The following days were a blur of pain and purpose. The cold baths became a ritual, a mental and physical reset. Each morning, I would submerge myself in the frigid water, my mind an anchor in a sea of discomfort. The mana inside me, once a wild, chaotic storm, was beginning to respond to my will. It wasn't a powerful, controlled flow yet, but the chaotic pulses were less frequent. It was as if the shock of the cold was forcing the system to self-correct, to find a more stable, low-energy state. It was a brutal but effective form of mana harmonization.
My training was relentless. I had created a routine based on what little I knew about this body's pathetic capabilities. I started with simple, functional movements: getting up from a prone position without using my hands, walking in place with exaggerated steps, and then, the planks. I'd started with ten-second intervals, but I had a timer in my head—a constant, rhythmic counting that blocked out the screaming protests of my muscles. I pushed to fifteen, then twenty, and by the end of the third day, I could hold a plank for a full thirty seconds before collapsing in a sweat-soaked heap.
My arms, once soft and useless, were now a constant, throbbing ache. My legs felt like lead weights. But the pain, which would have broken the old prince, was a reward for me. It was data. Every tremor, every burning sensation in my muscles was proof of micro-tears and new growth. It was a feedback loop, a confirmation that the machine was, however slowly and painfully, being rebuilt. My engineering mind saw the calories I was burning as inefficient fuel being converted, the fat as excess mass being jettisoned. This wasn't just exercise; it was a thermodynamic process.
Alya, my solitary observer, watched this transformation with a silent, almost awestruck intensity. She no longer brought me my meals with a cold indifference; now there was a cautious attentiveness, a flicker of concern in her eyes. I subsisted on plain bread and water, my body screaming for the rich pastries and sugary wines it had become accustomed to, but my mind held firm. I was a man of logic, and logic dictated that I needed to run on a deficit. I was a machine running on an emergency reserve, and the fat was the emergency reserve.
On the fourth day, Alya returned from her mission. She carried two large, nondescript sacks, her shoulders slumping slightly under their weight. She closed the door behind her and leaned them against the wall, her breath coming in ragged pants.
"I have the ingredients, my Prince," she said, wiping a bead of sweat from her brow. "It took some doing. The lye was difficult to acquire discreetly."
I nodded, my body a mass of aches, but my mind sharp. I was sitting on the floor, a full-body squat that made my thighs burn, but which I refused to give up. "Thank you, Alya. You have done well."
She looked at me, a flash of surprise in her eyes. "Thank you, my Prince. But... what is this for? The smell from the raw animal fat is... unpleasant."
I finally stood, a laborious, slow process that I was getting better at. I walked to a small, unused antechamber connected to my room, a space meant for storing clothes but which I would now repurpose as a laboratory. I had already cleared the space, pushing aside the ridiculous, gaudy garments of the old prince and placing a few large, metal tubs I had requested.
"It is for Reborn," I said, my voice low. "And for you. And for the future." I grabbed a handful of the animal fat, its texture greasy and thick. "This is a base. A feedstock. It's a hydrocarbon chain. When we introduce lye, which is a powerful alkali, it will react with the fat in a process called saponification. The lye breaks the fat down into fatty acids and glycerol. The fatty acids then bind with the lye to form a salt—soap. The glycerol is the moisturizing agent."
Alya stared at me, her mouth slightly agape. She had no idea what half of those words meant, but the authority and confidence in my voice were undeniable. This wasn't the rambling of a spoiled boy; this was the methodical explanation of a scholar.
"You... you know these things?" she asked, her voice a whisper of genuine awe. "This is not the knowledge of the Royal Academy."
"It's the knowledge of the Royal Engineering College, from my... my home," I corrected myself, the slip feeling like a dangerous secret. "But yes. It is science. I am going to make something the world has never seen. Soap that cleans not with harsh chemicals, but with a gentle, soothing touch."
The process was crude. I had no sophisticated equipment, no beakers or lab-grade thermometers. It was a matter of trial and error. We started a small, controlled fire in the fireplace, heating a large metal pot. I had Alya carefully measure out the lye, explaining to her the dangers of the caustic substance. I had her chop the animal fat, a task she performed with a stoic and efficient grace.
As we worked, the atmosphere in the room shifted. The contempt in her eyes was gone, replaced by a deep and abiding curiosity. She asked questions. Not the simple questions of a servant, but the probing, intelligent inquiries of a student. "How do you know how much to add? What is the purpose of the herbs? Why is the fire so important?"
I answered her patiently, my mind a wellspring of forgotten knowledge. I explained the importance of temperature control, the role of different herbs and oils—lavender for its soothing properties, mint for its refreshing scent. I had her crush the herbs with a mortar and pestle, her movements steady and precise. The room, which once smelled of neglect and expensive dust, began to fill with the heady, clean scent of herbs and the earthy smell of the boiling fat.
