Chapter 23: Village Below the Mist XI

Chapter 23: 23: Village Below the Mist XI --- Gael stared at the map for a long while. Then, quietly, "Alright. But only because I don’t want some outsider mucking it all up." Fizz popped up between them. "Also because you want to sit in a big chair and yell at people. Don’t lie. I’ve seen your fantasy dreams." Gael grunted. "I will bite that thing back if it ever reads my thoughts again." Fizz zipped to safety. "You can try, old bones." John grinned and pointed to the map. "Then it’s settled. We build roads. We start with one caravan. And we name the company... Fizz Holdings." Fizz flew into a spiral, singing, "We are officially open for business. No refunds. No complaints. All complaints will be eaten by me." The sun dipped slightly in the sky as the forge fire was stoked again. The second batch of daggers came out under John’s supervision. This time, they were smoother, sharper, cleaner. The best five glowed faintly under the firelight. Fizz floated near them, inspecting with a critical eye. "Hmm. Not terrible. Still ugly. But functional. Which makes them the opposite of me." He floated around the five chosen men and opened his mouth again. John held up a hand. "Fizz, don’t you dare—" Too late. One by one, he bit them lightly on the shoulders. "Fizz!" "What?" Fizz said innocently. "It’s tradition now. They need more elemental power in them. Not a single one got any power. I will give them a bit more." Mana shimmered around each of the five. This time, the glow was more focused. One man’s hands radiated a faint blue, another flickered with green sparks. [System Notification: Elemental Spark infused. The chance to create uncommon grade weapons with elemental properties increased for selected individuals.] John looked at the miners. "Listen carefully. If any of your next blades do something unusual (burn, freeze, crackle, even hum) tell me immediately. You might create a rare grade weapon in your next try." The five nodded eagerly. "Yes, sir." Fizz floated back down to John’s shoulder and perched like a smug squirrel. "You’re welcome, by the way. Don’t say I never give you gifts. You haven’t fed me once." John glanced sideways. "Next time, ask. And what do you eat?" "Next time, I will bite you first and ask questions later. And about food, I will tell you later what I eat. You don’t have it, yet." "You’re impossible." John complained. "I’m adorable." Fizz protest. The forge fires burned until dusk. Eventually, the work slowed, the hammer strikes grew fewer, and the men stretched their aching backs. Homes stood half constructed nearby, stone and timber shelters that would one day be a hud of trade. John looked at what they’d done in a single day. It wasn’t just buildings or weapons. It was hope. A future. He turned toward his home, walking slowly with Fizz still on his shoulder, now softly humming what sounded like a war chant in squirrel speak. "You know," John said, "this place might actually become something." Fizz yawned. "Of course. It’s named after me. Success is guaranteed." The stars emerged one by one, slowly glittering over the forge site that now resembled a proper settlement. Makeshift lanterns hung from posts fashioned from tree limbs. Firelight flickered behind half constructed stone walls, casting long dancing shadows across the dirt paths. A gentle wind stirred the smoke above the chimneys, and the quiet clatter of hammers had faded into evening murmurs and tired laughter. John sat on a wooden bench just outside his house, a thick blanket draped over his shoulders, staring at the warm forge flame as it died down for the night. The earth was cooling, but his mind still burned with ideas. It was plans for new gear, blueprints for better houses, a proper irrigation system... and maybe some kind of kitchen, because he was absolutely done with Fizz trying to cook meat using elemental fire breath this noon. Speaking of which... Fizz crash landed beside him, tumbling like a furry fireball and rolling to a stop in a pile of soot with a muffled grunt. John didn’t even blink. "Why are you sad? What’s wrong with you?" Fizz slowly raised his head. "I am for the time when I tried to roast three mushrooms and a beetle earlier. The mushrooms exploded. The beetle screamed." A flashback happened in John’s mind... At lunch time, John had only stepped away from the forge for ten minutes. Ten peaceful, quiet, relaxing minutes to check the water barrel behind the house and stretch his sore back when a smell hit him so hard it felt like being slapped with a flaming fish. He coughed. "Fizz?! What are you burning?! I can’t breathe..." A loud explosion echoed behind the forge. "EXPERIMENTATION," Fizz’s voice rang out, followed by a series of rapid sputters and a suspiciously muffled scream. John ran back around the corner to the makeshift forge yard and froze in the place. Fizz stood triumphantly on top of a blackened iron pot, wielding a twig like a scepter. Surrounding him was what could only be described as a culinary battlefield. Burnt mushroom caps lay smoldering like fallen soldiers. A scorched beetle shell spun lazily in a puddle of bubbling syrup. Several onlookers, miners and a few curious locals stood at a safe distance behind an overturned table, some holding shields, one cradling a sausage like it was a dying comrade. Fizz licked his lips. "Roasted mushroom beetle stew. Served flambé." "You don’t flambé everything, Fizz," John said, striding up with both hands on his hips. "And that pot’s supposed to be for tempering metals, not turning bugs into death snacks!" "But it’s so versatile," Fizz replied, fluttering into the air. "I call it the ’Fizz Flame Gourmet Deluxe.’ I wanted to cook for you."