The countdown on the Light Box was a merciless, silent heartbeat, its numbers bleeding away second by second. Across the four stations, a frantic ballet of flour and focus unfolded.
At the station beside Ji Hoon's, Eira Frost moved with a chilling echo of her brother's grace.
Her hands, pale and steady, were not kneading but sculpting a dense, dark rye dough, folding in crushed nuts and dried lingonberries with the sharp, precise tucks of an origami master.
She was building a loaf meant to withstand a northern winter, heavy and complex.
Across the way, Lior was a whirlwind of cheerful intensity, slapping and folding a soft, enriched dough for what looked like sweet, spiral-shaped buns, his brow furrowed in happy concentration.
Further down, the purple-haired Ixchel worked with a silent, bird-like quickness, his fingers a blur as he shaped delicate, paper-thin wafers on a scorching hot griddle.
And then there was Hans. His movements were heavy, aggressive. He wasn't creating; he was pummeling a simple white dough into submission, his glare fixed more on Ji Hoon than on his work.
Ji Hoon took a slow, centering breath, blocking them all out. His world was the bowl in front of him.
He poured a measure of warm milk, the white liquid swirling. A careful scoop of sugar followed, disappearing into the cloudiness. Food for the beast.
Now, the important part.
He reached for the ceramic cup of Shell-Boar Yeast. His mind whispered a single command. Inspect.
A translucent window materialized before his eyes, text glowing with an ethereal light.
======
Target: Shell-Boar Yeast.
Status: Dormant (Highly Volatile).
Optimal Activation Temp: 38°C.
Fermentation Speed: 9.4x Standard.
Acetic Acid Buildup Threshold: 8 minutes post-activation per 1Kg of flour.
[WARNING: Uncontrolled fermentation will result in critical souring.]
======
Eight minutes. He had eight minutes from the moment it woke up to get his dough mixed, kneaded, and shaped before the souring process would become irreversible. His heart hammered against his ribs. This was like defusing a bomb with a stopwatch.
He picked up a small spoon, his hand perfectly steady. He dipped it into the coarse, brown powder. Holding his breath, he tipped the spoon.
The yeast dusted onto the surface of the milky water.
And it was magical.
It was as if he'd sprinkled stardust on a still pond. The moment the granules touched the liquid, they didn't just dissolve; they exploded into life.
A furious fizzing erupted, a miniature geyser of bubbles foaming and churning, climbing the sides of the bowl.
A sharp, almost beer-like aroma hit his nostrils, potent and wildly alive. The mixture visibly warmed under his fingers, the yeast devouring the sugar with a frantic, terrifying hunger.
The clock in his head started ticking. Eight minutes to go.
He worked with a speed that was almost violent. Flour, a pinch of salt, a beaten egg, softened butter—it all went into the bowl.
He mixed it into a shaggy mass, then dumped it onto the floured counter. His hands moved in a blur, folding and pushing. This wasn't the time for gentle kneading. This was about incorporation, about building structure now.
His mind was a whirlwind of calculations.
======
Inspect.
Dough - Gluten Development: 45%.
Acetic Acid: 0.1%.
Time to Threshold: 6m 12s.
======
Not enough. He couldn't knead fast enough. He had to cheat.
He slapped both palms onto the warm, sticky dough. "Alchemy. Tier 1: Manipulation. Protein Alignment."
A faint green glow, visible only to him, pulsed from his hands into the dough. He felt the proteins within instantly twist and link, forming a perfect, elastic network. The dough went from shaggy and rough to smooth and pliable in a single heartbeat.
[Gluten Development: 98%. Optimal.]
He had no time to marvel. He shaped the dough into a ball and shoved it back into the bowl. "Alchemy. Tier 1: Manipulation. Chilling."
A wave of cold emanated from his fingertips, frosting the metal bowl. The frantic bubbling of the yeast slowed to a sluggish crawl. He'd bought himself a precious window.
He was now using a technique known as "retardation"—a deliberate, cold slowing of the yeast's activity.
This was crucial for the Shell-Boar Yeast because its frantic speed came at a cost: it produced flavor too quickly, leaving no time for the complex, subtle notes to develop.
