Before the first light of dawn, Izzabel shot up from her bed—only to smack her head on the slanted attic beam above. She was filled with nerves about the palace trip and the task of retrieving the manuscript, her sleep broken and restless, plagued by dreams of her grandmother transformed into a frog, croaking reprimands about forgotten bread.
For now, her duties were still those of an errand girl, and that meant cleaning. Rolling up her sleeves, she scrubbed diligently, wiping away the bloodstains from the Corridor of Enlightenment up to the door of her attic room until every trace had vanished. Gavin, the editor-in-chief, had explained that it was a result of his “encouragement” sessions in the solidarity room, where he had been motivating his writers to meet their deadlines.
Just as she dusted the last weapon lining the corridor walls, Gavin appeared, looking scholarly and courteous—a stark contrast from the blood-drenched figure of yesterday’s horror scene.
“Good morning, Izzy. Did you rest well?”
“Yes.” She had hardly slept, but she nodded with a smile.
“The chef whose manuscript we’re fetching today is a renowned ice mage here in the Holy City. She’s completed a collection of ice cream recipes and is set to chart a new course. I’m thrilled to see her latest work.” The peculiar glint returned to Gavin’s eyes from behind his glasses
She had passed the palace twenty times just yesterday, and the grandeur of its architecture had long lost its lustre for her. It brought back memories of her former life, when she’d blown her savings on a luxury tour of a “ladies’ castle” to spite an unfaithful boyfriend, even maxing out her credit card on a designer handbag that eventually chewed up by mice in her closet. But that was another life. She shook her head, trying to cast off the lingering resentment.
They arrived at a side door to the palace, where a guard led them to a reception room to wait. Shortly after, a young girl entered, unmistakably noble in her bearing. Her pale golden curls were styled into an elegant ponytail, and she wore a green silk dress that radiated refinement with every graceful movement. In her hands was a thick stack of paper.
“Gavin!” She brightened instantly upon seeing the editor-in-chief. “Look, this is the draft of ‘The Encyclopaedia of Ice Beasts: From Scratch, A Guide to Rearing Magical Pocket Beasts’. I threat—I mean, I enlisted the court illustrator to complete all the illustrations before the deadline. I hope we can publish as soon as possible. Do you think three days is enough?”
Wait a second—this noble girl was one of the palace’s top chefs? She looked about Izzabel’s age!
Gavin accepted the manuscript. “Lady Eirwin, many thanks,” he said, adjusting his glasses in his polished manner. “There will be a lengthy review and editing process, of course, but we’ll notify you once a publication date has been set.”
Izzabel bowed along with Gavin, ready to take her leave.
"And who might this be?" the noble girl asked, gesturing toward Izzabel.
"My apologies for the oversight," Gavin said with a smile. "This is Izzy, the newest editor at the Wilderman Publishing House."
Oh no—she’d almost forgotten that receiving the manuscript officially marked her promotion. Standing there with a somewhat dazed smile, Izzabel gave a little wave.
"Editing is such a challenging job," Eirwin said with a warm smile. Reaching into her skirt pocket, she pulled out a palm-sized, fluffy white ball and placed it in Izzabel’s hands. "A little gift to celebrate our meeting."
"What is this?" Izzabel looked at the soft, cool creature, feeling its tiny breaths.
"It's an ice-type pocket magical beast bound to be all the rage one day," Eirwin replied with a wink. "Instructions for care are in the manuscript." Then, glancing at the clock, her expression changed. "Ugh, it’s time to run the royal ice cream cart again. I must be off."
On the way back, Izzabel cradled the chilly fluffball as carefully as a treasure, her hands nearly frozen by the time they returned to the publishing house.
In the corner of the office, Gavin briskly cleared stacks of paper from a dusty desk, sweeping them into a wooden crate before pulling out a chair.
"From today, this is your desk."
Izzabel glanced around the empty office, where six other desks were equally dust-laden. Had all the staff deserted this publishing house?
