She smelled browned butter.
Caramelizing sugar.
The deep, rich, earthy aroma of freshly roasted espresso beans.
The unparalleled, intoxicating scent of yeast blooming in a warm proving drawer.
Ji'an looked down at her hands.
There were no callouses from wielding a weapon.
There were no burn scars from blocking acidic beast spit.
They were just the hands of a working chef.
She looked around.
She was standing behind the pristine, white-marble counter of a small, sunlit, incredibly cozy bakery.
The walls were painted a soft, warm cream.
Potted pothos plants hung in the large, spotless bay windows.
Through the glass, she could see a bustling, modern city street.
Cars drove by.
Pedestrians walked past holding smartphones, wearing coats against a crisp, autumn chill.
There were no flying swords.
There were no cultivators.
There were no survival matches.
This was Earth.
'I'm home,' a small, quiet, exhausted voice whispered in the deepest corner of Ji'an's mind.
