. He could even detect a faint porky aftertaste.
But for this world, it was far beyond anything they had ever known.
This… was the power of knowledge. The power of a basic education!
Just then, Eric's eyes began to redden. Tears streamed down his face.
Rus jumped. "Is it really that good? If you like it, the whole jar's yours!"
"No, my lord…" Eric choked. "I was just thinking—this wine is so wonderful… but Simon might never get to taste it. And that just… it hurts…"
"Simon!?" Rus's smile vanished. "What happened? Training accident?"
Eric shook his head and sighed. Then he recounted the entire event—every detail, without exaggeration or omission.
By the end, Rus's expression had darkened. "Where's Weston?"
"In the courtyard," Eric said.
"Good." Rus ripped off his stained chef's robe and strode toward the door. "Follow me."
He didn't get far before seeing Elaina sitting by a table in the main hall. Weston was slumped over it, sobbing dramatically.
As soon as she spotted Rus, Elaina stood up and barked, "Rus, I demand an explanation!"
"What kind of explanation?" he replied coldly.
"Weston is your brother! A member of the Claydon family!" Elaina snapped. "And yet your subordinate had the audacity to detain him without your permission! That is insubordination and a disgrace to our family name!"
She pointed at Gaul. "I demand that you punish this guard immediately!"
Following her finger, Rus saw Link hanging his head, guilt-ridden. The new recruits were all crowded around the doorway, watching with nervous eyes.
Rus's heart sank. But he made his decision in an instant.
"Very well. Since my dear aunt demands an explanation… I'll give you one!"
He strode past Elaina, grabbed Weston by the collar, and hauled him up like a sack of flour.
Even though Weston weighed over two hundred pounds, Rus was taller by half a head and far more muscular—a strength honed through years surviving in the dark underworld. Weston was no match.
"AHHH! Rus! What are you doing!? Mother! Help! HELP—!"
Elaina froze in horror. She screamed and tried to rush forward, but Eric blocked her path, armor gleaming.
"Rus, he's your brother!"
Rus dragged the flailing Weston out of the hall. The surrounding guards quickly stepped aside.
"Rus! You can't be serious!" Weston shrieked. "I just hurt some filthy peasant! You'd punish me over that!?"
THUD! Rus kicked the back of Weston's knees, slamming him down onto the stone steps. His knees struck the ground with a crack, and Weston howled in agony—like an animal.
He tried to shout more, but was silenced by the chilling shing of a blade being drawn.
The cold steel of Rus's rapier pressed against his throat.
The courtyard fell silent.
Looking around at his gathered guards, Rus raised his voice:
"You all recognize this man—Weston Claydon. My brother. And the one responsible for seriously injuring Simon!"
"I know what you're thinking. I'm a noble. He's my blood. So naturally, I'll protect him. Simon's pain? Doesn't matter."
The guards all lowered their heads.
Because… that's exactly what they had been thinking.
Rus took a deep breath. "Well, let me tell you now—you're dead wrong."
"Yes, he is my brother," Rus declared, his voice firm. "But you—my soldiers—are my family, my kin, and my children!"
"I, Rus Alta Claydon, swear this before the Lord of Light!"
"If anything happens to Simon, Weston will follow him into the grave!"
Weston began to tremble. He wanted to scream, but the cold blade pressed so tightly against his skin that he dared not move. Tears streamed down his face.
Rus wasn't bluffing. He really would kill him.
Elaina's expression darkened—but not entirely out of concern for Weston. She had already seen Lux leave to treat Simon, and enough time had passed to confirm that his injuries wouldn't be fatal. That meant Weston's life wasn't truly in danger.
What really chilled her… was Rus's method.
The battlefield and the marketplace were not so different. And Elaina—seasoned by years of business—could see exactly what Rus was doing.
This was a calculated performance. He was killing the chicken to scare the monkeys—sending a message loud and clear: Don't try anything behind my back. If he could punish Weston like this, then he wouldn't hesitate to do the same to Elaina.
But there was more to it. Rus wasn't just sending a warning.
He was winning hearts.
The private guards were staring at Rus now with awe, reverence, and even worship—like they were witnessing a god descend from the heavens.
