Chapter 1 : The Book

"Beep beep—"

"Five minutes remaining."

[TL/N : It was written in French in the original.]

A mechanical notification sound rang out as the lights on the stadium's electronic display board flickered to life.

Dozens of different languages buzzed noisily around the ears of Contestant No. 32, Yeon Ji-young.

But, now was not the time to lose focus.

'Huu, slowly. Just stick to the plan.'

Ji-young took a deep breath and turned up the output on the induction stove.

The dish would be complete once the surface was seared at high heat for the finishing touch.

But, something felt off....with the burner, which should have immediately flared up bright red.

'...?'

She pressed the button repeatedly, but the induction stove's heat wouldn't rise.

'It's broken!'

The moment that thought flashed through her mind, her fingertips began to tremble uncontrollably.

There were barely five minutes left until the end.

This is not a place for excuses—like malfunctioning equipment.

No matter what, she had to finish the dish.

'There’s no other way.'

Ji-young opened a wooden box placed at the edge of the table and pulled out its contents.

Hanji (한지) paper and straw rope—leftover materials from packaging the ingredients flown in from Korea.

First, she rubbed the straw rope between her palms, loosening it into a bundle of strands, then stuffed it into the pot along with torn pieces of Hanji.

When she touched the torch to it, flames instantly burst to life, sending up stream of smoke.

She’d heard that lighting fires inside the studio—packed with lighting and filming equipment—was against the rules.

But, now is hardly the time to worry about that.

"Hey, what do you think you're doing?!"

A staff member wearing a headset rushed over, and Ji-young snapped back sharply.

"Can’t you tell? I’m cooking!"

The more cornered she was, the harder she pushed back—that stubborn streak of hers.

It was a flaw her instructors at culinary school had criticized time and time again, and now it had finally exploded to the surface.

Ignoring the stunned staff member gaping beside her, Ji-young placed a small grill grate over the pot of burning straw. Then, she arranged the prepared ingredients on top and slammed the lid shut.

'Sssssssssssk—'

The sound of ingredients searing under the straw-fire’s heat filled the air. Beads of sweat prickled across Ji-young’s forehead.

"One minute remaining."

Now, time for the garnish.

She whisked together cream and bean broth, reducing it into a velvety velouté sauce, then spooned it over the dish in smooth, glossy strokes. Next, she delicately placed a tuile—a thin, crisp wafer made from roasted grain powder—floating it atop like a leaf on water.

Finally, it was time for her secret weapon.

As she lifted the lid of small earthenware jar, a sweet, intoxicating aroma burst forth—so rich that even the competitor next to her stole a glance. From within, she scooped out a golden, viscous syrup, drizzling it in elegant strokes until an abstract masterpiece glistened across the plate.

"Beeeeep—"

Right then, the final signal blared.

This is Paris, France.

Inside the studio broadcasting 'Cuisiner d'Or'—the world’s most prestigious culinary competition—live to millions.

A war-like battle had just ended, with chefs from over 50 countries pouring every ounce of skill into their dishes under crushing time limits.

And there, at the center of it all, stood Contestant No. 32, Yeon Ji-young, the sole Korean participant.

'That person…'

Among the judges stepping onto the stage to evaluate the dishes, Ji-young spotted someone and her breath caught.

A white-haired man scrutinized the finished plates with the sharp precision of an appraiser examining porcelain.

Alain Bauquise.

A living legend, idolized by chefs worldwide, hailed as the "God of Cuisine".

Every judgment from this moment forward rested solely in his hands.

His demeanor justified the title.

He lifted a bite to his mouth, closed his eyes, and let it linger—rolling flavors like a sommelier savoring aged wine. An aura so commanding that it forced onlookers to hold their breaths.

In that moment, his palate became a laboratory: taste, aroma, texture—every microscopic taste buds on his tongue mobilized to dissect the dish.

Yet... nothing followed.

No flicker of expression. No hint of verdict. Only silence.

'Ah... I'm so nervous I might pass out.'

The closer that cold, meticulous food critic approached, the faster Ji-young's heart raced.

When it was finally her turn, she noticed the staff member from earlier whispering something into the judge's ear.

She didn’t need to hear it—she already knew.

They’re telling him about the straw fire. The one that broke the rules. Her insides burned with dread, but outwardly, her voice remained steady.

"Hanwoo beef, slow-cooked with shiitake mushrooms and aged in 300-years-old artisanal soy sauce, then smoked over straw fire. The sauce is made with citron marmalade harvested from a 500-years-old citrus tree and fermented for four years."

For the briefest moment, something flickered across the face of the so-called 'God of Cuisine'. Was it interest or surprise? He lifted a spoonful to his lips, then closed his eyes.

That agonizing pause stretched on. Ji-young’s nails dug into her palms.

Then—

His eyes snapped open.

For a fraction of a second, she thought his piercing blue gaze locked onto hers. He wore an unreadable expression—somewhere between amusement and indifference—before turning wordlessly to the next contestant’s table.

What followed felt like it happened in a dream.

"This year's 'Cuisiner d'Or' winner....Mademoiselle Yeon Ji-young from South Korea!"

