Cassian's possession of the magnificent Damascus bastard sword immediately triggered the predictable arrogance Daemon had factored into the sale price. The noble, already inflated by inherited status, could not resist displaying the weapon. He paraded the sword through the halls, brandishing it during sparring sessions, his voice thick with the lie that the blade was a unique commission from a celebrated master artisan in the capital city. This fabrication spread quickly among the first-year students and instructors, reinforcing Cassian's image as an exclusive collector and simultaneously erasing the peasant orphan's connection to the artistry. The sword became an object of legend, the supposed pinnacle of Berlin's finest metallurgy.
The lie, however, was anchored only by Cassian's word, and Daemon was ready for it to sink. During a late morning Weapons Proficiency class, while the majority of the students were focused on standard broadsword drills, Daemon took a moment of isolation on the edge of the training grounds. He began his private practice with the slim, single-edged blade he had kept for himself. This blade, lighter and faster than the bastard sword, was designed for rapid, fluid motion. He moved through the forms of Kendo, a style of martial swordsmanship absorbed from Matthew Strickland's immense memory, requiring complete control, precision, and a rhythmic, flowing two-handed grip.
The practice was mesmerizingly efficient, drawing the eyes of students who were struggling with their own clumsy, heavy practice weapons. But it was the blade itself that broke the illusion. The sunlight caught the intricate, shimmering Damascus pattern—the same unique, unmistakable fingerprint of folded steel that adorned Cassian's prize.
A murmur began to ripple through the students. They recognized the signature immediately. Whispers turned into open, pointed discussion: How did the orphan have a blade made by the capital's "master artisan"? The lie, carefully constructed by Cassian, was suddenly resting on Daemon's humble workbench, exposed for the deception it was.
The commotion drew the immediate, sharp attention of Master Veridian. The burly instructor strode across the lawn, his presence silencing the gossiping students. He watched Daemon execute a final, flawless kiri before demanding the blade.
Daemon immediately stopped, bowing deeply and offering the weapon with the practiced humility of a terrified commoner. Veridian took the blade and examined it, his expression hardening not just from the quality of the forging, but from the blade's inherent geometry. He ran a thumb along the slight, curved spine and examined the balance point, confirming the unique design.
"The craftsmanship is undeniable," Veridian stated, his voice low and dangerous. "But the form is foreign. The curvature, the balance, the two-handed grip for a single edge… this is a blade style from the Kyoto Empire."
The name hung in the air like a detonation. Kyoto was not merely a foreign land; it was a powerful, distant, and historically antagonistic force to the Berlin Kingdom. Their military might and specialized magic were viewed with deep suspicion by the Academy and the Royal Army. A weapon style derived from their doctrine was not just exotica; it was potentially sedition. The scrutiny instantly shifted from artisan talent to political risk.
Cassian, watching from the main circle, realized his mistake had escalated into a full-blown political scandal. His lie had not only been exposed, but the very weapon he paid a fortune for was now tainted by association with the enemy.
Master Veridian fixed Daemon with a penetrating stare, the gravity of the situation etched on his scarred face. "Where did you learn to craft such a thing? And where did the original design come from?"
Daemon immediately deployed his meticulously prepared facade: the naive genius. He offered a vague, humble explanation, ensuring it was just plausible enough to satisfy the authorities without revealing the true, comprehensive knowledge stored in his mind.
"Master, I—I beg your forgiveness. I did not know the origin was so sensitive," Daemon stammered, projecting shame. "I merely found an old, brittle drawing in a pile of discarded Academy materials, perhaps a piece of salvaged wartime scrap. The geometry was so efficient, so perfect for quick striking, that I simply translated the design into metal. I am still learning the art; I just copied the most beautiful thing I could find."
This explanation was a stroke of genius. It confirmed his creative ingenuity (which the instructors already marveled at) while simultaneously cementing his status as an uninformed, harmless orphan—an apolitical resource who accidentally stumbled upon dangerous knowledge. Veridian, seeing the undeniable skill and finding no evidence of political intent, was forced to accept the answer. He returned the blade, but his gaze remained weighted with suspicion.
The incident, however, had an instantaneous and explosive effect on Daemon's commerce. The revelation that the orphan was the true, singular artisan behind the coveted Damascus pattern, coupled with the exotic and politically forbidden nature of the Kyoto style he had mastered, created a massive surge in demand.
Students, tired of the heavy, predictable Academy equipment and witnessing the flawless efficiency of Daemon's Kendo-style blade, realized they were looking at a living, uncorrupted master artisan. The exposed lie of Cassian, who was now utterly humiliated and left defending the legitimacy of his expensive "Kyoto-style" sword, only fueled the frenzy.
Daemon was immediately hounded by students with credits. They disregarded the risk of carrying enemy-styled weapons; they wanted the superior craftsmanship, the unique design, and the status symbol of a blade forged by the Academy's rising genius. His price point, established by Cassian's inflated payment of 1,500 credits, was now accepted as the fair market rate for his work.
The instructors, while wary of the political implications, could not deny the immense talent. They marveled at Daemon's creative genius, his ability to extract perfection from scrap iron. This was the only place—in the flawless design of his blades—that Daemon allowed his true, systematic brilliance to shine. The overwhelming demand for his craftsmanship provided the perfect cover, ensuring a continuous, high-yield income stream that would fund his research and, more critically, deflect any further inquiries into the true, unnatural pace of his magical growth. He had successfully engineered a financial and social buffer, using the vanity and arrogance of the nobility as the most efficient possible source of capital.