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Thanks to Evelyn, I finally found the damn kitchen and could start making breakfast.

It took me a few minutes to get my bearings and figure out the local ingredients. Everything looked familiar, but not quite how I remembered it:

there was some kind of greenery that looked like spinach, potatoes with purple skins, and eggs the size of my fist.

Japanese omelette—tamagoyaki. Perfect choice! I decided, frantically running through the options with what I had.

The process kicked off energetically.

Instantly, the kitchen erupted into chaos: apparently, no one here had ever seen Mira cook—at least, that’s the only reason I can think of for why the staff rushed in carrying buckets of water at the ready.

A dwarf was bustling around nearby—sometimes grumbling, sometimes carefully watching my every move and whatever I dared to turn on.

From what I could tell, he was the head chef of this kitchen I’d suddenly invaded. When I declared, “I’m going to cook!” I was nearly chased out with wet rags.

He honestly looked more like a classic fantasy dwarf than a gnome: all round belly, hair everywhere, and an epic beard that brushed the floor.

But as soon as I mentioned it was at Miss Evelyn’s request, he immediately surrendered and stepped aside.

Though I started with enthusiasm, I quickly realized this was a full-on quest.

For example, when I tried to crack one of those eggs, I had to bash it with a special mallet until it finally split open and the contents splattered into the pan.

And don’t get me started on the kitchen tools—they all seemed determined to run away from me, as if I was planning to torch them along with the kitchen.

While I wrestled with a frying pan desperately trying to escape, the dwarf muttered, “Hey, Mira, don’t touch Frieda—she’s in a mood today.”

No one else even tried to help: only the dwarf occasionally handed me ingredients or tips, eyeing me like, “Will it explode or not?”

And every so often he’d mutter things like,

“In my 200 years, I’ve never seen anyone torment eggs like this!”

Or the classic:

“You’re holding that mallet all wrong!”

But honestly, he was kind of a sweet, grumpy, round little guy.

If the egg was that much trouble, I could only imagine what that suspicious spinach and purple potato had in store.

Surprisingly, the greens turned out to be normal.

At least they didn’t try to strangle me or crawl away.

But I celebrated too soon. As soon as I started slicing the potato, red juice oozed out—as if… blood. I jumped in place and dropped the knife.

I shrieked, accidentally flinging the knife up to the ceiling, where it stuck in a beam, swinging like a pendulum and winking at me with its blade.

For a second I thought I’d just committed a murder, but the dwarf calmly explained it was just “potato syrup.”

Syrup!? My soul nearly left my body for the second time today! I almost screamed out loud.

Thinking of all those isekai heroines and their adventures, I suddenly envied them. Everything always works out for them, while I’m starring in a kitchen nightmare—with a full audience holding buckets just in case.

Finally, the omelette was done. I carefully plated it, garnished it with fresh greens—prepared with sweat and a dash of fear.

It looked almost like I’d imagined—or at least edible.

The dwarf shuffled closer to inspect my creation, as if trying to determine whether it was actually food or a potential health hazard.

Are you all conspiring against me? Or am I just your walking punchline? I thought, but didn’t dare say it out loud.

“Here you go!” I announced, handing the plate to Evelyn, who was already seated at the table.

Evelyn studied the dish as if doubting it was safe, then glanced suspiciously at the dwarf.

He just stayed silent and pretended to be very busy with something else.

Evelyn had no choice but to try the food herself.

She put a bite of omelette in her mouth, froze for a few seconds, then stared at me intently:

“What is this?”

“Tamagoyaki omelette! A popular dish from… my hometown,” I answered, doing my best to hide how proud I was. “Do you like it?”

“Yes,” she said slowly, still watching me. “So much that now I have even more questions.”

A chill ran down my spine. Evelyn’s voice had grown serious—almost threatening.

“Who are you?”

I froze for a moment but quickly pulled myself together:

“I… I’m Mira, Evelyn’s personal maid.”

“Mira has worked for me for six years, and I know her cooking skills inside out,” she continued, not pausing her meal. “The only thing she can do is serve up charcoal and set the kitchen on fire.”

“I… well, I just—” I started to explain, but was cut off.

“And she doesn’t know how to clean, either,” Evelyn went on. “That thing you did in the room today—that was yesterday’s cleaning by Mira.”

Evelyn finished her meal, wiped her mouth, and set her utensils down, then silently gestured for everyone else to leave the kitchen.

Now it was just me and Evelyn. She crossed her arms and looked at me with such coldness that even an iceberg would seem warm in comparison.

“Well, who are you and where’s the real Mira?” Evelyn asked.

I thought, feeling a fresh wave of panic for the second time that day.