The smell of burning told her of the third failure. The moment Hana opened the oven door, white smoke billowed out. She couldn't help but grimace. The baked confection, its surface blackened and discolored, sat in silence on the baking sheet. (Failed again.) She whispered it to herself, then immediately shifted her mindset. She covered the blackened pastry with cloth, tidied up the dishes, and moved on to the next step. There was no time to dwell on frustration or sadness. She could try again. That was all. The kitchen of Kagetsu-do was old. The wood stains on the walls, the creaking floorboards—everything had remained unchanged since her grandmother's time. Afternoon light streaming through the window created a white band across the thinly accumulated flour. On the nearby counter lay an open notebook. Its cover was worn smooth, its corners softened with age. It was the recipe notebook her grandmother had left behind. When she turned the pages, she found handwriting that was round and warm. Ingredient measurements, baking times, and margins filled with detailed notes. "Sugar dissolves differently depending on temperature." "Butter must always be brought to room temperature first." When she traced the characters with her finger, it felt as though she could hear her grandmother's voice again. Hana was now attempting the recipe on the three-hundredth page. A new baked confection. A sablé made with osmanthus from the garden—something her grandmother had never managed to complete. Fourth attempt with adjusted proportions. She reduced the flour slightly and increased the butter ratio. The sensation of ingredients coming together in the bowl was something she loved no matter how many times she did it. The moment the dough began to gain luster was the quietest, most reassuring time for Hana. She lowered the oven temperature by ten degrees. Set the timer for twenty minutes, then settled into a chair in the corner of the kitchen. For a while, she thought of nothing. If Hana's appearance could be summed up in one phrase, it would be "easy to move in." Her black short hair had a natural wave, with bangs that stuck up slightly. Her large, deep brown eyes showed every thought on her face. At one hundred seventy centimeters, she was about a head taller than girls her age, and despite being slender, she gave an impression of solidity. White shirt, black slacks, cream-colored apron layered over top—her usual outfit. On the back of her left hand was a small burn scar. From three years ago, when she first made caramel. It hadn't changed since then. The timer chimed. She opened the oven. This time, they weren't burned. A uniform golden-brown lined the baking sheet. Hana crouched down and observed them with a serious expression. Were they evenly thick? Any cracks? How did they smell? (…Not bad.) She carefully picked one up and bit into it. A crisp sound. The scent of osmanthus bloomed across her palate. The texture crumbled delicately. The sweetness was just right. Maybe a bit more butter flavor would be nice, she thought—and without realizing it, her lips had softened into a smile. On the fourth try, it finally took shape. --- She arranged the pastries on a tray and brought them out to the front of the shop. The sun was beginning to tilt, and foot traffic in the shopping street had thinned. Still, three children had gathered at the eaves of Kagetsu-do. The usual neighborhood faces. "They're ready," Hana said, offering the tray. The three children reached out eagerly, one after another. The smallest girl held the sablé in both hands and bit into it. Her cheeks puffed out. A moment passed. "It tastes like Grandma's!" the child said. Hana's movements stopped for just an instant. She said nothing. But her eyes seemed to catch a faint glimmer of light. It faded quickly, and her expression returned to its usual calm. "Is that so? I'm glad," Hana said. Short words. But they were enough. The other two children eagerly ate theirs too, calling out "delicious" and "sweet" as they ran off. Hana watched their backs disappear, still holding the tray, standing quietly for a moment. The wind blew, and her bangs rustled. --- After closing the shop and finishing the cleanup, evening had arrived. Orange light streamed through the window, tinting the white kitchen walls. Hana straightened her back and exhaled deeply. (I need to clean out the storage shed in the back garden.) She remembered something she'd been meaning to do since last week. The shelf in the shed was falling apart, making it difficult to get tools in and out. She had to do it today, or she'd forget again. When she stepped into the back garden, the sky was deepening in color. Beyond the wooden fence, someone was preparing dinner—the smell of soy sauce catching fire drifted over. The wooden door of the storage shed was old and creaked every time she pulled it. Inside, the smell of dust. The shelves were crammed with old confectionery tools. Copper molds, wooden spatulas, a whisk beginning to rust. All things her grandmother had used. Hana couldn't bring herself to throw them away. When she reached to clean the back of the shelf, her finger touched something. A hard, cold sensation. She pulled it out. It was a small oven-shaped tool. Made of iron, covered in rust overall. It had a door and a handle. The shape seemed familiar somehow, yet Hana had no memory of it. Had her grandmother used it? Or had it been sleeping in the back of the shed for even longer? Fine arabesque patterns were carved into the door's surface. When she traced them with her fingertip, the cold of old iron transmitted through her skin. But—from within, there came a faint sweet scent. The smell of baked confections. But not just any baked confection. A smell she felt she'd encountered before, yet hadn't. Nostalgic, yet unknown. Before she knew it, Hana's hand was reaching for the handle. There was no reason. If it had anything to do with confections, she