The sharp rhythm of knives against a cutting board echoed through the kitchen like music. Tak-tak-tak.
Steam rose from simmering pots, carrying with it the earthy aroma of mushrooms and the sweet tang of reduced wine. Stainless steel counters gleamed under warm lights, and the bustle of cooks moved like a perfectly choreographed dance.
At the center of it all stood Emilia Kato, her dark hair tied neatly beneath a chef's cap, a white uniform spotless despite the chaos around her. She isn't just the head chef of La Brume, Sapporo's most prestigious French restaurant, she's its beating heart. Today, she's fighting to win t23rd Japan National Gourmet Grand Prix in Tokyo.
"Venison mains and scallop entrée!" called her assistant.
"Fire them!" Emilia replied sharply, her voice calm but commanding.
To outsiders, the way she cooked and directed her assistant looked like chaos: a battlefield of flame and steel, sweat and adrenaline. To Emilia, it's a familiar routine, something she loves to do. Every scent, every sizzle, and every carefully timed motion filled her with thrill and happiness. Here on the stage, she isn't just cooking; she's creating an art.
After two grueling hours, fighting against three more finalist s, the contest finally ended, and the spotlight burned bright, blinding Emilia Kato as she stood at center stage, her breath caught in her throat. The towering LED screen above her displayed the bold, big words: "Winner of the 23rd Japan National Gourmet Grand Prix—Emilia Kato!"
The roar of the crowd is deafening. Journalists surged forward with cameras flashing like fireworks, while the hosts cheered and confetti rained down from above. Emilia stood frozen for a heartbeat, clutching the heavy golden trophy handed to her by one of Japan's most famous celebrity chefs. Her heart raced. She had dreamed of this moment since childhood, and now it was real.
"La Brume," she whispered under her breath, thinking of her restaurant back home in Sapporo. This victory didn't belong to her alone; it belonged to her entire team, who had stayed behind to keep the restaurant running while she competed.
For the final round, she had presented a dish inspired by both her heritage and her home: Hokkaido venison medallions, paired with a delicate lavender sauce and accompanied by a consommé infused with yuzu and wild mushrooms. French technique met Japanese ingredients, creating a harmony of flavor that had stunned the judges into silence before they erupted into unanimous praise.
One of the judges had even been brought to tears, overwhelmed by the flawless execution of her cooking and plating. It wasn't just skill they were tasting, it was something transcendent. Emilia had created a flavor that bridged two worlds, a harmonious fusion of French techniques and Japanese ingredients. It was a taste that couldn't be found anywhere else in Japan, one that spoke to both palates: the refined tongue of the Westerner and the subtle sensibilities of the Japanese.
"Chef Emilia!" a reporter shouted, snapping her from her daze. "How does it feel to be crowned the best chef in Japan?"
"It's… surreal," Emilia managed, forcing a smile even as her mind reeled. "This has been my dream since I was a little girl. I'm honored to represent Hokkaido's incredible ingredients on a national stage."
The cameras flashed faster. "Will you aim for the world stage next?" another reporter asked eagerly.
Emilia hesitated. Her ambition had always burned hot, but right now, all she wanted was to return to her kitchen, to create without the noise and spectacle.
"We'll see," she said with practiced politeness.
After the whirlwind of interviews, congratulations, and handshakes, Emilia finally slipped away to the quiet backstage corridor. Her legs trembled from exhaustion as she leaned against the wall, clutching her trophy to her chest.
"I've done it! Mom! I've done it!" She's now the youngest chef in Japan to win the Grand Prix.
But even as pride swelled in her heart, a part of her longed for something simpler. The stage lights, the fame, and the applause, they aren't why she cooked.
She cooked for flavor. For joy. For the look on someone's face when they tasted something truly extraordinary.
"Emilia!" Her manager, Akihiko, jogged up to her, his face flushed. "We need to get to Haneda Airport soon. Your flight back to Sapporo leaves in two hours."
