The air in the National Library of France was thick with the scent of aging paper and quiet dignity—a smell Lee Ji Hoon had come to associate with solitude.
A profound, hollow silence filled the grand halls, broken only by the soft, rhythmic shuff-shuff of a librarian reshelving volumes in a distant aisle and the occasional, absent-minded hum from a student buried in their work.
Lee Ji Hoon moved through the towering rows of shelves like a ghost, his fingers lightly brushing against the spines of countless books on culinary technique and history.
He was supposed to be researching the regional variations of soupe à l'oignon for his patisserie's new winter menu, but his heart wasn't in it today. The dense texts on French cuisine felt as heavy and impenetrable as lead.
A restless energy pulled him away from the culinary section. His lazy, brown eyes—usually alight with creative fire—drifted with a weary lack of focus across the neighboring aisles.
They skimmed past philosophy, history, and poetry until his gaze snagged, almost involuntarily, on a single, unassuming spine. The gold-leaf lettering was faded but clear: À la recherche du temps perdu.
In Search of Lost Time.
A wry, almost imperceptible smile touched his lips. He'd heard of it, of course—Marcel Proust's legendary, multi-volume monument to memory.
Everyone had. It was one of those books people namedropped to sound intelligent, but few had actually endured its sprawling, introspective depths.
He'd always meant to read it, but there was never time. There was only ever the next recipe to perfect, the next dessert to create.
Today, however, the title felt less like an assignment and more like an invitation.
Curiosity overriding his ennui, he carefully slid the heavy volume from its place on the shelf. The cover was cool and slightly rough beneath his fingertips.
He found an empty wooden carrel, the surface worn smooth by generations of scholars, and sat down with a soft sigh.
He began flipping through the pages, the prose washing over him in a dense, lyrical stream. At first, it was exactly as he'd expected: beautiful, but meandering. He couldn't pinpoint a clear plot or a direct message. It was like trying to grasp smoke.
Then, he reached a specific passage.
His idle flipping stopped. His posture, previously slumped in his chair, straightened almost imperceptibly.
His eyes, which had been scanning the words, now seized them. He was captivated. The world around him—the whispered conversations, the scent of old books, the weight of his own troubles—all of it faded into a dull hum.
A shiver, profound and unexpected, ran down Ji Hoon's spine.
For any true cook, the ultimate, unspoken dream was to create a dish that could transcend mere sustenance. It was the desire to craft a flavor that could evoke a specific, profound emotion—a sense of comfort, a spark of joy, or a wave of nostalgia that reached into the very soul.
Yet, this dream was a near impossibility, a beautiful fantasy whispered over steaming pots. In the end, a dish was just food, served to be eaten and forgotten. It could bring a moment of pleasure, but to deliberately orchestrate a memory or mend a heartache through taste alone felt like alchemy.
To believe a simple recipe could hold such power was considered foolish, the secret, sacred wish of every artist who worked in the fleeting medium of flavor, knowing their masterpiece was destined to be consumed and gone.
And as Ji Hoon read the text, the descriptions and that dish; he wondered if he too can one day make something like that.
* * *
The scent of old paper and profound longing dissolved, replaced by a wave of dry, blistering heat.
Ji Hoon blinked, the ghost of a forgotten library in his past life fading from his mind as his reality snapped back to the roaring arena. His hands, moving on instinct, were already wrapped in thick oven cloths.
He pulled the oven door open. A fragrant, spicy cloud billowed out, carrying the intoxicating scent of toasted butter, dark rum, and the unique, almost rosy perfume of the tamed Rosaline Flour.
Inside, the Madeleines were perfect.
Each one was a beautiful, golden-brown shell, crowned with a proud, distinct hump. They looked simple, but he knew the battle fought to create them.
He set the hot pans on his station with a soft clatter, the aroma wrapping around him like a promise. His eyes flicked to the giant clock.
He set the hot pans on his station with a soft clatter, the aroma wrapping around him like a promise. His eyes flicked to the giant clock.
00:03:12
Just enough time.
He couldn't let them cool. The glaze had to be applied now, while they were still warm, so it would melt slightly and form a seamless, glossy shell.
He grabbed a small ceramic bowl, his movements swift but deliberate. He poured in a mound of fine, white powdered sugar, creating a small crater in the center.
Then, he reached for his dark rum. He didn't measure, his past life's experience guiding his hand as he poured a single, steady stream into the sugar's center.
