CHAPTER 482: CHAPTER 482: MY VILLAGE WILL WORSHIP ME FOREVER

The moment Isabella shouted "Hurry up, join me," Osiris froze like she had just thrown a spell at him. His eyebrows twitched, his lips pressed together, and even his ridiculously pretty eyelashes fluttered in offended disbelief.

For a full heartbeat, his brain broke.

Just minutes ago, she had been threatening to smack him with her fan and calling him a creep.

Now she was commanding him like a personal servant.

He lifted his chin slightly, trying to maintain dignity.

"Oh?" he said, voice dripping with wounded pride. "So now you need me. A moment ago you wished to banish me from your sight."

Isabella didn’t even turn around. She was aggressively scooping rice into a giant basket like she was packing treasure stolen from a dragon’s den.

"Let me be very clear," she said, blunt, sharp, and vibing with main-character energy. "I still don’t want you near me."

He blinked.

She continued, "I still want you to stop following me."

He blinked again, slower.

"But," she added, tossing another handful of rice with the enthusiasm of a toddler in a sandbox, "if you’re going to keep tagging along anyway, then at least be useful. Start picking."

Osiris stared at her.

Genuinely speechless.

How could one small, furious, pregnant woman radiate the authority of a war general and the chaos of a feral kitten at the same time?

He stood there for a long moment—looking at her tiny frame, her messy hair, her glowing eyes, the way she stomped around like she could fight the moon—and something inside him whispered:

...she’s terrifying.

He swallowed.

"Fine," he muttered, voice tight, "I will... pick."

But inside?

Inside he was thinking:

How??

What do I pick?

Which one is rice?

Why are there so many leaves?

Why does that one look poisonous?

Why does THAT one look like it wants to bite me?

He moved cautiously—like a man approaching a wild animal that might kick him.

Meanwhile, Isabella was in full collector beast mode.

She crouched.

She examined.

She sniffed.

She squinted.

She ripped plants from the ground with the pure focus of someone harvesting the future.

Every movement screamed:

"This is MINE and I will DIE for it."

Osiris watched her like she was performing some sacred ritual that only priestesses of old were allowed to do.

He cleared his throat once.

She ignored him.

He cleared it louder.

Still ignored.

So, finally, he did what every confused man in human history has done:

He copied whatever the woman was doing.

He crouched too.

He squinted too.

He hesitated before touching the rice like it was holy.

He stole small glances at Isabella, checking how she held the stalks, where she pulled from, how she collected seeds with the tips of her fingers.

Then he tried it.

It went... okay.

Actually, for the first minute or two, he looked adorably unsure.

He plucked rice like he expected it to explode.

He grabbed seeds like they might stab him.

He examined leaves like they were puzzles too advanced for his current brain development.

At one point, he even sniffed a tomato and flinched because the scent was too strong.

Meanwhile, Isabella did not notice him.

She was in the zone.

Pure productivity.

Pure joy.

Pure "my village will worship me forever."

She filled one basket.

Then another.

Then another.

Every time she finished one, she tossed it into her space with a casual flick—poof, gone.

Osiris nearly choked.

Where was she putting them?

What dimension was that?

Why was she so casual about violating the laws of nature?

He actually stepped back like:

This woman is a witch. Definitely a witch. A chaotic witch.

Still, he wanted to follow her.

And she told him to work.

So he worked.

Slowly, he grew more confident.

He stopped glancing at her every two seconds.

He stopped picking things up like they might burn him.

He even began humming—

HUMMING—

like he was proud of himself for being a successful plant picker.

That lasted exactly twelve seconds.

Because Isabella finally turned her head—

And froze.

Her eye twitched.

Her jaw dropped.

Her soul left her body.

Because Osiris...

...was doing EVERYTHING wrong.

He was picking tomatoes like grapes.

He was yanking herbs from the roots like they were weeds.

He had somehow picked three poisonous bean pods Bubu specifically marked red.

AND he had one weird mushroom lodged between his fingers like a decorative accessory.

Isabella inhaled sharply.

A deep breath.

A VERY deep breath.

"OSIRIS," she hissed.

He jumped.

She marched over to him like a tiny thunderstorm.

"What—are—you—doing?"

He blinked, confused, innocent, adorable.

"...picking?"

She wanted to scream.

"You were doing it RIGHT before. What changed? WHY are you ruining the plants?"

Osiris looked betrayed, offended, and defensive simultaneously.

"I was merely following what I saw—"

"And WHAT," she snapped, snatching the mushroom from his fingers, "made you think this was food?!"

He blinked at the poisonous mushroom.

"...It looks edible."

"It looks DEADLY."

"It looks soft."

"IT WILL MAKE YOU SHIT BLOOD FOR TEN DAYS!"

He stiffened.

Glimora stared at him with a silent "OMG YOU’RE STUPID" expression.

He swallowed, humbled.

"Show... me again," he said quietly.

And Isabella did.

She grabbed his wrist (gently but also like she was disciplining a toddler), positioned his hand correctly, guided his fingers, showed him how to tug without breaking the stems, how to separate the seeds, how to inspect leaves.

Osiris watched her with deep concentration—

and something suspiciously similar to admiration.

He followed every movement.

His hand brushed hers once, and he jolt-straightened like he’d been electrocuted.

After that, he kept his hands far away from hers, afraid of triggering more insults.

They worked.

And surprisingly, they worked well.

Hours passed.

The sun-like glow of the mountain shifted above them.

Wind rustled the rice.

Glimora napped in one of the baskets like a fluffy loaf of bread.

By the time Isabella filled her eighth basket, she stretched her arms above her head, spine popping, a blissful groan slipping out of her lips.

"Yay," she sighed dramatically. "We’re finally done."

Osiris wiped sweat from his forehead, chest rising and falling.

She tossed the remaining empty baskets into her space—another act of impossible magic—and Osiris’ frown deepened with every disappearing object.

When Isabella continued,

"Finally, I’ll be back—"

Osiris stiffened.

His head snapped toward her.

His brows knit together.

His lips pulled into a deep frown.

"You’ll be back?"

He said it like she had just confessed betrayal.