Void Lord: My Revenge Is My Harem

Chapter 230 : Opening Shop and Increasing Harem Members XIII

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Fizz watched like a child watching a magician pull rabbits from empty sleeves. Every time John fitted a piece correctly, Fizz made a pleased sound as if a meal had been seasoned properly.

"This is art," Fizz said. "Violent art, but still art."

John tested the balance. He tested the rune response. He pressed his palm to the grip and let a thin thread of mana run through it. The runes flickered, recognized him, and settled.

[Ding! System Notification: User imprint accepted.

Owner Lock: John confirmed.

Rune Channel Sync: Stable.

Safety Protocol: Ready.]

He removed his hand.

The weapon did not hum loudly. It did not glow dramatically. It looked almost ordinary, which was the most dangerous kind of look.

John reached into a small pouch and pulled out a level three beast core. The core was the size of a thumb joint, dark and faintly glossy, with a pulse inside it like a trapped heartbeat. He held it up.

"This is the fuel," he said, because Fizz would not stop asking questions until he got an answer.

Fizz nodded eagerly. "Yes yes. Like candy. Put the candy in."

John slid the core into the slot chamber along the side of the weapon. The chamber sealed with a click that sounded too final for something so small.

[Ding! System Notification: Power source installed.

Core Grade: Class Three.

Charge state: Full.

Safety lock: Active awaiting user mana imprint.

Warning: Excess mana output possible if rune alignment exceeds stability.]

Fizz made a satisfying noise. "It eats."

John lifted the weapon, aimed it toward the back of the forge where he had placed a thick stone slab as a test target, and took a breath.

He remembered the rule he had made for himself.

This is not a toy.

He fed a controlled stream of mana into the grip.

[Ding! System Notification: Mana feed detected.

Safety lock disengaging.

Rune Channel Resonance: Rising.

Output Stabilizer: Active.]

The runes awakened.

The air in front of the barrel tightened, as if invisible fingers were pulling it into a narrow tunnel.

John squeezed the trigger.

[Ding! System Notification: Fire command confirmed.

Core conversion: Initiating.

User mana overlay: Engaged.]

A beam of condensed force snapped out.

Not fire. Not lightning. Pure mana, compressed and shaped by the rune channels, driven by the core’s stored energy and sharpened by John’s own control.

It hit the stone slab and the slab did not crack. It collapsed.

The impact did not explode outward. It punched inward, drilling a clean, brutal hole through stone like the stone had been soft bread. The slab shuddered, the edges of the hole glowing faintly from heat and stress, then the whole thing slid apart in two broken halves that hit the floor with a dull thud.

[Ding! System Notification: Shot fired.

Result: Successful.

Core consumption: One hundred percent.

Output Evaluation: Above expected parameters.]

Silence followed.

Fizz stared with both paws over his mouth as if he were witnessing a sacred event. "Oh," he whispered. "Oh my. That was... delicious."

John lowered the weapon slowly. His eyes stayed on the slab. The shot had felt heavier than it should have.

He had used a level three core. He should have gotten a level three output, maybe slightly more because of his own mana. He expected a strike around his level, a clean circle three punch.

That was not what he saw.

That hole looked like a circle four attack.

Maybe stronger.

John’s stomach tightened.

The weapon’s rune system had amplified the output beyond what it should have been capable of. It had pulled more from the core than expected, and it had drawn more from John’s mana than he realized.

[Ding! System Notification: Output rating estimated.

Equivalent: Circle Four attack tier.

Host mana consumption: High.

Warning: Mana channel strain detected.

Recommendation: Limit usage. Emergency only until reinforcement upgrades complete.]

He glanced down at his hand.

His mana reserves felt thinner.

Not dangerously thin, but noticeably.

Fizz leaned in, eyes shining. "John," he said softly, as if afraid loud words might scare the power away. "That was not normal."

John swallowed. "Yes."

Fizz’s whiskers quivered. "Can I have it."

"No."

Fizz looked wounded. "I am your spirit. I deserve weapons. I deserve gifts. I deserve to be armed like a tiny emperor."

"You already have the first one," John said.

Fizz’s eyes widened. "That old thing. That antique. That emotional heirloom. It is my baby. But this one is shiny and new and has fresh murder potential."

John shot him a look.

Fizz cleared his throat and corrected himself instantly. "Fresh defensive potential. Against aggressive vegetables."

John lowered the weapon and opened the core chamber. The level three core inside was dead. Spent. Its pulse was gone.