"Right," she said, shaking herself. The contest had been held in Tokyo, and while she loved the bustling metropolis, she couldn't wait to return to Sapporo's crisp northern air and the familiar warmth of La Brume again. Her team would be waiting, and she had promised them a celebratory feast.
Akihiko hailed a taxi, and soon they're gliding through Tokyo's busy streets. The city lights blurred past the window as Emilia rested her head against the cool glass, the trophy cradled in her lap.
"Everyone's talking about you," Akihiko said, scrolling through his phone. "The media's calling you the 'Northern Star of Cuisine.' Reservations at the restaurant are already booked solid for the next six months."
Emilia groaned. "Six months? My poor staff."
"Poor staff? Poor you, Emilia," Akihiko said with a laugh. "You're about to be swamped."
She smiled faintly, but her mind was elsewhere. A thought nagged at her, the image of the judges' faces as they tasted her dish and the raw emotion in their reactions. She had reached the pinnacle of her field in Japan, but what came next? Another contest? More fame? It all felt hollow, somehow.
Maybe she needed something new. A challenge she hadn't yet imagined.
-
Haneda Airport is still packed, even at night. Emilia checked in quickly, her first-class ticket a gift from the contest organizers. After a brief goodbye, Akihiko waved her through security, promising to handle the press back in Tokyo.
The flight to Sapporo is only an hour and a half. Emilia settled into her seat, exhaustion finally catching up to her. As the plane lifted off, she gazed out the window at the glittering sprawl of Tokyo below, then closed her eyes. Sleep claimed her almost instantly.
When Emilia woke, the first thing she noticed is silence and darkness. The steady hum of the plane engines is gone. The soft murmur of fellow passengers had vanished. Confused, she shifted in her seat, only to find that the soft leather beneath her hands had turned to rough dirt.
Her eyes flew open. "Did the plane crash?" She muttered.
Only to find out that she isn't on a plane anymore, she's lying on the ground, surrounded by large scary trees whose branches clawed at a dusky, unfamiliar sky. The crisp scent of snow is gone, replaced by the heavy, damp smell of earth and smoke.
"What the—" Emilia scrambled to her feet, heart pounding. She can see that her clothes are different from what she wears today, and her trophy is nowhere to be seen. In its place, only the knife roll she always carried in her bag remained, lying beside her as though someone, or something, had decided that is all she would need.
"Hello?" she called, voice shaking. "Is anyone there?" No answer. Only the distant howl of some animal she didn't recognize.
Panic surged through her. She staggered forward, trying to get her bearings, and stumbled upon a narrow dirt path. Following it, she emerged into a clearing and froze. A village lay before her, its crude huts made of mud and straw. Smoke rose from a central bonfire, where figures in rough animal-hide clothing moved about. Bronze tools glinted faintly in the firelight.
Emilia's breath caught. It's like something out of an archaeological exhibit, except it is alive. One of the villagers spotted her and shouted. Heads turned.Conversations stopped. A group of men grabbed spears and advanced cautiously, their language strange and guttural, but strangely she seemed to understand them.
Emilia backed away, raising her hands. "Wait! I don't mean any harm!"
The men hesitated, clearly not understanding her words. Then one of them lunged forward. Emilia screamed, and a strange warmth flared in her chest. A burst of light erupted from her body, sending the villagers stumbling back in shock. They fell to their knees, shouting in reverent tones. Though Emilia couldn't hear their words because of the ringing in her ears, their meaning is clear: they thought she is some kind of divine being.
"No, no, no," Emilia whispered, trembling. "This isn't real. This can't be real."
But as she stared at the crude village, the strange sky, and the kneeling people, one horrifying truth sank in. She is no longer in Tokyo or Sapporo, or even Japan. She isn't even in her own time. Somehow, somewhere between Tokyo and home, Emilia Kato had been transported to another world, one still stuck in the Bronze Age.
And there is no going back.