That Night At de Clein Manor...
—SLAM!
The slam echoed through the grand office, a sharp crack of polished wood against marble that made the crystal decanters on the sidebar shudder.
Silence followed, thick and heavy.
Marquess Roswald de Clein sat perfectly still in his high-backed leather chair, the only sign of his fury the white-knuckled grip he had on the edge of his desk.
The elegant furnishings of the room—the tall bookshelves, the landscape paintings, the expensive rug—seemed to shrink back from him.
Across the desk, his assistant, Light, stood rigid. He had served the Marquess for years, navigating his cold calculations and sharp ambitions, but this… this raw, unfiltered anger was something he hadn't seen in a long time. It was a quiet, simmering volcano, far more dangerous than any shouted curse.
Roswald's voice, when it finally came, was low. A controlled, venomous whisper that cut deeper than any scream.
"...You are telling me," he began, each word precise and icy, "that all three of our contestants… lost in the second round?"
Light swallowed, his own posture never wavering. "Yes, my lord. Unfortunately, our cooks were eliminated. Liang and Maribel were defeated by the foreign prodigy's sister and the Delivane boy, respectively. And Hans…"
"Hans," Roswald repeated the name as if it were a foul taste.
He scoffed, a sharp, ugly sound. "I even gave them all those benefits. Access to our private ingredient vaults, our training facilities... and this is the result they deliver? A public embarrassment?"
He shook his head, his decision instant and merciless. "I want all three of them out of our franchise by sundown. We can't have this kind of shame attached to our brand. Not now. Not when I am the one leading it."
He leaned back, running a hand through his perfectly styled blond hair, messing it in a way that spoke of sheer, frustrated rage. He snatched a single sheet of parchment from his desk, his cold blue eyes scanning the brief report.
"I can understand," he said, his tone dripping with condescending malice, "if those dark horses from the north were a problem. I can even accept the Royal Kitchen securing their spots. But he…" His gaze locked onto a name on the document. "He passed?"
The name, written in neat, bureaucratic script, seemed to mock him: Cassian Ahn.
A slow, humorless smile stretched across Roswald's lips. It wasn't a smile of happiness or amusement, but one of pure, undiluted animosity. A predator finally acknowledging a pest that had grown teeth.
He let the parchment fall back onto the desk, his eyes never leaving that name.
"Cassian," he swore, the name a low, dangerous promise in the quiet room. "You really are a pain in the ass, aren't you?"
* * * * *
The Next Morning...
A deep, tired breath escaped Ji Hoon's lips as he swam slowly up from the depths of sleep. The morning light was soft behind his eyelids.
He blinked, the carved wooden canopy of his bed coming into focus. For a moment, there was only the quiet of the room. Then, memory returned.
Yesterday. The Tholus Culinarius. The roaring crowd, the frantic race against the Shell-Boar Yeast, the stunned faces of the judges.
He had done it. He was in the top eight. The announcement echoed in his mind, followed by the Ministry official's crisp reminder: the third round was in two days.
Today, then, was his one day to breathe.
He pushed himself up, the fatigue still a pleasant weight in his bones.
After washing his face and running a hand through his disheveled silver hair, he pulled on a simple, soft tunic and trousers—the closest thing to pajamas this world had. He didn't bother with anything more formal.
Stepping out into the hallway, he was struck by the silence. The Ahn manor was… hollow.
Then he remembered. His mother. While he was battling in the arena, she had been fighting her own battle. The deal with the merchants, the one they had desperately needed after the fire, had been secured yesterday.
Today, she was likely at the merchant's guild, finalizing everything. A small, genuine smile touched his lips. Things were finally looking up for her.
As he walked through the quiet halls and out into the sun-dappled backyard, a strange feeling settled over him.
He hadn't lived as Cassian for long, but the faces of this household—his mother's determined love, Beatrice's cheerful fussing, Haide's quiet loyalty, even Wood's boisterous pride—felt more like home than he ever could have imagined.
But the quiet also highlighted the absences. He still didn't know his sister, Sapphire, who was married off to a prince in a neighboring kingdom.
And he had no memory at all of the Viscount Ahn, his father, who was still away on his endless search for a 'new ingredient'.
They were ghosts in this family portrait, and he had no idea how he would face them when they finally appeared.
His wandering path led him back inside, near the kitchen entrance. That's when a familiar, acrid scent hit his nostrils.
It was a smell he knew from a hundred kitchen disasters in his past life: burnt sugar and charred flour. The unmistakable aroma of burnt cookies.
Curiosity piqued, he pushed the kitchen door open.
The scene was one of adorable chaos. Flour dusted the countertops like a fresh snowfall. A bowl lay on its side, a sticky, pale dough oozing onto the wood.
And in the center of it all stood Ione, wrapped in a far-too-large apron, her brilliant red hair dusted with white. A smudge of dough was on her cheek, just below her twitching fox ear.