By shocking it with cold, he forced a pause. This chill did more than just buy him time to prep; it allowed the enzymes in the flour to work slowly, breaking down starches into simpler sugars that would create a deeper, richer flavor and a more tender crumb in the final bake.
He wasn't just stopping the yeast; he was forcing it to build a better foundation.
He used that time like a thief. Butter, brown sugar, cinnamon, a pinch of salt—mixed into a spreadable paste for the filling.
In another bowl, he beat cream cheese, powdered sugar, and a dash of vanilla into a smooth, sweet frosting. His movements were economical, flawless, every second accounted for.
Five minutes later, he pulled the chilled dough out. It was firm, the wild energy within it held in check.
He rolled it out into a perfect rectangle, his rolling pin moving with swift, sure strokes. He spread the cinnamon-sugar paste evenly, leaving a bare margin at the edges.
Then came the most dangerous part. He had to let the beast wake up again.
He rolled the dough into a tight, even log, the cinnamon spiral a promise within. With a sharp, serrated knife, he sliced it into eight equal pieces.
He placed them in a round pan, the swirls facing up like the buds of a strange flower.
He placed his hands over the pan, feeling the dormant power within the dough. "Alchemy. Tier 1: Manipulation. Regulate Fermentation."
This was different. A gentle, warm energy, like a focused sunbeam, enveloped the pan. The yeast, roused from its slumber, began its work again—but this time, it was on a leash.
Ji Hoon's will shaped its metabolism. He could feel it through his skill, the frantic production of gas that made the dough puff up, becoming soft and jiggly.
But he could also feel the poison—the acetic acid. Inspect. [Acetic Acid: 0.7%. Threshold: 1.0%.]
It was rising fast. He focused his intent. Not too much. Just a hint. A suggestion of tang.
He didn't just slow it down; he filtered it. A subtle, shimmering effect, invisible to anyone watching, pulled the excess acid from the dough, leaving just enough to give the pastry character without overwhelming it.
The scent that rose was not sour, but complex—yeasty, buttery, and with a bright, tantalizing note underneath.
In just seven minutes, the rolls were perfectly proofed, a crown of soft, swollen puffs ready for the oven. He slid the pan inside, the blast of heat hitting his face.
The Shell-Boar Yeast gave one last, mighty push. The "oven spring" was dramatic, the rolls surging upwards, the cinnamon sugar bubbling at their seams.
The aroma that filled his station was intoxicating—caramelizing sugar, warming spice, and that unique, tangy fragrance of his controlled fermentation.
While they baked to a deep, golden brown, he turned to his cream cheese frosting. It was a bit soft. He touched the bowl. "Alchemy. Tier 1: Manipulation. Chilling." A brief, precise coldness firmed it to the perfect, spreadable consistency.
He had one more trick. He took the small amount of acetic acid he had pulled from the dough and poured it into a dab of heavy cream. A deeper hum resonated from his palms. "Alchemy. Tier 2: Transmutation. Fuse."
The liquids swirled and thickened instantly into a small amount of rich, tangy sour cream. A triumphant smirk touched his lips.
He folded this into his cream cheese frosting. The "sour" in his "Soured Cream Crowns" was no longer a flaw he had corrected; it was a complex, deliberate flavor he had created and woven back into the dish.
The timer on the Light Box blazed red. The final countdown echoed through the dome.
[ FIVE! FOUR! ]
He pulled the gorgeous, steaming cinnamon roll crown from the oven. It was a masterpiece of airy layers and bubbling spice.
[ THREE! TWO! ]
He spread the cool, tangy-sweet cream cheese frosting over the warm crown, letting it drape down the sides like royal icing.
[ ONE! ]
He stepped back, hands in the air.
[ TIME IS UP! ] Master Guy's voice thundered.
Ji Hoon stood back, chest heaving. Before him sat his creation:
The Soured Cream Crowns. The pastry was impossibly light, with a honey-combed crumb he knew would be subtly tangy, a perfect counterpoint to the rich cinnamon and the cool, complex frosting.
He had taken the wildest ingredient in the arena and not just tamed it, but conducted it. He had turned a volatile bomb into a symphony.
The judging was next. He met Hans's furious glare across the stage with a calm, steady look. The real duel was just beginning.