The kitchen incident happened three months after my third birthday, and it changed everything.
I'd been helping Claire make dinner—or rather, I'd been standing on my step stool next to the counter, "helping" in the way that three-year-olds help, which usually means making more work for the actual cook. She was attempting to make coq au vin, a classic French dish that I knew from my culinary knowledge should involve careful browning of the chicken, proper reduction of the wine sauce, and a delicate balance of herbs.
She was doing it wrong.
Not disastrously wrong. Claire was a competent home cook who could produce perfectly edible meals. But watching her work was like watching someone who'd learned to drive but never quite mastered the art of it—functional, but not elegant. Every movement was slightly inefficient, every choice just a bit off from optimal.
The culinary knowledge that had been slowly integrating into my consciousness over the past year had reached a critical mass. It wasn't just instinct anymore. It was complete understanding, like someone had downloaded an entire culinary education directly into my brain.
I could see what she was doing wrong. The chicken wasn't properly seared—she'd crowded the pan, lowering the temperature and causing the meat to steam instead of brown. The wine she'd chosen was too sweet, and she'd added it too early, not allowing the fond to develop properly. The bouquet garni was constructed incorrectly, with too much thyme overwhelming the other herbs.
"Mama," I said, watching her stir the sauce. "The chicken needs more hot first."
She looked down at me, smiling. "The chicken is cooking, mon chou. See? It's turning white."
"No, no. Before. Needs..." I struggled to find words that a three-year-old would know for the Maillard reaction. "Needs to be brown. Very brown. Then tastes better."
Claire's smile became more indulgent, the look of a parent humoring a child's imagination. "The recipe says to cook it until it's done, sweetie. White means it's cooked."
Frustration bubbled up inside me. I knew I was right. I had Eishi Tsukasa's complete culinary knowledge, the expertise of one of the greatest fictional chefs ever created, downloaded into my three-year-old brain. But I couldn't explain the science of protein denaturation and flavor compound development to my mother.
[System Note: Careful. You're about to reveal capabilities you shouldn't have.]
[But also... maybe it's time. The culinary knowledge was meant to be discovered eventually.]
[Your choice. Stay silent and watch mediocre coq au vin happen, or intervene and deal with the consequences.]
[Choose wisely.]
I looked at the sauce, at the pale chicken, at my mother's well-meaning but fundamentally flawed technique, and I made a decision.
"Mama, please. Can I show you?"
Something in my voice made her pause. Maybe it was the seriousness, the lack of typical childish wheedling. Maybe it was the way I was staring at the pan with intensity that didn't belong on a three-year-old's face.
"Show me what, baby?"
"Better way. Please?"
Claire studied me for a long moment, then did something I'll always be grateful for—she took me seriously. "Okay. Show me."
I pointed to the chicken pieces she'd already added to the pan. "Take out. Pat dry with paper. Very dry."
She followed my instructions, confusion clear on her face but willing to play along. Once the chicken was removed and dried, I had her heat the pan higher, much higher than she'd been comfortable with. When a drop of water sizzled and evaporated immediately, I nodded.
"Now put back. Don't move. Let it sit."
"Lance, it'll burn—"
"Won't burn. Trust me. Please, Mama."
She placed the chicken back in the pan, and I watched with satisfaction as proper searing began. The skin started to turn golden brown, crispy, developing the complex flavors that only the Maillard reaction could produce.
"When it's brown, then flip. Not before."
Claire was staring at me now, really staring, like she was seeing her son for the first time. But she followed my directions, waiting until the chicken developed a proper crust before turning it.
"Now," I continued, pointing to the wine bottle, "that wine is sweet. Need dry wine. Red wine, but dry. Check the back—says 'sec' or 'dry.'"
"How do you know—"
"Please, Mama. Different wine?"
She opened the wine cabinet and found a different bottle, showing me the label. I couldn't read yet—not supposed to, anyway—but I could recognize the words from my previous life's wine knowledge.
"That one. Good."
The transformation of the dish was remarkable. With proper searing, the right wine, and adjustments to the herb quantities that I guided through a combination of pointing and simple instructions, the coq au vin went from mediocre to genuinely impressive.
When Lawrence came home, the aroma of the dish hit him immediately. "Something smells incredible," he said, loosening his tie. "Claire, what are you making?"
Claire was still standing in the kitchen, staring at me like I'd just performed a magic trick. "I... Lance helped me."
"Lance helped?" Lawrence looked at me, then at the dish. "He's three, Claire."
