"…Imperial Culinary Certification?"
"Oh, young master, you're not too familiar with the term—since you were never particularly interested in food…" Beatrice's voice trailed off for a moment, before brightening again. "At least… until now."
"Anyway," she continued, "it's an exam given by the Ministry of Food to test a cook's skill. If they pass, they're awarded a certificate. It's a very popular program because the public gets to watch the contestants cook live. And the one who wins the number one spot even gets the chance to work in the palace kitchen."
"What—the palace?" Ji Hoon straightened a little, suddenly intrigued.
'So it's basically this world's version of a cooking competition… and with certification too. If I could get that, does that mean I could open my own bakery here?'
"Isn't it amazing?" Beatrice squeaked, her eyes sparkling. "Getting to be a palace cook! Even the prize money is something especial! 2 platinum coins!"
'That much money? I think that's about 2,000,000 bronze? Woah, that's nice!'
"But that's not the only thing this year," Viscountess Ahn interjected, her voice calm but carrying weight.
"What do you mean?" Ji Hoon asked.
"As I told you earlier, the theme is changing," she said. "Instead of testing general cooking, this year's certification will focus entirely on sweets, confections and desserts. I've heard the top five winners will be offered positions as royal cooks. And the one who takes the number one spot… will be granted the title of Chief Royal Cook."
"What?!" Beatrice nearly jumped from her seat. "That kind of title?"
"Yes," Viscountess Ahn said with a measured nod. "Because the role will carry the responsibility of managing the tribute to Bramveil. The Empire's future may hinge on it, so they want only the best. I even heard they've opened the competition to current palace chefs—and the Chief Royal Cook himself."
Beatrice's jaw dropped. "But that wouldn't be fair to the other contestants!"
Ji Hoon smirked slightly. "Well, he has to fight to keep his title, right? And anyone who wants it has to prove themselves by defeating the man who already holds it."
That made both women glance at him. Viscountess Ahn in particular lingered, studying his expression. She had noticed it earlier—ever since she came home, Ji Hoon had been speaking more freely, almost like… he was a different person.
He quickly tried to change the subject. "Um… so what do you need to enter the competition? Past experience or something?"
"No, not really," Beatrice said. "As long as they don't have a criminal record, anyone can apply."
Ji Hoon's eyes lit up. "Then does that mean… I can join too?"
For a heartbeat, silence. Then Viscountess Ahn—forgetting her dignified composure—and Beatrice both burst into laughter.
"Good one, son," Viscountess Ahn chuckled, dabbing at the corner of her eye. "It seems you even developed a sense of humor while I was away."
Beatrice grinned. "Young master, I know you made that sweet white jiggling pudding before, but you said yourself it was just an accident."
"Jiggling custard?" Viscountess Ahn blinked in confusion. Her head snapped toward Beatrice. "Wait—you made my son cook his own meal?!" Her tone sharpened dangerously, just short of scolding.
"No, mother!" Ji Hoon quickly raised his hands. "I wanted to try cooking myself."
"Cassian? You cooked something?" Her brows furrowed, suspicion and bewilderment mixing.
"Yes." He met her gaze firmly. "I want to join the competition. And maybe… even open my own bakery after that."
Her composure cracked into a scoff, sharp and dismissive. "Nonsense. You are the next Head of House Ahn. A noble heir, not some common cook! Don't speak such foolishness."
Ji Hoon's chest tightened. From the look in her eyes, she had no intention of allowing it.
But then—he remembered. The panna cotta!
If she tasted it—if she really tasted what he could make—maybe he could change her mind.
"Mother," Ji Hoon said firmly. She turned toward him, surprised at his seriousness.
"Taste my dish. If you like it, allow me to participate."
A long pause. Her gaze hardened, her lips pressing thin.
"…No."
* * *
The royal decree had already spread across the capital. Long parchment scrolls bearing the king's golden seal were nailed to every post, fountain wall, and market arch. Messengers in liveried uniforms climbed ladders, fastening the notices high where all could see, the crimson ink catching the first rays of sunlight.
Crowds gathered. Merchants paused mid-sale, their voices falling silent as their eyes traced the curling letters. Children tugged at their mothers' sleeves, craning their necks to read the words that even the cobblestones seemed to echo.
The scrolls bore the Imperial crest and, beside it, the Ministry of Food's seal: knife, spoon, and flame.
A crier unrolled one and read, voice ringing:
"By order of His Majesty, Emperor Charles II, the Imperial Culinary Certification convenes this year under the Theme of Desserts, Pastry, Sweets and Confections.
The top five candidates shall be appointed Royal Cooks; the Champion shall bear the title Chief Royal Cook.
Applicants of clean record may enter. Palace chefs, including the current Chief, are permitted to compete."
A hush fell—then the square erupted.
"Is it… really happening?" whispered a fruit vendor, apples wobbling in her basket.
"Don't be daft," said the cobbler, squinting at the wax. "That's the real seal." He swallowed.
Outside a bakery, flour-dusted workers crowded the poster.
"Sweets only? This year?"
"Top five straight to the palace?"
"The Chief Royal Cook is competing too?" A young apprentice squeaked, "Is that allowed?!"
An older baker pressed a palm to his chest. "Boy, I can't feel my heart. Fetch me sugar. Fetch me all the sugar!"
Across town, a tavern cook read aloud, mispronouncing every other word. The bar burst into laughter.
"Open to anyone without a record?"
"Even me?"
"You can't even boil water without setting it on fire."
"I'll… enter to supervise."
In the palace kitchens, a sous-chef stared at the notice, stunned.
"The Chief's going to fight to keep his own title?"
* * *
At the Ministry of Food, a line already snaked down the steps. Quills snapped. Ink blotted. A clerk shouted at the 'cooks' who were trying to register, "One at a time! Spelling your name differently on every form will not improve your odds!"
By noon, the news had outrun the city.
In a mountain village, a beekeeper read the parchment on a chapel door. "Sweets, you say?" She hugged a honey jar to her chest. "We're not nobodies anymore, girls." The bees hummed in approval.
Market prices hiccupped. Sugar went up a coin. Cream sold out before sunset. A traveling merchant stacked sacks of flour like a fortress.
Everywhere, the same chorus:
"Is this real?"
"Are they truly letting anyone in?"
"Even the palace lot are competing?"
"Imagine—someone from our district in the palace whites!"
"Stop it, I'm getting goosebumps."
Children licked barley candy and announced to anyone listening, "I'm going to be Chief Royal Cook!" Their mothers patted their heads and whispered, "Please start with porridge."
Every cook who aspired to enter the Royal kitchen, and some who wanted the prize money that came with it, all asked the same question:
"Is this really happening?"