Marcos left at sunrise.
He had loaded his borrowed supplies onto a mule-cart he rented with the last of his silver. The wood creaked, the wheels groaned, and the donkey wasn’t particularly fast—but it moved. And that was all he needed.
The morning air in the highlands was sharp and fresh. Mist still clung to the low valleys, and the trail to Congonhas was carved between worn ridges, framed by cerrado brush and the occasional sight of cattle. It would be a journey of two days — more if weather turned or the animal grew stubborn.
But Marcos didn’t mind.
His mind was too active for exhaustion.
He had packed six old soap bars, a variety of coarse cloth, and a small crate of flour from Guedes’s store. They were typical trade items—but more importantly, they were test cases. A way to learn the market.
His real treasure was wrapped tightly in a bundle at the bottom of the cart: a sheaf of papers written in charcoal ink, containing the process for alkaline soap. The system had not only given him the chemical formula, but detailed instructions for primitive production: how to render animal fat, extract potash from wood ashes, and maintain the correct temperature without a thermometer.
It wasn’t just soap.
It was science, buried in a peasant disguise.
When he reached Congonhas on the second afternoon, the village was already buzzing with its market day. Women traded baskets of fruit for fabric; miners sold uncut stones to artisans; farmers lined the street with sacks of grain. The chapel bell rang every hour, and mules blocked the roads without apology.
Marcos didn’t wait.
He picked a shaded corner near the fountain and displayed the cloth first. Basic, rough, but clean. Then the soap — he broke a small piece and used it to scrub his own hands, letting the rich, foamy lather show.
A woman approached. Then another.
Soon he had a crowd.
“What is that?” one asked.
“It smells like citrus!” said another.
“It doesn’t crumble!”
Marcos smiled.
“This is soap refined with a new method. It lasts twice as long. It won’t melt in rain or rot in heat. And your children won’t smell like lard.”
By the end of the day, he had sold nearly everything — at 35% above standard price.
More importantly, he had secured two orders for more soap, to be delivered within three weeks.
The return journey was slower.
He carried coffee, dried herbs, iron nails, and a small purse of coins. He felt it in his chest — not pride, but confirmation. His ideas worked. His knowledge had weight here. He wasn’t trying to squeeze into a failing system anymore.
He was building one.
Back in the village, he went straight to a small clay hut near the riverbank. There, with permission from an old tanner, he began his first test production of modern soap.
It took three days.
He built a crude stove from bricks, rendered beef tallow in a copper pan, and filtered lye water from wood ash in a slow, smoky process that made his eyes burn. He adjusted pH using a boiled cabbage leaf dye as an indicator, just as the system taught.
He failed twice.
The third batch worked.
A creamy, firm soap that didn’t crumble under heat, lathered quickly, and carried the mild scent of lemon grass — something he added from a local herb he recognized from biology class years ago.
He cut the batch into uniform bricks and wrapped each with coarse paper tied by thin twine.
It looked… professional.
It looked like a future.
[New Product Registered: SRN Soap – Grade I]
[Market Value: +50% standard trade]
[System Bonus Unlocked: Recipe Conversion Tool – Allows simplification of industrial processes using local materials]
Marcos sat on a flat stone, holding the first bar of soap between his fingers. His hands were cracked and burned from the heat. His eyes were swollen from the smoke. But he smiled.
Because that bar was power.
It wasn’t about cleaning.
It was about proving that knowledge had currency, and that the first industrial ripple in a stagnant pond had just begun.
In the following days, he distributed samples — free of charge — to five households.
Within a week, they were asking for more.
And for the first time, in hushed voices around the tavern and the butcher’s stall, people began saying things like:
“The boy from the south has ideas.”
“He smells like a foreigner… but speaks better than most priests.”
“He’s not from here.”
And Marcos knew.
That was exactly what he needed.