Her senses, sharpened by her cultivation and innate talent, registered the subtle shift in the room's energy patterns. A clumsy, inefficient draw. A focal point of concentration emanating from… the sofa.
She didn't turn her head, didn't betray her awareness with any outward sign. Her mind, however, processed the new data point with cool, logical precision.
Subject: Lloyd Ferrum.
Activity: Attempting Spirit Energy cultivation.
Method: Seated meditation.
Efficiency: Extremely low. Energy absorption rate minimal, comparable to baseline untrained individuals.
Observation: First recorded instance of subject engaging in dedicated cultivation practice since cohabitation began.
Correlation: Follows recent pattern of anomalous behavior (increased confidence, unexpected knowledge display, application of previously unknown Void Power, defiance of familial authority).
Hypothesis: Subject may be initiating rudimentary self-improvement protocols following external stimuli (political threat, marital dissatisfaction?). Motivation unclear. Probability of significant power increase based on current efficiency: negligible.
Conclusion: Continued observation warranted. Deviation from established behavioral baseline noted.
No surprise flickered across her impassive features. No curiosity in the human sense. Just the cold, analytical processing of new information, slotting it into the complex, evolving equation that was her new husband. The inconsistency remained baffling, illogical, but the data points were accumulating. The previously predictable variable was becoming erratic. (It's just Lloyd's internal joke about Rosa.)
Lloyd gritted his teeth, sweat beading on his brow despite the coolness of the room. He could feel something. A trickle. Like trying to sip thick soup through a narrow coffee stirrer. He visualized the energy flowing, pooling, strengthening his core. It felt less like a pool and more like a damp patch forming very, very slowly on parched earth.
He felt a faint mental nudge, a sense of powerful, watchful presence at the edge of his consciousness. Fang. Even dismissed, the bond remained, a thrumming connection. He could feel the wolf-spirit's potent energy signature, the contained lightning humming patiently. It was almost mocking, comparing Fang's effortless power to his own pathetic struggle.
Yeah, yeah, rub it in, Lloyd thought wryly towards the mental presence. Some of us weren't blessed with supercharged lightning cores, okay? Some of us are working with hamster wheels.
He persisted for what felt like an eternity, fighting the urge to just give up and read one of the dusty novels hidden under the sofa cushions. The net gain felt minuscule, almost imaginary. Was this even worth the effort? According to the System, Spirit Power stages offered exponential increases. Manifestation was okay, Ascension was ten times stronger, Transcend another tenfold leap. Even a small improvement now could pay dividends later… if he lived that long. If his core didn't actually die of boredom first.
An hour crawled by, marked by the slow, rhythmic ticking of the unseen clock. Finally, Lloyd released his focus with a weary sigh that ruffled the stagnant air. He felt… marginally less pathetic? Maybe? Hard to tell. Mostly, he just felt cramped from sitting cross-legged on the lumpy sofa, and mentally drained from the dual effort of cultivation and brainstorming failed business ventures.
He pushed himself stiffly to his feet, muscles protesting slightly. Definitely nineteen. He needed to clear his head, wash away the lingering frustration and the faint scent of failure.
He padded across the plush carpet towards the adjoining washroom, a small chamber appointed with the usual aristocratic necessities – a porcelain basin, a large ewer filled with cool water, fluffy towels embroidered with the Ferrum crest (the constipated lion again).
He splashed cool water onto his face, the sensation sharp and refreshing. He scrubbed vigorously, rinsing away the sweat and the feeling of sluggish energy clinging to his skin. Habit, ingrained from eighty years on Earth, made him reach instinctively towards the side of the basin. His hand closed on empty air where a bottle of facewash should have been.
He froze, hand hovering, the memory hitting him with the force of a physical blow.
Right.
Earth. Facewash. Cleansers specifically designed not to strip away your epidermis along with the grime. Small luxuries utterly absent in Riverio.
He remembered the 'soap' commonly used here, even in noble households. Harsh blocks made primarily from rendered animal fat (tallow) and lye, sometimes crudely scented with overpowering floral or herbal oils to mask the underlying… funk. It cleaned, yes, in the same way sandpaper cleaned wood – effective, but brutal. Using it on your face was an exercise in masochism, leaving skin tight, red, and begging for mercy. He'd avoided it religiously in his first life, preferring plain water.
No wonder everyone here looks slightly wind-burned, he thought, a wry smile touching his lips. Their soap probably doubles as paint stripper.
And then, it hit him. Not with a blinding flash, but with a quiet, insidious click, like tumblers falling into place in a complex lock.
Soap.
Not the harsh, lye-heavy blocks currently in use.
Proper soap.