The Guild Hall of Unconventional Weaponry was not what I expected.
For one thing, it was built inside a retired windmill, the kind with creaky blades that groaned like they regretted ever being invented. For another, the front door was shaped like a loaf of bread — actual wood carving, complete with fake sesame seeds.
A sign hung crookedly above the entrance:
"We'll Arm You With Anything But Common Sense."
Lilith crossed her arms. "This is a cult."
"It's a guild," I corrected. "Cults don't have membership fees."
"They absolutely do," she said.
Galrik was already pushing the bread-shaped door open. "Let's meet the bakers!"
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Inside, it was… chaos. The main hall was part workshop, part bakery, part armory. One corner had racks of rolling pins modified with spiked heads. Another displayed shields made from reinforced pie tins. The air smelled like a battlefield and a bakery had a very messy baby.
A man in a chef's hat taller than my self-esteem stepped forward. His apron read "I Came, I Baked, I Conquered."
"You must be Cecil Dreggs," he boomed. "I am Master Crust, Grand Baker-General of the Guild. We've been watching you."
"That's creepy," I said.
"That's recruitment," he replied. "We saw your performance at the Blayzeon Brunch Debacle. Such control! Such precision! Such disregard for dignity! You're exactly what we need."
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Mister Fog floated toward a display case. "Is that… a crossbow that fires éclairs?"
Master Crust beamed. "Model Éclair-47. Great for close-range dessert warfare."
Galrik picked up a loaf of pumpernickel the size of a warhammer. "Can I keep this?"
"Only if you can lift it," Master Crust said.
Galrik immediately fell over trying.
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We were led deeper into the windmill, through hallways lined with framed portraits of past champions:
• A woman wielding twin pretzels.
• A dwarf holding a breadstick like a sniper rifle.
• A lizardman in full chef whites, mid-battle against what appeared to be a giant flan.
Finally, we reached the "War Kitchen." Twenty stations, each stocked with flour, eggs, sugar, and an unreasonable amount of weapon-grade yeast.
"This," Master Crust said, "is where the Annual Combat Bake-Off will be held in three days. The finest warriors from across the land will battle, their weapons forged from dough, sugar, and glory. You will represent us against the reigning champion…"
He paused for dramatic effect.
"…Sir Blayzeon Highrider."
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Lilith choked on her tea. "You're telling me this is just another excuse for you two idiots to fight in public?"
"Yes," Master Crust said proudly.
I leaned on the counter. "What happens if I win?"
"Royal Pardon. Bakery credit for life. And your name on the Hall of Crust."
"And if I lose?"
He grinned. "Dish duty. Forever."
Galrik gasped. "That's worse than prison."
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We left the Guild with a crate of "training loaves" and a sense of impending chaos.
Lilith stopped me outside. "You do realize Blayzeon's going to take this deadly serious, right? He's a knight. You're… you."
I grinned. "Exactly. And no one expects 'me' to win. Which is why I'm going to blindside him with the most powerful weapon in history."
Mister Fog tilted his head. "Which is?"
I hoisted a baguette like a knight raises his sword. "The croissant cannon."
Lilith groaned so hard I thought she might pass out.
Training began at dawn. Not because I wanted to be up that early — I value sleep almost as much as spite — but because Master Crust kicked in the manor door shouting, "THE EARLY BIRD GETS THE BREAD!" and threw a loaf at my face.
We trudged to the Guild's War Kitchen, where the smell of yeast hit me like a warm punch to the nose. Rows of stations were already set up for "weapons practice."
Galrik was stationed at the "Baguette Block" table, where he had to parry incoming swings from other guild members wielding breadsticks sharpened to terrifying points.
Lilith, despite insisting she wasn't participating, was at the "Rolling Pin Speed Round," smashing dough flat with such aggression the table shook.
Mister Fog had simply claimed the "Dessert Catapult" for himself and was launching cupcakes at a moving target shaped like Blayzeon's head.
I was assigned to "Croissant Cannon Calibration."
It was exactly what it sounded like: a repurposed siege weapon loaded with buttery crescents of doom.
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"Alright," Master Crust barked, "rule number one — your weapon must be edible. Rule number two — no poison. Rule number three — if it explodes, it must taste good."
I loaded my first croissant. Fired.
It soared majestically… and hit Galrik in the helmet.
"Headshot!" I shouted.
Galrik stumbled, then took a bite of the croissant stuck to his visor. "Needs more butter."
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We rotated through stations:
• Pretzel Nunchucks: Great for crowd control, terrible if you get hungry mid-fight.
• Pie Shield Defense: Block incoming attacks while avoiding the urge to lick your own shield.
• Donut Bolas: Surprisingly effective at tripping people, less effective if opponent eats them mid-air.
By noon, we were covered in flour, sweating, and more than a little nauseous from "quality control taste tests."
Lilith wiped her hands. "This is the stupidest thing you've ever done."
I grinned. "Which is why it's going to work."
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That night, while the others crashed from carb overload, I stayed up in the manor kitchen.
The croissant cannon was good… but it needed something more. Something unpredictable.
I rummaged through Mister Fog's stash of "mystery seasonings." One jar was labeled simply: "Don't."
Perfect.
I sprinkled a pinch into the dough. The croissants hissed. One glowed faintly.
Exactly the kind of unstable weaponry I needed.
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Three days later, the tournament arena was set.
The War Kitchen had been transformed into a circular pit surrounded by cheering crowds. The air smelled like sugar, sweat, and poor decisions.
The announcer's voice boomed: "WELCOME TO THE ANNUAL COMBAT BAKE-OFF! In this corner, our reigning champion, the shining knight of Everia — SIR BLAYZEON HIGHRIDER!"
Blayzeon stepped out in gold-trimmed armor, holding a massive war loaf engraved with his crest. The crowd roared.
"And in the other corner… uh… Cecil Dreggs?"
The crowd's cheer turned into confused murmurs. Someone coughed. A pigeon flew overhead.
I strode in, croissant cannon slung over my shoulder, flour dusting my shirt like snow. "Let's make some bread," I said.
Blayzeon narrowed his eyes. "This time, you won't humiliate me."
I smirked. "Buddy, we're in a bread-fighting tournament. You're doing that yourself."
The gong sounded.