Chapter 11. They say starting a business is trendy these days?

"We'll escort you back to your room, Your Highness."

It had been an hour since Betty and Captain Wolff left.

"Luna... does this mean I can finally get out?"

"The lady has ordered your early release, taking Your Highness's status into account. It's getting late, so please return to your room and rest."

A whole week of confinement, they said, and here I was, out in just an hour.

Of course I'd get out quick—I'm a model prisoner. Definitely not because of my status.

"Got it. Tell the lady I offer my deepest gratitude for her boundless mercy. I'll live a truly good life from now on."

Luna let out a short sigh at my shameless reply.

"I'll relay those exact words. I only hope Your Highness's definition of 'good' aligns somewhat with the lady's."

I followed Luna's lead out of the dungeon. Sure, they'd confiscated my treasure, but right now, all I wanted was to crash in a soft bed.

The next morning.

The Winterfell dining hall echoed only with the clink of cutlery.

Clink, clink.

The intermittent scrape of forks against plates filled the table. I wisely munched on my salad, eyes discreetly tracking Betty across from me.

She ate with her usual flawless posture and, noticing my gaze, spoke up.

"Your Highness, is the food not to your liking?"

Betty's voice was indifferent. I quickly pulled a pitiful face.

"No, it's delicious. I just didn't sleep well—lingering fatigue from the dungeon, you know. Though, of course, it was all my fault."

Her movements paused ever so slightly at my subtle grumbling. She elegantly dabbed her lips with a napkin, then fixed me with a straight stare.

"Your sentence was extended because you possessed vulgar literature and attempted to tarnish the captain of the guard's honor. However..."

Betty cleared her throat pointedly before continuing.

"I've given some thought—overnight, that is—to the utility of that 'red powder' you showed us yesterday."

With a gesture, she had Luna place a few sheets of paper before me. Official documents stamped with the Winterfell seal.

"Eighty percent of the pepper consumed in the empire is imported through the southern merchant alliance known as the Golden Scales. Including distribution costs and tariffs, a single canister costs nearly a commoner's weekly living expenses. But what of Your Highness's paprika powder?"

Betty's eyes sharpened.

"The raw material, paprika, is an overabundant crop rotting in the imperial south. No one wants it, so prices bottom out, and the production process is simple: just drying and grinding. By my calculations, even selling at a quarter of market pepper prices yields over 60% profit margins."

"...So, you're saying we start a business?"

"Yes. We'll formalize this powder as a product under the Winterfell name. Something like Winter Rose Pepper would suit it. The ducal residence will provide ample funding and distribution networks. And for Your Highness..."

Betty paused, staring straight through me.

"...I want you to take charge of the entire operation. ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Production, sales—everything."

I skimmed the documents. A 15% cut of sales profits. From freeloading prince to overseer of a major Winterfell venture in one fell swoop.

Not bad. Hell, it's perfect.

If this succeeds, I'll control one of Winterfell's cash flows. Maybe Betty won't change her mind and kill me later—maybe she'll just quietly exile me somewhere instead? A guy can dream.

But I didn't nod right away. Negotiation 101: play hard to get.

"Hmm, I'm a pretty busy guy, so I need time to think. Dungeon fatigue's still kicking my ass, too."

Betty's brow furrowed faintly at my obvious whining.

"Reducing your week-long confinement to one hour was my way of showing consideration, Your Highness."

"For consideration, that confiscated treasure of mine sure stings."

I tossed out the bait, and Betty sighed in reluctant agreement.

"...Fine. Once the business stabilizes and the first profits roll in, I'll return the book."

"For real? You'll give it back exactly as promised?"

She shook her head with a deep sigh.

"Yes, whatever... I'll return it. So drop that sulky face and eat. It's unsightly."

"You got it, my lady!"

I beamed like nothing happened and grabbed my fork. I speared a big bite of sausage, and Betty eyed me with pity.

What the hell? The original me and Betty? Whatever—it's a reward, so it'll be good.

I chewed my bread with grim determination.

Expect great things. I'll flip this market on its head with modern know-how. Heh.

But that bravado evaporated exactly one hour later, as I slumped at my desk.

"...We're screwed."

I tore at my hair, glaring ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠at the papers before me.

It seemed simple in my head. Dry it, grind it, sell it—done. But reality was brutal.

This wasn't some convenient fantasy world where magic whipped up goods in seconds. Everything here relied on human hands and clunky medieval machines.

First problem: drying limitations. To supply tens of thousands of territory folk, we'd need mountains of paprika dried. But in this northern killer cold and high humidity? Natural drying was a joke—we'd just end up with endless frozen paprika.

Second: mass grinding. Pestles worked for home-scale, but industrial output needed serious power. And this place didn't even have common magic power sources.

"Your Highness, your face is flushed red as paprika. Are you unwell?"

Luna, pouring tea beside me, asked indifferently. I turned to her with a woeful look.

"Luna, any large-scale hot-air kilns in the territory? Or maybe some massive machine that could turn a millstone all day?"

"Well, there are stone-cutting devices for wall repairs or large bellows in the forges, but I'm just Your Highness's attendant—I don't know the details. If it's troubling you, why not ask the lady? All the territory's technicians answer to her."

I shook my head vigorously at her perfectly sensible advice.

"No way. This is mine to solve."

Luna's eyes widened slightly at my resolve. She set down the teacup, gazing at me oddly.

...Oh? His Highness looks different. I thought he was just a lazy playboy, but he wants to achieve something on his own.

Not a pink window, but her eyes conveyed that vibe.

But my true motive was light-years from her guess.

"The second I ask Betty for help, my 15% cut drops to 10%! That woman's ruthless in business—no mercy. I won't let her muscle in on my setup!"

"...Yes, that's more like Your Highness. I overestimated you for a moment."

Luna's gaze cooled. She was clearly disappointed, but whatever. My share was my lifeline.

"Ugh, headache. Stuck in this tiny room, ideas won't come. Luna, any big markets nearby? I need to see what northern commoners eat, what spices are trending—hands-on."

"There is the plaza market under the Winter Guard walls for the territory folk, but it's no place for someone as esteemed ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠as Your Highness."

"Esteemed? A prince fresh out of the dungeon? Save the flattery. Let's go—market time!"

I shot up from my seat. Every merchant knows: it starts with fieldwork. More wisdom in rough vendor shouts than desk dreams.

With Betty's permission and Luna in tow, the Winterfell plaza market buzzed despite the northern chill. Tents huddled under the massive stone walls, steam rising from street stalls.

"Get your northern goat-hide furs! Warmer than imperial silk!"

"Fresh-caught icefish today! Salt 'em to last the year!"

Merchants' cries cut the cold air amid the crowds. I inhaled the bitter smoke and salty sea tang, strolling slowly. Luna grumbled but guarded my back solidly.

A market mirrors its territory's soul. I scanned shops and baskets.

Everyone's buying salt in pinches. No spices in sight.

Then my eyes locked on a corner: an old man. Or rather, the machine beside him.

Intricately meshed gears, a long smokestack, hot air blasting from below. Pure mechanical design maximizing heat efficiency—no magic.

That's it!

My eyes lit up. I approached the old man like a man possessed and said coolly,

"Elder. I'll buy that machine. Hell, you too."

The old man blinked in confusion, and Luna replied for him.

"Your Highness, slave trading is ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠illegal in the empire."

Ow. That was my badass line.