Void Lord: My Revenge Is My Harem

---

"You're a leader," John said. "And these men followed your lead for years. I can't use my name. At least not now."

Fizz popped up between them. "Correction. They follow me. This is now officially... Fizz Palace."

John gave him a flat look. "You want your name on the building?"

"Yes."

John paused and thought a bit, "Fine. Then the company name is... Fizz Holdings."

Fizz turned redder with pride. "I love that. I am starting to like you." He told this with puppy eyes.

"Stop that." John said.

"I will now give a gift," Fizz announced. He floated toward the bladesmiths and opened his tiny mouth wide.

John blinked. "Wait, what are you doing?"

Before he could stop him, Fizz zipped through the air and bit the first miner lightly on the arm.

"Ow! Please don't kill me."

A red glow surged from the bite mark and wrapped around the man's fingers.

Fizz chomped four more times, each miner yelping as energy shot into their limbs. "My blessing is yours, my underling forgers. You have been... Fizz-tified."

The men backed away, eyes wide.

John facepalmed. "Fizz!!!"

"What? Emotional support and magical enhancement. I'm a multitasker."

Before John could scold Fizz a system notification came into his mind.

[Ding! System Notification: Five individuals have been infused with Elemental Spark. Future forging attempts may randomly gain elemental attributes. 

Chance level: low moderate.]

John turned to the men. "If you forge more blades and one glows or burns or crackles... tell me immediately. You might create something rare."

The miners nodded, still rubbing their bitten arms. They didn't understand anything.

Fizz floated to a rock and laid on it like a cat. "I am exhausted from my elemental generosity. Please send snacks."

John turned away before he smiled a bit.

The sun hung high in the sky now, golden and warm. Behind the forge, the sounds of hammers striking metal filled the air. Smoke trailed gently upward.

Homes began to rise nearby, simple shacks at first, then stone walls and timber frames. The beginnings of a trade company.

The forge glowed steadily. Fizz snored faintly in the shade. And John watched his dream take its first real shape.

The air around the budding forge site simmered gently with heat and ambition. Metal clanged in rhythm, echoing through the surrounding trees like a slow heartbeat. Dust rose from freshly hammered foundations, and smoke drifted lazily from the forge chimney. John stood at the center of it all. His arms folded and sweat trailing down his temple. Around him, miners worked in pairs, some building the outer walls of homes, others returning to the forge with raw ore they had carried in sacks.

Fizz hovered in a lazy loop above a group of them, his tiny red fluff ball body leaving streaks of gold as sunlight filtered through his wings.

"Gentlemen," Fizz said with a dramatic twirl, "let it be known that the age of shovel and dust has ended. The age of spark, steel, and Fizz has begun!"

The youngest miner looked up, eyebrows raised. "Lord Fizz, you named this whole place after yourself?" 

Fizz leaned in until they were nose to nose. "Would you not name heaven after the god who built it?"

Another miner nearby muttered, "I thought John built the forge."

Fizz gasped in mock outrage and dropped to the dirt like he had been shot. "Betrayed! Betrayed in my own palace!"

John wiped his face with a cloth and walked over. "Fizz, stop dramatizing and help them align the furnace stacks."

"I am the mascot, not the manual labor."

"You have wings."

"I am precious. My wings are decorative."

The men laughed. Even the older ones seemed to be adjusting. The presence of Fizz, while outrageous, made the fatigue in the air lighter. Where once suspicion and fear clouded their hearts, now there was curiosity, excitement, and a steady stream of insults delivered by a creature who looked like a flying dust ball with fangs.

One young miner, the thinnest of the lot, approached John. "Sir, if we build a few more forges, can we make daggers faster?"

"Yes, but only my forging table gives the items mana," John explained. "So work on your own gear if you like, but anything we want to sell needs to come through this table. The final work must be done here."

"Got it."

Fizz hovered beside the young man. "If you can forge something good, I might consider not biting you next time. I will give you power beyond your imagination."

The boy blinked. "What?"

"Motivation," Fizz said cheerfully. "Also a warning. Don't betray John."

John let them get back to it and moved toward the house where Gael and a few others had set up a planning table using carved stone slabs and flattened ore crates. Gael stood hunched over a rough map drawn on parchment, using charcoal to outline a grid.

"Supply routes," Gael said without looking up. "We need one from the village, another from the mountain, and a side path toward the river. If we're going to trade these blades, we need access."

John leaned over the map. "Agreed. But we also need someone to manage it all."

Gael stiffened. "I already said I'm not a merchant."

"You're not," John said. "You're something better. You're trusted. These people follow you. You understand the land. You know who works hard and who slacks off. You're perfect."

Gael shook his head slowly. "I can't even read."

"I'll teach you. Or we'll get someone who can handle the paperwork. You make the calls. Choose the traders. Just lead."