The Spoilt Beauty And Her Beasts-Chapter 72: You’re not wrestling a wild boar, you’re crafting. Let the tool do the work

Chapter 72: Chapter 72: You’re not wrestling a wild boar, you’re crafting. Let the tool do the work

Outside her hut, Isabella stood with her arms crossed, staring at the clay pots like they had personally betrayed her.

Ophelia and Shelia stood behind her, watching in confusion.

"...Did something happen?" Ophelia whispered.

"I don’t know," Shelia replied. "She’s been like this for a while."

Isabella narrowed her eyes at the pots. She had spent days molding them, and Kian and helped? to fire them, perfecting their shapes, and now, when she was finally about to use them, a horrible realization struck her.

She had no spoons. No knife. No nothing.

She couldn’t even stir the food without burning herself. She couldn’t cut anything without looking like a fool.

How was she supposed to cook properly like this? With her hands???

Unacceptable.

Ophelia hesitated before stepping forward. "Isabella...?"

Isabella inhaled deeply. "Ophelia. Shelia."

Both girls straightened immediately.

"I have made a grave mistake," Isabella declared, tone solemn.

Shelia’s eyes widened. "What happened? Did the pots crack?!"

"No." Isabella shook her head, her expression dark. "It’s worse."

Ophelia gasped. "Worse?!"

"I..." Isabella looked away as if ashamed. "I forgot about the utensils."

There was a long pause.

Ophelia frowned. "Utensils?"

Shelia tilted her head. "What... is that?"

Isabella slowly turned to face them. "You don’t know what utensils are?"

Both girls shook their heads.

Isabella clutched her chest like she had been personally attacked. "You—You’ve never used a spoon? A knife? A fork?"

Ophelia and Shelia exchanged glances.

"...What’s a spoon?" Shelia asked cautiously.

"And what’s a knife?" Ophelia added.

Isabella inhaled sharply.

A long, dramatic inhale.

Like the weight of civilization itself rested on her shoulders.

Then Ophelia blinked. "...That’s it?"

Isabella snapped her head toward her. "That’s it??? Ophelia, how am I supposed to stir my stew? How am I supposed to cut things? Am I just supposed to... look at my food and hope it cooks itself???"

Isabella let out a sigh and turned to Shelia with a sharp look.

"Go get me a Beastman from the palace. One that works fast and hard."

Shelia groaned. "Why me, though?"

"Because," Isabella said, crossing her arms, "you’re the princess of this village, the palace has the strongest men, and I would really rather not see Kian right now." She rolled her eyes at the mere mention of his name.

Shelia opened her mouth to argue, but before she could get a word out, Ophelia—ever the innocent and bright one—stepped in, sensing another round of scolding incoming.

"I’ll come with you!" Ophelia chirped, grabbing Shelia’s hand before she could complain. She leaned in, whispering mischievously,

"Plus, aren’t you curious about what she’s planning to make?" Her chubby cheeks and wide-eyed expression made her look like a cute little thief about to snatch a pie.

Isabella, of course, heard her. A small smirk curled on her lips as she watched Ophelia expertly lead Shelia away.

Now, all she had to do was wait for them to bring her a Beastman strong enough to make her vision a reality.

15 MINUTES LATER

The early afternoon sun was relentless, beating down on Isabella, Shelia, Ophelia, and the unfortunate soul chosen for her latest project.

Isabella sat atop a smooth, flat stone slab, legs crossed regally, as if she were the chieftess of an empire.

In front of her stood the man—tall, broad-shouldered, and looking utterly bewildered as he gripped a chunk of willow wood like it had personally offended him.

"You want me to do what?" he asked, brows pulling together in a deep frown. His voice was deep, rough, the kind that belonged to warriors who spent their days hunting and wrestling beasts, not... whatever this was.

"Make. A. Spoon," Isabella enunciated, staring at him like he was the dumbest creature alive.

The man blinked at her. Then at the piece of wood. Then back at her. "...What’s a spoon?"

Isabella sighed dramatically, flipping her hair over one shoulder. "Exactly why I’m here. I’ll teach you, and you’ll listen. Unless, of course, you prefer eating with your hands like a filthy, uncivilized barbarian?"

He scoffed. "I am a barbarian."

"Right," she deadpanned. "Well, today, we’re fixing that."

Isabella shot the girls a look which have been whispering about what she has no idea of. And they immediately kept quiet.

Then, Isabella turned back to the man, clapping her hands together. "Alright! First step—find a stick that’s not ugly and is about the length of my hand."

The man glanced at her hand. It was small, delicate, perfect—like something carved from ivory. Then he looked down at the pile of sticks at his feet. "...They all look the same."

Isabella pinched the bridge of her nose. "No, they do not. Pick one with a slight curve, something that already suggests the shape of a spoon."

He picked up the thickest, most club-like branch he could find.

"...Are you making a spoon or a weapon?" she asked, arms crossed.

"Both?" he offered with a straight face.

Ophelia snorted. "I like him."

Shelia smirked. "You would."

Isabella sighed. "Try again."

What followed was an agonizing ten minutes of trial and error, during which the man tried to convince Isabella that a crooked twig was "charming," a half-rotten branch had "character," and a literal chunk of bark was "unique."

Finally, he found a piece that met her impossible standards.

"Good boy," Isabella praised, smirking.

His ears twitched slightly at that, but he said nothing.

Shelia raised an eyebrow. "Did you just... praise him like a dog?"

"Yes," Isabella said proudly. "Now hush."

She turned back to her new apprentice. "Next, we shape it. You’ll need a sharp stone to whittle it down."

The man held up a massive, jagged rock that looked better suited for crushing skulls.

Isabella stared at it. Then at him. Then back at the rock. "...Are you trying to carve it or bludgeon it into submission?"

The man frowned. "...Both?"

Ophelia burst into laughter. Even Shelia snickered.

"Ugh, no," Isabella groaned. She tossed him a smaller, sharper flint shard. "Use this. Hold the wood like this—" She positioned her hands delicately, demonstrating the proper grip. "And scrape, don’t hack. We need finesse, not destruction."

[Congratulations on leveling up to Level 1 leadership skills]

He followed her instructions. Well, he tried. On the first attempt, he pressed too hard and nearly snapped the stick in half.

"Relax," Isabella groaned, rubbing her temples. "You’re not wrestling a wild boar, you’re crafting. Let the tool do the work."

"That’s easier said than done," he muttered, adjusting his grip.

Bit by bit, the stick started resembling something less like a tree branch and more like a handle.

"Hey, this is actually working," the man admitted, watching the wood peel away in thin curls.

"Shocking, isn’t it?" Isabella said dryly.

After a few minutes, he huffed, flexing his fingers. "Why is this so hard?"

"Because it requires patience," Isabella said sweetly. "Something you clearly lack."

He shot her a look. "Remind me why I’m doing this?"

"Because I told you to."