"I know how old he is, Lawrence," she said quietly. "Come here. Taste this."
Lawrence walked to the stove, and Claire spooned some of the sauce for him to try. I watched his face as he tasted it, saw the surprise register in his expression.
"This is... this is restaurant quality, Claire. When did you learn to make coq au vin like this?"
"I didn't." She looked at me again. "Lance told me what to do. Every step. The temperature, the wine, the herbs. He knew things I didn't teach him. Things I don't know."
Lawrence set down the spoon and crouched to my level, his business-focused intensity now directed entirely at me. "Lance. How did you know how to make the chicken?"
I couldn't tell him the truth. I couldn't explain about reincarnation and God and downloaded culinary knowledge from an anime character. So I did what I'd learned to do over the past three years—I simplified to what a child might say.
"I just... I knew. Like how I know colors and numbers. I just know cooking."
"Since when?"
"Always?" I offered, which was technically sort of true from my perspective. "I like cooking. I watch Mama cook. I understand it."
It was the worst explanation possible, but I was three. Three-year-olds weren't expected to articulate the origins of their knowledge clearly.
Lawrence and Claire exchanged a long look, one of those married-couple telepathic conversations that happened without words.
"We should test this," Lawrence finally said. "See if it's just a one-time thing or if he actually understands cooking."
[System Note: Well. That went better than expected.]
[They're not calling an exorcist or questioning your existence. That's good.]
[They're treating it like you might be a prodigy child, which is manageable.]
[Current Status: Culinary Abilities - Partially Revealed]
[Cover Story: Child prodigy with unusual talents]
[Believability: Questionable but acceptable]
[Recommendation: Continue to demonstrate knowledge but keep it grounded in "instinct" rather than technical expertise you shouldn't have.]
Over the next few weeks, they tested me. Not formally, not like scientists studying a subject, but in the casual way parents investigate their children's abilities.
Claire would ask me questions while cooking. "Lance, should I add the garlic now or later?"
"Later," I'd say. "After onions are soft. Garlic burns fast."
Lawrence brought home ingredients and asked me what I'd make with them. I'd describe dishes, simplified to my vocabulary level but sophisticated in concept.
They invited Claire's parents over for dinner—my grandparents, who I was meeting for the second time in this life—and had me "help" make beef bourguignon. I guided Claire through the process, and my grandmother actually cried when she tasted it, saying it reminded her of her own mother's cooking.
"C'est un miracle," she kept saying. It's a miracle.
My grandfather was more skeptical. "The boy is three years old, Claire. Three. Children that age can barely use a spoon properly."
"I know, Papa. But taste it. He told me every step. The temperature to sear the beef, how long to reduce the wine, when to add each ingredient. He knew."
I sat in my booster seat, eating small pieces of beef that Claire had cut for me, and watched the adults process what I'd revealed. It was strange, being the subject of such intense attention, having people talk about you like you weren't there even though you understood every word.
[Age: 3 Years, 3 Months]
[Status: Culinary Prodigy (Official)]
[Family Response: Confused but supportive]
[Public Knowledge: None (yet)]
[Implications: This is going to complicate your life in unexpected ways]
[But also... you can cook now. Like, really cook. That's going to be useful.]
The cooking revelation had an unexpected side effect—Lawrence and Claire started paying more attention to my other interests and abilities. They'd always been attentive parents, but now they were watching me with new eyes, looking for other signs of unusual talent.
Which meant they noticed when I spent hours studying the toy cars in my room, lining them up in specific patterns that mimicked racing formations. They noticed when I watched racing on television with focus that went beyond normal childhood interest. They noticed when I started asking questions about how engines worked, why tires were different, what made some cars faster than others.
"He's not just interested," Lawrence told Claire one evening when they thought I was asleep. My bedroom door was cracked open, and their voices carried from the living room. "He's studying it. The way he studied cooking before we realized he could actually cook."
"He's three, Lawrence. He's too young to start racing."
"I know. But in a year or two... there are programs for young children. Kiddie karts, they call them. Battery-powered, very safe, just to teach basics."
"Racing is dangerous."
"So is cooking, if you think about it. Hot stoves, sharp knives. But you let him help you cook because he loves it and he's good at it." A pause. "What if he's meant to race, Claire? What if this is his gift?"
I listened to my mother's silence, could imagine her expression—the worry, the maternal instinct to protect warring with the desire to let her child pursue their passion.
"We'll see," she finally said. "Let's wait until he's four. If he's still this interested by then, we'll... we'll think about it."