“Oh, they’re out gathering manuscripts from every corner of the realm,” Gavin explained, adjusting his glasses. “One of them went off to collect a draft from a witch up Mount Desolation and hasn’t sent word in three months. Another was dispatched last year to seek out the strongest swordsman in the nation—he’ll likely have to defeat him in a duel before returning. The others are busy across the realm. We’re dreadfully short-staffed, Izzy, so having you here is a tremendous help.” He checked his pocket watch. “Lunch break is here. Shall we grab a bite? The choice of restaurant is yours—my treat.”
Still clutching the ice-cold fluffball, she immediately thought of the scorching, fiery heat of her hometown’s spicy hotpot. “Any chance we could get some hotpot?”
“Certainly. There’s a place nearby,” he said, nodding. “Spicy food can even help an ice-type beast awaken faster—excellent choice.”
They passed the corner bakery, turned right, then down a sloping street into a dim alley where a small restaurant named Fiery Dragon Hotpot awaited.
The owner brought out the hotpot, filling the air with a tantalizing, spicy aroma. No strange thorns on the cabbage, no odd spots on the mushrooms, and the meat was a reassuringly familiar colour. This was a perfectly normal hotpot, just like in her memories from precisely a lifetime ago.
One spoonful of the broth, and the spicy heat burst forth, bathing her tastebuds in a wave of tingling, fiery warmth. Overwhelmed with emotion, Izzabel dug in with tears in her eyes. By the time she’d eaten her fill, the anxiety of the day had begun to ease, and, now no longer feeling cold, she remembered the fluffball tucked in her pocket.
She took out the fluffball. Where was its mouth? How was she supposed to feed it?
Ah, whatever! She scooped a spoonful of spicy broth and poured it straight over the creature.
The fluffball shivered and began to expand slightly. Was that its head? Izzabel held it up to her eyes, examining it closely.
Pop!
The protruding part snapped off, forming a second, smaller fluffball that rolled down onto her knee. The original fluffball remained just as it was, entirely unfazed.
Now with two fluffballs in her lap, Izzabel stared at them, utterly baffled.
A chuckle came from behind her. “Miss, feeding an ice beast level-two fiery broth cooked with fire magic is a bit too intense!” the shop owner laughed, shaking his head. “These pocket monsters survive by numbers, see. When they feel threatened, they split to survive. My daughter did a school project once raising fire geckos. She fed them ice cream—real high-end stuff from that famous palace vendor, too. Oh, one turned into eight, and now they’re all plump and happy living inside our hearth.” He winked, gesturing to the now cooling hotpot. “Let me heat that up for you.”
*
For the next couple of days, Izzabel’s main tasks were cleaning and basic paperwork. Gavin assured her that she only needed to help with manuscript collection, preliminary reviews, and deliveries to the printing press—he and the boss would take care of everything else.
Her first review assignment was Lady Eirwin’s book. According to Gavin, Eirwin's manuscripts were usually highly polished—rarely a misspelling, no rambling filler, and always well referenced. All Izzabel had to do was checking for missing pages.
As she flipped through, she also read up a bit on the fluffball. Apparently, magical beasts derived their energy from mana itself. Large magical beasts satisfied their hunger by consuming mana-filled creatures, therefore quite dangerous. Pocket beasts, on the other hand, could survive on ambient mana released by other beings, making them perfect for beginners.
When their mana reserves were low, pocket beasts would fall into a dormant state and could be revived with a mana feeding.
No wonder, Izzabel thought, glancing sadly at the two fluffballs snuggled in the takeout box from Fiery Dragon Hotpot, still snoozing peacefully. Her lack of magical talent meant they were stuck in slumber.
After verifying the page count, she stretched, craving some physical activity to wrap up her day.
The first floor was nearly spotless already—perhaps she’d give the basement archive room a go. Gavin had mentioned that it was packed with old books and files, dull weaponry, and some promotional items from their affiliated bookstores that had only been used once or twice.
Ideally, the basement boiler would be stoked daily for dehumidifying, but their editor skilled with fire magic was off tracking down a manuscript from The Witch of Mount Desolation, so it had gone without drying for three months now.
Carrying her cleaning supplies and an oil lamp, Izzabel descended the dim staircase, feeling the dampness grow thicker in the air, tinged with the faint odour of mould.
She began clearing away the clutter that blocked the path, piling it temporarily near the washroom by the stairs, slowly carving out enough space to move.
