"Yes, I Got Reborn. No, I Don’t Want a Harem. Stop Staring at Me."

Setting: The Royal Banquet Hall of Duke Graventon, House of Goose-Crested War Prophets

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The chandeliers sparkled. The golden cutlery gleamed. The goose-shaped ice sculptures stared deep into my soul with the cold judgment of poultry long past.

I stood in full ceremonial dress—complete with three layers of frills, boots that screamed "noble discomfort," and a cape so long I could probably strangle myself with it if I turned too fast.

(Inner Me: What fresh pastry-fueled nonsense have I walked into this time?)

"Welcome, Lord Kael Reinhardt," the announcer boomed, because clearly, subtlety had died along with my social anxiety.

"Heir of House Reinhardt, Possessor of the Rescued Teacup, Slayer of Foam-Wielding Rivals, Saint-in-Reluctance—"

"—That's enough titles, thanks!" I interjected.

The crowd clapped politely. Somewhere in the back, a goose honked.

Not a metaphor.

A literal, feathered goose wearing a tiny crown.

(Inner Me: Why does it look more qualified to lead this banquet than I do?)

I shuffled awkwardly past nobles with names like Baron Butterbell and Lady Fluffenwick until I reached my table, strategically seated between my first fiancée Seraphina and the physical manifestation of chaos: Belladonna.

Seraphina wore her usual expression: calm, regal, and slightly murder-y.

Belladonna, on the other hand, was sneaking herbs into her wine.

"It's for... flavor," she whispered, smiling innocently as her goblet began to glow.

**(Inner Me: I am officially too sober for this level of noble insanity.)**

---

 ACT I: Of Tarts and Treason

Dinner began normally enough.

Roast wyvern. Golden beet salad. Soup with floating constellations. You know, peasant fare.

Then came The Tart.

It arrived on a tray flanked by servants in ceremonial goose armor. The dessert wobbled ominously as it was placed before Duke Graventon.

"The Treaty Tart," he declared. "Symbol of peace between the four houses."

A beat of silence passed.

Then someone screamed.

**BOOM.**

The tart exploded.

Pink custard splattered across the duke's robes. The goose honked in existential despair. Nobles ducked under tables.

(Inner Me: Why. Why does dessert keep trying to kill me?)

"An attack!" someone yelled.

"A declaration of war!" another cried.

Belladonna licked tart off her sleeve. "Hmm. Too much cinnamon."

Duke Graventon stood, drenched in custard, trembling with fury and sugar. His mustache twitched. "Who DARES defile the Goose Accord?!"

Everyone turned to me.

Because of course they did.

(Inner Me: What do you mean 'because it usually is'? Rude.)

"I swear it wasn't me this time!" I shouted.

The system pinged.

> SYSTEM ALERT: Congratulations! You have survived yet another noble disaster. XP gained: 0. Usefulness: also 0.

Thanks, system. As encouraging as ever.

---

ACT II: Goose Talks

In the aftermath, a "diplomatic emergency gathering" was declared. Which basically meant: same people, smaller room, more shouting.

Duke Graventon presided over the meeting while dressed in fresh robes and flanked by **Sir Honkalot**, the goose of legend.

"This is a travesty," the duke growled. "Sabotage of the Tart Treaty is an act of war."

"Or indigestion," I offered. "Ever considered faulty baking?"

He glared at me like I had personally buttered the explosive pastry.

Belladonna raised her hand. "Hypothetically... if one were to infuse a tart with unstable sugar crystals to cause a mild explosion, would that be considered culinary innovation or terrorism?"

Everyone slowly turned toward her.

She blinked.

"Hypothetically."

"Moving on!" I said quickly, shoving a buttered roll in my mouth before I could say something stupider.

"Perhaps," Seraphina said coolly, "we should examine who stands to gain from this chaos."

I nodded. "Exactly. Like whoever benefits from prolonged dessert-themed warfare."

"You mean the Sugar Lobby?" Belladonna asked.

There was a beat of silence.

Then someone muttered, "They've grown too powerful."

