"What is the meaning of this?" Flaminia's voice cuts through the murmur in the bakery as I make my way through the crowded space with nonchalance, empowered by the uniform.

A tribute for you, Lorenzo.

I turn to look behind me, noticing my assistants are squirming under the scrutinizing gaze of the [Bakers]. The women, with their flour-dusted aprons and stern expressions, appear to be assessing every detail of my assistants' appearance and demeanor like hungry wolves. It's clear they are not impressed.

“Joey,” I hear Clodia’s warning tone.

“That’s the name,” I smile complacently. “Joey Luciani, ladies. And these are my assistants.”

“Assistants?” Flaminia frowns. “We haven’t agreed on anything like that.”

“Joey,” Clodia intercepts the conversation. “Can’t we just do this more discreetly? I’ll send everyone away and–”

“Clodia,” I sharply interrupt my boss. “I don’t think so. Flaminia wanted the circus, so the lions have come to town.”

I turn to the pink-haired woman with a hyena-like smile.

“I like you, Flam. A lot. You are committed to your work, and you are not half-bad. But, as my mother used to say in her mother language, you shat outside the toilet bowl.”

“What does that even mean?” Flaminia looks around, confused, but she finds only more confused faces.

“Pick the best five [Bakers] to be your assistants. I will only be making the decorations and one of the ingredients for my final cake. These five will do the rest while I instruct them.”

“What? Are they even [Bakers]? Where did you find them?”

“Joey,” I hear Tiberius’s shaky voice, clearly not accustomed to this kind of showmanship.

“Friends, wear your uniforms proudly and trust me,” I say to my assistants before turning back to Flaminia. “[Bakers]? If I needed [Bakers] to beat you, I would probably stop baking and jump from the bridge North of Amorium. No, they…”

I move and grab Claudius, the shy [Enchanter].

“…are an [Enchanter],” I say before moving to grab Truffles, “an [Alchemist] who poisons people,” and I point at the remaining three, “and three friends.”

“Wait, are they the homeless people?!” Flaminia suddenly recognizes them, probably from Stan’s looks.

“Among other things, yes,” I reply.

“You brought fucking homeless people to this challenge?! Do you want to just throw it away like that?!” Flaminia’s face is completely red, and I see Clodia sneakily moving behind her, probably ready to grab her in case she tries to assault me physically. Joke’s on both of them; I like handsy women.

“Throw it away?” I stop smiling. “No. I am here because all of you,” I say, rotating a finger around the room, “all of you think this is a one-sided challenge that’s going to result in Flaminia winning. As I have said before, I am sorry about disrespecting you. I should have been more aware of the customs you follow.”

The clear-headed response stumps Flaminia, but I just go on.

“But you think you are better than me because you have levels, Flam. And sure, you can think that. Stupidity is not a crime in most cases. But if you want me to say it, I need to teach you a lesson. And a harsh one. Because we are not on the same level. I never really said what’s my skill level, even though you clearly assumed it was trash, right?”

I take a step forward, feeling the confidence of more than a decade of baking at the highest levels—not a decade of baking, you heard me. A decade of baking at the highest levels. Perhaps, the highest levels.

Now, people actually take a step back, as if I had an aura or something.

This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

“I will teach you a lesson. Not as a challenger, Flam. This is no challenge, trust me. You will all realize it soon,” I turn to look at the rest of the bakery. “I see arrogance in abundance–which rhymes. I’m here as a teacher—well, let’s say professor. And I can already tell that you and the others think that you are better than me and these five Elves I brought with me just because of your levels. Well, today I’m in a big mood for teaching. In fact, the real question is, are you in the mood to learn?”

I see Raissa hiding among the crowd as all hell breaks loose and people start screaming at me. Clodia roars and probably uses skills to keep people from lynching me. But that’s on them.

“Tell you what,” I turn to Flaminia. “Make it six people.”

I turn back to where Raissa is standing, and I ask out loud, “Raissa, would you like to learn how to become a real baker and make enough money to buy a house with your craft?”

All the girls suddenly jump to look at Raissa as if they were cats hit by a water sprinkler. I stand amidst the chaos, proudly smiling. I look at the ceiling for a second, knowing that Lorenzo is up there, crossing his arms and nodding, his wobbly double-chin expressing approval.

