The registration hall was buzzing with noise and movement. Ji Hoon stepped out at last, Beatrice and Adriene trailing right behind him like his shadows, weaving through the chaos.
He had just finished what felt like an eternity: waiting in line, answering questions, and finally securing his name in the records for the Imperial Culinary Certification.
"Goodness, so many people are participating," he joked, exhaling.
He thought back to when Viscountess Ahn, his mother, had first refused. At that moment he'd nearly lost all hope—he even considered entering under an alias.
But everything had changed after she tasted the panna cotta. Her expression had been priceless: eyes wide, tongue fumbling for words, unable to believe he had made it.
Even after Beatrice swore he was the one who made it, she didn't believe her, but after Wood, their family cook confirmed it, only then did she believe it.
But she still refused to let him participate, then after countless begging, she agreed to let him "try it out." She didn't seem to believe he would make it past the first round, at least she had relented in the end.
'She really must love him,' Ji Hoon thought, not about himself but about the real Cassian. 'I must get revenge for him somehow and make the person who killed him pay… that's the least I can do after taking his body.'
"Young master, should we return to the estate now?" Beatrice asked gently.
"No," Ji Hoon shook his head. "I want to check around a little. Do you know a place here that serves baked dishes or confections?"
Beatrice tilted her head. "Emm, are you hungry, young master?"
"Yes, I'm craving something. Take me to the best one you know," he said.
In truth, his intention wasn't to eat but to scout. The perfect opportunity to measure the skill level and potential of this world's pâtissiers.
On the way, the sights of the market distracted him. He stopped for a moment, eyes widening.
Beast-people. Real, walking Beast-people. The ones he saw in movies with Human-like bodies with ears, tails, fur, and claws. Different kinds of animal type Beast-peoples passed him from time to time.
He'd heard of them from Beatrice before, that they exist, but seeing them with his own eyes was another thing entirely. 'This world really is something else.'
After a short walk, Beatrice finally stopped before a refined-looking establishment. Its polished wooden sign read: [Classique de Cuisine].
Ji Hoon raised an eyebrow. "This is it?"
"Yes. Many nobles and wealthy merchants dine here," Beatrice explained. "They say the head chefs are twins who placed among the top nine in last year's ICC[1]."
"Oh, really?" Ji Hoon's interest immediately piqued, a smirk tugging at his lips. 'That makes it even more worth the visit.'
Without another word, Ji Hoon pushed the door open.
"Master, wait for us," Beatrice whispered, hurrying after him with Adriene in tow.
Inside, the restaurant was warm and alive with chatter, every table filled with customers enjoying themselves. Elegant, refined and busy. The atmosphere certainly matched its reputation.
But would the taste live up to it? Only one way to find out.
"This way, young master," Beatrice said, guiding him deeper inside.
But as Ji Hoon followed her, distracted by the details of the restaurant, his shoulder bumped into someone.
He looked up. The young man standing before him was tall, sharp-eyed, and seemed to be about his own age—around nineteen or twenty.
"Ah, excuse me," the boy muttered as he squeezed past him, Ji Hoon didn't mind him. After weaving through the crowd, they finally reached a small table tucked against the far western wall. Once they sat down, Ji Hoon asked for the menu.
He unfolded the parchment-like sheet and scanned the printed list of foods. The sight still amazed him. This world was not the crude, mud-and-smoke medieval society he had first assumed.
Although they lacked electricity and modern machines, magic had replaced every missing gap. Printing presses, cooking utensils, and even the faint hum of enchantments woven into the cutlery—it was a world shaped by spells, not wires.
He skimmed past the appetizers and main courses, eyes falling on the Desserts section.
"Blancmange… pies… honey biscuits…" he whispered under his breath.
Then he paused when his gaze reached a bolded title under House Specialties: Custard Tart.
A spark of curiosity flickered. 'If it's their best, it must be worth tasting.' He lifted his finger and pointed to the item.
"Bring me this," he said to the waiter.
