What am I doing here?
The Frenchman Christian Girard — or rather, the man who used to be Christian Girard — stood frozen in the middle of the grand reception hall of the Asgard Swordsmen Clan, large beads of sweat glistening on his brow.
"By decree of the current patriarch of Asgard, Marcus V, the eldest son of the family, Eric, is hereby and forever removed from the line of succession!" proclaimed a short, portly man with a neatly trimmed mustache, holding a parchment in both hands.
It was unmistakably a banquet. The hall was packed: men, women, children… all gathered here, all finely dressed, as if for some grand occasion. Rich garments, fine fabrics, precious jewels. A setting worthy of a royal court.
And yet, every eye in the room was fixed on a single person.
Christian. Or rather… Eric.
Clad in nothing but a simple linen tunic belted at the waist, baggy trousers, and old, worn-out leather shoes, he stood out starkly against the noble, solemn air of the hall. In his right hand, a bottle of liquor. On his face, an unbidden wide grin — one that did nothing to stop the sweat rolling down his cheeks.
Whispers spread like wildfire.
"It was about time…"
"How could such a disgrace ever be born into the Asgard family?"
"And he's the eldest, no less…"
"The patriarch was far too kind. Entrusting the succession to a worthless bastard, son of that woman…"
"Look at him grinning, just like the 'Drunken Fool' they call him."
"Hey, watch your mouth, that mutt might hear you."
"Honestly, what was Lord Marcus waiting for?"
"It took him wrecking the Magic Clan for the patriarch to finally open his eyes."
"Ruth is clearly the rightful choice to lead the clan."
They all looked at him as if he were nothing more than a stain on a spotless canvas. And truth be told, they weren't that far from the mark.
High above the vast banquet hall, five lavish seats dominated the scene. All were occupied: the patriarch Marcus Asgard V, his wife Finn Asgard, and their three daughters. Every pair of eyes was fixed on Eric. Their stares were a mix of indifference, thinly veiled mockery… and a deep, unmistakable disgust.
Eric, utterly stunned by what he had just heard, could only manage to say:
"I… lost the contest? Come on, guys… That's not even a funny joke."
A faint, helpless smirk slipped from his lips.
---
A few moments earlier…
It was the final round of the world's most prestigious baking competition: the World Cup of Baking, held in France, more precisely at the Parc des Expositions in Paris.
"Ladies and gentlemen, you're not dreaming!" the commentator shouted. "We are live at this long-awaited final match, where the American underdog of this competition, Park Dexter, is taking the stage! An unexpected young talent who has flown the American flag high throughout this global tournament, dazzling the judges — and myself — with his mastery of the baking arts!"
"Yes, indeed… but fate has not smiled kindly on this young prodigy, because standing before him is an undisputed giant of the craft. Not just one of the best… but the best. The legendary Christian Girard, champion of the last four editions!"
The crowd was electric with excitement. The two finalists, meanwhile, were more focused than ever.
Christian Girard carefully arranged his creations on the cold marble counter. His pastries formed a flawless crown. His hands, though trembling, still moved with the grace of an aging dancer. But beneath his white chef's jacket, his chest was growing heavier and heavier. Far too heavy.
Not now.
He cast a glance at Park. The underdog didn't hesitate — he executed. No wasted motion: just reflexes. Precise. Mechanical. Not a single drop of sweat.
Christian tried to ignore the faint wheeze in his breathing.
He knew that raw, rasping pain in his lungs all too well. He knew exactly what that tight, invisible grip on his throat meant. His asthma.
As long as I stay upright… as long as my hands hold steady…
But then. A breath that came up short. A slight blur at the edge of his vision. And then — the mistake.
Small. Almost laughable. He had simply forgotten to adjust the oven's humidity.
The brioche developed a crust that was too thin. It cracked, betraying the balance between sugar and steam. A detail. A trifle. But at this level, a trifle is all it takes.
His breath caught in his chest. But now it wasn't just the asthma.
So this is how it ends?
No…
Time was up.
Christian stepped back. Straightened his shoulders.
The judges were approaching.
In the distance, the applause was already starting… but he heard none of it.
All he could feel was the silence inside his chest.
The judges' footsteps echoed on the floor. The audience had fallen completely silent. Not a word. Even Park had frozen, arms folded, eyes lowered.
Christian wiped his hands on a clean towel. There was nothing more he could do. Everything was in place. He had fought with what he had left.
The three judges stopped in front of him. Their faces were neutral. Closed off. No expression. No emotion. Just mechanical gestures.
One inspected the pastries.
Another broke a croissant apart, studying the crumb.
The last lingered over the bread sculpture, jotting down notes.
Then came the split brioche.
One of the judges tilted his head slightly. Furrowed his brow. Another scribbled something down, wordlessly.
They saw it. Of course they saw it.
Christian lowered his eyes. Just for a second.
Just long enough to take it in.
They moved on to Park's station. And like a breeze sweeping through the hall, the murmurs resumed.
Nods of approval.
Smiles.
Glances exchanged in quiet agreement.
Park had done well.
Perhaps even flawlessly.
Minutes later, everyone was called to gather.
The two finalists, side by side.
The judges at the microphone.
A hall holding its breath.
Silence.
Then:
"Two exceptional finalists. An incredibly close final round. But today… it was precision that made the difference."
Christian didn't move.
He already knew.
"The winner of this year's competition is… against all odds… the American underdog, Park Dexter!"
Applause erupted. Cheers. A background song, just a bit too loud.
Park bowed to the crowd, visibly moved.
Christian shook his hand — no hesitation, despite the frustration coursing through his entire body.
He had lost.
Because of a cracked brioche… and a breath that fell too short.
After the handshake, he remained standing for a few seconds. Arms limp at his sides. His gaze drifting somewhere between the table and the floor.
Disgusted.
Truly angry.
Not at Park. No. The kid had done well. Perfectly, even.
But at himself. At his own body.
He had promised himself this would be his final competition.
His last battle. After this, he'd hang up his apron. Stop wielding dough the way a soldier wields a blade.
And this was how it ended.
Damn it.
He loved this craft so much…
But it was over.
The asthma grew worse every year.
And spending his life in the heat of ovens only made it worse.
Is this really how it ends?
His eyes burned. Tears welled up.
He was going to cry.
In front of everyone.
When suddenly… a voice echoed in his head.
Too bad your talent was wasted by a simple breathing problem… Mmh, yes, such a shame.
Huh? What's happening?!
He tried to speak. But his mouth wouldn't move.
For some reason, all at once, his senses vanished… all except his hearing.
Mmh… I've decided. I'm giving you a second chance.
I'm hearing voices now? Have I gone insane?
On stage, in the real world, Christian collapsed.
A seizure. A bad one. The asthma struck harder than ever before.
The audience panicked. Medics rushed in. But it was too late.
Go on, kid, have fun. Good luck.
Christian Girard, the undisputed legend of baking and pastry,
died of an asthma attack.