The Spoilt Beauty And Her Beasts-Chapter 159: No, no, no. I got this

Isabella stood over the pig with the expression of someone who had just been told she needed to sacrifice her favorite silk heels for a puddle stomp contest. Her hands were daintily poised near her chest, elbows in, and eyes locked on the dead animal with a mix of horror and dramatic flair. Cyrus stood to the side, holding a sharpened bone knife, looking genuinely conflicted.

"You can do it," Bubu’s voice echoed faintly from the dark screen by the tree. The system had long since dimmed, probably hiding from the wrathful glare Isabella shot it earlier.

She turned to Cyrus, face solemn. "Gimme the knife."

He hesitated, then handed it over with gentle caution, like he was passing her a baby bird. "Are you sure? I can—"

"No," Isabella said firmly, wagging her finger side to side. Her voice trembled with pretend strength, like a princess about to storm a battlefield in heels. "This is my trial. My glow-up journey. My stone-age villain origin story."

Cyrus didn’t fully understand what she was saying, but he nodded with the concerned attentiveness of a supportive partner watching someone have a meltdown over a split end.

She stared down at the pig. The mud-caked creature lay on the flat stone slab like it had given up on life long before she got here. Her lip curled as she crouched daintily beside it, lifting the knife like it was a spoon in a soup tasting.

She tapped the pig’s belly. "Okay, you chunky demon, where’s your fat hiding?" she whispered. "Let’s be civil about this."

Then she looked at the knife, then the pig, then the knife again. "Cyrus," she whispered, without taking her eyes off the corpse, "where do I start?"

He stepped forward slightly. "I can show—"

She flailed one hand backward, keeping the other poised with the knife. "No, no, no. I got this. I watched one hunting lesson. That’s enough."

She took a deep breath, squared her shoulders, and made the first cut.

Immediately, the scent hit her like a betrayal. "AHHHHHHHHHH!" she shrieked, launching back so fast she nearly tripped over her own foot. She stumbled, recovered, and placed her hand dramatically over her mouth. "Oh my stars... it’s worse than the fish! It’s worse than the fish!!"

Cyrus stepped forward again, concern all over his face. "I can help you, really—"

"No! This is between me and the pig!" she declared, waving him off. Her hands trembled. She dabbed invisible tears from the corners of her eyes like a theatre princess refusing to ruin her makeup.

She crouched again. This time she made the cut deeper, and a wet squelch responded.

Her mouth dropped open in absolute betrayal. "BUBU! You absolute monster! I am literally going to haunt you if I die doing this."

"You won’t die," Bubu chirped, still hidden. "But you may gag."

Isabella didn’t gag.

She dry-heaved like a Victorian lady in a corset witnessing someone eat with their hands.

Cyrus grimaced and bent toward her. "Please. Just let me—"

She waved him off again, this time with bloody hands. "No, Cyrus. I’m in the zone. I’m one with the... goo."

The next ten minutes were something out of a tragicomedy. Isabella gagged, slipped, cursed in the most elegant ways imaginable ("You revolting sack of prehistoric sludge!"), and at one point sat on the ground with her arms limp and red all the way to her elbows, just staring up at the sky like it had wronged her.

"I’m never going to be clean again," she whispered. "This is my life now. Pig blood and dreams."

Still, she powered through. She sliced carefully, yanked out the slippery guts, flinched, cried out, and kicked her foot in frustration every time something squished weirdly.

She finally found the fat, the pale globs clinging around the internal organs like it had been hiding from her on purpose.

"Got you! You disgusting treasure," she hissed through her teeth, pulling the greasy tissue free. Her arms were trembling, but her eyes shone with victory.

Cyrus, still hovering with the gentleness of someone about to swaddle a traumatized kitten, stepped forward as she dropped the final glob into a leaf-lined bowl. She was panting, hair messy, blood smeared across her cheek like war paint. She looked up at him, grinning like a madwoman.

"I did it."

He crouched beside her. "You did."

And just then, a soft voice interrupted the victorious silence.

"Isabella?"

Both of them turned.

Ophelia stood at the edge of the clearing, wide-eyed and confused, Glimora perched lazily on her shoulder like a glorified mossy wig. The innocent girl held a basket of herbs in her hands, blinking rapidly at the scene before her—Isabella covered in blood, a gutted pig on a slab, Cyrus crouched like a doting midwife.

"What... what happened?"

Glimora gave a little chirp.

Isabella stood slowly, covered in blood like a cursed beauty queen, holding up the bowl of fat triumphantly. "We’re making soap." freewebnσvel.cøm

Ophelia just nodded slowly. "Oh... okay."

Cyrus looked between them, then silently offered Isabella a damp cloth made from moss. She wiped her face with the grace of a fallen diva and sighed.

"Remind me to invent gloves. Like... now."

Even Bubu didn’t dare comment. For once, the system knew when to keep its screen off.

Isabella went to wash off. It wasn’t all that hard to make the soap—just animal fat, ash, and water.

All she had to do was mash the animal fat into a thick paste, mix it with gritty wood ash, then stir in just enough water to form a muddy, grayish sludge. It smelled... exactly how one would expect soap made from pig fat and burnt trees to smell—like a campfire had gotten into a fight with a butcher shop.

Isabella wrinkled her nose but kept going, sleeves rolled up and hair tied in a messy, still-damp knot. Her arms were sore, her clothes still stained from her earlier battle with the pig, and her pride? Somewhere back on that stone slab, bleeding out beside the entrails. But she was determined.