Six years. A blink for a demon. A lifetime for humans.
Yet for a baker? Perfect. Just enough. The ideal balance of yeast and water. At least that's what I've learned from pretending to be a baker over the past few years.
Morning light poured through the windows of the Golden Crust. Dust floated. I smoothed a hand across the gleaming counter.
Tranquility reigned. Profits flowed. Monotony settled in.
And I adored every moment. I guess in a way.. I do enjoy having a peaceful life after all, despite being a demon.
Sixteen years old now, my frame has stretched taller while remaining slender rather than bulky. A simple beige tunic hid beneath a white apron. My hair stayed deliberately tousled, my stance just shy of proper.
Villager B was the aim. The forgettable face, the nameless vendor who hands you a healing draught before fading into obscurity. Though I'm just a baker, so my presence would be much fainter than a vendor handing out a healing draught. Who would remember a baker after all!
"Ren!" Uncle Hans bellowed from the kitchen. "That left oven's acting strange again, heat's all over the place!"
"Handling it," I replied.
Entering the kitchen, I eyed the brick oven, flicked my fingers. A whisper of hellfire slithered into the woodpile. The temperature snapped to a flawless 220 degrees.
"Sorted," I announced.
"Got a real gift with these ancient things, kid," Hans chuckled, thumping my shoulder.
If he only understood.
The doorbell jingled.
"I'll take care of it," I said, shifting back into my practiced, pleasant mask.
Moving to the front, I smoothed my expression into gentle hospitality.
The girl who stepped inside seemed to brighten the whole space. Not magic, technically. Just presence.
Zania had changed.
At sixteen, Garia's so-called "Prophesied Hero" was practically a local celebrity. Her auburn locks now reached past her shoulders, often tied back with a ribbon. A basic leather breastplate covered her tunic, a recent addition after joining the Junior Guard of Garia Frontier Town.
She buzzed with energy almost every day.. I don't know if she is always this cheerful or could it be the hero influence?
But one thing I could be certain is that my passive mana sense.. Her aura certainly does get bigger over time…
Her Holy Mana had partially awakened. One careless sneeze, and she might accidentally vaporize a lower-tier undead for sure.
"Hey, Ren!" Zania chirped, propping her elbows on the counter.
"Morning, Zania," I answered, tone even. "The regular?"
"Obviously," she smirked. "Two melon buns and coffee. But make it dark as my soul."
I barely stifled a laugh. Her soul shone like the sun, but she loved playing the brooding adventurer.
I arranged the sweets on a tray and filled the cup with steaming brew.
"Tough shift?" I ask her that question… It was routine chatter. Meaningless just to be looking normal.
She groaned loudly, half the melon bread already devoured. "Captain Orik's running patrol training again. Claims the border intel is getting strange. Says the Demon Army halted their push."
My fingers tightened a fraction around the saucer before I slid it forward. "Halted?"
"Uh-huh." Crumbs spilled as she spoke. "Spring raids used to be their thing, right? Total quiet for six years straight. Orik's convinced they're cooking up chaos. Me? Bet they just got bored."
Bored? The silent protest flared. If only they knew I am micromanaging them right now due to my plan… so certainly it's not boring.
I then give my reply, "Could be worn out. War drags on."
Zania snorted. Loud. Unfiltered. "Demons don't fatigue. You're hilarious, Ren. Clueless, too. Demons are bloodthirsty beasts, they love killing a lot of human. Slaughter's their hobby."
"Sure," I murmured. "Silly thought."
Coffee vanished in one swig. A slap of coins on wood.
"Lifesaver as always! See ya!"
Her blade clattered against her leg as she bolted out. No glance back. No question about my afternoon. No awkward flush. To her, I was furniture. The Dough Sentinel.
Flawless.
As long as I stayed "Ren the Baker," not "Ren the Suspiciously Overpowered," disaster stayed at bay.
The entry bell jingled.
The air curdled. The room's warmth leeched away. Darkness in the alcoves yawned wider.
The newcomer's hood sagged with grime. A tattered sack slumped on his back. The world would peg him as just another drifter.
To me, he remained General Malphas, supreme commander of the underworld forces, destroyer of countless warriors, the terror haunting the west.
He approached the counter, studied the pastry display. A chaotic blend of bewilderment and menacing focus in his gaze.
Friendly tone, practiced smile. "Welcome," I chirped. "What can I do for you?"
His head tilted up. Glowing crimson embers in the shadow of his hood.
Delivery duty fulfilled. Voice like crushing boulders. "The... flour."
Perfect. "Take it to the rear."
Opened the gate, guided him into storage. The door clicked shut, silence sealed with magic.
Instant transformation. The sack thudded down as he knelt. Reverence thick in the air. "My Lord," thunderous, "your absence weakens us. The throne sits empty, and the others-."
"Stand," I muttered, slouching against stacked sugar sacks. "Rein in your aura. You'll sour the cream nearby."
He rose, absurdly massive in commoner garb.
Status required. "Speak."
Western lands under control. Misleading maneuvers successful. Retreat without clashing. The enemy rustles but does not strike.
"Losses?"
None. Disgruntled air. Volcan uneasy. He yearn to fight… so he requests to scorch structures, modest even, to satisfy the urge.
"Suggest yarn crafts," I deadpanned. "A hint of arson, and he be demoted and kill…."
Agreement. Then the offering emerged from his cloak. Weighted pouch clinking. Hell currency…
Hand dismissed. "Unnecessary. This shop flourishes. No demonic currency. Plus it's not usable here… even if I am trying to exchange it.. The skull symbol is too noticeable."
His stare lingered. Seems like he's feeling uneasy.
"My Lord... are you certain this is required? You've lingered here for six long years. The scent clinging to you… the yeast, vanilla… It's overwhelming."
"Strategic deception, Malphas."
"But the Hero," Malphas hissed, voice low. "She departed, vulnerable. Her defenses were nonexistent. I could've ended her before she finished that pastry."
"Then another would replace her," I countered sharply. "Back to the beginning. Observe her, Malphas. Training in peaks? Hunting sacred blades? No. She devours melon bread, chatters about crushes. Harmless."
A grunt. Reluctant agreement.
"Another matter," Malphas added, tone shifting. "The Church."
My gaze hardened. "Explain."
"Spies whisper of activity from the Capital. The High Inquisitor moves. They doubt our 'peace.' They hunt the Hero now."
I massaged my temples. Naturally. The Church thrived on conflict. No war meant dwindling coffers.
"If they locate her," I muttered, "they'll conscript her. Mold her into their weapon."
"Intercept the Inquisitor?" Malphas's fingers twitched toward an absent blade.
"Too risky. Deaths draw eyes."
I seized a flour sack.
"The plan stands. Zania stays. Content. Unremarkable. Should the Inquisitor scour Garia, he'll uncover only a mundane girl, a simple town guard."
I thrust the sack at Malphas.
"Deliver this. Rejected batch and feed it as Volcan's rations. Warn him if he crosses the border, I'll force feed him the raw flour myself."
Malphas bowed, cradling the sack like a relic.
"By your will, My Lord."
Hood raised, he vanished into the night.
The soundproofing spell dissolved. I exhaled.
Inquisitors. They are surely a hindrance to my plan. I stepped outside once more.
"Ren!" Martha's voice rang sharp. "Where's the flour merchant? We've got baguettes to make!"
"Be right there," I replied.
Hands grab the wooden roller. Keeping myself alive took everything. Though at least the loaves I crafted tasted decent now.