Achoo!
She’d barely stepped into the archive room before a sneeze escaped her, leaving her nose tickling. Izzabel knew this sensation well; she had suffered from allergies in her past life, yet the concept of "allergy" was entirely foreign in this world.
While people in her village might catch colds, they didn’t seem to suffer from allergies at all. It was only after the god with chiselled abs had blessed her with the power to purify miasma that she began experiencing this “allergy” to it, marking her as the frail, sickly sibling and triggering her brother’s fierce overprotectiveness.
When no one was around, she’d secretly practice her purifying abilities to clear the miasma from the air and lessen her symptoms for a while. She’d gone from uncontrollable sneezing in faint magical lights of red, yellow, and green, to being able to cloak herself in a soft, unified white glow.
Though Holy City had the God of Cuisine’s protection, miasma wasn’t entirely absent. As she pushed aside a crate, she finally found the source of the corruption—a misshapen stump of wood with a faded poster nailed to it, advertising a “25% off Special.” Blue-spotted mushrooms clung to one side, with moisture slowly seeping from a crack in the wall nearby.
Izzabel made a mental note to report the leaking basement wall to Gaven. As for the blue-speckled fungi, they reminded her of the chewy mushroom her grandfather had loved to cook, though she’d never had much of a taste for it herself.
She held out her hand, allowing a soft white light to seep from her palm. The stump softened and crumbled away, the mushrooms shrivelling back until all that remained was a pile of decayed wood dust, as they rightly should be.
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Her purification abilities, limited as they were, could only tackle rotting wood, and nothing more. If she encountered a goat or even a frog, she’d be helpless.
Besides, using her power drained her completely; she’d need a hearty meal and a good night’s rest before she could use it again. Hardly practical, and it didn’t change her status as a weak, useless handicap of magic.
Feeling a pang of guilt, she glanced at the two fuzzy creatures still nestled in the takeout box, fast asleep due to her lack of mana. If she couldn’t think of a way to feed them some form of magic, she could at least name them.
Wishing them a future of adventure and brilliance far beyond her own, she decided on names that brought her comfort. The larger one would be “Herry,” and the smaller one, “Patty,” after the hero of her favourite book from her previous life.
After clearing out a section of the basement, she was ready to call it a day. Only then did she remember that she’d finished the last of the seven loaves Bailey had given her, leaving her without a plan for dinner.
Until payday, she'd have to stretch the money Grandmother gave her, making luxury meals like spicy stew a rare indulgence.
Carefully tucking her dinner budget into her purse, she decided to stroll around the nearby streets in hopes of finding affordable ingredients. The poor little furballs had been cooped up in the dim office all day, so she took them along for some fresh air.
But her budget proved too tight—even a half-price sausage was out of reach. Eventually, she spent all she had at a vegetable stall, buying a clearance "mystery bag." For some reason, the vendor handed it over with an oddly grateful look in his eyes.
Inside the bag were vegetables that, while not pristine, were still decent: a slightly nibbled cabbage, a purple radish, some potatoes, fluorescent-red cherries, and some strange black produce that looked like demon claws. With a pinch of Grandfather’s special spice mix, she figured she could turn them into a pot of country-style curry.
A bit of bread to go with it would be perfect. She passed the corner bakery and remembered Bailey had said he'd be out of town for a while. The "Closed" sign still hung on the door, but smoke was clearly drifting from the chimney.
Just then, one of the bread golems rushed past, laden with bulging bags, disappearing into a narrow alley that could barely fit one person. A package tumbled out at the alley’s entrance.
Izzabel quickly retrieved the bundle—it was a block of ham. For a moment, the thought of bringing it home to make ham curry flitted through her mind, but she sighed and squeezed into the alley, knocking on the bakery's back door.
Bailey, looking even more dishevelled than three days ago, opened the door. "Look, Uncle, I told you my dad would cover this month’s rent first, so—oh! It’s Miss Ten Loaves!"
“You dropped your ham,” said Izzabel, holding it out.
“Ah, that's Marida 1,” he said, taking the ham back. "After I remade an entire breastplate, it still needs some fine-tuning."
