The Spoilt Beauty And Her Beasts-Chapter 50: Knead. Press. Fold.

Isabella and Ophelia returned to their clay pit, and as expected, it was still too wet. Isabella frowned, poking at the mushy surface with a finger. "Yep. This is soup," she muttered.

Ophelia copied her and poked it too. "It feels slimy," she giggled.

"That’s because it’s not ready yet," Isabella sighed. "We’ll wait a little longer."

As they settled in to wait, Shelia suddenly appeared, her wild curls bouncing as she approached.

"Hey, Shelia!" Isabella greeted, while Ophelia practically vibrated with excitement.

"Isabella is about to make pots!" Ophelia blurted out, clapping her hands.

Shelia’s eyes widened, and then, she gasped dramatically. "You mean... those things you talked about before? The ones that will make meat taste even better?!"

"Uh... yeah," Isabella chuckled nervously, feeling the weight of their expectations. She hadn’t even started yet, and they were already looking at her like she was about to summon the gods.

Shelia leaned forward eagerly. "You’re really gonna make one now?"

"Of course," Isabella said, quickly regaining her confidence. Fake it till you make it, right? "Watch and learn, ladies. You’re about to witness history in the making."

Both Ophelia and Shelia nodded intensely, their eyes glued to her like students before a great master.

The pressure was unreal.

After a while, the clay finally reached the right consistency—moist but not too wet. Isabella clapped her hands together. "Alright. Time to get started."

She turned to her two spectators. "For now, just watch carefully and learn. Don’t touch anything yet."

She didn’t dare let them waste her hard-earned clay. If anyone was going to ruin it, it would be her, thank you very much.

Besides, she had noticed that these beast people were ridiculously fast learners. If she did it even remotely right, they’d probably pick it up faster than her. And that would hurt her pride.

The two girls immediately nodded, their intense gazes drilling into her soul.

Isabella gulped. "Okay, calm down, guys. I haven’t even started yet."

Taking a deep breath, she grabbed a handful of the clay. It felt soft and squishy—like playdough. This was good. This was perfect.

"I’ll start with something small," she declared. "Like bowls and cups."

She placed a chunk of clay in front of her and attempted to shape it into a bowl.

Attempted.

The clay refused to cooperate. It sagged, crumbled, and collapsed into a sad, lumpy mess.

Isabella frowned. "Huh. That’s weird."

She grabbed another handful and tried again.

It split in half.

Another one. ƒreeωebnovel.ƈom

Flopped over like a dying fish.

Another.

Looked like an alien artifact.

Shelia and Ophelia exchanged glances. The excitement in their eyes dimmed.

"Uh... Isabella?" Ophelia finally spoke.

Isabella gritted her teeth. "Don’t talk. I got this."

Another attempt. Another failure.

Shelia cleared her throat. "Are you... sure you know what you’re doing?"

Isabella slowly looked up. "Do I look like I know what I’m doing?"

The two girls remained silent.

Isabella wiped her forehead dramatically. She had already wasted a criminal amount of clay. This was embarrassing.

She could practically hear her survival points screaming.

No. No more of this.

She would not let some glorified mud embarrass her like this.

It was time to do what she did best.

Isabella inhaled deeply, closed her eyes, and when she opened them again...

A beauty playground was about to unfold.

Isabella exhaled deeply, her fingers twitching as she stared at the wreckage before her.

The wasted clay lay scattered around her like the aftermath of a battlefield. Broken, deformed, utterly pathetic.

Her heart ached.

This... this was a tragedy.

"All that hard work..." she whispered, looking at the poor lumps of discarded clay. "All that potential... wasted..."

Ophelia and Shelia exchanged nervous glances.

"...It’s just clay," Ophelia offered.

Isabella whipped her head around. "JUST CLAY?"

Ophelia immediately regretted speaking.

Isabella turned back to the fallen pieces, a fiery determination igniting in her eyes.

No. She would not let them die like this.

Her sharp eyes examined the wreckage. The clay hadn’t dried out completely—there was still hope.

Without hesitation, she gathered up every failed piece, her movements swift and precise. She wasn’t just collecting clay—she was rescuing it.

Adding a small amount of water, she began kneading the clay, her hands pressing and folding, squeezing out air pockets. It was like giving the clay a second chance at life.

"Why do you look like you’re performing a sacred ritual?" Shelia muttered, watching in fascination.

Isabella didn’t answer. She was too focused. If anyone so much as breathed too loudly, she might slap their souls out of their bodies.

Seeing this, Ophelia and Shelia wisely kept their mouths shut.

Knead. Press. Fold.

Again and again, until the clay was smooth and workable.

And then... Isabella paused.

Something clicked.

Why was she even making boring bowls and cups?

She wasn’t a survivalist. She was an artist. A beauty expert. A designer.

Suddenly, all she saw was fashion.

Forget plates. She was making something that would actually matter.

She grabbed a piece of clay and without thinking, her hands started shaping it.

She rolled it into a thick, smooth coil, coiling it upward into a spiral. The coil method.

Then, she pinched the edges, smoothing them down. The pinch method.

She pressed another section against the inside of a hollowed-out rock. The molding method.

All of it came together flawlessly.

Isabella didn’t even realize it, but she was getting the hang of it.

Her hands moved faster, adjusting, reshaping, sculpting.

The clay—it was finally obeying her.

Her mind raced with ideas.

A beauty mask bowl for mixing pastes and creams.

A soap dish.

A container for face powders.

Why stop there?

Jewelry holders. A wide-mouthed container for perfumes. A small sculpted stand for displaying earrings.

She wasn’t just making pottery—she was designing a collection.

By the time she finished, Isabella leaned back, breathing heavily.

And sitting right in front of her...

A perfectly shaped bowl.

Modern. Elegant. Symmetrical.

It actually looked like something you’d find in a trendy minimalist boutique.

Silence.

Shelia and Ophelia stared.

Isabella wiped her hands on her thighs and finally looked up at them.

"Well?" she said, smirking.

Ophelia blinked. "It... actually looks good."

Shelia picked it up carefully, turning it in her hands. It was smooth, balanced, and sturdy. "I thought you just said you didn’t know how to make pots?"

"I don’t," Isabella admitted. "But I know how to make things look good."

And that, was the real skill.