Chapter 1: The Book
“His Majesty approaches!”
The resonant voice of the Sangseon, head of the eunuch department, echoed through the hall, and the assembled civil and military officials in Geunjeongjeon bowed their heads in unison, a rustle of deference filling the air.
Silence descended, heavy and expectant, over the vast chamber. At its center, elevated on the highest dais, stood the dragon throne. A man strode toward it with bold, purposeful steps. Draped carelessly in a crimson silk robe embroidered with golden dragons, he was the undeniable focal point of this space—indeed, of the entire kingdom. Everything revolved around him.
The high-ranking officials, adorned in their ceremonial caps and sashes, fixed their attention on him, hanging on the edge of anticipation. What command would fall from his lips? It was no small thing—his words had shifted the course of the nation’s affairs more than once. No, more than that. Perhaps, at this very moment, one among them might lose their head.
A tense, prickling silence stretched on, like sitting on a cushion of thorns, until at last, the man’s voice rumbled low, reverberating through the hall.
“…Remarkable.”
His first words, delivered as he lounged upon the throne.
“Soft yet sweet, sharp yet thrilling, tart yet refreshing, with a hint of the briny woven into its vibrant harmony—a new sensation, embracing every contradiction and balance…”
The officials, heads still bowed, could not see his expression. His voice alone carried the weight of his thoughts—sensual, fervent, like a young poet reciting verse.
“And so, We have decided.”
Shiiing.
The chilling sound of a sword being drawn sliced through the stillness of the hall. It was said to be his habit, wasn’t it? To personally unsheathe his blade at moments of great import. The man in the crimson dragon robe stepped forward, the gleaming edge of his sword flashing as he moved.
He stopped before a lone woman, kneeling like an isolated island in the desolate expanse of the hall’s stone floor.
“This woman, here and now…”
As the cold glint of the blade reflected on the ground, the woman squeezed her eyes shut. Was this how she would meet her end?
But then—
“…shall be appointed as the Daeryeongsuksu of the royal kitchen.”
The unexpected words rang out. Daeryeongsuksu? The highest chef in the palace, tasked with preparing the king’s meals? Murmurs of shock rippled through the officials filling the hall, but the man in the crimson robe paid them no mind, continuing as if their whispers were irrelevant.
“From this day forward, you shall cook for Us without fail. However!”
His voice sharpened.
“Should you serve the same dish even once, you will face the severest punishment. Know this.”
The woman’s mind reeled, dizziness overtaking her. This strange place, this bewildering situation, and this man standing before her, his sword pointed in her direction, clad in his crimson dragon robe. Where had it all gone wrong? Was it from that day, now a distant memory, though it was only a few days ago?
Beep-beep-beep.
“Cinq minutes avant la fin.”
Five minutes remaining.
The mechanical announcement blared, and the scoreboard lit up. A cacophony of foreign languages buzzed in the ears of contestant number 32, Yeon Jiyeong. But she couldn’t afford to lose focus now.
“Breathe. Slowly. Just as you prepared.”
Jiyeong steadied herself with a deep breath and turned up the heat on the induction range. The dish was nearly complete—searing the surface at high heat would seal the deal. But the red indicator light, which should have flared to life, remained dim. Something was wrong.
“…?”
She pressed the button repeatedly, but the range refused to heat.
It’s broken!
The realization hit her like a jolt, her fingertips trembling. Less than five minutes remained. Excuses about faulty equipment wouldn’t hold water here. She had to finish the dish, no matter what.
There’s only one way.
Jiyeong opened a wooden box on the table, pulling out the contents. Hanji paper and straw rope, used to pack ingredients she’d brought from Korea. She rubbed the rope between her palms, unraveling it into loose straw, then stuffed it into a pot along with scraps of the hanji. Igniting a torch, she set the bundle ablaze, and flames leapt up, smoke curling into the air.
She’d heard that starting a fire in a studio filled with lighting and camera equipment was against the rules. But was this really the time to worry about regulations?
“Hey, what are you doing?” a staff member with a headset rushed over, voice sharp with alarm.
Jiyeong snapped back, “Can’t you see? I’m cooking!”
