The school had changed the village. Soap no longer came from just Riaan’s experiments—half the households made their own versions. Paper sheets dried in the sun, some thin, some thick, some too brittle. Matches were sold in bundles, though many fizzled out after one strike.

It was progress, yes—but also chaos.

One afternoon, the same merchant who had once sold goods to the village returned. His cart was piled high with salt, cloth, and spices. But this time, it wasn’t him selling—it was the villagers crowding forward with their wares.

“Look, sir!” a woman thrust a bundle of matches into his hands. “Light with one strike!”

“And soap!” another added proudly. “Cleans better than river sand.”

“And paper—smooth for writing!” Dev himself offered, holding his cotton sheets.

The merchant examined each carefully, his face unreadable. He struck a match. It flared bright, then sputtered out before burning fully. He sniffed the soap, rubbed it between his palms. It foamed a little, but left a greasy feel. He tested the papers—one strong, another tearing in his fingers.

Finally, he looked up, frowning. “There is cleverness here. But also carelessness. Your soap is uneven. Your matches fail half the time. And your paper—” he held up Dev’s, then compared it to a crumbling reed sheet, “—has no standard. One is excellent, the other worthless.”

The villagers fell silent, pride sinking into shame.

Riaan stepped forward calmly. “You are right,” he admitted. “We are new to this. But we will improve.”

The merchant tilted his head. “If you can, then you may have customers beyond this village. People will pay for good soap, good paper, good fire. But only if it is *reliable*. No one trades coin for chance.”

He packed away the samples and left, leaving the villagers restless.

That evening, the school hall was filled with mutters. Some were angry at the merchant’s words. Others looked discouraged. Riaan silenced them with a raised hand.

“He was not wrong,” he said. “We cannot send out goods like this. One day strong, one day weak. One bar of soap soft, the next crumbling. Knowledge has given us tools, but now we must give it shape.”

He looked around the room, his gaze steady. “From tomorrow, we will not work alone. We will form groups. Each group will learn one craft—soap, paper, matches, medicine. Together you will perfect it, test it, and make sure it is strong before it leaves this village.”

A hush followed. Then, slowly, nods spread through the hall. Dev spoke first. “I will take paper.”

“I’ll work on soap,” a woman volunteered.

“Matches,” said another.

Soon, the school was alive with a new purpose—not just learning, but **organizing**.

Riaan felt the tension ease in his chest. The merchant’s harsh eye had stung, yes. But it had given them the push they needed.

The future would not be built on scattered sparks. It needed steady flames.