Sweat dripped down Alister de Clein's forehead, his hands twitching as he sat on a plush blue sofa. Comfortable in appearance, yet he felt anything but. His eyes darted nervously between the floor and the great red door before him.
'Why would that brat call me today?! Did he already hear about—'
The door creaked open. A tall man with almond eyes and a stoic expression stepped out. His voice was cold, emotionless.
"Come in. The lord is ready."
Alister jumped to his feet, stiffening. He swallowed hard and entered, the door closing heavily behind him.
"H-hey, Light! How's it going? Are you doing great?" Alister tried to force a grin.
The man he called Light gave no reply. His silence was sharper than a blade as he led the way down the long corridor.
'This punk… does he think he's better than me just because his master got appointed head of the house?'
Soon they reached a larger door, carved with intricate designs of vines and beasts. Light pushed it open, then stepped aside, gesturing silently for Alister to enter.
Alister hesitated, steeling himself before stepping inside.
The chamber was lavishly decorated. A heavy mahogany desk dominated the center, its polished surface gleaming under candlelight.
Animal heads—stag, boar, even a rare frost wolf—were mounted along the walls, trophies of hunts both recent and long past.
Shelves stacked with aged books lined the room, while a chandelier of wrought iron cast a dim, golden glow.
But all of that paled compared to the young man seated at the desk.
Golden blond hair framed his pale, sculpted face, and cold blue eyes gleamed behind rectangular glasses. He radiated elegance, refinement—yet the air around him carried the suffocating weight of authority.
When he finally looked up from the papers in his hands, sliding the glasses off, his piercing gaze made the normally arrogant Alister lower his head like a scolded servant.
"C-cousin… h-how are y-you?" Alister stammered.
The young man's lips curled faintly. His voice was smooth, but laced with cutting disdain.
"Cousin? I didn't know we were so close, Alister. Is this how you belittle me now?"
"O-of course not, Marquess Roswald! I apologize for stepping out of line."
Yes. This man was Marquess Roswald de Clein—the new head of the de Clein family, owner of one of the Empire's largest culinary franchises.
He ignored Alister's fumbling words, glancing at Light, who stood silently behind him. A subtle signal was enough.
Light's tone was flat as he recited:
"We have heard that you entered into a bet. You not only lost the slave intended for Lord Garfield but also wasted money and resources of Classique de Cuisine."
Each word landed like a blow.
Alister quickly bowed lower. "I'm sorry! I didn't know they were capable, I swear! I'll find a replacement slave from the slums tomorrow morning for the lord—"
Roswald's chuckle cut him off.
Slow, cold, mocking. He set his glasses on the desk.
"Do you think I, Roswald de Clein, care about losing some filthy slave?"
Sweat poured from Alister's brow.
"No. What matters is that you wagered under the name of de Clein… and lost. Money and slaves are replaceable. Honor is not."
Alister trembled. "I-I'm sorry. The man tricked me—I didn't know he was such a professional, that he could even beat the Grace twins!"
"The Twins?" Roswald arched an eyebrow.
Light answered promptly. "Malak and Isaac, they're last year's eighth and ninth rankers in the ICC. They were the head cook of Classique de Cuisine, you once even showed interest in recruiting them for the capital branch."
Roswald leaned back in his chair. "Oh… those two. So you're saying this mystery man was skilled enough to defeat them? Who judged it?"
"Minister Marcus," Light replied.
Roswald's eyes narrowed. Marcus—the Empire's famed food appraiser, known for his impeccable palate.
If Marcus vouched for someone, then the skill was genuine.
"…Who is this man?"
Light glanced at the papers in his hand, then raised an eyebrow in disbelief before speaking slowly. "…The heir of House Ahn. Cassian Ahn."
Roswald froze, then his composure cracked into a booming laugh.
"Hahahaha! Don't joke with me. That spineless noble?!" He searched Light's face for jest, but found none. His laughter died into a sharp smile.
'That runt?! The last time I saw him, he was nothing but a trembling wretch in that warehouse. I was going to squeeze him dry before making him sign those papers… until he was rescued. And now he's cooking?'
Roswald rose from his chair, retrieving a crystal glass and pouring himself golden wine.
"You may go."
Alister blinked. "E-excuse me?"
"Leave. Before I change my mind."
Alister bowed furiously. "Yes, my lord! Good night!" He quickly fled the room.
Roswald swirled the wine, its surface catching the moonlight.
