Success once could be luck.
Success twice required structure.
Duke woke before sunrise.
The gold coin rested where he had placed it the night before, wrapped carefully in cloth and hidden beneath a loose board. Not out of paranoia — but out of discipline.
Gold unprotected invited instability.
He rose quietly and stepped outside.
The air was cool. The village still half asleep. Smoke from early hearth fires drifted lazily upward.
Scaling would not be about making more soap.
It would be about making the same soap — repeatedly.
Consistency first. Volume second.
He purchased more rendered fat that morning, this time negotiating slightly better on price due to larger quantity. The butcher did not ask questions. Silver quieted curiosity.
Back home, he began refining the process.
Ash was no longer collected casually. He sorted it immediately upon arrival, separating coarse charcoal from finer residue. He began storing finer ash separately for future batches.
Water ratios were reduced further.
Evaporation time extended.
Fat purification improved.
Each adjustment was small.
Together, they reduced variance.
Cera watched from the doorway.
"You're changing it again," she observed.
"I'm removing uncertainty," he replied.
She tilted her head. "That sounds complicated."
"It isn't," he said calmly. "It just takes patience."
He handed her cloth strips.
"When the bars cool, wrap them tightly. Keep them dry."
She blinked. "You want me to help?"
"Yes."
There was no ceremony in the request.
Only inclusion.
Her hands moved carefully as she followed his instruction.
Production doubled that day.
Twenty bars.
Then thirty.
He staggered the batches so that one cooled while another mixed.
The house grew warmer from the constant fire.
Jocelyn complained once about the smell.
Then stopped when she saw the silver accumulating.
By the fourth day, he was producing fifty bars across two cycles.
Fatigue became noticeable.
His arms trembled slightly after long stirring sessions. The wooden spoon was heavier than it appeared after an hour of resistance against thickening mixture.
Strength would become a limiting factor soon.
He began eating more deliberately.
Protein first.
Grain second.
Water consistently.
At night, when others slept, he sat quietly and closed his eyes.
He focused inward.
That faint density he had sensed before was still there.
Two subtle centers deep within.
One responded faintly when he breathed slowly and steadily.
The other remained dormant.
He did not force it.
Force without understanding produced instability.
Instead, he followed the general breathing pattern described in the Warrior manual he had begun reading.
Inhale slowly.
Guide sensation downward.
Exhale and compress.
The response was minimal.
But present.
His muscles felt slightly warmer afterward.
Subtle.
Barely measurable.
But real.
During the day, he returned to production.
By the end of the week, he had reached one hundred bars.
He did not release them all at once.
That would raise suspicion.
Instead, he distributed them across two merchants.
The first merchant did not question the consistency. The foam remained thick. The structure remained firm.
"Twelve again?" the merchant asked.
"Yes."
The man nodded without argument this time.
Reputation had begun to replace negotiation.
The second merchant was more cautious.
"You're the boy selling to Garin," he said.
"Yes."
The man tested the bar thoroughly.
"How are you making this?"
"Carefully," Duke replied.
The merchant grunted but paid.
Twelve silvers per bar.
One hundred bars across multiple days.
The silver accumulated steadily.
But something else became clear.
The village was small.
Ten thousand people, roughly.
Even if half purchased soap regularly, demand had a ceiling.
By the end of the second week, merchants were not requesting more.
They were requesting the same amount.
That was the first signal.
Saturation.
He sat at the table that evening, coins sorted neatly before him.
Cera leaned closer.
"We're earning more," she said quietly.
"Yes."
"Then why do you look like that?"
He considered the question.
"Because this village cannot grow."
She frowned slightly.
He tapped the silver gently.
"If everyone who wants it already buys it, selling more doesn't increase income."
"So we wait?"
"No."
He looked toward the door, toward the road that led beyond the village.
"We move."
The word hung in the air.
Evelyn, who had been listening quietly, spoke for the first time.
"Move where?"
"To a larger city," he said calmly. "Where demand is higher. Where merchants compete. Where coin flows faster."
Silence followed.
Jocelyn's eyes widened slightly.
Cera looked thoughtful.
Evelyn looked afraid.
"This is our home," she said softly.
"Yes."
"And it has limits."
He did not speak harshly.
He spoke mathematically.
Later that night, after everyone slept, he stepped outside again.
He inhaled slowly, guiding sensation inward.
The responding center pulsed faintly.
Still weak.
Still distant from breakthrough.
He flexed his fingers.
The body was stronger than before. Slightly broader through the shoulders. More stable on his feet.
But nowhere near the knights he remembered.
He would need both.
Strength.
And scale.
The soap business was no longer survival.
It was capital generation.
Capital would fund training.
Training would remove vulnerability.
He opened his eyes.
The village road lay quiet beneath moonlight.
Small.
Contained.
Temporary.
One hundred bars were proof of process.
But process without expansion stagnates.
Tomorrow, he would begin gathering information about nearby cities.
And soon—
He would leave this ceiling behind.