Her golden eyes were wide with panic, fixed on a baking tray that held a dozen little blackened, rock-like lumps.
She saw him and froze. "Young Master!" she yelped, bowing so deeply and suddenly he feared she might topple over. "I-I am so sorry! For the mess! For the smell! For everything!"
Ji Hoon blinked, taking in the disaster. "Ione… what are you doing?"
She straightened up, her hands fluttering nervously. "I… the others are out today. Cook Wood is on an errand for the Lady, and Beatrice went with Haide to the market… and I… I thought…"
She took a shaky breath, her gaze dropping to the floor. "I wanted to make you a dessert. Since you like them so much."
He was genuinely surprised. "Why were you in the kitchen? Where's Wood?"
"I told you, he's out," she said, her voice growing smaller. "I just thought… I could make you something. You're always so happy when you talk about desserts, when you're creating them… you even seemed so glad to talk about it with the… with the Princess that night." Her voice faltered slightly as she focused on that name, a faint, unreadable emotion flashing in her eyes before she looked away.
Ji Hoon was momentarily thrown. Why did she bring up Yuliana? He looked from her flustered face to the tray of culinary casualties. He couldn't even identify what they were supposed to be.
"It was a recipe from my village," she murmured, her ears drooping. "A honey-nut snap. I wanted to make it for you, to… to thank you. But…"
She gestured helplessly at the blackened rocks. "It ended like this. I can't do anything right." She picked up the tray, ready to march the whole thing to the trash.
"Wait," Ji Hoon said, his hand darting out to stop her. He looked at the cookies. They were burnt, misshapen, and gave off a faint, ominous aura.
But… technically… they were edible...probably. As a chef, he couldn't let a willing heart be thrown out with the burnt batter.
He picked one up. It was surprisingly heavy. "I'm sure it's… fine."
"Young Master, no, don't—!" Ione cried.
But he was already taking a bite. A sharp crack sounded as his teeth met the cookie. It was like biting into a piece of sweetened charcoal.
An overwhelming bitterness mixed with a cloying, burnt honey flavor assaulted his tongue. It took every ounce of his professional willpower not to immediately spit it out.
His eyes watered slightly as he forced himself to chew and, with a great effort, swallow. Internally, he regretted every life choice that led him to this moment. But externally, he managed a strained smile. "See? It's… unique."
Ione stared at him, her initial horror softening into something else. She saw the slight watering of his eyes, the tightness around his smile as he struggled.
A small, sad smile of her own touched her lips. 'He's trying so hard to be kind,' she thought, her heart aching with a mixture of gratitude and sadness. 'I just wanted to find a way to connect with you through this, like you did with her...'
He coughed lightly, setting the rest of the cookie demon back on the tray. He looked at her, at the genuine effort and disappointment in her eyes, and made a decision.
"Hey, Ione."
"Yes, Young Master?"
"Do you… wanna learn?"
"L-Learn?" she stammered, her head tilting in confusion, her ears perking up.
"How to bake. Properly," he said, his voice gentle. "Everyone starts somewhere. And wanting to try… that's the most important part. I can teach you, if you want."
Her eyes widened, a flicker of hope replacing the shame. "You… you would?"
"Of course," he said, already moving to clear a space on the counter. "Let's start with something simple. Something forgiving. How about gingersnap cookies? They're meant to be a little dark and spicy. Harder to mess up."
"A gin-ginge--?"
"Here follow me."
He guided her to the now-clean workspace. "First, we need to cream the butter and sugar. Here."
He stood beside her, showing her how to hold the bowl steady. When it was her turn, her movements were hesitant.
"Here, like this," he murmured, stepping closer. His front was almost against her back as he reached around, his hands gently covering hers on the wooden spoon, guiding her through the folding motion.
A deep blush instantly painted Ione's cheeks, burning hotter than the oven ever could. Her tails gave a frantic, involuntary swish behind her. She could feel the warmth of his chest through her clothes, his breath faintly stirring the hair by her ear.
Ji Hoon, for his part, suddenly became very aware of how close they were. The faint, floral scent of her hair mixed with the smell of burnt sugar.
He felt his own ears grow warm and quickly stepped back, clearing his throat. "Right. You… you've got the idea."
The rest of the lesson continued in a cordial but charged atmosphere. He showed her how to measure the flour, his fingers brushing against hers as he handed her the cup.
He explained how the molasses would give the cookies their color, his voice a soft, focused murmur that made her listen intently to every word.
They worked side-by-side, mixing the dough with its warm, spicy scent of ginger and cinnamon.
When they finally slid the new, perfectly shaped tray of cookies into the oven, a shared sense of accomplishment filled the kitchen, warmer than the heat from the stove.
It was a comfortable silence, punctuated by shy glances and the promise of something sweet, both in the oven and hanging in the air between them.