After explaining what I was looking for and the fact that my request was time sensitive, Fulvia pulled all the stops and immediately started working on it.

Bless her soul.

What makes me a little uncomfortable, though, is the intense way she’s staring at me. It doesn’t matter that she shouldn’t be able to sew without looking at the cloth, she straight-up stares as if I have done something.

“There’s something different about you today,” she says as her needles keep doing her job even without her looking at it.

“Is there?” I smile. “Am I even more handsome than usual?”

“Oh, that’s for sure,” she says with a sneaky smile, “but it’s… I can’t put my fingers on it.

“Also, you are just much, much quieter than the last time.”

I look at Fulvia. She's an Elven tailor, with a kind face and bright eyes that seem to twinkle with wisdom and experience. Her hair is a wild mix of white-silvery locks, cascading down her shoulders in a tangled mass. Despite her age, she's still spry and active, moving about her shop with a grace that belies her years.

“I was just thinking about stuff,” I reply with a smile. “Yesterday I might have made a bit of a mess. And today, I was about to make an even bigger mess. I’m thinking how not to repeat that.”

“Has that anything to do with this?” She pinches the white cloth between her fingers as she fishes in a drawer for a golden button.

“Yep. I had a little fight with Flaminia at work,” I say, turning my eyes to the mannequins where five pieces of clothing are slowly taking shape. “Now we are going to square it an old-fashioned bakeoff.”

Fulvia doesn’t reply immediately, instead focusing for a moment on her work, making sure the five different sizes are all up to par. I also asked her to throw one more in the lot just to be sure.

In fact, we only had one of the subjects—myself. For the others, it’s guesswork and her experience.

“[Perfect Fit],” she mutters as she caresses the only white cloth on the five mannequins. Then, she takes a second to stare back at me.

“How long have you been working as a baker?” Fulvia suddenly enquires.

“Give or take, fifteen years,” I tell her.

“And how high-level are you?” The question catches me slightly off balance if I have to be honest. But no biggie.

“In cooking-related classes, nothing. I have a few levels as a [Mage], that’s all.”

Not that it’s going to make any difference for Flaminia, truthfully. I could have negative levels as a [Baker], and I would still be the best Baker among us two.

I see Fulvia sneaking a few more glances at me before looking back at her work.

“Can’t you explain to this old, demented woman why you need these?” She asks, not staring at me but pointing at the mannequins with a frown.

“I remembered a lesson from one of my teachers. It’s time for me to teach it to the people working with me–and to do so, I need the right outfits. People judge and understand other people also based on what they are wearing. So far, I have been wearing Happy Bakery’s clothes. Quite happily, if the pun is not too cringe. But now I need to show them what I stand for, and what you are working on is a symbol of it.”

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“And you must care a lot if you are spending so much money.”

A small pile of gleaming gold coins sits on Fulvia's counter, the metal glinting in the light. It is a clear indication that this is not a question – the presence of the coins speaks for itself.

An extended silence falls between us as she sews in silence and I simply look around, thinking of what decorations I should use for the bakeoff. I have ideas. Many of them. And between me and you? I’ll be using something that comes from my family’s birthplace. I want to bring something from Sicily here.

I feel a little nervous at the thought of sharing one of my favorite recipes with this world. I had originally planned to release them one at a time, hoping to give people time to really learn and master good baking practices. Even something as simple as Altamura bread can be a challenge for them, since they don't have kneading machines. If someone in the bakery is not careful while kneading by hand, it can lead to the gluten network not forming properly. That's why I've only made caramel and bread so far.

I like these people, but their baking skills could use some improvement. I know I may sound harsh, but it's not just for my own benefit. I want to do this for Lorenzo as well.

But first, there’s some juicy ass to kick.

Still, my mind goes back to Lorenzo.

Was that magic? I wonder if that is a skill I will obtain once I finally get the [Baker] class. Will I get it the next time I go to bed? It's hard to say for certain, but it's clear that something strange is going on.

Thinking of the fat teacher of mine, the corners of my mouth curl up in a smile.

I don’t know much about what went on with the whole apparition, but one thing I can tell you for sure: I am not going to break a promise I made to Lorenzo.

After my own family, the second place in my heart is reserved to that man. And if my own fat Gandalf is watching… I mean, he probably is distracted by all the pastries he’s murdering down his gullet and stealing from St. Peter’s stock. But still, he would probably watch what I’m doing here.

And again, with him watching, how does Flaminia think she can win?

Well, maybe if an asteroid hit my cake… which would probably still come out on top if the judges are chosen properly.

I smile.

I can feel the confidence coursing through my veins as if it was actual power.

“Joey, are you there? Joey!”

“Huh?” I turn to find Fulvia staring at me one palm from my face.

The flying needles keep working at high speed on their own, assembling the clothes as the [Seamstress] stands in front of me at me.

I’d be lying if I said that her fixed stare didn’t make me uncomfortable in the slightest. Her pupils look like they are about to burst out their eyes and assault me.

Is she making a pass at me?

I mean, she does look like a Courtney Cox who never got any plastic surgery as she was getting old… Mmm. I’ll put it down as a maybe, ok? Not saying no outright. But not sure I am ready for it.

Fulvia dusts some cuttings of clothes from herself and speaks slowly.

“I asked you three different questions while you were staring at the wall.”

“Sorry, sometimes I just really get in my head. What did you ask me?”

“Indulge this nosy old woman if you can,” she asks, almost biting her tongue, conflict written all over her face. “Are you sure you are not high-level? I’ll swear on my class not to reveal it to anyone.”

“What?” I ask, confused. “I have, like, half a level in [Mage], Fulvia. That’s about it. Really.”

“I respect secrets, young man,” Fulvia says, a bit miffed.

“Look, I don’t understand. I have no levels in cooking classes and barely one in [Mage]. I can swear it on whatever you want. Also, if that’s not enough to believe me—not only I don’t have many levels, but I apparently can’t even get the [Baker] class even though I am really good at baking. So, yeah. You can take out a truth-stone, if you want.”

“My generation don’t uses truth-stones like these youngsters, do. But I know when someone is lying or not. You aren’t, are you? You really have no levels.”

“Joey,” Fulvia now speaks up my name and I can see some conflict drawn all over her face. “I want to ask again. Are you sure you are not secretly very high-level? I swear on my life, I will never reveal it to anyone unless you want me to.”

“I am not high-level,” I repeat. “Nor a [Baker].”

Before talking to Lorenzo, I would have thought about this with endless grief. The fact that the world wasn’t about to recognize me as a [Baker] but only as a [Mage] stung.

I mean, with all the knowledge, experience, and competence I have on my back, I should be quite high-level, no? And again, that would have bothered me if this had been before that.

But now?

I don’t know if there was some powdered courage and pride in Lorenzo’s slaps—probably was. But whatever he did, it awakened a part of my soul that I had felt dormant for more than ten years.

“Joey,” her blue-eyes are like daggers now, “if you don’t have any levels, how do you explain your aura?”