No, that contraption was definitely overloaded, she thought. “Right.”
"So, um, Marida 3 is practicing with butter pound cake—" Bailey mumbled, eyes fixed on the floor. "I think it's actually... pretty decent. Want to, uh... come in and try it?"
"I’m heading back to make dinner.”
“Wait—Miss Ten Loaves!”
“What?”
“I mean, Marida 3 also baked a whole lot of bread. You could make it your dinner, go with that Fiery Dragon Hotpot you’ve got there—take ten if you can’t finish it all.”
“Alright, I’ll sample the pound cake.” She was, after all, a girl who could be won over by ten loaves.
Inside the bakery’s hearth room, the fires blazed warmly. Marida 3 was busy whipping cream, while Bailey directed Marida 2 to clear the wooden counter and pull up two tall stools. Izzabel took a seat, setting her mystery vegetable bag on the stool beside her.
“What’s in that bag?” Bailey asked, looking at it uncertainly.
“Picked it up from a produce stall in a nearby alley.”
“Oh, the one that deals in those miasma-tinged goods?” He squinted at the bag’s contents. "Is that a potato? Eek! Those are a bit dangerous—they’ll electrify you.”
“Once I roast them into fries, they’ll hardly zap at all.”
“And bananas? They must have unloaded those from the farming greenhouses outside the city. Word is, the crops are starting to get tainted by miasma, and that’s so close to the Holy City! My dad says at this rate, the God of Cuisine might soon call for sacrifices with a sky-high difficulty level.”
“This is… banana?” Izzabel held up the black, claw-like fruit.
“So, what did you get from Fiery Dragon Hotpot?” Bailey asked. “I can suggest some bread to go with it.”
“Oh, this isn’t for eating.” Izzabel opened the container. “They’re gifts from a friend, but since I don’t have much magical power, they’re still in hibernation.”
“An ice-type beast, huh?” Bailey inspected the fluffy creatures. “My magic leans fire, though I’m nowhere near as powerful as my family—who can practically bake bread just by magic alone. Still, I could try to wake them.”
The moment Bailey cupped the two fluffballs—pop!—they blinked open wide, round eyes and stretched out little webbed feet, tiny wings, and the cutest duck bills.
Izzabel recognized them at once from the manuscript she’d been reading—Snowflake Ducks. Gentle, quiet, and easy to care for, they were perfect for beginners. Only… these didn’t seem so well-behaved.
Quack! Quack!
“Patty, don’t fly over there!”
Quack, quack, quack!
“Golem, close all windows and the furnace!”
Quack!
“Don’t worry—I’ve got him!”
“H-Herry!”
Splat! Herry had nosedived straight into Marida 3’s bowl of whipped cream.
“I’m so sorry.” Izzabel dug Herry out of the now-solid cream and tucked both ducks safely back into their container.
“I should apologize,” said Bailey, scratching his head sheepishly. “I accidentally poured too much mana into them. I’m just too used to Marida’s mana capacity. Don’t worry about the cream; it’ll soften right up near the oven.”
"I’d rather not have duck-butt-flavoured pound cake," she admitted with uncharacteristic candour.
“Fair enough.”
She eyed the whipped cream, feeling it’d be a waste to throw it all out. Then it struck her. “Could I take this whipped cream?”
“Of course! I’ll have Marida 3 whip up a fresh batch.”
She carefully scraped away the bit the duck had touched. Reaching into her mystery bag, she used what remained of her purification power on the fruits and vegetables, then pulled out the devilish banana—still as sinister-looking as ever on the outside, but perfectly normal once peeled. She sliced it lengthwise, scooped two dollops of frozen whipped cream, and nestled them between the banana halves. To finish, she topped each side with a faintly glowing cherry.
It actually looked quite decent. “Do you have any jam?”
“Sure, here. Help yourself.”
A drizzle of jam, and voilà—her banana split was complete! The whipped cream had transformed into a cloud-light ice cream that melted immediately on the tongue, sweet but not overwhelming. The banana tasted like a regular banana, and after fifteen years without one, “regular” was a delight. The cherries had a surprising tang, almost like the boozy, candied cherries from her previous life, and their faint luminescence added an otherworldly charm.
