Chapter 260: 260: Rumors Have Teeth
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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.
"That’s just good balance," the other replied, then lowered his voice anyway, because the second-year tone always pretended to be wiser than fear. "No. Someone said there are... mana tools. Rare ones. The kind rich men collect."
John did not turn his head. He kept walking as if he had not heard anything.
Fizz, hovering at his shoulder, did turn his head. He turned it like a hawk. Like a gossip aunt. Like a tiny living alarm system.
Fizz whispered, "Rare mana tools. They mean guns."
John kept his face calm. "Quiet."
Fizz whispered louder, "I am quiet. Quietly furious."
John did not answer. He walked on, because walking on was what kept you alive in places where attention had a sharp edge.
That was the academy side of the rumor.
The city side was already worse.
Because someone else had heard about the shop again.
Someone who had never forgiven embarrassment.
Someone who collected grudges the way other boys collected medals.
Fartray of Aqua.
Fartray’s room was clean the way pride was clean. No dust. No clutter. No warmth. Even the air felt like it had been filtered through money.
He sat near the window, fingers tapping the arm of his chair with controlled impatience. His coat was immaculate. His hair was perfect. His mood was poisonous.
The servant at the door did not step fully inside. He knew better. He stood just far enough away that Fartray could not hit him without standing up, and Fartray hated standing up when he was angry.
"Speak," Fartray said.
The servant swallowed. "Young master... the shop."
Fartray’s fingers stopped tapping. "Which shop?"
The servant hesitated, like the name itself could get him punished. "Fizz Holdings."
Fartray’s mouth tightened. "Again."
"Yes, young master." The servant bowed his head. "It is drawing attention. They sold—"
"I do not care about daggers," Fartray snapped. His voice rose just enough to make the servant flinch. "Tell me something useful."
The servant licked his lips. "There are whispers of rare mana tools."
Fartray’s eyes sharpened instantly. "What kind?"
The servant’s voice lowered. "No one says openly. Only that they are... unusual. Stronger than they should be. Expensive toys, maybe."
Fartray leaned forward slowly. His anger shifted shape.
It became interesting.
Interest was more dangerous than anger. Anger made you loud. Interest made you patient.
"A shop," Fartray murmured. "A poor boy shop."
He smiled, and it was not a pleasant smile.
"If he has something rare," Fartray said, voice soft, "it should belong to people who can protect it."
The servant did not respond. He had learned that agreeing with Fartray was safer than thinking.
Fartray’s eyes narrowed. "And where is the commoner boy?"
"In the academy, young master," the servant replied. "Still. He did not disappear."
Fartray’s fingers resumed tapping, but the rhythm was calmer now.
"Good," he said. "Then we have time."
The servant swallowed. "Young master... do you want me to—"
Fartray cut him off with a lazy lift of his hand. "I want you to find out what the shop truly sells."
The servant nodded.
Fartray’s eyes glittered. "And if the shop sells something valuable... I want it."
The servant hesitated. "Buy it, young master."
Fartray’s gaze snapped to him like a blade.
The servant corrected himself instantly. "Or... we can take it by force."
Fartray relaxed again, satisfied. "Better."
He leaned back in his chair, staring out at the city like it was a board game.
"Revenge," he murmured, almost fondly. "And profit."
In Fartray’s world, those two words were often the same thing.
That same evening, in a house that wasn’t Aqua and wasn’t royal, a smaller power made a quieter decision.
A minor noble family that did not have a duke’s weight or a count’s fame, but had enough coin to hire sharp eyes, sat around a table with too much wine and too many worries.
The family name did not matter yet.
What mattered was their hunger.
"What do we know," the father asked.
A thin man in gray answered, "Fizz Holdings. New shop. Good blades. Strange talk of mana tools."
The mother frowned. "If it’s only blades, it’s not worth the risk."
The thin man nodded. "It might not be only blades."
The youngest son, eager and foolish, leaned forward. "If it’s rare, we should buy it."
The father’s eyes were cold. "If it’s rare, someone else will buy it first."
The thin man bowed. "We can send watchers."
The father nodded once. "Send spies. Quiet ones. Not thieves."
The son blinked. "Why not thieves."
The father’s voice stayed calm. "Because thieves leave noise. Spies bring information."
He set his cup down. "If the shop truly has rare mana tools, then we decide whether coin is enough or pressure is needed."
The thin man bowed again. "How many."
"Two," the father said. "One to watch the door. One to watch the back."
The mother added, "And if the orange spirit is there, do not provoke it."
The son scoffed. "It’s a spirit."
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