In a peaceful little village on the outskirts of a realm blessed by the God of Cuisine, where the occasional wild fowls and goats would grace their presence, a tranquil evening unfolded. Just past her fifteenth birthday, Izzabel felt a sense of joy as she packed her backpack with the necessities of daily life.
It had been seven years since she last dreamed of the god with the chiselled abs. Gradually, she had forgotten that she once was a twenty-eight-year-old corporate drone, suffocating under work pressure and constantly prodded by relatives to find a husband. Instead, she had adapted to the slow paced life of a rural village on the outskirts, delighting in her existence as a carefree fifteen-year-old girl.
As for the god's instructions, she recalled a moment from seven years ago when she anxiously asked her grandfather where she could find apples, for her brother needed to practice hand-juicing. Her elderly grandfather nearly choked at her inquiry. "Oh dear, apples are dangerous things. When I was your age, the priests of the God of Cuisine had already eradicated all the apple trees in the world. There are no apples left!"
No matter whom she asked, the answer was the same, leading the villagers to question her sanity. Eventually, she gave up and, over time, forgot all about it.
A few months ago, her brother received an invitation to enrol at the prestigious Blue Satin Academy of Magic and Culinary Arts in the Holy City. He had departed for the Holy City alone for a time. Izzabel thought this arrangement was splendid; over the years, her brother had grown into a handsome, intelligent, ambitious young man who was incredibly considerate and extremely attentive to her— in other words, he’s a hopelessly clingy and over-protective brother. As a charming fifteen-year-old, she hadn’t spoken to any boy outside her family in three years, a fact she found increasingly hard to accept.
Her destiny and her brother were inextricably bound, unable to stray too far from one another. Izzabel planned to sneak away to the Holy City without her brother's knowledge. Given her lack of magical aptitude—so dismal that even applying to a primary school of magic would be embarrassing—she had finally secured a menial job as an errand girl at a publishing house, "Wilderman Publishing House ", the martial kind.
Humming a cheerful tune, she placed her neatly packed belongings by the bedside, her heart brimming with anticipation for the adventures that awaited her the following day.
"Don't forget the bread!" As she settled into the carriage bound for the Holy City, her grandmother rushed over, bag in hand. "It’s freshly baked. Make sure to share some with your brother!"
"Of course!" But she inwardly thought otherwise; it was her first trip to the Holy City, and she wanted a few days of freedom to herself first. Izzabel forced a smile, waving goodbye to her grandmother before turning her gaze towards the city.
For someone who had lived in the concrete jungle in her previous life, the Holy City felt like a quaint and elegant haven—lively yet not overcrowded, with a pace that felt just right, devoid of any sense of oppression.
The further she ventured into the city centre, the more intricate the winding streets became, with new buildings towering over the old. The publishing house was tucked away somewhere in the historic district. With no GPS to guide her and a dreadful sense of direction, Izzabel made several loops around the streets, aided by kind passersby.
In her wanderings, she accidentally stumbled upon the grand entrance of the God of Cuisine's temple where her parents worked, and even caught a glimpse of the academy her brother attended—though she quickly slipped away from there. Not to mention the royal palace; in the Holy City, every road led to it, and the palace guards could only shake their heads and sigh at her as they sighted her the tenth time.
From here, continue straight, turn left after three blocks, go downhill until one sees the bakery, then turn right. Walk to the end and climb the stairs on the right, then take a left into the winding alley —not the side alley which leads to a dead end. After two turns in the winding alley, the third door on the right will be the destination.
Following the directions scrawled in her notebook, Izzabel hurried down the street, a bread bun in her mouth. She had to reach the publishing house before it closed!
As she turned the corner near the bakery, something—no, someone—came tumbling down from above. A man, by the looks of it, who swore loudly as he landed. He fell precisely in her path, in a way which ensured she would trip over him.
In an instant, the bread flew from her grasp, rolling down the cobblestone road, while Izzabel awkwardly collapsed atop the newcomer.
"You! Give back my bread!" she exclaimed, furiously clutching the collar of his shirt. That had been her last piece! After running around the palace twenty times, she was starving.
Though his attire was somewhat dishevelled—buttons askew, a grimy apron, and messy hair—upon closer inspection, he appeared to be no older than her brother. What frustrated Izzabel further was that as she spoke, his gaze wandered past her, fixated on something afar. "Are you even listening?" she demanded.
