Growth rarely announces its end.
It simply slows.
The first week after Duke scaled production, the merchants accepted everything without hesitation. Fifty bars became one hundred. Twelve silvers per bar. No bargaining. No complaints. Customers returned and requested more.
By the end of that week, he had saved six gold coins.
By the middle of the next, it became eight.
The house changed quietly with it.
Grain sacks no longer felt light when lifted. Meat appeared more than once a week. Jocelyn stopped pretending she was full after a few bites. Cera's shoulders lost their constant tension. Even Evelyn's voice carried less strain.
Money did not make them rich.
But it removed desperation.
Then Evelyn made a decision he had not accounted for.
"You're seeing Old Maren," she said one morning.
Duke glanced up from the ash he was sorting. "For what?"
"For your ribs. And those headaches."
He paused.
The pain had dulled since the beating, but it had never completely vanished. During long stirring sessions, a tight ache lingered beneath his left side. At night, after prolonged breathing exercises, a faint pressure formed behind his eyes.
It was manageable.
But manageable was not the same as healed.
Old Maren lived near the edge of the village in a narrow house heavy with the scent of dried herbs. Bundles hung from rafters. Clay jars lined uneven shelves.
The old man pressed firm fingers against Duke's ribs, then checked his pupils under lamplight.
"You were struck by aura," Maren muttered. "Even a light enhancement leaves disturbance inside the body."
Disturbance.
Duke memorized the word.
Maren crushed leaves into a paste, mixed them with dark liquid, and boiled the mixture briefly before pouring it into a small clay bottle.
"Drink this across three days," he said. "It will reduce internal swelling and calm the strain."
"How much?" Evelyn asked quietly.
"Two gold."
The amount hung in the air.
Two gold was nearly a quarter of Duke's savings.
Evelyn did not hesitate.
She paid.
On the walk home, Duke glanced sideways at her.
"That was expensive."
"You nearly died," she replied evenly. "Gold can return. You cannot."
He did not argue.
The medicine tasted bitter and metallic, with an aftertaste that lingered unpleasantly.
But by the second day, the change was noticeable.
The ache beneath his ribs dulled significantly.
The faint pressure in his skull eased.
When he practiced breathing at night, the internal sensation moved more smoothly.
Primitive medicine.
Effective nonetheless.
He adjusted his internal framework.
This world did not lack knowledge.
It simply organized it differently.
Production continued.
But during the third week, something subtle shifted.
The first merchant requested thirty bars instead of fifty.
"Customers still buying," the man said casually. "Just slower now."
Duke nodded.
Two days later, the second merchant echoed it.
"Bring twenty this time."
He adjusted production without comment.
Watched.
Measured.
By the end of the week, the pattern was clear.
Demand had stabilized.
The initial wave of interest had already spread through the village. Most households who wanted higher-quality soap already had access to it. Replacement purchases would now depend on usage cycles rather than expansion.
He ran numbers that night in quiet concentration.
Village population: roughly ten thousand.
Estimated households: perhaps two thousand.
Soap replacement rate: two to three weeks per household.
Maximum sustainable demand: limited.
He could maintain current income.
But growth would slow sharply.
He stacked his gold coins carefully on the table.
Nine gold remained after Maren's treatment and improved household expenses.
Nine gold.
More wealth than his family had ever possessed.
He used part of it wisely.
New winter cloaks.
Sturdier boots.
Thicker blankets.
Jocelyn laughed the first time she wore boots that fit without stuffing cloth into the toes.
Cera ran her fingers over her new sleeve silently, testing the fabric's strength.
Evelyn folded away patched garments without speaking.
Comfort changed posture.
Security changed breathing.
Duke watched carefully.
He did not feel greed.
He felt structure forming.
But structure without expansion becomes limitation.
At night, he intensified his aura breathing practice.
Inhale slowly.
Guide sensation downward.
Compress.
The responding core — violet — pulsed faintly when he focused correctly. The second remained distant and quiet.
His shoulders had broadened slightly over the past month. His grip was firmer. His balance more stable. He could lift heavier pots without strain.
But he had not broken through the trainee threshold described in the manual.
No internal current.
No surge.
No transition.
He remained just below it.
Stalled.
The improvement from Maren's medicine allowed smoother circulation, but not breakthrough.
He did not panic.
He observed.
Nutrition improved.
Recovery improved.
Practice consistent.
Still no threshold crossing.
The wall existed.
Outside, the village moved as it always had.
Small fields.
Narrow roads.
Familiar faces.
Contained.
One evening, he stepped toward the main road and watched a caravan pass slowly through the village gates. Wagons creaked beneath sacks of grain and barrels of salt. Guards rode beside them casually, armor polished, posture relaxed.
Beyond this village were larger markets.
River cities.
Trade hubs where coin flowed faster and demand multiplied by population alone.
Behind him, lamplight glowed warmly from his home.
Nine gold secured beneath loose floorboards.
Family clothed better.
Pain reduced.
Income stable.
Village ceiling confirmed.
He did not feel trapped.
Not yet.
But he felt contained.
And containment, left unchallenged, becomes confinement.
He turned back toward the house slowly.
The ceiling had revealed itself.
The next move would require more than production.
It would require expansion.