It was in the quiet of this new laboratory, with the fire crackling and the scent of our creation filling the air, that the wall between us finally began to crumble.
"The old prince..." she started, then trailed off, her voice hesitant.
"What about him?" I asked, stirring the mixture with a wooden spoon, my muscles aching with every rotation.
"He... he was a different man," she said, choosing her words carefully. "He never left this room. He would not allow anyone but his mother near him. He would... he would drink and eat until he fell asleep. The other princes, they would send him insults, and he would simply... accept them." Her voice was soft, laced with a pity that was more painful than her old contempt. "He was a boy who simply gave up on the world."
I stopped stirring, the silence in the room heavy with unspoken sadness. "Did you hate him, Alya?"
She was quiet for a long moment, her eyes fixed on the fire. "Hate him? No. I pitied him. I was hired to be his maid, to care for him, but what could I do for a man who did not care for himself? I was paid to stand and watch him destroy himself. It was a job, and it was a lonely, thankless one."
Her words hit me with a force I hadn't expected. The old prince wasn't just a caricature; he was a tragic figure. A boy who had been bullied and broken by his family, and who had chosen to self-destruct. The contempt I had felt for his weak body was now tempered by a profound sadness. I was not just a mind in a new body; I was now the custodian of a tragic legacy.
"He is gone," I said, my voice a solemn vow. "And I am here. We will not be pitied again, Alya. We will be feared."
Her head snapped up, and she looked at me, a fierce, unwavering light in her eyes. It was the first time I had ever seen her look at me as an ally, a partner.
After hours of painstaking work, the mixture in the pot finally reached the right consistency. It was a thick, creamy paste, fragrant with the scent of lavender and mint. I had Alya pour it into small, wooden molds I had prepared. We set them aside to cool and harden, our first batch of "Reborn" soap.
Just as we finished, a soft knock came at the door. I had Alya hide the remaining ingredients and clean the room with a speed that spoke of years of practice. I stood in the middle of the room, my body aching but my posture straighter than it had been in a week.
The door opened, and a man I recognized from the periphery of Julian's court entered. He was an older man, a spymaster of sorts, with thin lips and a gaze that missed nothing.
"Your Highness," he said, bowing low, his voice a silken, oily sound. "Prince Julian sends his regards. He heard you were... recovering, and was concerned." His eyes, however, were not on me, but on the now-clean workspace in the antechamber. He was looking for signs, for clues, for the scent of weakness.
"Tell my brother his concern is misplaced," I said, my voice steady. "I have been busy. Reborn, you might say."
The spymaster's eyes narrowed slightly. "Reborn? A spiritual awakening, perhaps? The court would be most interested in such a change."
I walked over to the fireplace, my movements slow and deliberate, and picked up one of the freshly poured wooden molds. The soap was still soft, but it held its shape, a pale, fragrant rectangle.
"Not spiritual, but physical," I said, a small, confident smile on my face. "I have been working on a new kind of cleansing agent. The old soaps are so harsh, you see. I thought, with my mind, I could create something better."
The spymaster looked from the soap to my still-bloated body, a flicker of confusion and disbelief on his face. He sniffed the air, and his nose wrinkled slightly. He could not place the scent, which was clean and herbal, not like the cheap perfumes of the court.
"An... interesting hobby, Your Highness," he said, his smile now a thin, brittle line. "I shall report back to Prince Julian on your... new interests."
I said nothing, simply holding the mold in my hand, my silence an assertion of my newfound authority. He bowed again, the gesture now more forced, and left the room.
Alya, who had been watching from the corner, finally exhaled. She walked over to me, her eyes wide with a mixture of fear and admiration.
"My Prince... you have antagonized Prince Julian's spymaster. He will report this. They will mock you even more," she said, her voice a low, frantic whisper.
I looked down at the soap in my hand, my first tangible creation in this new world. It was not a sword, or a spell, or an army. It was a simple bar of soap, a testament to my past life's knowledge and my new life's resolve.
"Let them mock," I said, a dangerous glint in my eyes. "They will see a fat boy playing with soap. I will see a growing company, an independent source of power, and a foundation for an empire. They are looking for a prince to ridicule. They have found a competitor to fear."
I turned to Alya, and for the first time, I saw her not as a maid, but as my most trusted confidante, my first partner in a game I was determined to win. The first seeds of my company had been planted, not with a proclamation, but with a bar of lavender-scented soap. My body was still a work in progress, but my mind was already building a new world. And I had a feeling the other princes would not be laughing for long.