“Move aside, I’m busy!” the young man pushed her away.
Izzabel felt even angrier and tightened her grip on his collar. “What about my bread?”
At that moment, something else fell from above. But Izzabel, caught in her hunger-fuelled frenzy, paid it no mind; it was far slower than the goats back home. She dragged the boy by his collar a step to the side.
Crash! The cobblestones where they had been standing shattered, debris scattering. Fear flickered in the boy’s eyes.
Could someone really wield such a massive meteor hammer in the street so carelessly? Yet, since it had nothing to do with reclaiming her bread, it was of no concern to her.
However, the hammer seemed poised to fly their way again.
“Golem!” the boy shouted, and out from the bakery burst what appeared to Izzabel as a robotic pretty girl straight from the comics of her past life. Crafted from ceramic, it possessed an exaggeratedly ample bosom beneath its apron. The golem positioned itself between them and the man wildly swinging the meteor hammer.
“Dear Bailey, it’s time to submit your work,” a voice called from behind.
Clang! The sound of the hammer striking ceramic resonated through the air.
“Eek!” Bailey screamed.
“Dear Bailey, if you can’t turn in your manuscript, I’ll have to take you to the solidarity room,” came a voice from behind, sounding increasingly ominous.
“Please, not the solidarity room! Wait—” The young man suddenly remembered Izzabel's presence, casting a pleading glance in her direction. “I accidentally lost this lady’s bread, and I must bake ten loaves as compensation. So, I won’t be able to finish my manuscript today; it’s unavoidable, really. Don’t you agree, miss?”
Although Izzabel didn't fully grasp the unfolding events, she nodded in agreement as she heard the words ‘ten loaves.’
“Once I’ve made my reparations—likely by tomorrow or the day after—I assure you, I will complete my manuscript!”
With that, Bailey grasped Izzabel’s hand and hurried into the corner bakery. In the span of three heartbeats, he had shut the door, hung the “Closed” sign, and drawn the curtains, taking refuge behind the counter to assess their surroundings. When he confirmed that the hammer-wielding man had not pursued them, he released a sigh of relief.
“What about those ten loaves you promised?” Izzabel demanded, still caught in a whirlwind of frustration.
“All the bread in the shop is yours to enjoy,” Bailey offered casually.
“I want them fresh out of the oven,” Izzabel replied, a hint of insistence in her voice.
“You're quite the connoisseur, aren’t you?” Bailey retorted, clapping his hands. Suddenly, a stunning ceramic beauty, clad in an apron and boasting an impressive figure, emerged from the back room, carrying a metal tray. “Choose what you wish, and Marida 3 will warm it up for you. Is that satisfactory?”
You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.
As Izzabel savoured her third warm, fluffy loaf, a sense of clarity began to return. Meanwhile, Bailey sat behind the counter, pen in hand, gazing at a tiny stack of papers—five pages or so, with the bold title: “Dwarven Bread: Unyielding Strength Crafted from Water, Salt, and Yeast”.
“May I pack the rest?” Izzabel inquired, glancing at the loaves.
“Take as much as you want, just don’t bother me; I’m quite busy,” Bailey replied dismissively, waving her off.
“There’s one more thing,” she pressed, determined.
“What is it?” Bailey asked, looking up with curiosity.
“How do I get to the Wilderman Publishing House?” Izzabel inquired.
“Why would you want to go there?” Bailey raised an eyebrow, a smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Are you hoping to publish a book? Is this your first attempt? I’d advise against it—the place is hardly suitable for someone of your standing.” He twirled the pen in his fingers, his demeanour shifting. “But since you just helped me out, I suppose I could offer a bit of guidance, as your senior…”
Izzabel tilted her head, observing the young man who not only worked in the bakery but also dabbled as a writer and conjured animated ceramic golems with magic. Life for young people in this world didn’t seem any easier than those in her previous life. “Oh, no, I’m actually going to work in the editorial department.”
Bailey’s smile vanished in an instant, his expression turning to one of alarm as he shrank back behind the counter. “—The editorial department? Are you an editor?”
“No, no,” Izzabel waved her hands dismissively. “I’m just there to help out—probably cleaning, making tea, running errands, that sort of thing.” These were all skills she had honed in her past life as a female office worker.
“Is that so?” Bailey seemed to relax, a hint of relief washing over him. He moved to open the bakery door, revealing a sky painted in vibrant shades of sunset orange.
