A small fire crackled beside her, heating the mixture in a flat stone basin she’d set up like a makeshift stove. Bubbles started forming—sparse, unimpressive ones—but enough to count. Cyrus sat nearby, chin in hand, watching her with the same cautious expression one might give a wild animal playing with fire.
"It’s not going to explode," Isabella said, not looking up.
"I didn’t say anything."
"You thought it."
He smiled slightly but didn’t deny it.
The soap thickened slowly, turning into a gloopy, clay-like lump. Isabella poked it with a stick. "Okay, maybe it’s not LUXURY... but it’ll clean dirt, blood, and trauma." She sniffed it and gagged. "Probably."
From a distance, Bubu’s screen flickered once like a proud parent at a school play.
[Task Complete: Make Soap (1/1)]
+5 Crafting Points
+3 Hygiene Points
+35 points
"So do we test it now?" Ophelia asked excitedly, her innocent eyes shining like she expected magic to bubble from the bowl.
Isabella’s entire body locked up like someone had just thrown cold water down her back.
"Eww—test what?!" she nearly shrieked, voice rising two octaves before she caught herself mid-glamorous meltdown. Her spine straightened, her smile strained into a pageant grin. She placed a delicate hand on her chest and cleared her throat like a noblewoman humiliated by public gossip.
"Ahem. I mean," she spoke again, softer, more composed, chin tilting in fake sophistication, "that there is no need for that. Because we have to let it curl for at least one to two weeks."
Ophelia blinked. "Why?"
Isabella fluttered her lashes, as if trying to summon an explanation from the divine. She tapped her bottom lip, then pointed one glittery (read: still somehow blood-stained) finger skyward like a schoolteacher.
"During this time," she began, using the tone of someone teaching skincare to woodland creatures, "excess moisture—bye-bye. Chemical reactions—they finish their little dance." She paused, then dropped the science for plain sense. "Basically, if you use it now, it’s soft, it’ll disappear in the bath faster than your patience, and your skin might burn off."
Ophelia pouted like a disappointed bunny.
And Isabella? She smiled sweetly and thought, ’Who am I kidding? I am never using that peasant swamp brick.’
Bubu staring from above: "..."
She tiptoed forward dramatically, crouching beside Ophelia like they were sharing a royal secret. "But—" she whispered, then lightly pinched Ophelia’s chubby cheeks with both hands, giving them a little jiggle, "—good news! I have a better, faster, more fabulous way to make soap."
Ophelia’s pout turned into sparkles.
"Really?!"
Isabella gave her the sweetest nod known to woman. "Just one minute," she said, glancing quickly between the eager Ophelia and Cyrus—the beautiful silent man who, bless his soul, looked like he’d offer his spine if she needed back support.
"Just one," she repeated with finger raised like a promise, then spun on her heel with flair and ran behind her tiny hut.
Once hidden, her demeanor dropped faster than a hair extension in battle. She cupped her hands to her mouth and whispered frantically, "Bubu, I want to purchase the soap for bathing!"
There was a little ping.
"Would you like the normal liquid soap, solid calming soap, or shimmering body wash?" Bubu asked, sounding a little too much like a skincare consultant in a mall pop-up.
Isabella’s eyes lit up like a chandelier. Oh my GOD. The urge to scream was intense. She almost threw her arms in the air and did a twirl—but she remembered Cyrus and Ophelia were still watching the hut.
"Um—okay—YES. I mean—the normal liquid and solid calming soap, please," she said breathlessly.
Ding!
–130 points deducted.
She grinned.
And then she saw it.
The screen popped up:
Manual required for crafting. Price: 250 points per soap type.
Her smile dropped.
"Of course," she muttered, glaring up at the sky like it had personally betrayed her.
Maybe she could just buy one manual and wing the other? She considered it for exactly one second before realizing, Nope. Bubu was not the type to let you wing anything. It’d probably lock her in a pigpen until she "learned responsibility."
"Fine. Manuals, please," Isabella said, face deadpan.
"Sure!" Bubu chirped with a suspicious amount of glee.
Isabella narrowed her eyes. "Why do you sound excited?"
"Oh, no reason! Well, actually—today’s your lucky day!" Bubu said, voice sparkly like a salesgirl in a diamond store. That was never a good sign.
"Why?" Isabella asked slowly. She already regretted asking. It was always a trap. If it involved another random task like weaving soap out of unicorn fur, she was absolutely jumping off the nearest cliff.
"Some manuals provide equipment for the products needed to be made to make your process easier!"
Isabella squinted. "...That sentence hurt my brain."
Still, ding ding ding!
–500 points deducted.
She groaned. "There goes my savings..."
But before she could complain any further, several items shimmered into existence in front of her.
"Oh?" Isabella’s eyes widened. "Okay..." she muttered, squinting in confusion.
But as the items shimmered fully into view, her initial panic melted into something else. At first glance—strangely—she understood what each item was for. Her hands moved instinctively, reaching out to touch and examine.
There was a wide leaf strainer, woven tightly enough to catch grit. A stone grinder, smooth and curved, ready to mash herbs or roots. A stone cauldron with a carved spiral along its edge, heavy and solid, meant for boiling. A few other tools lay neatly beside them, all familiar despite their strange origin.
’Huh’, she thought, tilting her head. ’How do I even know this stuff?’
Her gaze drifted to the water jug, and she frowned. "Bubu, why is the water jug made from..." she paused, leaning closer, "...what even is that?"
"Serpent shell," Bubu chimed in like it was announcing a prize on a game show.
Isabella squinted up toward the voice, eyes sharp. "What?"
The jug gleamed slightly, scales embedded into its smooth surface. It looked ancient. Tough. Maybe cursed.
She glanced around again, noting that none of the materials were remotely modern. No metal, no plastic—just odd, natural things twisted into useable shapes. The brush looked like it was made from coarse animal fur tied with vine. The stirring rod resembled a snake’s fang mounted on bone.
"Bubu," she said slowly, scanning the rest of the equipment, "why does none of this look like something from the real world?"
No answer.
"Bubu?"
Silence.