The Spoilt Beauty And Her Beasts-Chapter 553: WARN ME NEXT TIME. THIS IS POISON.

Chapter 553: Chapter 553: WARN ME NEXT TIME. THIS IS POISON.

The soup was warm in her palms.

Comforting.

Smelling like something a semi-competent man would make if supervised by a goddess.

Isabella took another small sip, nodding slowly.

Acceptable.

Barely.

Yet acceptable.

Osiris sat beside the fire outside the tent, watching her like a hopeful dog waiting to be told he was a good boy.

She refused to look at him again.

She had dignity.

Well... she tried.

She lifted the spoon halfway before suddenly freezing.

Her eyelid twitched.

Her nose prickled.

Her throat tickled.

Oh no.

Her entire existence spiraled in one horrifying realization.

This cold was getting worse.

She sniffed.

And sniffed again.

And sneezed, so violently she nearly dropped the bowl.

"Are you exploding," Osiris asked instantly, leaning forward like a panicked mother hen.

"I am not exploding," she snapped, wiping her nose aggressively. "I am sick."

"Oh."

He blinked.

Then added helpfully, "That is worse."

Isabella glared at him.

Glimora whimpered and curled deeper into Isabella’s blanket like a suffering burrito.

Isabella rubbed her forehead.

She could not be sick.

Not now.

Not on this cursed mountain with this cursed man while doing cursed tasks.

If this cold dragged on, she would be delayed for days.

Days she did not have.

Shelia was waiting.

Her village needed her.

Her tasks needed completion.

She slammed the bowl down, startling Osiris.

"BUBU," she hissed in her mind.

Her system materialized with the confidence of a tax collector.

"Hello Isabella, how may I assist you today."

"I am dying."

"You are not dying."

"I am dying emotionally."

"That is not the same as dying physically."

"I AM DYING PHYSICALLY TOO."

The system sighed in her head.

"What do you need, Isabella."

"I need medicine. Strong medicine. Something to clear this cold in a few hours. Not a day. Not ten hours. A few hours."

The system displayed a bright, glittering list.

Tier 1:

Cold-Curing Heavenly Petals

Cost: 3,499 points

Effect: Clears cold immediately. Boosts immunity. Makes skin glow like starlight. Side effect: temporary urge to commit crimes.

Isabella’s eyes bulged.

"Three thousand what."

Her system continued.

Tier 2:

Storm Dew Essence

Cost: 579 points

Effect: Clears cold in three hours. Slight bitterness. Stomach may insult you internally.

She stared.

Then scrolled.

Tier 3:

Herbal Earth Drip

Cost: 19 points

Effect: Clears cold in twenty eight hours. May worsen headache. May cause dramatic mood swings. Not recommended for pregnant women.

Isabella stared.

She scrolled back up.

She scrolled down again.

Her eyes twitched.

"BUBU."

"Yes," her system answered sweetly.

"Do I look like I can spend 3,000 points. Do I look rich. Do I look like the goddess of wealth. That is literally all the points I have."

"You have 7,176 points."

"Yes. And when I return home, I have tasks to complete. Purchases to make. Things to improve. I have so much to do. I cannot spend all my money on a cold."

The system hummed.

"You must choose wisely."

"I choose death."

"You cannot choose death."

"I choose to punch Osiris."

"That is not a medicinal solution."

"IT WOULD MAKE ME FEEL BETTER."

The system waited.

She groaned and rubbed her forehead.

Fine.

She had no choice.

"The second tier," she said bitterly. "I will buy the stupid second tier."

The system dinged.

"Purchase complete. Points deducted. Please take responsibly."

Isabella stared as a tiny bottle materialized in her palm.

Storm Dew Essence.

Glowing pale blue like icy misery.

She scowled.

"How do I take this."

"You may pour it into warm soup and drink."

"Perfect."

Except it was not.

Because the moment she uncorked the bottle, Osiris leaned over her shoulder like a massive, oversized bat.

"What is that."

She nearly hit him with the bottle.

"Why are you breathing on my neck."

"You are holding a strange bottle."

"It is medicine."

"For your cold."

"Yes."

"Why is it glowing."

"Because the world hates me."

He blinked. Slowly.

She ignored him and poured the glowing liquid into her bowl.

The soup changed color.

From warm brown...

To dark purple.

Then green.

Then something between swamp water and shame.

Osiris made a face. "Your soup died."

"It did not die."

"It looks dead."

"It is healing medicine."

"It looks cursed."

Isabella did not care.

She was committed now.

She lifted the spoon.

The smell hit her.

Her soul left her body.

"What is that smell," Osiris choked, covering his nose.

"It is medicine."

"It smells like regret."

She gagged.

Actually gagged.

The soup was suddenly thick. Bitter. Metallic. Wrong.

She swallowed a spoonful immediately because her stubbornness was stronger than her sense of self preservation.

Her entire face crumpled.

Her eyes watered.

Her spirit withered.

Osiris stared in horror. "Isabella. Are you dying."

She glared at him with fury. "No. Bubu did this. Bubu is evil."

In her mind the system gently said, "You asked for quick results."

She screamed back in her head, "WARN ME NEXT TIME. THIS IS POISON."

"It is not poison."

"It tastes like betrayal."

"Side effects may include bitterness."

"BITTERNESS DOES NOT EXPLAIN WHY IT FEELS LIKE MY TONGUE IS BEING PUNCHED."

Osiris watched silently.

Very silently.

Too silently.

He raised one eyebrow slowly. "For once... I am not the one who ruined your soup."

Isabella paused.

Her rage softened.

She blinked at him.

He had a proud little smirk, like a villain who had won a tiny victory.

"You know what," she said. "You are lucky I am sick or I would stab you with this spoon."

He nodded. "I know."

"And do not smirk like that."

"I am not smirking."

"You are."

"I am not."

"You are. I can see it."

Osiris cleared his throat and looked away, absolutely smirking.

She forced down more soup, tears leaking from her eyes.

Glimora crawled out from the blankets.

At first she looked hopeful.

Then she sniffed the soup.

Her nose wrinkled so aggressively her entire face scrunched.

She squeaked once.

A small squeak.

A squeak of pure betrayal.

Isabella stared. "Glimora. You have to drink this too."

Glimora backed away.

Shaking her head.

Refusing.

Osiris whispered, "She does not want it."

"I know she does not want it. But she has to take it."

Osiris scooped Glimora up gently, holding her like a rebellious cat.

Glimora screeched.

Isabella held the bowl.

Osiris held the beast.

Glimora fought like a warrior refusing execution.

And Isabella sighed.

She was sick.

She was tired.

She was cold.

She was pregnant.

And now she had to force medicine down her little beast’s throat while Osiris stared like this was high entertainment.

She glared at him.

He raised his hands.

"I am helping."

"You are enjoying this."

"Only a little."

She narrowed her eyes.

He smiled innocently.

She sighed.

She lifted the spoon.