“Want to try?” She held a spoonful out to Bailey.
It was only after he flushed deeply that she realized she’d just treated him like her brother. “Oh! I’m sorry—I didn’t mean to! It’s really good, though. I’ll make one just for you.”
Bailey stood there, frozen, as she polished off the entire banana split. Finally, he snapped out of his daze, blinking. “Ah—”
“Do I have jam on my face?” she asked.
That brought him fully back. “No—uh, Marida! Recipe 448, start from whipping the cream.” Marida 3 retrieved the fresh cream from a small cellar under the table, ready to continue its work on the pound cake.
The rich cream, brimming with fat and protein, was satisfyingly filling, and after the banana split, Izzabel was full. “Thank you for the jam! I’ll take the cream with me for now and bring the bowl back later,” she said, rising to leave.
“But what about the pound cake?”
She was absolutely stuffed. “Baking takes time, doesn’t it? I’d hate to keep you up too late, so perhaps I’ll come by tomorrow instead.” She took two loaves of bread for tonight, leaving the rest for tomorrow. After all, bread was best when fresh.
“Tomorrow, then? Alright, see you tomorrow.”
She waved goodbye to Bailey, who was staring after her in a daze once more. Maybe he was exhausted, juggling both bread-baking and the manuscript deadline. Poor guy.
Back in her cozy attic room at the publishing house, she noticed the snow ducks had settled down and were now watching her from their perch in the takeout box.
“Just a minute; I’ll get a proper home ready for you.”
She scrubbed clean the porcelain bowl she’d found in the basement, setting it atop the cream bowl. The size was just right—perfect, in fact. Gently, she nestled the palm-sized snowflake ducks inside, which would keep the cream cool.
With her new feathered companions settled, she went to bed.
The next morning, Izzabel woke to find the little ducks still patiently nestled in the bowl she’d left on the windowsill, curiously tilting their heads as she washed up and dressed. Just as she was about to scoop out the leftover cream to spread on her bread, she had the odd feeling that they’d grown.
Picking them up, she realized that Patty had definitely gotten bigger. In fact, she could no longer tell them apart—they were now identical, both delightfully round and just the right size to fit snugly in her hands.
“Patty!” she called.
“Quack!”
From now on, this one would be Patty. She cut a bit of ribbon and tied it around that one’s neck to keep track.
She rolled up her sleeves, ready to continue her cleaning duties in the basement, when, in the hallway, she saw Eirwin approaching with a basket, smiling brightly.
“Good morning, Izzy. How are your little creatures doing?”
Gavin was off at a morning meeting and wouldn’t be back until noon, while the boss had fortified himself behind a fortress of papers on his desk. She never dared disturb him, especially with the very real fear of being the one to discover him, overworked, slumped lifelessly amid the stacks. Setting down her mop and bucket, she led Eirwin to the parlor.
“You all work so hard, so I brought a little treat to boost your energy,” Eirwin said, lifting a dish from the basket. It held something covered in golden cheese, decorated with two kinds of small cubes on top. If she wasn’t mistaken, her former world called this a pizza. The pink cubes were clearly ham, and the other… “This cheese toastie was made from pineapple—courtesy of a friend of my father’s son, who works in the rare foods preservation department at the Temple of the God of Cuisine,” Eirwin said, almost breathlessly, but with utmost seriousness.
In short, it was a Hawaiian pizza. And not just any Hawaiian pizza—upon closer inspection, it was covered with a delicate frost. Yes, this was a frozen Hawaiian pizza.
Eirwin beamed at her and said, “Please enjoy.”
In this world, isn’t pizza supposed to be eaten hot as well? But here, goats aren't quite goat-like, bananas aren't exactly bananas, so perhaps pizza... Izzabel felt a deep, unsettling doubt creeping in. “I’m sorry, but I’m just used to eating cheese toasties warm. Unfortunately, we don’t have a stove in the office to heat it up.”
Eirwin’s face shifted from her usual overconfidence to sudden unease. She glanced down at the pizza and covered her mouth with both hands. “Oh no! I got so used to freezing my finished ice cream on the go that when I put the cheese toastie in the basket, I must’ve accidentally—” Even Miss Perfect Eirwin had her ditsy moments, it seemed. “What should we do? Now you won’t be able to taste the pineapple and ham cheese toastie.”