Elaina knew from that moment on, if Rus told these men to charge into death… not one of them would flinch.
Poor, foolish men, she thought. They'll never know they were just pieces in Rus's game. This was all a performance, the outcome decided from the start.
And the one who helped set the stage?
Her own useless son.
An accident?
No. Rus's scheme was too precise, too practiced. It wasn't improvisation—it was the work of a shrewd politician.
This bastard from an orphanage—how can he be this composed, this cunning? It's like he's lived two lifetimes…
Is he really only twenty!?
"Baron Rus."
The voice of Priestess Lux pulled Elaina from her thoughts.
"I've treated Simon."
"How is he?" Rus asked.
"The injury was serious but not critical," Lux replied. "Simon's in good health overall, and the leather helmet you provided absorbed much of the impact. Thanks to the treatment, he should make a full recovery after just two days of rest."
"Thank you for your help." Rus placed a hand over his heart. "I'll have someone deliver your fee to the church."
Lux nodded, cast a single glance at the crumpled Weston on the ground, then silently turned and left.
She had already heard the full story on her way there. Kind-hearted though she was, she felt no pity for a man like that.
"L-let me go…" Weston whimpered. "That filthy… that Simon didn't even die!"
"Spared from death doesn't mean spared from punishment," Rus replied coldly. "You left a wound on Simon's head. So I'll leave one on yours."
Weston didn't understand—until he felt a sudden sharp pain.
His scalp went cold.
A wet heat bloomed across his head—and then, with a sickening squelch, a bloodied strip of scalp—complete with hair—landed on the ground.
The private guards let out heavy breaths.
The blood from Weston's wound seeped into the earth—just like Rus's justice was now seared into their hearts.
From this moment on, they knew: they were not worthless. They were Rus's soldiers. And Rus would shield them like a father—even from nobles.
"Long live Lord Rus!"
Someone shouted. Then they all joined in.
"Long live Lord Rus!"
Weston scrambled back into the hall, wailing as he collapsed into Elaina's arms.
"Mom!!"
She held him, her clothes soaking through with his blood. Fury surged in her chest.
"Rus!" she shouted.
"If you'd hurt Weston for a commoner, then from this day forward, don't expect a single copper from me!"
Rus turned back, casually flicking the blood from his blade. He spun it into a flourish and sheathed it in one smooth motion.
"And?"
Elaina sneered. "In twenty days, we'll be holding Donald's funeral."
"Where will you find the funds for the hall decorations? Your ceremonial robes? The ceremonial items and guest gifts? Tell me—where?"
Rus let out a low laugh. "Don't trouble yourself with that, Aunt."
"Fine," she snapped. "You have three days. Apologize to Weston in front of everyone—or watch Donald's funeral and your baronial inauguration become a public joke."
With that, she pulled her sniveling son to his feet and stormed off.
Eric approached Rus and whispered, "She's insane. Doesn't she realize what you've accomplished? That new wine-making trick of yours—once it's on the market, we'll be swimming in gold."
Rus chuckled. "Not yet."
Eric frowned. "But the money…"
"Money isn't the problem," Rus replied. "She says she won't give it—doesn't mean I won't take it."
Leaving Eric blinking in confusion, Rus turned to his troops.
They had all overheard the conversation. Now, guilt was written all over their faces. They blamed themselves for losing Rus such a lucrative source of funding.
"This is my family matter," Rus called out. "It has nothing to do with any of you."
"But if you truly feel guilty, then repay me with effort. Train. Shape yourselves into real soldiers!"
"Yes, sir!" Gaul shouted first. "Platoon One, formation drills—now!"
Link followed instantly. "Platoon Two, with me! Keep up!"
"And Platoon Three—" came a familiar voice from the corridor.
Simon stepped into the hall, his head wrapped in fresh bandages.
"Fall in!"
"You brat…" Rus walked over and lightly patted Simon's shoulder. "Get back in line—but don't push yourself."
"Yes, sir!" Simon straightened up and marched toward his squad with small, steady steps.
Old Gordon came up behind Rus. "My lord… you're remarkable. In just ten days, you've turned them into death-sworn warriors."
"They're ready," Rus smiled.
"Now it's time for the next step—making money."