Light stepped forward, voice firm. "We've heard he will be entering the ICC preliminaries tomorrow."
Roswald stood at the window, the stars glittering over the city. "Our new recruits will be there too, won't they?"
"Yes. Three of them."
A smirk played on Roswald's lips as he took a sip, savoring the sharpness of the wine.
'Cassian Ahn… I'll be observing you for a while. Let's continue our little game soon.'
"You two will be meeting at the coming Royal Banquet." Light reminded.
"Oh, is that so? I guess we'll be meeting sooner than I expected."
* * * * *
The day of the Preliminaries morning...
The grand marble hall of the Ministry of Food buzzed with morning activity. Sunlight streamed through the tall windows, glinting off polished floors as clerks hurried past with scrolls and documents. The air carried the faint aroma of ink, parchment, and spices—samples sent daily from the culinary guilds for evaluation.
Minister Marcus stepped through the archway, his posture straight, his expression calm as ever. He was known for that composure—unshakable, as though nothing in the empire's kitchens or politics could ever startle him.
"Marcus!" A booming voice echoed across the hall.
Another minister, dressed in finely tailored robes, strode toward him with a broad grin. A name tag Minister Dorian was on his robe's left chest, a long-time colleague and friend of Marcus's, with a reputation for his boisterous humor as much as his sharp tongue.
"Today's the day!" Dorian clapped Marcus on the shoulder with exaggerated enthusiasm. "The ICC preliminaries—Valeria's greatest show of skill! Don't tell me you aren't even a little excited?"
Marcus allowed the faintest curl of his lips, his reply calm. "Naturally. It will be worth observing."
Dorian laughed, shaking his head. "You're always so damned stoic. At least pretend to share my mood, old friend!" He leaned closer, lowering his voice in mock seriousness.
"Tell me, where were you yesterday, then? You vanished as if you were avoiding me. Don't tell me you were—scouting again?"
Marcus's silence spoke for itself.
Dorian chuckled. "Ah, like usual. Hunting down hidden gems while the rest of us sit at our desks." He was about to tease further when he noticed the rare glimmer in Marcus's eyes. His grin faltered. "…Wait. You actually found someone?"
Marcus adjusted his cuffs, his voice steady but weighted with meaning. "Yes. Someone with skill."
Dorian blinked. "Skilled enough to catch your eye?" His tone shifted from playful to intrigued. "And who is this master he studied under? Surely one of the capital's old chefs, perhaps even one of the Academy's prodigies?"
Marcus shook his head. "Neither." He looked directly at his friend, his words deliberate.
"He is… a noble."
Dorian burst into laughter, nearly loud enough to echo in the hall. "A noble?! Don't joke with me, Marcus. The day a noble cooks better than trained cook is the day I eat my robe."
But Marcus's expression didn't shift. His voice was calm, unwavering.
"I am serious. He may very well be this year's dark horse."
Dorian's laughter died slowly. He studied Marcus's face, realizing there was no jest. His eyes narrowed with curiosity, excitement creeping back into his voice.
"…Then I suppose we'll see him today, won't we?"
Marcus simply nodded, his gaze already drifting toward the distant doors of the grand hall where the ICC would begin.
* * *
Morning at the Ahn Estate...
The first light of dawn spilled gently across the Ahn estate, painting the marble walls in hues of gold and rose. Birds stirred among the trees, their faint chirping carried on the crisp morning air.
Ji Hoon stirred awake, blinking against the brightness that seeped through his curtains. With a quiet groan, he pushed himself up from the bed and stretched, his muscles relaxing as he let out a long breath.
He walked to the balcony, pushing open the glass doors. The morning wind rushed in, cool and refreshing, carrying with it the faint fragrance of the gardens below. Ji Hoon stepped out, his silver hair ruffling in the breeze, strands catching the sunlight like threads of liquid metal.
He leaned against the railing, gazing out at the horizon where the sun climbed higher, casting its glow across Valeria. For a long while, he just breathed, letting the silence sink into him.
"I guess… today is the prelims." His voice was quiet, almost swallowed by the wind.
He closed his eyes, listening to the world waking up—the rustle of leaves, the faint call of a distant bell in the city. His hands tightened slightly on the railing.
The breeze swept past him again, tugging gently at his hair, as if to urge him forward.
"I guess I should take this seriously."
The words lingered in the air, carried away on the morning wind, marking the beginning of the long-awaited Imperial Culinary Certification.