“Arise, my golem!” he commanded, and the scattered ceramic shards on the ground began to coalesce, forming once more into the shape of a beautiful girl. “How cruel it is that even the thickest bread armour has shattered,” he lamented, his fingers brushing against the golem’s ample bosom.
“Is this bread?” Izzabel questioned, puzzled. Wasn’t it ceramic? Unable to resist, she reached out to touch the bosom, finding the surface hard and smooth—surely it was ceramic, without a doubt.
“This material is known as Dwarven Bread,” Bailey explained. “In the ancient days, long before the Demonic God eradicated the Dwarven race, there was a group of Dwarves who found joy in crafting this solid, hardly edible bread, meant for fending off trolls. After stumbling upon some ancient manuscripts, I dedicated myself to researching it. You see, the shiny surface, polished with a varnish of resin and egg, is my very own invention!” Bailey beamed with pride.
Izzabel wasn't particularly keen on continuing to listen to Bailey’s lengthy explanations about the bread golem. For someone with next to no magical abilities, it felt akin to teaching a frog to fly. “I really need to get to the publishing house.”
“Alright, Marida 1 will guide you there. Could you let the editorial department know that my aunt is ill? I ought to leave the city to visit her and won’t be back for two months.”
What a convenient excuse. “No problem,” Izzabel replied, waving goodbye. “The bread in your shop is delicious, thank you.” She turned to follow Marida 1 toward the publishing house.
“Wait!”
Bailey grasped her hand from behind, and Izzabel turned back, startled. Gah! Was he really that close? Perhaps it was the three-year absence of close contact with any other boys that sent her heart racing. Bailey's expression had shifted dramatically, contrasting sharply with the carefree demeanour he’d worn moments ago. It reminded her of those melodramatic confession scenes from her previous life’s drama shows, set against a backdrop of a setting sun. “Do you really mean it? The bread is that good?”
“Yeah, it’s quite tasty,” Izzabel admitted, especially compared to the miasma taro flavoured variety her grandfather had recently taken to baking.
“Ever since I automated the baking process at my shop, everyone has been saying it’s not real bread—claiming you can’t taste the love and care in it. As a result, my business has suffered greatly. I might be the one dragging down the family bakery’s reputation,” Bailey said, a hint of despondency in his voice. “Hearing you say that truly makes me happy.”
Izzabel regarded him thoughtfully, feeling a pang of reluctance to simply leave. Having navigated the struggles of her previous life, she felt an obligation to offer him sincere, constructive criticism.
“You’re seeking validation instead of focusing on selling bread. Of course, your business will suffer,” she stated plainly.
Bailey paused, taken aback.
Izzabel braced herself, anticipating anger. From her past experiences, she had learned that speaking her mind often elicited frustration or scorn from others.
“You’re right,” Bailey scratched his head, a flicker of vulnerability crossing his face. “I am seeking validation, but it’s not just about whether my bread is good or not.” He glanced toward the bread golem nearby. “Truth to be told, I couldn’t care less about this bakery or its sales. What brings me joy is your acknowledgment of Marida’s abilities.”
Not being scolded felt like a small victory, yet—“I really have to go.” Izzabel hurried after Marida 1, who had already begun ascending the steep steps of the alley.
The golem paused momentarily at the narrow entrance of an unknown shop before turning to retrace its steps, leaving Izzabel standing there alone.
Is this truly the Wilderman Publishing House? She had walked past it a dozen times today, mistaking it for an antique weapons shop. With curiosity piqued, she knocked on the door.
The man who opened the door was tall, dressed in a red (though it must have once been white) robe, apron, and gloves, exuding a damp and rusty smell that gave the unsettling impression he had just emerged from a morgue.
"Welcome to the Wilderman Publishing House," he said, adjusting his glasses. "I apologize for the mess; our cleaning lady just retired, and the replacement hasn't started yet. Please bear with us." His voice was strikingly familiar, as if Izzabel had heard it just an hour ago—no, she had definitely heard it before.
The door swung open with a creak, the bell hanging above ringing out a bright yet somewhat mournful chime.
"Greetings, I'm the new errand girl!" Izzabel quickly bent to greet him.
"Oh, is that so? Wonderful! We were beginning to think you had changed your mind and wouldn't come after all! Please, come in!"
