Three days ter, Louie stood atop a flour sack hill inside the Resistance’s hidden base—a hollowed-out industrial oven, long cold, now humming with the hope of rebellion.

  Captain Pita had summoned everyone: biscuits, naan tacticians, cornbread scouts, and even a shy bagel named Loxley who wore an onion ring as a shield.

  A giant chalkboard dispyed their first mission:Operation: Crumbstorm.

  “The Empire’s staging an attack on Pantry District 9,” said Pita, tapping the board. “They’re repcing local loaves with synthetic pastries—mass-produced, vacuum-packed, zero soul.”

  The crowd gasped. Even the Crumbkins fell silent.

  “Our mission,” Pita continued, “is to sneak into the distribution center and deliver real fvor. If we inspire even one bun to resist, the fire of rebellion spreads.”

  Louie stepped forward, the ancient peel in hand, now strapped to his back like a warrior’s bde.

  “I’ll go.”

  The room buzzed. Some murmured “He’s too soft…” Others said, “But he’s the loaf.”

  Rond gave Louie a nod. “We go together. Like butter and toast.”

  That night, under cover of sesame fog, the team crept toward Pantry 9—Louie, Rond, Pita, Loxley the Bagel, and four brave Crumbkins armed with powdered sugar grenades.

  The Empire’s warehouse loomed like a giant cake box: white, sterile, soulless. Guards patrolled in golden puff pastry armor.

  “Remember,” whispered Pita, “no slicing unless necessary.”

  Louie crouched low, heart thumping like a bread machine on high speed. This was it. His first real mission. He wasn’t just a loaf anymore—he was a symbol.

  They slipped through a loading dock, sneaking past rows of artificially fvored muffins. The pce smelled of preservatives and fear.

  Then Louie saw her.

  In the corner, half-wrapped in clingfilm, sat a cinnamon roll. Cold. Forgotten. Her gze dull, her spiral sagging.

  “Are you okay?” Louie whispered.

  She blinked slowly. “You’re… fresh?”

  Louie touched her crust gently. “We’re here to help.”

  She started to cry icing.

  Pita called out—“We need to move!”

  But the cinnamon roll clung to Louie’s hand.

  “Take this,” she said, handing him a scroll hidden under her parchment lining. “Proof of what the Empire’s pnning next… Operation Freezerburn.”

  Suddenly—an arm rang.

  “INTRUDERS!” came a fky voice.

  The air exploded in puff pastry. Croissant troops swarmed in, spinning and fking like deadly ballerinas.

  “Run!” Pita yelled.

  Rond tossed flour bombs. Loxley deflected shells with his onion ring. The Crumbkins rolled smoke-cinnamon screens. Louie, holding the scroll, ran for his crumbing life.

  They barely made it out. A jelly bst scorched Louie’s side—his first scar.

  Back at base, Rond unrolled the scroll.

  “This changes everything,” he muttered.

  Louie leaned in.

  On the parchment were blueprints. Freezer maps. And one word written in bold syrupy letters:

  "Ovenheart."

  Louie’s crust chilled. “What’s Ovenheart?”

  Rond stared.

  “The st sacred bakery,” he said. “The source of true fvor. If the Empire captures it… all hope goes stale.”

  To be continued...