That stubborn, bullheaded streak—the one she’d been criticized for countless times at culinary school—reared its head. Ignoring the stunned staff member, she placed a small grill over the burning straw in the pot. She laid her prepared ingredients on top and covered it with a lid.
Hiss.
The sound of the ingredients searing over the straw fire filled the air. Sweat beaded on Jiyeong’s forehead.
“One minute remaining.”
Time for the garnish. She stirred a velouté sauce—a creamy blend of cream and bean broth—until it frothed like velvet, then spooned it onto the dish. Next, she delicately placed a tuile, a thin, crisp wafer made with misugaru, atop the sauce, letting it float like a leaf on water.
Now, the final touch—her secret weapon. She opened a jar, and a sweet, fragrant aroma burst forth, so potent it drew sidelong glances from the neighboring station. Scooping a spoonful of the golden, viscous liquid, she drizzled it over the dish, painting an abstract masterpiece on the plate.
Beeep.
The signal for the end sounded.
This was Paris, France. The studio where the Cuisiner d’Or, the world’s most prestigious culinary competition, was being broadcast live. Chefs from over fifty countries had poured their all into their dishes within the tight time limit, and the battle had just concluded.
And there, at the heart of it all, stood contestant number 32, Yeon Jiyeong—the only Korean participant.
That man…
As the judging panel ascended the stage to evaluate the dishes, Jiyeong’s breath caught. Among them was a white-haired man, his gaze sharp and discerning, examining her dish as if appraising a priceless porcelain artifact.
Countless chefs revered him as an idol, the living god of cuisine, Alain Bocuse. From this moment on, every judgment rested solely in his hands. His approach to food was nothing short of divine. As he placed a morsel in his mouth, closing his eyes to savor it like a fine vintage wine, rolling it slowly, deliberately, he exuded an aura that hushed the onlookers. Every taste bud, every nerve in his palate and nose, seemed mobilized to dissect the dish—its texture, its aroma, its essence. Yet, that was all. No words of critique followed, no shift in his expression betrayed his thoughts.
God, I’m so nervous I might pass out.
The closer his meticulous, cold appraisal came to her table, the faster Jiyeong’s heart raced. When her turn finally arrived, she caught sight of the staff member who had scolded her earlier whispering something into Bocuse’s ear. She didn’t need to hear it to know—undoubtedly, they were reporting her use of forbidden straw fire in the studio.
Her stomach churned with dread, but outwardly, she maintained a calm, steady voice. “Hanwoo beef, cooked sous-vide and braised with shiitake mushrooms in a three-hundred-year-old heirloom soy sauce, then smoked over straw fire. The dish is finished with a sauce made from tangerine extract, fermented for four years from a five-hundred-year-old tangerine tree.”
A flicker of intrigue briefly crossed the face of the “God of Cuisine” as he listened to her explanation. He scooped a spoonful of her dish, placed it in his mouth, and closed his eyes. The brief moment he savored it stretched agonizingly, Jiyeong’s nerves fraying with each passing second. Then, abruptly, he opened his eyes. For a fleeting instant, Jiyeong felt their gazes lock—his piercing blue eyes meeting hers. A cryptic, unreadable expression played across his face before he turned, impassive, and moved to the next table.
What happened next felt like a dream.
“This year’s Cuisiner d’Or champion, Mademoiselle Yeon Jiyeong from Korea!”
The following day, headlines across the world trumpeted the name of an unfamiliar Korean woman. Beneath them, Alain Bocuse’s critique was quoted: “This young female chef from Korea has connected two worlds—ancient Korea and modern France—through her cuisine. That connection delivers an astonishing experience, pulling the diner into an entirely new realm.”
[“Is this Yeon Jiyeong?”]
A stiff voice crackled through the phone. The Korean number suggested another media outlet.
“Yes, that’s me. I’m sorry, but could we do interviews via email?” Jiyeong responded halfheartedly, rummaging through the chaos of her room for clothes. Her phone had been ringing with interview requests since morning, but she had no time to waste. She was preparing for a meeting with Alain Bocuse’s team, who had offered her the position of sous-chef at his Michelin three-star restaurant—the dream of every chef worldwide.