It was a compromise, but it was enough. I had a timeline now. One more year of being too young, and then I could start actually driving.
[Mission Update: Karting Timeline Established]
[Target Age for First Kart: 4 Years Old]
[Current Age: 3 Years, 3 Months]
[Time Remaining: 9 Months]
[Preparation Phase: Accelerated Physical Training]
[Goal: Be as physically ready as possible when the opportunity comes]
The System took my preparation seriously. What appeared to my parents as normal childhood play was actually carefully structured training designed to build the specific physical capabilities I'd need for racing.
Playground time became reaction training. The System would flash targets in my vision—climb that ladder now, jump from the swing at this moment, catch that ball Chloe just threw. Everything was timed, measured, optimized for developing the split-second decision-making that racing required.
"He's so coordinated," other parents would comment, watching me navigate playground equipment with unusual grace. "Very athletic for his age."
Claire would smile proudly, not knowing that every movement I made was calculated, every action part of a training regimen designed by an AI system sent from God to help me become a racing driver.
Swimming lessons became endurance and breath control training. Lawrence had enrolled both Chloe and me in classes at a private club, thinking it was just a good life skill. For me, it was preparation for the physical demands of racing—the sustained exertion, the focus required when your body was under stress.
Even my time helping in the kitchen was training. The fine motor control needed for precise knife work (though I was only allowed to use child-safe knives), the spatial awareness required to organize ingredients, the timing and multitasking of managing multiple dishes simultaneously—all of it translated to skills I'd need in a racing car.
[Age: 3 Years, 6 Months - Developmental Assessment]
[Physical Capabilities:]
Coordination: 87th percentile for age Reaction Time: 92nd percentile for age Endurance: 85th percentile for age Fine Motor Control: 95th percentile for age (thanks to cooking practice) Gross Motor Control: 90th percentile for age
[Cognitive Capabilities:]
Problem Solving: Off the charts (but you're hiding this) Pattern Recognition: Exceptional Spatial Reasoning: Advanced Memory: Perfect (adult consciousness helps) Focus/Attention Span: Significantly above average
[Social Capabilities:]
Emotional Intelligence: Developing well Empathy: Much improved from previous life Communication: Advanced for age Friendship Formation: Normal/Good
[Special Skills:]
Culinary Arts: Expert level (Eishi Tsukasa integration complete) Racing Knowledge: Theoretical expert (no practical experience yet) Language: Fluent French/English, understanding both at adult level
[Overall Assessment: You're a very weird three-year-old, but you're pulling it off.]
My fourth birthday party was a bigger production than I'd expected. Claire had invited family friends, some of Lawrence's business associates with children, and what felt like half of Chloe's elementary school class. The house was full of people, noise, and more toys than any child could reasonably need.
But the gift I cared about came from Lawrence, presented after the cake was cut and the other children were running around hyped up on sugar.
"This is from your father and me," Claire said, helping me unwrap a large box. "We hope you like it."
Inside was a racing suit. A real one, properly fitted for a four-year-old, in red and white colors. Not a costume, not a toy—an actual piece of racing equipment.
"Papa..." I breathed, running my hands over the material. "For racing?"
Lawrence knelt beside me, his hand on my shoulder. "In two months, I'm taking you to a karting facility that has kiddie karts. Battery-powered, very safe, just to see if you like it. If you do, and if you're good at it, we'll talk about continuing."
I looked at Claire, who was smiling despite the worry in her eyes. "Mama?"
"If this is what you love, mon chou, then we'll support you. But you have to be safe. You have to listen to the instructors. And if it's too much, if you don't like it, that's okay too."
I hugged them both, overwhelmed with gratitude that I couldn't fully express. In my previous life, I'd had parents who loved me but never understood my passion for racing. They'd seen it as a waste of time, a distraction from "real" career paths.
Now I had parents who were willing to support my dreams, even when those dreams involved their four-year-old driving racing karts.
"Thank you," I said, and meant it with every fiber of my being. "Thank you thank you thank you."
Chloe appeared beside us, grinning. "You're going to be so fast, Lance. Faster than anyone. I know it."
"Will you come watch?" I asked her.
"Of course! I told you I'd come to all your races, remember?"
[System Note: You've got a good family.]
[In your previous life, you were alone. Here, you're surrounded by people who believe in you.]
[Don't waste it.]
[And try not to crash too much when you finally get in that kart.]
[Though honestly, you probably will crash. Everyone crashes at first.]
[Just try to make them learning experiences rather than hospitalization experiences.]
