And so another week has passed, and with the help of his mother, Ernest made scented soap in their home.

At first, the entire process remained messy.

Very messy.

The kitchen constantly smelled like a strange mixture of herbs, melted fat, smoke, and ash. Clay bowls occupied almost every corner of the counter while several failed soap batches ended up either too soft, too brittle, or smelling terrible enough that even Anna refused touching them.

One batch smelled strongly like burned pig grease.

Another somehow developed the texture of wet cheese.

And one disastrous attempt became so alkaline that it irritated Ernest’s skin slightly after testing.

"That one is definitely not for selling," Ernest muttered while rinsing his hands quickly.

Anna looked horrified.

"Selling? That thing nearly melted your fingers!"

"It didn’t melt my fingers."

"It looked like it wanted to."

Still, despite the failures, progress happened surprisingly fast.

Because now Ernest no longer worked alone.

Anna became heavily involved in the process after realizing the soap actually cleaned far better than plain water.

And honestly, having another pair of hands helped tremendously.

Soap-making in medieval conditions was exhausting.

Back on Earth, factories automated almost everything through mixers, heating systems, chemical controls, and molds.

Meanwhile here?

Everything depended entirely on manual labor.

Anna handled most of the filtering work now.

She discovered that repeatedly straining ash water through cloth removed many unwanted charcoal particles from the lye solution.

The cleaner the lye became, the smoother the soap texture turned out afterward.

It was primitive filtration.

But effective.

Meanwhile Ernest focused heavily on improving scent.

Because while the cleaning part already worked, nobody wanted to smell like cooked livestock afterward.

Thankfully, the market sold herbs and flowers cheaply enough.

Lavender-like flowers.

Mint leaves.

Even crushed citrus peels from imported fruits.

Not pure essential oils like modern soap companies used, but enough to improve fragrance slightly.

One evening, Ernest mixed dried mint into a fresh soap batch while Anna stirred the thickening mixture slowly over the stove.

The kitchen smelled far better now compared to their first experiments.

Fresh herbs mixed with warm oils and smoke created an oddly comforting atmosphere.

Anna wiped sweat from her forehead afterward while stirring carefully.

"This is harder than baking bread."

"That’s because this is chemistry."

"There’s that strange word again."

Ernest laughed lightly before checking the consistency.

The mixture thickened smoothly this time.

Better.

Much better.

Over the week, they also improved the molds.

Instead of random clay bowls, Ernest carved small wooden frames with removable bottoms.

Simple.

But now the soap bars hardened into cleaner rectangular shapes instead of ugly uneven lumps.

Presentation mattered.

Even medieval consumers judged products visually.

Another thing Ernest noticed quickly was material cost.

Animal fat remained cheap because butchers often treated leftover rendered grease as low-value product.

Ash practically cost nothing.

Meaning the real expenses mostly came from herbs, oils, containers, and labor.

And because raw materials remained inexpensive, the profit margin potential looked enormous.

Especially once production scaled.

One afternoon, while several soap bars cooled near the window, Anna picked one up carefully and sniffed it.

"...This one smells nice."

Mint batch.

Ernest smiled slightly.

"Better than pig grease, right?"

"Much better."

Then she paused.

"...Do you really think people would buy these?"

Ernest immediately nodded.

"Workers alone would."

Actually, he already knew exactly who needed it most.

The forge.

Every day, workers returned home covered in soot, oil, sweat, and furnace grime.

Some smelled so strongly of charcoal that the odor practically clung to the air around them.

And without proper cleaning products, most simply stayed dirty constantly.

Even Victor noticed the difference recently.

After reluctantly testing one soap bar during bathing, the man spent several seconds staring at his own hands afterward.

"...Feels strange," he muttered.

Because for probably the first time in years, the grease embedded into his skin actually washed off properly.

Now even Victor quietly used the soap regularly despite pretending not to care much.

The biggest surprise, however, came from Anna herself.

A few days after using the scented batches, she quietly admitted something while washing dishes.

"My hands don’t smell like onions anymore."

That honestly made Ernest grin.

Because that simple statement perfectly summarized the product’s value.

People here accepted unpleasant smells because they believed nothing could fully remove them.

But soap changed that.

And once people experienced true cleanliness properly even once...

Going back became difficult.

By the end of the week, several hardened bars lined the shelves near the kitchen window.

Brownish still.

Far from beautiful.

But cleaner-looking now.

Smoother too.

And the mint scent lightly filled the room whenever air drifted through the house.

Ernest stood there quietly one evening while staring at the growing collection.

Soap.

Simple soap.

Yet somehow, those rough little bars represented more than hygiene now.

Now, it’s time to sell.