No, back in her previous life, every Friday night was her pizza night, a weekly rollercoaster of high-carb, high-fat heaven and guilt-ridden regret of hell over calories. Honestly, she didn’t miss it that much.
But with Eirwin looking so heartbroken, Izzabel felt a strong urge to say something—anything—to cheer her up.
“Um…”
“Quack-quack!” At that moment, Patty flitted onto Eirwin’s shoulder.
“This little one’s getting so chubby!” Eirwin exclaimed.
“Quack!” Herry joined the scene, flapping over too.
“Wait—there are two of them?!”
“Oh, that’s because... they got married!” There was no way she’d admit she’d nearly endangered their lives by accidentally pouring the fiery hotpot soup on these ice-creature ducklings, shocking them into the act of division for survival.
Eirwin blinked, then burst out laughing. “Haha... Oh, Izzy, you’re so funny! Snowflake ducks don’t exactly marry; their reproduction involves a whole group flying up and blending mana in the air. If there’s enough, a new little one will float down, fully formed. Hahaha.” She dabbed at her eyes with an embroidered handkerchief. “They must just be getting used to their new environment!”
Grateful for the escape, Izzabel nodded eagerly.
“They really are quite plump!” Eirwin cradled the ducks, marvelling. “These are the roundest snowflake ducks I’ve ever seen. You must have been working hard to feed them mana!”
What if they end up with duck diabetes? Izzabel thought, all Bailey’s fault. “Is that... okay for them?”
“Don’t worry, snowflake ducks are very docile. If they take in too much magic energy, they might just get a bit hyperactive. Once they burn some off, they’ll be fine again.”
Last night in the bakery, they were more than just a bit hyper; their flight paths had left frosty trails wherever they went. This made Izzabel wonder aloud, “Do the ducks actually serve a purpose? Like, back in my village, we’d sometimes see ice armadillos kept in cellars—they’d keep things chilled and help manage any critters sneaking in. But they’d only survive in areas where miasma wasn’t so dense, so it was rare to spot one outside the towns.”
“For ornamental purposes,” Eirwin said, then added, “but they’re also incredibly loyal to their owner who awakens them with magical energy. See how they cling to you? Aren’t they adorable?”
Izzy knew she hadn’t exactly woken the ducks up—they stuck close to her simply because they had no other choice. “Um, yes.”
“Do you like pocket-sized magical beasts, Izzy?”
“Sure, I guess?” Snowflake ducks were about a thousand times cuter than any wild fowl or goat.
“Then, lets be friends!” Eirwin suddenly clasped Izzy’s hands.
“Oh—uh, sure.” Saying no would have felt rude.
“Wonderful! I’ve always wanted a friend to hang out with and—um, oh!—to meet mages over tea!”
“A mage?” Was any one mage just fine?
“Pardon me, I didn’t explain,” Eirwin’s cheeks flushed, “There’s a very handsome mage I know, but he’s a commoner. I—I don’t look down on commoners! It’s just that all the commoners I’ve met are servants from home or the palace, and they all seem so intimidated by me. They barely say a word, so I have no idea how to talk with them!”
Ah, the innocent troubles of a young woman in love.
"I actually wrote him a little invitation to go out for tea. Do you think you could look it over for me?" Eirwin pulled a note from her basket.
It read:
“Dear Wyatt,
If you don’t want to end up as a snowman sundae, meet me on the ○○ day of ○○ month , at ○○, at the teahouse opposite the palace.
Yours sincerely,
Eirwin, Eighth Daughter of the Duke of Frostfall.”
“What do you think?” Eirwin asked.
Was this an invitation—or a declaration of war? “Well—maybe if you invite him in person, he’ll feel your sincerity better.”
“You’re right! Then, I’ll do that. My next day off is in a few days. As my friend, you’ll join me there, right, Izzy? It’s settled!” Eirwin flashed a smile so pure and joyful.
Is this what friendship meant? The loner she’d once been in her previous life had no answer, leaving Izzy in another bout of self-doubt.