simply had to touch it. That was her way, and always had been. Her fingers touched the handle. In that instant—the world exploded in orange. Not light. More like a hot, turbid current. Her vision melted, her body felt weightless, and before Hana could even scream, she was swallowed by that light. --- Her knees struck stone floor. That was the first sensation. Hard and cold. She slowly raised her face. It was a vast space. The walls were made of amber-colored stone. The ceiling was high, and soft light poured down from somewhere. Hana stood in the center of a circular space, surrounded by observation seating that stretched out empty in all directions. She couldn't even imagine how many people could fit. Eight hundred? More? In any case, it was enormous and silent, and Hana alone seemed out of place. The air was sweet. Faintly, but unmistakably. A clean sweetness, like diluted honey, dissolved into the air. The temperature was mild, like a spring afternoon. From somewhere, a window perhaps, white curtains like things swayed in the breeze. (Where is this…?) She couldn't stand up. Not because she'd forgotten how. Simply because she had no idea what to do after standing. Her voice wouldn't come. Even if it did, she was afraid of hearing it echo back in this silence. Her hands naturally clenched into fists on her knees. The burn scar on her left hand became acutely conscious. "Ah, you're awake." A voice. A man's voice. Hana's head snapped toward it. A man was descending from the observation seating corridor. He appeared to be in his forties. He wore clothes in muted colors and carried a thick pamphlet in his hands. His expression was utterly businesslike, showing no surprise at seeing Hana. As if this happened every day, he was completely matter-of-fact. "You have been summoned to the Kokka Realm—a dimensional space existing in the gaps between time and space," the man said. Hana had never heard such words before. (…Kokka Realm?) The man continued before she could ask. "That ancient oven-shaped artifact you touched in the storage shed—it is a Time Kiln, one of the hidden connection devices scattered across all times and places in the real world. When someone with pure passion for confections touches it, the Time Kiln activates and draws that person into the Kokka Realm. That is precisely what happened to you," the man said. He spoke flatly, as if reading from a textbook. Hana slowly stood up. She could feel her legs trembling slightly. But she stood. "So… the oven in that storage shed brought me here?" Hana asked. "More precisely, it is called a Time Kiln. Yes, that is correct," the man replied. He opened his pamphlet. "The Thirteenth Temporal Confectionery Competition is currently being held here. Confectionery artisans selected from various eras participate and compete. The circular space you're standing in now is the Hundred Flavors Hall—the actual competition stage—and the surrounding seating will be filled with eight hundred spectators on the day of the competition. This entire building, including the Hundred Flavors Hall, is the Kanro Palace, positioned at the center of the Kokka Realm and serving as the competition venue," the man said. "Eight… hundred…?" Hana murmured. "There is one more critical matter I must inform you of," the man said. His tone shifted slightly. It remained as businesslike as before, yet Hana instinctively straightened her spine. "Time in the Kokka Realm is independent from the real world. Even if you spend several weeks here, only minutes will pass in your original world. However—if your stay exceeds ninety days, returning becomes impossible," the man said. "Impossible to return…?" Hana asked. "A phenomenon called the Curse of Caramelization. Those whose stay exceeds ninety days gradually begin to transform their bodies into confectionery ingredients, eventually becoming unable to return. It is stipulated in Article Twenty-Eight of the Kanro Laws—the fundamental ordinances governing the Kokka Realm," the man said. The color drained from Hana's face. She could feel it happening. The words "confectionery ingredients" spun in her mind. Ninety days. If she stayed longer than that, she couldn't return. To the real world. To Kagetsu-do. To that kitchen with her grandmother's recipe notebook. "The full competition schedule is typically designed for sixty days. If you complete the competition, you will be granted the right to return," the man said. Sixty days. Shorter than ninety. She could return. But only if she completed the competition. "So if I want to go home, I have to fight through this, right?" Hana asked. Her own voice sounded quieter than she expected. The man looked up from his pamphlet for the first time, actually meeting her eyes. "Precisely," he said. Hana pressed the fist resting on her knee down harder, slowly and firmly. She was scared. That much was certain. Suddenly transported to another world, given a ninety-day time limit, forced to complete some unknown competition. But—if she wanted to go home, she had to do this. That was all. "Understood. I'll do it," Hana said. Short and clear. The man nodded silently once, then returned his attention to the pamphlet. --- "Then I shall guide you to the participant workshop," the man said. He began walking. Hana hurried after him. They climbed stairs and emerged into a corridor. "The Kanro Palace has a five-layer structure. The first layer where we are now is the Hundred Flavors Hall—the competition stage you just saw. The second layer is the Kneading Corridor—the work floor where individual workshops are assigned to each participant. Your workshop is Room Twenty-Three," the man said. Wooden doors lined both sides of the hallway, each with a carved number. Footsteps echoed on the stone floor. The man walked briskly, continuing his explanation without turning back. "The third layer houses the Confectionery Masters' Council—a deliberative body composed of seven p