Beatrice frowned softly. "Young master, are you sure? You already had the sweet you made earlier."
"It's fine. We don't live forever. Let's make of it," he replied with a smirk.
That earned a laugh from her. Since his reincarnation—and knowing firsthand how fragile life truly was—Ji Hoon carried one principle close to his heart: to live to the fullest.
After a short wait, the waiter returned, carrying a delicate porcelain plate. On it sat the custard tart, golden and glistening under the lantern-light.
'It seems similar to a Flan pâtissier back in my world.' Ji Hoon thought.
He'd been ready for romance, the sort of buttery, melt-in-the-mouth ecstasy he'd practiced chasing in kitchens back on Earth. Instead, the tart in front of him was honest, blunt, and stubborn.
He broke the edge with his spoon. The crust yielded with a quiet, rustic snap and thicker than his practiced short crust but comforting in its own, practical way. Steam lifted off the amber filling, carrying the heady perfume of warm honey and a cautious trace of spice.
Beatrice's face lit up at the first bite. "It's so warm and sweet, but the lemon keeps it from being heavy," she whispered, eyes closed. Adrine sighed audibly small and content already reaching for another spoon.
Ji Hoon chewed deliberately.
"Emm…" he said, not because it displeased him, but because his brain was cataloguing. The filling tasted of raw floral honey, brightened with lemon. It clung to the roof of his mouth like a delicate custard: smooth, lightly wobbly, and honest.
"They used straight honey. Good—floral, but unrefined. It gives the filling a vivid top note, but it's missing the deeper, caramelized nuance you get from gently reducing the honey beforehand. That's why the finish feels a touch thin."
The two girls blinked at him, half amused, half impressed. For them, the tart was pure bliss. But it seemed their Young Master didn't think so.
"You can tell all that from a single bite?" Beatrice asked, impressed.
"Of course. See here," he said, pointing to the center. "The custard is still slightly trembling—either the egg-to-honey ratio is low, or it was pulled from the oven just a moment early. Also, their oven must have run hot; look at the faintly scorched top edge. The surface set before the sugars and flavors had time to deepen fully."
"And their spicing are leaning toward masking rather than complementing. A single bright note—fresh lemon zest or a touch of verjuice would have sufficed; they added too much cinnamon to cover minor unevenness in sweetness."
He smiled, the expression softening. "It's not bad—far from it. Warm, honest, a tart people would remember at a family table. Technique-wise… just a few adjustments, and it would sing."
He tapped the rim with his spoon like a conductor counting bars. "If it was me I'd have lower the heat, slow the bake. Use a slightly higher egg-to-honey ratio for a richer, more stable custard. Pull it while the center still trembles gently. Let it rest so that it will firm up slightly, and the flavors will deepen and marry."
Beatrice blinked at him, bright with admiration. "Since when did you know about tarts this much?" she asked, truly amazed.
Her young master really is a different person these days!
Ji Hoon shrugged, but inside he catalogued it not as judgement but as data—skills to beat, tweaks to steal, a map of how this world made sweets, and where his patissier hands could reach in and change the song.
Just then—clang! A bowl of steaming soup crashed against the floor, splattering across the polished tiles.
The customer's all turned including Ji Hoon's group.
"You useless wench!" roared a man swathed in silks, his voice shaking the rafters. Clearly noble-born, his temple throbbed with a bulging vein as he glared down.
His hand lashed out, striking a trembling girl who knelt amidst the shards, clutching the broken bowl as though her life depended on it.
The dining hall froze. Spoons halted mid-air, gazes sank into plates. The other patrons lowered their eyes, preferring silence—and their supper—over justice.
The noble's arm rose again, his voice venomous. "How dare you ruin—!"
But before the blow could land, a strong hand caught his wrist mid-swing.
Ji Hoon stood before him, eyes cold as steel, each word cutting sharper than any blade.
"You should stop."
[1] Short for: Imperial Culinary Certification