The warm, oaky scent of caramelized molasses and rich, browned butter hung thick in the prep kitchen, a fragrant testament to his frantic work.
A single drop of sweat trickled down Ji Hoon's temple, but he wiped it away with the back of his wrist, a triumphant smile touching his lips.
The test batch on the counter before him was a deep, golden brown, perfectly humped. He broke one in half; the crumb was light, yet dense with flavor. It wasn't the flawless final product, but it was a resounding success. He had proven his theory.
He now knew the precise alchemy of heat and fat required to shackle the Rosaline Flour's wild magic, and more importantly, he knew exactly where he could push it further for the real performance.
His moment of victory was shattered as his eyes flicked to the large, ornate clock on the wall. His blood ran cold.
Four minutes.
"Oh no!" The thought was a silent scream in his mind. He had been so absorbed in the nuances of the bake, he had lost all track of time.
With a surge of panic, he abandoned the messy station, not even bothering to clean the scattered bowls and dusting of pink flour. He shoved the door open and broke into a full sprint down the cool, dim corridor leading back to the arena.
The muffled roar of the crowd was a distant monster, but with every pounding step, it grew, transforming from a hum into a thunderous, palpable force that vibrated through the stone floor.
His heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic drumbeat matching his pace. He burst through a final side entrance, squinting as he was momentarily blinded by the dazzling stage lights, stumbling to a halt as he gulped down ragged breaths of the thick, excited air.
He scanned the contestant waiting area, his vision clearing. There they were: Helene, Master Albian, and Eira, all still waiting. A wave of sheer, genuine relief washed over him, so potent it made his knees feel weak.
He had made it. He wasn't disqualified.
But the relief was instantly poisoned by the atmosphere. His eyes darted, searching for his friends.
He found Yuliana first.
She sat on a stone bench, her posture as rigid and perfect as a statue, but her head was bowed. Her sharp green eyes, usually so full of fiery intelligence, were fixed on the floor, clouded with a stony, silent fury. Her hands, resting on her knees, were clenched into such tight fists that her knuckles were white.
A few feet away, Lior was slumped against the wall as if his strings had been cut. His head was in his hands, his shoulders slumped forward.
The ever-present, easygoing grin that seemed to be his permanent expression was utterly gone, erased and replaced by a hollow, devastating look of defeat that made him seem strangely young and fragile.
A cold knot of dread tightened in Ji Hoon's stomach. "What happened?" he whispered to himself, his confusion turning to alarm. His gaze was dragged upward, to the giant, shimmering Light Box where the final scores were still displayed for the entire world to see:
Yuna vs Lucius: 14 - 19
Ixchel vs Lior: 13 - 17
The numbers hit him not as points, but as physical blows. His breath caught in his throat. They hadn't just lost; they had been systematically dismantled, decisively outscored by the cold, unflinching prodigies from the North.
The reality of the immense gap in skill—or perhaps the judges' brutal, unforgiving standards—crashed down upon him.
The arena, once a place of thrilling possibility, now felt like a cold, stark, and merciless coliseum.
The silence in the waiting area was heavy and thick. Ji Hoon took a hesitant step forward, the sound of his boots on the stone floor seeming too loud.
Lior was the first to notice him, lifting his head from his hands. A flicker of emotion—embarrassment, then relief—crossed his face before he managed a weak, lopsided smile.
Yuliana looked up a moment later, her stony expression softening just a fraction at the edges when she saw him.
For a long moment, no one spoke. The roar of the crowd outside felt like it was happening in another world.
Finally, Lior let out a long, shaky breath and pushed himself off the wall. "Well," he said, his voice rough but trying hard to sound light, "I guess we can't have that final battle between us after all."
He punched Ji Hoon's shoulder gently. "So, you'll just have to go all the way and win the whole thing for us, brother."
Yuliana offered a small, sad smile of agreement. The sight of it, so unlike her usual confident composure, struck Ji Hoon harder than any complaint would have.
"Were they really that tough?" Ji Hoon asked, his voice low.
Lior barked a short, humorless laugh. "Tough? Those northern kids aren't just tough. They're... machines. I've never seen anyone move through a kitchen like Ixchel. It's like watching a storm—fast, chaotic, but every movement has a purpose." He shook his head in disbelief.
Ji Hoon turned to Yuliana. She met his gaze, her green eyes serious. "Lior is right," she said quietly. "Especially that Lucius. He was so... precise. He moved with an economy that was almost frightening. No wasted motion, no hesitation. Every cut, every stir, was perfect. It was like watching a master swordsman, not a cook."
Ji Hoon looked at their defeated faces, a fire starting to kindle in his own chest. He opened his mouth, wanting to tell them that their cooking had soul, that it mattered, but the words were cut off.
"Contestant Cassian Ahn, please report to the stage immediately!" a clerk's voice called out, sharp and official.
