CHAPTER 35: BAKE HIM TO THE LIMIT

The gong’s echo hadn’t even faded before Blayzeon lunged, swinging his war loaf like it owed him money.

I ducked just in time, the bread whistling past my ear and releasing the faint scent of rosemary.

"Too slow," I taunted, rolling behind a prep table.

He spun, eyes blazing. "You think you can hide?"

"No," I said, yanking the tarp off my Croissant Cannon. "I think I can bake."

I loaded a buttery crescent and fired. The croissant shot across the arena like a flaky comet, smacking Blayzeon right in the visor. He stumbled back, swiping at his face, leaving streaks of crumbs on his polished armor.

The crowd laughed. A chant began in the back: "CROISS-ANT! CROISS-ANT!"

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Blayzeon roared and charged. This time, I sidestepped and flicked a donut bola around his ankle.

It wrapped perfectly. He tripped forward into a display of chocolate éclairs, which exploded like sugary shrapnel.

"First spill of the match!" the announcer cried. "And Cecil Dreggs is controlling the tempo!"

Blayzeon scrambled up, frosting dripping from his pauldrons. "You’ll pay for that."

"Already did," I said, pointing at the price tag still dangling from one of the éclairs.

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We traded blows — him with his war loaf, me with every baked weapon I could grab.

Pretzel Nunchucks? Cracked him in the thigh.

Pie Shield? Blocked a downswing and sent whipped cream flying into the front row.

Baguette Uppercut? Surprisingly effective, though I may have sprained my wrist.

Halfway through, I decided it was time for the secret weapon.

I loaded one of my "Don’t" croissants into the cannon and fired.

It hit Blayzeon’s chestplate — and stuck.

"What is this sorcery?" he growled, trying to peel it off. The croissant pulsed once... and then expanded.

Within seconds, it was the size of a watermelon, pinning his arms to his sides like a doughy straitjacket.

The crowd went feral.

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"Do you yield?" I called out.

"Never!" Blayzeon shouted, trying to shake free.

Then Galrik — in the front row for maximum chaos — lobbed me the Pumpernickel Hammer.

I caught it, ran forward, and tapped Blayzeon on the helmet.

The announcer bellowed: "AND THE CHALLENGER WINS BY CROISSANT RESTRAINT!"

The gong rang. Flour cannons fired. The crowd chanted my name like they’d been doing it for years instead of the last ten seconds.

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Blayzeon knelt, gasping, covered in crumbs, frosting, and defeat. "This... isn’t... over..."

"It’s over for today," I said, offering him a half-eaten biscuit.

He slapped it away.

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Master Crust stormed the arena floor, slapping a medallion made of gingerbread around my neck. "By the power vested in me by the Guild of Unconventional Weaponry and the Royal Pastry Board, I grant you... one Royal Pardon and bakery credit for life!"

I held the medallion aloft. "To the bakeries!"

The crowd roared. Mister Fog floated by and whispered, "You realize you just legally weaponized croissants."

"Yeah," I said. "And now the real fun begins."

I didn’t even bother going home.

Straight from the arena, still dusted in flour and clutching my gingerbread medallion, I marched to the palace to cash in my Royal Pardon.

The guards at the gate gave me the usual squint — the one that says "you again?" — but I held up the medallion like it was the crown jewels.

"Official Guild Champion," I announced. "Here to see the King. Also, your breath smells like onions."

They grunted and let me in.

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The throne room was its usual mix of gold, velvet, and people pretending to be important. The King lounged on his oversized chair, sipping something expensive and looking like he’d rather be anywhere else.

"Cecil Dreggs," he said flatly. "Why are you here?"

I strutted forward, slapped the medallion on the floor, and pointed at it. "One Royal Pardon, as promised by the Guild of Unconventional Weaponry. All charges against me are hereby null and void. Go ahead, Your Majesty. Say the words."

The King didn’t even look at the medallion. Instead, he pulled a scroll from his sleeve, unrolled it, and cleared his throat.

"By decree of the Crown, new charges are hereby filed against Cecil Dreggs:

– Unauthorized use of weaponized pastries in public combat.

– Damage to royal property via airborne baked goods.

– Psychological trauma inflicted upon noble guests through dessert-based humiliation.

– Gross misuse of flour."

I blinked. "Gross misuse of flour?"

The King shrugged. "Apparently it’s a public safety issue now."

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Lilith groaned behind me. "I told you it wouldn’t be that easy."

I spun on the King. "Wait, you’re saying I just won the dumbest competition in the kingdom for nothing?"

"Not nothing," he said. "You’ve been invited to participate in the Grand Feast of Peace next week. Mandatory attendance. Try not to start a food fight this time."

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Mister Fog leaned in and whispered, "He’s baiting you. Big audience. Perfect opportunity for Blayzeon to get revenge."

"Or," I whispered back, "perfect opportunity for me to get double revenge."

Galrik perked up. "Are we talking dessert revenge? Because I have ideas."

Lilith facepalmed. "You idiots are going to get us all exiled."

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I bowed dramatically to the King. "Very well, Your Majesty. I shall attend your little feast. And I shall bring... my finest fork."

The King looked mildly concerned. "Why do I feel like I’ll regret that?"

"Because you will," I said, backing out of the throne room with my most innocent smile.

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Back at the manor, we spread out around the table.

"Step one," I said, "we find out exactly what this Grand Feast of Peace is."

"Step two," Mister Fog added, "we make sure peace doesn’t survive dessert."

"Step three," Galrik said, "we bring the croissant cannon."

Lilith groaned so loudly the window rattled. "This is going to end with at least three more charges against you."

I grinned. "Then we’d better make them worth it."