As she slipped into a sharp blazer and glanced at her reflection, the voice on the other end of her earbuds continued. [“Your father is Yeon Seungwoo, correct?”]
“Yes, that’s right.”
A strange unease settled over her. Why were they asking about her father? Her gaze drifted to a small framed photo on her desk: a teenage Jiyeong in her school uniform, standing beside a stern-faced, middle-aged man in horn-rimmed glasses. A moderately well-known historian, often featured on educational TV programs, but to Jiyeong, he was distant, unapproachable. Buried in old books, uninterested in anything else, she thought.
It had started after her mother’s sudden death. Her father had thrown himself into his research on ancient texts with an almost obsessive fervor. And then, that incident happened. In his study, Jiyeong had stumbled upon an old book he’d been translating: Mangunrok, the “Record of Cloud-Gazing.” Found in a dusty pile at a Hwanghak-dong bookstore, its author unknown, the book contained something unimaginable—a collection of recipes from a bygone era.
What is this feeling?
From that day, the book’s contents haunted her, circling endlessly in her mind. Eventually, she began recreating its recipes, watching centuries-old instructions come to life through her hands. It was as if the book’s long-dead author guided her across time and space. That experience had changed her life irrevocably.
“If I get a perfect score on the college entrance exam, you said I could live my life as I choose, right?” she had declared, waving her flawless transcript. Her choice: to forgo university and study cuisine in France. That day, her father slapped her for the first time, and she stormed out of the house.
That was seven years ago. She had vowed never to return to Korea.
“…What’s this about?” she asked the voice on the phone.
[“I’m sorry to break this to you so suddenly…”] The voice was dry, clinical. [“Your father, Yeon Seungwoo, has fallen into a coma.”]
On the highway to Charles de Gaulle Airport, Jiyeong pressed the accelerator. The Parisian sunset glinted in the rearview mirror of her rental car. How could she describe this feeling? The voice on the phone had warned that her father might not survive more than a few days. She had thought herself detached, that their severed bond would leave her unmoved. Yet, her heart was a tangle of emotions.
That book he found—it’s what led to all of this.
Her memories were inextricably tied to the Mangunrok, to the moment she first read its faded pages. From her days chopping vegetables in culinary school to last night’s victory celebration, and now this sudden call about her father, a cascade of memories flashed by like a panorama. Alain Bocuse’s words about “connecting two worlds” echoed in her mind—perhaps it wasn’t her, but her father’s book that bridged those realms.
There’s something I never got to tell him.
If she returned to Korea, would she find the words she’d always owed him?
At that moment, a searing pain stabbed through her head, sharp as a blade. This was no ordinary headache—she knew it instinctively. A piercing ache burrowed deep into her brain’s core. Her vision blurred. Images flooded her mind: the weathered text of the Mangunrok, vibrant French dishes, and a rush of memories spinning like a kaleidoscope, merging into a grotesque collage of modern art. A storm of shock surged through her, and then, like a fuse blowing under overload, her consciousness faded.
The last thing she saw was the blaring horn and the blinding headlights of an oncoming truck.
A sea of pitch-black darkness. Jiyeong’s naked form floated slowly upward within it. The still surface reflected her like a mirror. As her body rose, drawing closer to her own reflection, the two Jiyeongs converged at the water’s edge.
Gasp!
With a sharp breath, she jolted awake, water spilling from her lungs as she sat up. She coughed violently, expelling the liquid in ragged heaves.
This was an unfamiliar place. She vaguely recalled the moments before the crash on the Paris highway. Had the impact thrown her from the car, leaving her to drift to this strange shore? She touched her body, astonished to find no injuries.
But the true shock came next.
“…What?”
A group of people stood at a distance, encircling her. Their appearance stopped her cold. Clad in tattered, historical garments like those from a period drama—unkempt beards, disheveled topknots with stray hairs jutting out—they clutched torches under the twilight sky, whispering among themselves. They were unmistakably people of the Joseon era.
“Where… am I?”
Bewildered, Jiyeong sensed it faintly. She had been brought to a place impossibly far, a world her logic couldn’t connect to. Just as fate had once led her from Seoul to France, it had now drawn her to an even stranger realm.