The two months until my first karting session felt longer than the previous four years combined. I spent them preparing in every way I could. Physical training intensified—more swimming, more playground time, more activities designed to build strength and coordination. Claire started teaching me to read properly, though I had to pretend I was learning rather than remembering. Lawrence took me to watch more racing events, local competitions and even a professional race weekend when his business took him to Europe.
And I cooked. Almost every day, I'd spend time in the kitchen with Claire, creating dishes that impressed visiting relatives and occasionally made my mother cry because, as she put it, "a four-year-old shouldn't be able to make béarnaise sauce."
But I could. I could make béarnaise, hollandaise, demi-glace, and any other mother sauce you could name. I could butcher a chicken, properly, explaining the process in my limited vocabulary while demonstrating knife skills that made my grandfather nervously suggest maybe sharp knives weren't appropriate for children.
"He's more careful with them than I am," Claire defended, which was true. My fine motor control was exceptional, and my adult consciousness meant I understood knife safety in ways most actual children didn't.
The cooking had become my outlet, my way of processing the strange reality of my existence. In the kitchen, I could be competent. I could demonstrate skills without raising too many questions. People expected chefs to be a little odd, to have unusual knowledge and instincts. A child prodigy chef was unusual, but explainable.
A child who knew racing lines, tire degradation patterns, and optimal brake points would have been much harder to explain.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the day came.
I woke up before dawn, too excited to sleep, and found Lawrence already awake, drinking coffee in the kitchen.
"Big day," he said, smiling at my obvious excitement.
"Big day," I agreed, climbing into the chair next to him.
"Nervous?"
I considered the question. Was I nervous? I had the theoretical knowledge of racing but zero practical experience in this body. I was four years old, probably the youngest person who'd be at the facility. I could fail. I could be terrible at it, despite all my confidence and preparation.
"Little bit nervous," I admitted. "But excited more."
"That's good. Nerves are normal. They mean you care." Lawrence took a sip of his coffee. "Lance, I want you to understand something. Today isn't about being the best or the fastest. Today is about seeing if you enjoy it. If you do, we'll continue. If you don't, that's okay too."
"I'll enjoy it," I said with absolute certainty.
"You sound very sure."
"I am sure. This is... this is what I'm supposed to do."
It was the most honest thing I'd said since being reborn. This was what I was supposed to do. God had given me this second chance specifically to prove I could do what I'd claimed. Racing wasn't just a hobby or an interest—it was my purpose in this life.
Lawrence studied me with that intense focus he usually reserved for business negotiations. "Then let's go find out what you can do."
The karting facility was different from the one we'd visited when I was two. This one specialized in children's programs, with smaller karts, simplified tracks, and instructors trained to work with young drivers.
Claire had decided to come, despite her obvious anxiety. Chloe was practically bouncing with excitement, wearing a homemade banner that said "GO LANCE!" in glitter letters.
An instructor named Marc greeted us, a cheerful man in his thirties who immediately crouched to my level. "You must be Lance. Ready to drive your first kart?"
"Very ready," I confirmed.
He laughed. "I like the enthusiasm. Let's get you suited up."
The racing suit fit perfectly. Lawrence had clearly had it tailored specifically for me. With the helmet on, I could barely see over the steering wheel of the kiddie kart, but I didn't care. I was in a racing suit, in a kart, at a track.
This was everything.
"Okay, Lance," Marc said, helping me into the seat. "This is a very simple kart. It's electric, so there's no gears or clutch to worry about. This pedal makes you go, this pedal makes you stop. The steering wheel turns the kart. That's it."
He explained the basics of the track layout, the flags and their meanings, basic safety protocols. I absorbed it all, nodding seriously, while internally I was screaming with excitement.
[System Note: Moment of truth.]
[All that theoretical knowledge is about to meet practical reality.]
[Let's see if you're actually any good at this, or if you were just another keyboard warrior pretending to know more than you did.]
[No pressure.]
[Driving Protocol: Activated]
[Spatial Awareness: Enhanced]
[Reaction Time: Optimized]
[Muscle Memory Formation: Accelerated]
[Try not to crash into anything on your first lap.]
[That would be embarrassing.]
Marc started the kart, and I felt it hum to life beneath me. Even electric, even a kiddie kart, it was power. It was control. It was possibility.
"Remember, gentle with everything," Marc instructed. "Smooth steering, smooth braking. Just focus on staying on track for now, okay? Speed will come later."
I nodded, gripping the steering wheel with hands that were shaking slightly—though whether from nerves or excitement, I couldn't tell.
