Chapter 807 --807

Chapter 807: Chapter-807

"If a customer cuts themselves on a rusty edge of a wet dish rack, they will contract a fatal fever. You have to thoroughly quench and finish every single piece in a heavy oil furnishing to seal the metal from water. If you don’t, it’s a death trap."

The blacksmith let out a booming laugh. "Lady, we work in the fire! Of course we know raw iron bites! We know how to oil-seal our work. But don’t worry, commoners won’t pay for iron furniture anyway."

Heena paused. Her inner capitalist, honed across multiple lifetimes, suddenly stirred to life.

"How about we make a deal?" Heena proposed, her eyes gleaming with quiet calculation. "I provide the designs for modern, highly functional household tools. You oil-seal them properly, forge them, and sell them to the market. We do a thirty-seventy split on the profits."

The older husband, who clearly managed the forge’s meager finances, immediately went pale. He stepped forward, his polite demeanor cracking under sheer panic.

"Thirty percent?!" the husband blurted out, his hands trembling. "My Lady, please! Thirty percent for us won’t even cover the cost of the coal! We do all the heavy lifting, the smelting, the hammering—how can we survive on thirty percent just because you drew a picture?!"

The blacksmith winced, shooting her husband a furious glare for speaking out of turn to a paying noble, but the pained look in her own eyes showed she entirely agreed with him. It was a terrible, predatory margin.

Heena blinked, staring at the panicked man. Then, a raspy, genuine laugh escaped her lips.

"No, no," Heena corrected, shaking her head. "You misunderstood me. You and your forge take seventy percent. I take thirty. I just provide the drawings and the intellectual property. The lion’s share goes to the laborers."

The husband’s mouth snapped shut. The blacksmith and her two brawny daughters stared at Heena in utter, stunned silence.

The blacksmith wasn’t an idiot. She knew exactly who Heena was now, and she understood the absolute goldmine of local gossip. If the market found out the terrifying, exiled Lu daughter had invented revolutionary new kitchenware, the sheer scandalous curiosity alone would drive hundreds of wealthy women to their forge just to see it. Getting seventy percent of that revenue was a monumental windfall.

"Seventy for us?" the blacksmith’s eyes lit up with sheer greed. She practically slammed her massive hand down on the anvil. "Deal! We will forge them, and you take your thirty. Are we drawing up a contract?"

"We should," Heena agreed smoothly. She looked around the soot-stained forge. "Do you have a scribe?"

The blacksmith and her daughters exchanged slightly embarrassed looks. Like most manual laborers in the lower rings, they were completely illiterate.

"Wait," the eldest daughter suddenly said. She turned toward the small residential doorway attached to the side of the forge and shouted, "Husband! Come out here!"

A moment later, a young man stepped out of the shadows. He was incredibly average-looking, dressed in a coarse, ash-stained linen robe. He kept his shoulders slightly hunched and his eyes respectfully downcast, looking entirely out of place amidst the heavy iron and fire.

"Yes, Wife?" the young man answered, his voice soft and deeply submissive.

"This is Miss Heena," the daughter said proudly, clapping a heavy hand onto her husband’s fragile shoulder. "She needs to draw up a business contract. I want you to read and write it for us."

Heena’s eyebrows shot up in genuine surprise. In this matriarchal society, men were rarely taught anything beyond basic embroidery, domestic cooking, and poetry. To find a common blacksmith’s husband who could actually read and comprehend legal terminology was an incredibly rare anomaly.

"You know how to read?" Heena asked, assessing the quiet man.

The husband offered a shy, soft smile, keeping his gaze firmly anchored to the dirt floor. "Yes, My Lady. I know a little bit of the words."

"That is more than a little bit useful," Heena smiled, genuinely pleased by the unexpected asset. "Grab your ink. Let’s draw up a contract."

"I think a thirty-seventy split would be good," Heena proposed, leaning against the wooden workbench.

The older husband, who managed the forge’s meager finances, immediately went pale. He didn’t speak out of turn, but his eyes screamed in absolute panic. Thirty percent for us? he thought wildly. How can thirty percent even cover the cost of the raw iron ore and the mountain coal? Is this woman crazy to demand seventy percent just for drawing a few lines on a parchment?!

He opened his mouth, fully prepared to risk insulting a noble just to save their forge from bankruptcy.

Before he could utter a single word, his wife—the massive, soot-covered blacksmith—suddenly reached out and clamped her heavy hand over his, giving a sharp, warning shake of her head.

The blacksmith wasn’t an idiot. She saw a much bigger picture than her husband did.

Yes, selling common iron pots was easy, but convincing anyone to buy a massive, expensive iron almirah was nearly impossible. However, if the high nobility and the wealthy merchants found out that the infamous, exiled daughter of the Lu family had designed and commissioned it... Heena would effectively become a walking, talking model for their goods. People in the capital were obsessed with status. They would pay outrageous prices just to own the same revolutionary furniture as a Lu.

In the blacksmith’s mind, establishing a direct connection with Heena and securing her future designs was vastly more important than the profit margin on this first batch. Even if they took a loss on the thirty percent cut, the sheer volume of future sales would make up for it.

"We agree to the terms," the blacksmith declared firmly, silencing her husband and her two disgruntled daughters with a single, authoritative glare. "Thirty-seventy it is."

Heena nodded, completely missing the tense dynamic playing out in front of her. "Okay. So, should we draw up the contract?"

The blacksmith and her daughters exchanged slightly embarrassed looks. Like most manual laborers, they were entirely illiterate.

"Wait," the eldest daughter suddenly piped up, wiping her soot-stained hands on her apron. "Let me call my husband."

She turned toward the small residential doorway attached to the forge and shouted over the crackling fire, "Husband! Come out here!"

A moment later, the man emerged from the shadows of the house. He was incredibly average-looking, dressed in a coarse, ash-stained linen robe. He kept his shoulders slightly hunched, his eyes respectfully downcast as he walked out into the heat of the forge.

"Yes, Wife?" his voice was soft, submissive, and perfectly matched to the societal expectations of a commoner husband.

The brawny daughter smiled proudly, gesturing to the tall woman in the black cloak. "This is Miss—"

"Call me Heena," Heena interjected smoothly.

"Right. This is Miss Heena," the daughter continued, patting her husband’s fragile shoulder. "She is going to draw up a business contract. I want you to read it for us so everything is fair."

Heena’s eyebrows shot up in genuine surprise. In this matriarchal dimension, men were rarely taught anything beyond embroidery and cooking. "You know how to read?"

The husband offered a shy, soft smile, keeping his gaze firmly on the dirt floor. "Yes, My Lady. I know a little bit of the words."