The moment was over. Ji Hoon looked one last time at his friends. Lior gave him a stronger, genuine smile this time, the old fire returning to his eyes for a brief second. "Win it out there, brother!"
Yuliana nodded, her own gaze firming with resolve. "Show them what you can do."
With a final, determined smile of his own, Ji Hoon turned and walked onto the stage, the bright lights washing over him. He fell into step with the other three contestants—the silent Eira, the composed Master Albian, and his opponent, Helene, who gave him a polite, confident nod.
He arrived at his station, the familiar sanctuary of pots, pans, and heat. He set his ingredients down with a soft, deliberate thud: the unmarked bottle of dark mahogany rum and the small, ominous sack of pale pink Rosaline Flour. He was ready.
Master Guy's voice boomed through the dome. [ And now, the moment you've all been waiting for! Let us commence the second duel of the Quarter-Finals!
Contestants, to your stations! May your flavors write legends! The countdown begins in three... two... one...ZERO!!! ]
The massive Light Box flickered, and numbers blazed to life at its center, large and inescapable.
01:00:00
The Quarter-final battle had begun.
The clock began its relentless descent, and the arena narrowed to the space of his cooking station.
Across from him, Helene moved with the fluid, practiced grace of a royal cook, her knives a silver blur as she began preparing an undoubtedly complex and elegant dish.
Similarly, Ji Hoon's world had shrunk to the ingredients before him. He took a slow, centering breath, the roar of the crowd fading into a distant hum.
His hands, still slightly trembling from his sprint, steadied as he reached for the block of butter. This was his foundation.
He cut it into chunks and dropped them into a small, heavy-bottomed pan. As it began to melt over a gentle flame, he focused, activating
A translucent, ghostly overlay shimmered into his vision, displaying a real-time readout: Internal Temperature: 45°C... 60°C... He watched, not with his eyes alone, but with this magical sense, tracking the transformation.
The butter bubbled and foamed, a white noise of heat. Then, the magic began. The milk solids at the bottom of the pan drifted from pale gold to a deep, nutty brown. 115°C, the overlay read. Perfect. Beurre noisette achieved.
He pulled the pan from the heat, the butter emitting a rich, toasty aroma.
Without a second's hesitation, he poured a generous shot of his dark rum into the sizzling fat.
A great, fragrant plume of steam erupted with a hiss, filling his immediate space with an intoxicating wave of caramel, oak, and spice.
This was the first alchemy. He immediately used
He willed the two liquids—the fat and the spirit—to become one perfectly stable emulsion, ensuring the rum's complex soul was locked into every single molecule of the butter.
He felt a slight drain on his stamina as the skill took effect, and a mental cooldown timer began its countdown. He set the pan aside to cool slightly, the liquid within now a unified, potent ingredient.
Next, the heart of the gamble: the Rosaline Flour. He scooped the pale pink powder into a wide ceramic bowl.
He cast
Saponin Concentration: High.
Volatile Aromatic Compounds: Dormant.
Hydration Rate: Fast.
This was the enemy, the source of the soapy curse. But seeing the "Dormant" tag confirmed his theory—the right catalyst would not just tame it, but awaken its potential.
He combined the flour with sugar and a pinch of salt, whisking them together by hand.
In a separate, larger bowl, he cracked the eggs, adding more sugar before whisking them with a focused intensity.
His arm burned as he worked them until the mixture was thick, pale, and fell from the whisk in a slow, steady ribbon. This was the structure.
Now came the most delicate part: the marriage. He poured the egg mixture into the dry ingredients, folding them together with a spatula in swift, gentle arcs.
He couldn't overmix; he needed to avoid developing the gluten and creating a tough cake. The batter was thick and shaggy. Then, he began drizzling in the warm, rum-infused brown butter.
This was the moment of truth. As he folded the fat in, he kept
With each turn of the spatula, he watched the number tick steadily downward. The rich fat was enveloping the bitter compounds, neutralizing their power.
He worked patiently, meticulously, until the meter hit its lowest point and the batter itself transformed into a smooth, glossy, and homogenous pale pink ribbon that poured thickly from his spatula.
He transferred the batter to a piping bag. His
He piped the rich batter into the delicate shell-shaped molds he had just summoned from his
Then, he laid his hands on the side of the metal pan and activating the
This time, he focused on a rapid, controlled transfer of thermal energy, pulling the heat from the batter to shock it into a deep, even chill. This would ensure that when it hit the ferocious heat of the oven, it would react violently, creating the iconic hump.
Satisfied, he opened the preheated oven, a wave of dry heat washing over his face. He slid the pan onto the middle rack and closed the door with a solid, final thud.
The battle was only half won. He stood guard, his eyes fixed on the oven door, his senses and the remainder of his magical skills on a hair trigger, waiting for the moment of truth.