The next day, headlines everywhere blared the unknown Korean's name. Beneath them, the judgment from Alain Bauquise, the so-called 'God of Cuisine', was printed in bold:

[This young chef from Korea bridges two worlds in her cooking—ancient Korea and modern France. And that bridge doesn’t just connect, it pulls those who taste her food into an entirely new realm of experience.]

~~~~~

[Ms. Yeon Ji-young, I suppose?]

The stiff voice crackled through the phone. A Korean number—another media outlet, no doubt.

"Yes, Yeon Ji-young speaking. But, um… could we possibly do the interview over email instead?"

Ji-young’s reply was half-hearted as she fumbled through her disaster of a room, trying to piece together a presentable outfit. She’d already dealt with a dozen of interview requests since morning, and she had no time to waste on idle chatter.

Not when she had a meeting looming—an offer to become 'deputy chef' at Alain Bauquise’s three-Michelin-starred restaurant. It is a position every chef in the world dreamed of.

As she straightened her blazer in the mirror—the first time in ages she’d bothered to dress properly—the voice from her AirPods pressed on.

[...Your father is Mr. Yeon Seung-woo, correct?]

"Yes, that's right."

From that moment, something felt off.

Why would they call her to ask about her father?

Ji-young's gaze drifted to the small frame on her desk. A photo of her in school uniform, standing beside a stern-faced middle-aged man in horn-rimmed glasses. The man is an historian occasionally featured on educational TV programs, moderately renowned in academic circles. But, to Ji-young, her father had never been a warm presence.

'...cause he's a man who lived buried in old books, indifferent to everything else.'

It had started after her mother’s sudden death. Her father’s obsession with ancient texts became all-consuming, as if the brittle pages were the only things tethering him to the world.

And then—

That incident.

The day she wandered into his study and found 'it'. It was a single, worn out book hidden among the stacks.

'Mangeunrok' (望雲錄)

An anonymous textbook, discovered buried in the stacks of Hwanghak-dong’s used bookstores.

The ancient manuscript her father had been translating contained something Ji-young never expected:

A book of 'recipes' from the past.

'What…'

'What is this feeling?'

Strangely, after that day, the book’s contents swirled ceaselessly in her mind. She became obsessed—to the point of recreating the dishes herself. Centuries-old recipes were resurrected under her hands. It was as if the long-dead author had reached across time, guiding her movements.

And that experience was enough to upend Ji-Young's entire life.

"You said if I aced the CSAT, I could live however I wanted, right?"

She thrust her perfect score report at her father. What followed wasn’t a plea for university admission, but, a declaration that she’d abandon it all to study cooking in France.

That day, her father slapped her for the first time—and Ji-young stormed out of the house like a fugitive.

So, that was what happened seven years ago.

She’d sworn she’d never return to Korea.

"…What’s this about?"

[I apologize for the abrupt news…]

The voice on the phone was as brittle as dead leaves.

[Your father, Yeon Seung-woo, has fallen into a coma.]

~~~~~

Outskirts highway to Charles de Gaulle Airport.

Ji-young pressed the accelerator.

Paris’s dusk bled across the rental car’s rearview mirror.

How could she name this feeling?

The voice had said that he might not last the week.

She’d severed the ties. So, she convinced herself she felt nothing.

Yet, here she was—

Her chest knotted tighter than a butcher’s twine.

'It seemed that book you found had made everything to come to this, father.'

Every memory tangled back to the 'Mangeunrok'.

From julienning vegetables in culinary school…

To last night’s victory toast.

And, to this sudden call about her father’s condition. Countless memories flashed through her mind like a panning panorama.

That line from Alain Bauquise’s critique, "bridging two worlds"—perhaps it wasn’t about her at all. Perhaps it had always been about her father’s book.

'There’s something I never told him.'

If she returned to Korea, could she finally say what she’d owed him all these years?

At that moment—

A blade of pain stabbed through Ji-young’s skull as she drove.

She knew instantly that this is no ordinary headache.

It burrowed deep, a needle-thin agony piercing some primal nerve center. Her vision blurred.

At the same time, the faded characters Mangeunrok, the glittering French banquets, every memory became a whirlwind of images, colliding like some grotesque modernist collage before the storm inside her mind ruptured.

Consciousness snapped like an overloaded fuse.

The last thing she saw was the blinding headlights of an oncoming truck, horns blaring through the dark.

~~~~~

A sea of darkness, black as ink.

Naked, Ji-young floated upward through it. The still surface reflected her like a mirror. As her body rose toward it—as if reaching for her own reflection—the two versions of herself were about to meet.

"Gasps..."

She jolted awake with a gasp. Pushing herself up, she coughed violently and water spewed from her lungs. Her throat burned as she retched onto the ground.

Unfamiliar place.

Fragmented memories surfaced: the Parisian highway, the truck’s blinding lights—just before the accident. Had the collision thrown her into this strange shoreline? Her hands darted across her body, but impossibly, there’s no pain, no wounds.

Then real shock hit her.

"...Huh?"

A crowd encircled her at a distance.

Their clothes were threadbare hemp, frayed and patched. Unkempt beards, topknots fraying with stray hairs. Torchlight flickered across their faces as they whisper. They looked like extras from a period drama, but grimmer, dirtier.

Without a doubt, they're Joseon-era peasants.

'Where… in the world am I?'

Even through her daze, the truth slithered in:

This was somewhere impossibly far.

Just as fate once had dragged her from Seoul to Paris, now it had hurled her somewhere stranger.

[TL/N : Hanji paper (한지) is traditional Korean paper handcrafted from the inner bark of mulberry trees. Known for its durability, flexibility, and natural luster, it has been used for over 1,500 years in Korea for calligraphy, art, books, and even practical applications like window paper (창호지) in traditional houses.]

~~~~~

Miel's Translations