Chapter : 575

He had not just been defeated. He had been taught. His father had not sought to crush his spirit, but to temper it. To show him the vast, breathtaking horizon of his own potential. To show him the difference between raw, chaotic power and true, refined, absolute mastery. It had been a brutal lesson. A humbling lesson. And it was, he knew, the most valuable lesson he had ever received in any of his three lifetimes.

Roy walked over to his son, who was now sitting cross-legged on the ruined floor, his head bowed, his breath coming in ragged gasps. The Arch Duke stood over him, a tall, imposing shadow against the afternoon light. The stern, challenging warrior was gone, replaced once more by the quiet, observant father.

“You are not injured,” Roy stated, his voice a flat, factual observation. He had been careful. The final binding had been a cage, not a crusher.

“Only my pride, Father,” Lloyd rasped, managing a weak, wry smile without looking up. “And that, I suspect, was long overdue for a significant… recalibration.”

He finally looked up, meeting his father’s gaze. And he saw something in Roy’s eyes he had never seen before. Not pride. Not approval. Not even the grudging respect of a master for a promising student. It was something deeper. Simpler. An emotion so raw, so direct, so at odds with his father’s usual iron-hard composure that it was almost shocking. It was love. A fierce, proud, and deeply, profoundly, concerned, father’s love.

“You have a great power within you, Lloyd,” Roy said, his voice quiet, almost gentle. “A power greater, perhaps, than any Ferrum has wielded in a thousand years. It is a gift. And it is a terrible, terrible burden.” He knelt, a rare, almost unprecedented gesture, bringing himself down to his son’s level. He placed a heavy, grounding hand on Lloyd’s shoulder. “You must learn to master it. Before it masters you.”

“I will, Father,” Lloyd whispered, his own voice thick with an emotion he couldn't name. “I promise.”

Roy nodded once, a gesture of absolute, unwavering faith. The lesson was over. The bond between them, which had been a thing of command and duty, had been reforged in the crucible of their duel into something new. Something stronger. Something that felt, for the first time, like the simple, powerful, and unconditional love of a father for his son.

The moment of quiet, profound connection hung in the air of the ruined training ground, a fragile, beautiful thing. Roy’s hand rested on Lloyd’s shoulder, a silent testament to a new, unspoken understanding between them. The duel was over, the lesson taught, the bond reforged. A lesser man, a lesser son, would have reveled in this moment, would have basked in the warm, unfamiliar glow of his father’s undisguised pride and affection. He would have perhaps offered his thanks, spoken of his new resolve to train harder, to become worthy of the power he possessed.

But Lloyd Ferrum, the man who was also KM Evan, the eighty-year-old engineer whose mind was a relentless, ever-churning engine of analysis and optimization, was already moving on. The emotional catharsis, the paternal breakthrough—it was noted, appreciated, and filed away for later, more leisurely, contemplation. Right now, his mind, freed from the immediate, all-consuming demands of combat, had already latched onto a new problem. A new inefficiency. A new, and deeply, profoundly, irritating logistical flaw he had observed earlier that day.

He took a deep, shuddering breath, the exhaustion still a heavy weight in his limbs, and pushed himself to his feet, shrugging off his father’s hand with a preoccupied, almost dismissive, gesture. Roy, surprised by the abrupt shift, rose with him, a flicker of confusion in his eyes.

Lloyd wasn't looking at his father anymore. He was staring into the middle distance, his gaze distant, analytical, his brow furrowed in a look of intense, almost frustrated, concentration. The bruised, defeated warrior was gone, replaced, with a whiplash-inducing speed, by the pragmatic, problem-solving industrialist.

“The salt,” Lloyd muttered, his voice a low, almost angry, grumble.

Roy stared at him, utterly bewildered. “The… salt?” he repeated, his mind struggling to keep up with his son’s jarring, non-sequitur of a thought process. “Lloyd, what are you talking about? Are you delirious from the exertion?”

“No, no, the kitchen salt,” Lloyd clarified, waving a dismissive hand, already pacing a small, agitated circle on the cracked stone floor, his mind clearly a thousand miles away from the training ground. “I was in the main kitchens this morning, Father. Before my… lesson. With Elmsworth.” He ran a hand through his sweat-matted hair, a gesture of pure, intellectual frustration. “I saw the sacks. The ones delivered yesterday from the Western Salt Mines. The Guild contract you signed last season.”