Izzabel followed the man through a corridor adorned with an array of weapons—swords, spears, and unidentifiable implements of destruction. His long robe, once white but now stained a deep crimson, dripped with a viscous red liquid, leaving a trail as they walked.
"Allow me to introduce our establishment," the man began, "Wilderman, renowned for its focus on culinary and magical literature. We hold the highest reputation in the Holy City, with several of our publications annually recognized by the God of Cuisine's temple as outstanding works, archived in their esteemed library. This acclaim is due to our editorial team’s rigorous, combat-style management of our writers." He paused, gesturing to the corridor around them. "This passage is known as the Corridor of Enlightenment—symbolizing the commitment every writer who enters must be on their path to create a masterpiece."
Izzabel’s gaze caught a familiar-looking meteor hammer hanging on the wall, lined up among an array of different shape and styles.
"I am Gavin, the chief editor of Wilderman—have we met before?" he asked, extending a hand clad in damp, red-stained gloves.
Izzabel reluctantly grasped his hand, reassuring herself that this was a mere trifle compared to the time her brother had used magic to blast a frog into pieces next to her. "Perhaps it was at the bakery earlier?"
"Oh!" Gavin exclaimed, adjusting his glasses as understanding dawned upon him. "What should I call you?"
"You can just call me Izzy," she replied. In this world, her name Izzabel was originally intended to be Isabel. However, the drunken old priest had misspelled it when she was registered at the temple, and with her parents off working in the Holy City shortly after, no one had bothered to correct it.
Her name was far too distinctive; if word got out, her brother would likely hear of it and come running the very next day. It was wiser to adopt a more casual nickname. Having lived in a small village where everyone knew everyone else for too long, Izzabel resolved to tread carefully.
“It's a pleasure to meet you, Izzy,” Gavin said, gripping her hand firmly. Not only did he not release her, but he also began to pull her forward, a strange spark glinting beneath his glasses.
It was only when they entered a spacious, dimly lit room that his clammy hand finally let go of hers.
The room had three walls lined with shelves overflowing with books, while the fourth wall seemed to be draped with heavy velvet curtains, concealing a large window. In front of the window stood a desk, its surface piled high with papers and books, creating a fortress of documents that reached the ceiling. The atmosphere reminded Izzy of the vampire study rooms depicted in her past life’s films, save for the absence of a coffin.
“Boss, this is Izzy, our new errand girl,” Gavin cleared his throat, prompting Izzy to think he was signalling her to greet him. Just as she was about to speak, Gavin continued, “Earlier, when I went to fetch a manuscript from Bailey, this young lady not only deftly dodged my deadline hammer, but also managed to seize Bailey while dodging. She’s quite the talent! I propose we promote her to editor immediately.” He pushed her toward the desk.
Wait a moment, was the ability to dodge a goat the only requirement to become an editor at this esteemed publishing house? Unlike her brother, she hadn’t even attended a primary school of magic or any kind!
A hoarse voice emerged from behind the fortress of papers. “Since Izzy is such a talent, let’s have her start right away.”
Wait, wait! Shouldn’t they at least review her resume once more? — which was blank, save for the three words scrawled on the back: “Willing to learn.” Suddenly thrust into a role she felt utterly unprepared for, the thought of failing and potentially losing the job she had fought so hard to secure sent a chill through her.
No one else in the Holy City would be interested in hiring her, who was from village without received any formal magical education or skilled training. Izzy felt her palms begin to sweat.
Summoning her courage, she spoke up, “Um, I don’t think I’m qualified for this. Could I just be the errand girl?” Her voice grew softer with each word. “If that’s not possible… being an assistant would work too, but could I have a trial period? If I can’t manage, I’d be willing to demote myself back to an errand girl. I don’t even need a pay raise.”
“Very humble, I like that. Let’s start your trial period now.” The praise from her boss brought a quiet sigh of relief from Izzy. “Gavin is heading to the royal palace tomorrow to collect manuscripts from our esteemed chef and contracted writer. You’ll accompany him. If you successfully retrieve the manuscript, your trial will be considered complete, and you’ll be promoted to editor.”
This didn’t seem to make things any better. Panic and anxiety seized Izzabel’s mind, leaving her with a vacant, foolish smile on her face.
Gavin patted her shoulder reassuringly. “You’ll do just fine. Come on, I’ll show you to the staff quarters upstairs.”