[Ding! System Notification: Power source depleted.

Core status: Empty.

Reload required for additional firing.]

One shot. One stone. But that one shot was more than he expected.

He looked at the crafting table again, at the rune rings still turning slowly like patient eyes.

[Ding! System Notification: Crafting data logged.

Table calibration improved slightly.

Future output efficiency increased.]

This shop was going to be dangerous.

Not because someone would attack it. Because what John could build here could change the balance of his life.

He could arm himself. He could arm others.

He could create a reputation that would attract attention like blood attracts beasts.

He did not want that. He wanted money and stability and a quiet place for his people to stand.

But he could not deny what he was. He had a void in his heart. And now he had a forge that could give that void teeth.

Fizz bumped his shoulder lightly. "It is a trump card," Fizz whispered, voice suddenly less joking. "Do you feel it? The kind of thing you use when you cannot afford to lose."

John nodded. "Yes."

Fizz’s eyes softened. Then he ruined the mood immediately. "So you will give it to me. Right."

John stared at him.

Fizz smiled brightly. "Worth trying."

John placed the weapon on the table and covered it with a cloth. Not because it needed hiding from enemies. Because he needed to hide from himself.

[Ding! System Notification: Item concealed.

Reminder: Do not expose prohibited craft output in public areas.]

Then he stepped into the shop front, checked the door locks, checked the window, checked the street outside.

The city looked normal. Which meant he should not relax.

"Where are we putting the opening sign," Fizz asked suddenly.

"We do not have goods yet." John replied.

Fizz pointed at the crafting table. "We have goods. We have guns."

"We will not advertise guns. Not until they arrive from the village."

Fizz looked offended again. "Then how will customers know we are excited?"

John sighed. "We will sell tools. We will sell small enchanted items and weapons. We will sell blacksmith work. We will sell practical things. We will only sell a limited number of guns."

Fizz grimaced. "Practical is the enemy of dramatic."

John looked at him. "You are dramatic enough for both of us."

Fizz considered that, then nodded as if accepting a noble burden. "True. I will carry the drama. You carry the trauma."

John did not answer. He moved back into the house area and checked the small rooms again. He had cleaned these earlier, not the shop front. The shop could wait until his people arrived. The house needed to feel lived in before someone else stepped into it. He did not like the idea of Gael and the others coming into a place that felt empty.

He wanted it to feel like a base. A place that could hold them.

He checked the small storage space where he would keep material. He checked the forge vent again. He checked the floor, then checked it again because he was the kind of person who thought checking twice was cheaper than regret.

Then he heard the knock.

It was not loud.

It was not aggressive.

It was cautious knocking.

The kind of knock you do when you are not sure if the door will bite.

John froze for half a second. His mind ran through possibilities. Enemy. Warden. Someone sent by Fartray. Someone sent by the Black family. Someone sent by Snake. Someone sent by the city guard itself.

Fizz drifted to shoulder height, eyes narrowing.

John moved to the door quietly and peered through the narrow side crack he had left intentionally for viewing.

Outside stood Edda.

She looked road-worn and sharp, braid slightly loosened, eyes alert. Behind her stood three men, heavy-shouldered and travel-dusty, with the kind of hands that belonged to hammers and anvils. One of them, older, carried himself with the steady weight of someone who could run a forge and a fight without panicking.

Gael.

John’s chest loosened without permission.

Edda’s gaze flicked toward the crack in the door. She lifted her chin slightly, just enough to say, It is me. It is real. Do not be stupid.

Fizz’s ears perked. "Oh," he whispered. "The reinforcements."

John opened the door.

Edda’s smile appeared, quick and private. "Lord," she said, then corrected herself with a glance at Fizz, "Lord Fizz. And John."

Gael stepped forward and gave a respectful nod, like a craftsman greeting the man who had once been a boy with dirt under his nails and was now something heavier.

"Boss," Gael said quietly.

John looked at them all for a moment. He saw the road on their clothes. He saw the fatigue around their eyes. He saw the readiness in their posture.

He also saw something else. It was Hope.

Not a loud hope. Not foolish hope. The kind of hope that comes when people finally believe they are building something that might last.

John stepped back and opened the door wider. "Come in," he said.

And as Edda and Gael and the others crossed the threshold into the shop that had been empty minutes ago, the air inside seemed to change. The place took its first real breath.

The story of Fizz Holdings in the capital began properly, not with paper, not with gifts, but with people.