He seized a small whisk, his wrist moving in tight, fast circles. The clear, dark rum and the white sugar swirled together, fighting for a moment before merging into a smooth, opaque, ivory-colored paste.
The sharp, alcoholic scent of the rum rose to meet the warm, cakey smell from the pastries, creating a complex and enticing bouquet.
He selected a soft-bristled pastry brush, dipping it into the glaze. He tapped it lightly against the rim of the bowl to remove the excess, his eyes already scanning the tray of madeleines. He needed to work fast, but with a light touch.
Starting with the one in the front corner, he laid down a single, fluid stroke of glaze across its humped back.
The warm cake accepted it greedily, the glaze melting on contact and setting into a thin, shimmering coat that made the shell glisten under the bright stage lights. He moved down the row, his brushstrokes quick and economical—dip, tap, stroke, next.
With each one he finished, the timer on the Light Box seemed to shrink more rapidly.
00:00:23
He finished the last one on the first tray and moved to the second.
00:00:11
His heart hammered in his chest, a counter-rhythm to the crowd's roaring countdown. He could hear Master Guy's voice beginning to boom over the din.
00:00:05
He laid the final stroke on the final madeleine.
00:00:03
He dropped the brush back into the bowl with a clatter and, with steady hands despite the adrenaline, selected the most perfectly shaped madeleine from the center of the first tray.
He placed it alone on a simple, pristine white plate, the golden-brown shell and its delicate glaze standing in stark, beautiful contrast.
00:00:01
He took two full steps back from his station, his hands raised slightly in a gesture of completion, just as the resonant chime echoed through the dome.
[ TIME'S UP! ] Master Guy's voice cut through the final cheer. [ Contestants, step away from your stations and present your final dishes! The judgment for the second duel begins now! ]
With Master Guy's booming announcement, the first two contestants, Master Albian and Eira Frost, stepped forward to present their dishes.
Master Albian, the picture of royal composure, placed his dish before the judges. He presented a "Daryoles," a classic medieval custard tart.
The filling, rich with cream, eggs, and honey, was flecked with real vanilla bean and a precious dusting of cinnamon, all encased in a fine, sturdy pastry crust called a coffyn.
It was burnished to a perfect golden-brown, its surface delicately decorated with slivered almonds. The aroma was deeply comforting, a timeless scent of sweet spice and baked cream that spoke of generations of royal kitchens.
Eira Frost followed, her movements silent and precise. Her dish was a "Snowe," a elegant frozen dessert of sweetened, whipped cream, stiffened with egg white and rosewater, then sculpted into a graceful, cloud-like mound.
It was served on a chilled slate, adorned with edible silver leaf and a drizzle of tart berry verjuice that cut through the richness. It was a testament to control and access to rare ice-houses, a dish of stunning, delicate beauty that showcased luxury and technical finesse.
Mistress Albertine tasted the Daryoles first. The custard was sublime—smooth, rich, and perfectly set, the honey and spice melding into a warm, familiar harmony. It was a dessert that had stood the test of time for a reason. She gave a slight, approving nod to Albian.
Then, she sampled Eira's Snowe. The texture was miraculously light and cold, the rosewater providing a floral brightness that was both ancient and refreshing. It was a brilliant execution of a difficult technique, a display of sheer, prodigious talent that impressed the seasoned judge.
But as the chill of the Snowe faded from her palate, the warm, lingering comfort of the Daryoles remained.
Eira's dish was a perfect winter's morning, breathtaking but fleeting.
Albian's was a glowing hearth on a cold night—its warmth sank deeper.
His dessert possessed a profound, settled mastery that only decades of experience could impart. The scores flashed on the Light Box, confirming the split-second decision.
Albian Vs. Eira: 17 - 16
It was over. Eira gave the barest nod of acceptance and turned away. Albian let out a quiet breath, the victory earned by the thinnest of margins.
Now, it was time for Ji Hoon and Helene.
They moved forward and placed their dishes on the table. But unlike before, the judges' attention was not divided.
Both Mistress Albertine and Master Marcus fixed their gaze solely on Ji Hoon's single, glazed Madeleine.
Helene's intricately molded Rys Lumbarde, a classic, prestigious dessert from the medieval era—a rich, spiced rice pudding. A masterpiece of tradition, was utterly ignored.
A small, challenging smile touched Albertine's lips as she looked from the humble cake to Master Marcus, who met her gaze with his own stoic, calculating look.
Ji Hoon, simply standing there, had no idea that his small, shell-shaped cake had become a battlefield for their clashing ideologies.