"VOLO I NEED YOU TO TEACH ME HOW TO MAKE BREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEAD!"

Volo looked up from his little campfire, halfway through polishing one of his coins, and blinked just in time to see me trip over a root, tumble down the last few feet of the slope, and land in an undignified heap at his feet.

"...Good heavens," he said at last, peering down at me. "You nearly gave me a heart attack. Bread, you say?"

I popped up like a spring, hair a mess, clutching my notebook. "YES. BREAD. I TRIED—AND IT EXPLODED."

He blinked again, utterly at a loss. "...You exploded bread?"

"Yes!" I said, wildly gesturing. "There was flour everywhere, and the dough tried to escape, and then the oven made this terrible BWOOMPF noise, and now I think my kitchen is haunted by angry yeast spirits!"

Volo's mouth twitched. "Angry yeast spirits."

"YES. THEY'RE REAL."

He coughed, clearly trying not to laugh. "Well, I must say, that's a new one. Normally I deal in myths about ancient kings or divine Pokémon, not haunted carbohydrates."

"Please," I begged, grabbing his sleeve. "You bake all the time when you're on the road! You make those little rolls! Teach me your ways before I burn down the house again!"

He looked heavenward, sighed dramatically, and then stood, brushing off his coat. "Very well. But if we're doing this, we're doing it properly."

I saluted. "Yes, Chef!"

"First lesson," he said, tying back his hair. "Calmness. Bread does not rise in the presence of panic."

I froze mid-flail. "Oh."

"Yes," he continued, smirking. "Second lesson — never shout at your dough. It takes things personally."

"I KNEW IT!" I cried.

He pinched the bridge of his nose. "This is going to be a long day."

"Perfect!" I said, slamming my notebook open. "I brought twelve quills, five bags of flour, and zero patience!"

Volo gave me the flattest look imaginable. "...Of course you did."

And so, on that windswept afternoon, the wandering merchant and the chaos incarnate began their grand culinary odyssey — one loaf of possibly sentient bread at a time.