"Alright," Marc said, stepping back. "Go ahead. Nice and easy."
I pressed the accelerator.
The kart moved forward, slowly at first, responding to my input. I felt the steering, how it responded to pressure, how much force was needed to turn. The weight distribution was different than I'd imagined, lower, more planted than I'd expected.
I approached the first corner, remembered everything I'd ever learned about racing lines, and tried to apply it.
Turn in point here. Apex there. Accelerate on exit.
The kart wobbled slightly as I misjudged the steering input, but I corrected, finding the rhythm. The next corner was better. The one after that, better still.
By the third lap, something clicked.
My body and mind synchronized, muscle memory forming in real-time thanks to the System's assistance. The theoretical knowledge I'd accumulated in my previous life merged with the physical experience of actually driving, and suddenly I wasn't just driving a kart.
I was racing.
I could feel the grip of the tires, sense the balance of the chassis, understand how my inputs affected the kart's behavior. The racing line appeared in my mind's eye like a illuminated path, and I followed it with increasing precision.
Lap after lap, getting faster, smoother, more confident.
I was aware of Marc watching, of my family standing at the fence, but they faded into background noise. There was only the track, the kart, and the pure joy of driving.
This was what I'd dreamed about. This was what I'd spent thousands of hours watching other people do. And now, finally, impossibly, I was doing it.
I was racing.
[Lap Time Analysis:]Lap 1: 1:47.3 (slow, learning)]Lap 2: 1:42.8 (improving)]Lap 3: 1:38.4 (finding rhythm)]Lap 4: 1:35.9 (confidence building)]Lap 5: 1:34.1 (consistent)]Lap 6: 1:33.8 (you're actually good at this)]Lap 7: 1:33.2 (you're really good at this)]Lap 8: 1:32.9 (okay, I'm impressed)]
[Current Status: Natural talent confirmed]
[Or maybe it's not natural—maybe it's the combination of adult consciousness, theoretical knowledge, System assistance, and preparation.]
[Either way, you're not crashing, and you're getting faster.]
[Mission Status: Success]
After ten laps, Marc waved me in. I didn't want to stop—I wanted to keep driving forever—but I followed his signal and brought the kart to the pit area.
The moment I stopped, my family rushed over. Chloe was jumping up and down, Lawrence was smiling in a way I'd never seen before, and Claire was wiping her eyes.
"That was amazing!" Chloe shouted. "You were so fast!"
Marc helped me out of the kart, and I noticed he was looking at me differently now. "Lance... have you driven karts before?"
"No. First time."
"Are you sure? Because that was... that wasn't normal for a first-time driver, especially not a four-year-old."
Lawrence stepped forward. "This was his first time in any kind of vehicle. Why?"
Marc scratched his head, looking between me and the track. "By lap eight, he was running consistent lap times that some of our eight-year-olds with months of experience can't match. His racing line was nearly perfect. His corner entry speeds were optimal. He was... well, he was driving like someone who'd been training for years."
"Is that bad?" Claire asked worriedly.
"Bad? No. It's extraordinary. It's..." Marc crouched down to look at me again. "Lance, can you tell me what you were thinking about out there? While you were driving?"
I thought about how to explain it in terms a four-year-old would use. "I was thinking about the best way to go fast. Where to turn, when to slow down, when to speed up. It just... made sense. Like cooking."
"Like cooking," Marc repeated, shaking his head in amazement. "Mr. Stroll, your son is incredibly talented. If you're interested in pursuing this, I'd recommend getting him into a proper training program as soon as possible. He has real potential."
I saw the exact moment my future crystallized in Lawrence's eyes. This wasn't just a passing interest anymore. This wasn't just a rich father humoring his son's hobby. This was real. This was potential.
This was the beginning of everything.
"How soon can we start?" Lawrence asked.
[Mission Update: Racing Career - Officially Launched]
[Age: 4 Years Old]
[First Drive: Completed Successfully]
[Talent Level: Confirmed Exceptional]
[Parental Support: Fully Activated]
[Path Forward: Clear]
[Welcome to your racing career, Lance Stroll.]
[This is where it really begins.]
To be continued...
Author's Note: Chapter 4 covers ages 3-4 years old, featuring the revelation of Lance's cooking abilities and his first time driving a kart. Major milestones achieved: culinary prodigy status established, family support secured, natural racing talent confirmed. Next chapter will likely cover his early karting training (ages 4-5), first competitions, and building his reputation as an unusual but undeniable talent. The foundation is fully laid—now we start building the racing career.