---
Next morning...
The capital did not need proof to believe a story. It only needed a direction.
In the days after the shop's first real wave, the city began doing what it always did when something new appeared. It was exaggerated. It was simplified. It sharpened the rumor until it could cut.
Fizz Holdings was no longer that small forge shop with decent daggers. It became the place where the blades feel lighter. It became the place where the edge bites cleaner. It became the shop with the strange orange spirit that talks like a prince and eats like a plague.
Most of the rumors were harmless.
A few were not.
And the worst part was, John could not see which ones were already traveling toward people who would not laugh about them.
He was walking across the academy courtyard when he first heard two second-years whispering behind a stone planter.
"—I swear, the dagger I bought from that shop, it cuts like it knows where your finger is going to be before you move," one said.
