Thanks to Evelyn, I finally found the blasted kitchen and could actually start making breakfast.
It took me a few minutes to get my bearings and study the local ingredients.
The kitchen turned out to be a strange blend of spaciousness and poverty.
Big, with heavy wooden tables, smoke-stained walls, and cobwebs in every corner—but not a hint of magical convenience.
No self-heating fire-stove, no ice-golem fridge, not even an enchanted blender.
Just a grate-filled oven, a copper basin, and a mortar so ancient I swear it once ground up curses.
Everything looked familiar, but… not quite right. It wasn't the cozy "fantasy medieval tavern" kitchen of my dreams, but a real working space where the concept of hygiene had long since lost the battle to culinary chaos.
But the weirdest thing? The ingredients.
There was some kind of greenery that looked like spinach, but neon-bright and with leaves the size of my hand.
The potatoes were wrapped in purple skins, like some local stylist had cast a color spell, and the eggs—oh gods, the eggs were the size of my fist, and looked like they'd been laid by a terrified magical ostrich, not a chicken.
Honestly, I was afraid to imagine what the local cows looked like. Or, heaven forbid, the chickens—if their eggs were like this, what kind of beaks did they have…?
Japanese-style tamagoyaki omelette. My only option!
"Oh well, not like I have a choice—guess I'll work with what I've got."
So, I dove right in.
Immediately, the kitchen erupted in noise. Apparently, the staff here were very used to Mira's "cooking"—which would explain why the other maids showed up with buckets of water at the ready.
Nearby, a dwarf was bustling about—sometimes muttering, sometimes keeping a sharp eye on my every move and whatever I touched.
As far as I could tell, he was the head chef in this kitchen that I'd suddenly invaded. When I announced, "I'm starting breakfast!" he looked seconds away from banishing me with a mop.
He was a sight to behold. More of a classic fantasy dwarf than a simple gnome—stocky, sturdy, with a mighty belly that jutted out like a badge of honor.
Thick hair spilled from his rolled-up sleeves, covering his arms and, I suspected, half the kitchen.
But his greatest pride and joy? The beard.
It reached almost to the floor, thick and neatly braided with copper beads and even tiny bells that jingled quietly with every move.
His face was open but stern, brows like mountain ridges, and a nose that looked like it had seen more adventures than most knights.
Yet deep in those wrinkled eyes, under heavy lids, was a spark of good humor—the kind you only get from people who've seen it all but still know how to laugh at themselves and this crazy world.
He checked all the fantasy boxes.
I started with enthusiasm, but quickly realized this was going to be a real quest.
For example: when I tried to crack an egg, I had to bash it with a special hammer until a crack finally appeared and the contents oozed out into the pan.
I still don't want to know what kind of chickens lay these eggs.
As for the cookware—don't even get me started. Everything seemed to be trying to escape, like I was about to burn the whole kitchen down (again).
Honestly, maybe they had the right idea.
While I wrestled with a frying pan that kept trying to escape, the dwarf grumbled,
"Oi, Mira, don't touch Frieda—she's in a bad mood today."
The other staff didn't even try to help; only the dwarf occasionally tossed advice and ingredients my way, watching me like I might explode at any second.
He'd mutter things like,
"In my 200 years, I've never seen eggs tortured like that!"
And the classic:
"You're holding the hammer all wrong!"
But honestly, he was a sweet, kind, round-bellied dwarf.
If the eggs were this much trouble, I dreaded to think what would happen with that spinach-looking stuff or the purple potatoes.
Surprisingly, the greens turned out fine.
At least they didn't try to strangle me or crawl away.
But I celebrated too soon.
The second I started cutting the potatoes—red juice oozed out, like… blood.
I yelped, accidentally flinging the knife into the ceiling. It stuck in a beam, swinging like a pendulum.
For a second I thought I'd committed murder, but the dwarf calmly explained it was just "potato syrup."
Syrup?! My soul almost left my body for the second time that morning!
I took a deep breath, then another, desperately trying to recall all the isekai stories I'd read at night.
Oh, how I envied those protagonists now!
Everything always goes perfectly for them—magic on demand, food cooks itself, loyal friends and endless luck.
And me?
Here I was, in real life—just a kitchen nightmare, a wrinkled uniform, and an audience with buckets ready to put out my next culinary disaster.
So much for being the hero of an isekai…
After a puddle of sweat and a couple nervous breakdowns, the omelette was finally ready.
I carefully plated it, garnished it with fresh greens—just to make it look less like "survival food" and more like, well, food.
It came out… almost as I'd imagined.
Well, at least it wasn't smoking or crawling off the plate. Sometimes you have to accept "not a total disaster" as a win.
The dwarf came closer, eyed the creation with deep suspicion, and poked it with a fork, as if checking whether it would hiss or escape.
I could see the calculation on his face—is this food or attempted murder?
That's when Evelyn entered the kitchen, carrying a bucket of water.
Seeing that nothing was burning or exploding and everything looked relatively peaceful, she let out a relieved sigh, set the bucket down—just in case—and sat at the table without a word.
Seriously, are you all in on this? Or am I just a walking punchline to you people?
I anxiously presented my culinary masterpiece—an omelette, trembling with both effort and fear.
"Enjoy! Tamagoyaki omelette, made with love… and pain, terror, and sweat," I declared, as if bestowing an imperial seal.
Evelyn stared at the plate like there might be hidden dark magic inside, then glanced meaningfully at the dwarf.
He just grunted and busied himself—sorting spoons, pretending he had nothing to do with any of this.
Realizing no help was coming, Evelyn sighed, picked up her fork, and—with the look of someone meeting their fate—bravely took a bite.
Sorry it looks the way it does!
When she tasted it, she froze for a few seconds, then looked at me intently.
"Did you… like it, my lady?" I stammered, nervously fidgeting and folding my arms in the most obedient pose I could muster.
Evelyn looked at me with an unreadable expression, then finally nodded—slowly, but pretty convincingly.
In theory, that was approval, but chills ran down my spine. Cue the thriller music.
And just when I thought I might relax, her voice cut in, suddenly serious and almost icy.
"But now I have even more questions."
She finished eating, wiped her lips, set down her utensils, and signaled for the others to leave the kitchen.
The dwarf and other staff vanished, like smoke in the hallway, and I was left alone with her piercing gaze.
Evelyn crossed her arms and stared so coldly it felt like the temperature dropped a few degrees.
"Who are you? And what have you done with Mira?"
For a split second, I froze—my insides shriveling—but then I forced myself to answer.
"I… I'm Mira. Evelyn's personal maid and…"
But my memory betrayed me. All that came to mind were overused manga tropes and a wave of panic.
Why now? Couldn't I at least recall a relevant manga for an interrogation like this?
"Mira's been my maid for six years, and I know her skills in the kitchen—her only real talents are shoveling coal and setting fires."
So that's what the buckets are for!
"I… well, I just…"
I tried to explain, but she cut me off.
"And she can't clean, either. What you saw earlier? That was yesterday's cleaning—Mira-style."
Wait, that mess wasn't yours?!
"So I'll ask again."
She stood up, casting a long shadow across the floor. She glided over to me, stopping exactly at arm's length—closing the space until the interrogation was complete.
"So. Who are you? And where's the real Mira?"
Evelyn's voice was quiet but sharp as ice.
At that moment, the coldest sweat of my life ran down my back.
Well, Sayo, you're doomed. Eternal floor scrubbing… or roast witch for dinner? Pick your fate!