When I put my eyes down, I see the diminutive Elf trying to shrink into the floor and the rest of the [Bakers] asking for my blood.

“Raissa, are you even considering it?!” Melina, the [Oven Master] shouts. “He knows nothing about baking! He doesn’t have one level! What are you even waiting for?! Just say no!”

“Clodia,” Violante snarls, “how are you allowing this? That filthy Worm is disrespecting everyone here!”

I look at Clodia with a smile, but there’s no benevolence in my words. I’m done taking crap. My mother taught me there’s only one way to deal with type of person. And even her very strict rules about cursing – and she said it – do not apply in situation; in fact, there’s a specific word she would have had me use for Violante.

“You just got your ass fired, bitch,” I say with a smile. “After I’m done winning, you can bring your racist ass out of this bakery.”

“What did you just call me?!”

“Joey,” Clodia puts herself between the furious woman and me, “I’m sure you didn’t mean that. Violante will take back what—”

“Nah. She just got canceled,” I say and pop my head to the side from behind Clodia’s shoulder to look directly at Violante, “bitch.”

Even Clodia, who’s probably got a good sixty pounds of muscles or more on me, suddenly freezes up. I am so done taking shit from speciesist people and bullies.

“Anyone else wants to call me a Worm?” I subsequently shout to the rest of the crowd, who now seems truly intimidated. “My mother taught me to always be nice to women. But she also taught me to put bullies in their place. If anyone else wants a go before we start this, let’s get to it.”

Everyone goes silent, and I nod.

“Good. Then, Raissa?”

“J-Joey, I—I,” she stutters.

“One shot, one opportunity,” I wink. “I’m not sure I won’t be fired after this, but I can assure you that if you want, I can make you into a decent baker if you follow me. And by ‘decent,’ I mean better than any other crybaby shouting at you here.”

Raissa glances around, taking in the overwhelming pressure from her peers at this moment. I can empathize with her; I understand where she's coming from. She may not know much about me, but during the time we have worked together, she has seen that I am a capable professional. The weight of the opinions of others can be heavy, but I am confident that my track record speaks for itself.

Plus, everyone must choose their allies and enemies, right? If she is willing to stay on my side of the fence, she’ll get the best of what I can give to her. She’ll be the first actual [Baker] I trust beyond a reasonable doubt.

“Raissa, seriously? Did you even hear what he just said?! He just called Violante a bitch and insulted everyone!” Melina shouts.

“Raissa,” Violante butts in, fuming, “if you go with him, you will lose your job. Don’t be stupid. He’s a filthy Human Worm,” she uses the slur while looking straight at me.

I mouth the word ‘bitch’ silently while giving her a wink. Let them be riled up and make a fuss about everything—this is the oldest technique in the world: trash talk. And while I shout and act on the surface, I’m stone-cold about winning this and teaching everyone a lesson.

“Raissa, what are you waiting for?!”

“Raissa, no one else will hire you in Amorium if you side with him!”

“Are you crazy?! Just tell him to go die!”

And many others talk trash to her.

I simply stand still, looking at her. Both my expression and posture are relaxed.

Ask me to sign a contract, and I’ll have a panic attack. Ask me to whoop some asses with a cake, and I can go for seven days and seven nights without batting an eyelash.

“So, are you in?” I ask.

In a fraction of a second, you can see all the doubt a person could ever have accumulate on Raissa’s face. She knows this is a massive gamble, but I also know something else. Happy Bakery isn’t great at teaching people. I mean, they probably try, but there’s no master in here who can teach those who aspire to become Bakers with a capital B. As I see it, if you have talent, you’ll level. If you don’t, you’ll just get stuck and eventually lose your job.

The small Elf doesn’t have a great talent for baking. That much is as clear as the day. She has passion but very little talent. And that is fine. She doesn’t need to become a Michelin chef to make enough to buy a house. She just needs to learn from someone capable of correcting her mistakes without chastising her and treating her like an idiot. I can do that—I know, I know. It’s a big thing to step up like this and take responsibility for someone’s future. I do get a bit anxious about it, but I’m also a hundred percent sure about my capabilities.

“Yes, I’m in,” Raissa whispers, giving me the smallest of nods, and steps forward.

“Great,” I say, gently putting a hand on her shoulder.

“This is going to be fun.”