Chapter : 576

Roy’s frown deepened. “I am aware of the contract, Lloyd. It provides a stable, if somewhat costly, supply of salt for the entire estate’s preservation and culinary needs. What of it?”

“What of it?” Lloyd stopped his pacing, turning to his father with an expression of such profound, almost pained, indignation that Roy was momentarily taken aback. It was the look of an engineer who has just discovered a critical, unforgivable design flaw in the very foundations of the universe. “Father, it is a disgrace! An economic travesty! It is, without exaggeration, the single most inefficient, wasteful, and downright insulting, resource allocation I have witnessed since my return!”

Roy could only stare, his own mind, which had been grappling with the cosmic implications of his son wielding the power of two Transcended spirits, now being forcibly, violently, dragged into a passionate, and apparently deeply urgent, debate about… seasoning.

“The impurity levels are atrocious!” Lloyd continued, his voice rising with the fervor of a man who has just discovered a fundamental injustice in the world. “I examined a sample. It’s barely eighty percent sodium chloride! The rest is a mixture of magnesium chloride, potassium sulfates, and common, unprocessed rock dust! Not only does this make it less effective for meat preservation, requiring larger quantities, but the magnesium chloride is hygroscopic—it draws moisture from the air! Which means the sacks sitting in the larder are slowly, inexorably, turning into damp, solid blocks of useless, salty mud!”

He resumed his pacing, his hands gesturing animatedly, the exhausted warrior now a fiery, passionate lecturer on the subject of mineral purity. “And the cost! You are paying a premium price for what is essentially… dirty, wet rock! The Guild is robbing you blind, Father! They are selling you a vastly inferior product, riddled with impurities that actively degrade its quality over time, and they are charging you as if it were pure, refined, alchemical-grade salt! The inefficiency… the waste… it is offensive! On a fundamental, structural level!”

He stopped again, fixing his father with a look of such earnest, almost desperate, appeal, it was as if he were pleading for the fate of the entire kingdom. “We need to change the supplier. Or better yet, we need to build our own refinery. A simple fractional crystallization process, using controlled evaporation ponds… we could produce a ninety-nine percent pure, free-flowing salt for a tenth of the current cost! We could corner the entire regional market! We could…”

He trailed off, suddenly aware of the profound, absolute, and comprehensively baffled, silence that had fallen over the training ground. He looked at his father. Arch Duke Roy Ferrum was staring at him, his mouth slightly agape, his dark eyes wide with an expression that was a perfect, beautiful, and utterly unprecedented, fusion of stunned disbelief, profound confusion, and a dawning, almost fearful, awe.

He had just engaged his son in a duel of god-like, world-altering power. He had witnessed him merge with a storm, wield the fire of a demon, and push the very limits of their bloodline. And now, this same boy, bruised, exhausted, and still panting from the exertion, was not dwelling on his defeat, not marveling at their shared power. He was… passionately, furiously, and with a level of detail that was both brilliant and deeply, deeply, weird… complaining about the quality of the kitchen salt.

The silence stretched, thick and heavy, broken only by the distant, oblivious chirping of a bird. Lloyd stood in the center of the ruined training ground, his chest still heaving slightly, his earlier passion for saline purity slowly giving way to a dawning, awkward self-awareness. He looked at his father’s stunned, speechless face, and realized, with a jolt, how utterly insane he must have sounded. He had just gone from demigod-in-training to irate supply-chain manager in the space of about thirty seconds. The cognitive dissonance was likely giving the Arch Duke a metaphysical headache.

He cleared his throat, a faint flush creeping up his neck. “My apologies, Father,” he said, his voice returning to a more normal, less ‘crusading chemist’ tone. “I… I get carried away sometimes. By… inefficiencies.”

Roy Ferrum continued to stare at him for another long moment. Then, something remarkable happened. The Arch Duke, the Iron Tyrant, the man whose smiles were rarer than dragon’s teeth, threw his head back and laughed.