(Inner Me: I can't tell if we're joking anymore. And that terrifies me.)

---

ACT III: A Confectioner's Conspiracy

Hours later, in the Banquet Hall Library (because every noble house has one), I sat with Seraphina, Belladonna, and a plate of very suspicious macaroons.

"So," I said, "the Treaty Tart was laced with magical sugar. Probably intentional. Possibly aimed at... discrediting House Reinhardt?"

Seraphina nodded. "And you, by association."

"Because I looked at the tart funny?"

"Because you exist."

(Inner Me: Fair.)

Belladonna opened her notebook. It was covered in doodles of exploding pastries and a crudely drawn goose with a monocle.

"I have theories," she said, eyes glinting. "Possibility one: rogue baker's guild. Two: sugar alchemists. Three: the goose."

"The goose?"

"Never trust a bird with a crown."

I leaned back, rubbing my temples. "So what do we do?"

Belladonna grinned. "We infiltrate the kitchen."

(Inner Me: What could possibly go wrong? Aside from literally everything.)

---

ACT IV: Operation Bake 'n' Break

Under cover of darkness (and by that, I mean 9 PM after the nobles passed out from dessert-induced food comas), we snuck into the kitchen.

The Head Chef was gone. The assistant chefs? Also gone.

But the kitchen?

Immaculate. Organized. Too clean.

Suspiciously clean.

"Trap?" Seraphina whispered.

"Definitely trap," Belladonna replied cheerfully.

I tripped over a sack of sugar.

"Silent as the wind," I muttered.

Then a shadow emerged from the pantry.

A tall figure in a white apron. Their face concealed by a mask made entirely of pie crust.

"INTRUDERS," the figure bellowed. "You dare interrupt the baking of destiny?!"

(Inner Me: Oh great. We're fighting a magical patissier. This is my life now.)

"Who are you?!" I demanded.

"I AM FLAKEMASTER FOUET! SERVANT OF THE SECRET SUGAR. FIRST WHISKER OF THE WHIPPED REALM."

Belladonna clapped. "I love your titles."

Seraphina unsheathed her sword. "We only want the truth."

"The truth," Flakemaster hissed, "is layered... like a mille-feuille."

Then he lunged.

---

ACT V: Bake Boss Battle

Cue the most undignified fight of my reincarnated life.

Pans flew. Doughnuts bounced like throwing stars. Belladonna countered with exploding éclairs. Seraphina dueled him using her blade and a wooden spoon.

Me?

I threw flour.

Like, aggressively.

**(Inner Me: If I die covered in sugar again, I'm filing a complaint with fate.)**

"Give up!" I yelled. "Your goose has cooked!"

Flakemaster paused. "...Nice pun."

"Thanks, I've been saving it."

With a final strike, Seraphina disarmed him.

Belladonna threw a vial of truth serum at his feet. It exploded in a puff of cinnamon.

He wheezed. "The goose... the goose made me do it!"

(Inner Me: WHAT DID I JUST HEAR?)

"The goose?"

"Sir Honkalot! He's not a pet! He's the Grandmaster of the Culinary Cabal!"

Seraphina blinked. "Are you saying we're being manipulated by... poultry?"

Flakemaster collapsed.

"The final recipe... must never be revealed..."

Then he passed out. Dramatically. Surrounded by cookie crumbs.

---

EPILOGUE: The Goose Watches

The next morning, the banquet resumed. Tart Treaty 2.0 was signed. The nobles smiled. The goose honked.

I watched Sir Honkalot from across the room.

He tilted his head.

Knowingly.

(Inner Me: The war isn't over. It's only... preheated.)

---

Next Time, on "Saint of Sass and Pastry-Based Trauma"

* I get a new personal tutor who may or may not be an ex-assassin.

* Belladonna experiments with romantic pheromones. On accident. Again.

* Seraphina challenges a Duke to a duel over a scone.

* The system suggests yoga.

* I scream into the void.

(Inner Me: Bring tea. Extra strong. With anti-goose wards.)