Chapter 1

Volume 1 CHAPTER 001 — Prologue ~ Reincarnated into a Poor Noble Family
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Does God exist?

A being that many philosophers have agonized over, that theologians have grown frantic about, and that scientists have denied.

Some see its form in the sun, while others see it in nature.

There are those who liken the great ocean to God, and those who believe in a transcendent being.

And sometimes, one can see God within people as well.

Through those beloved by God—people overflowing with talent.

A child of God.

A being sometimes regarded with awe, and sometimes the object of envy and jealousy. Called a genius or a prodigy, sometimes feared.

Those beloved by God exist in every world.

In the world of sports, in the world of music, in the world of academics.

And in the world of pastry chefs as well.

◆◆◆◆◆

“Now, with less than thirty minutes remaining, it appears every country is putting on their final touches.”

The announcer’s cheerful voice echoed through the venue.

They had come all the way from Japan to Europe, and they raised their voices to broadcast the scene of the World Pastry Chef Championship.

Only a few dozen minutes remained on the final day.

With that, the world’s best pastry chef would be decided.

“It seems our Japan representative’s final adjustments are also wrapping up.”

The camera, guided by the commentary, showed men dressed in white.

There was none of the musty smell that might drift from a group of only men.

Rather, it was a place filled with a sweet fragrance, far removed from anything like that.

In the workspace allotted to the Japan representative, a giant sugar sculpture sat enthroned.

The sweet objet d’art, taller than a person, gave off an eerie sense of intimidation as it rested on the worktable.

Delicate yet bold.

The work of art, crafted with every technique available, possessed a beauty worthy of bearing the name of the world.

In the current standings, the Japan representative was in second place.

The point gap with first place was slight, and everyone acknowledged that this sugar sculpture would surely overturn the result—it was that magnificent.

Yet the faces of the artisans who had created such a piece were still grim. Dead serious.

In this sugar sculpture competition, the most difficult part was moving it from the worktable to the designated judging area.

Unless it was placed in the designated spot, no matter how wonderful the work, it would not be scored.

If it were dropped during the move, everything built up until then would be ruined.

A distance that even a child could cover in five steps.

Those five steps would become the most important five steps for pastry chefs all across Japan.

Ten steps. No—even if it took ten thousand steps, it would be worth it if they could reach that distance safely.

“On the count of three, we lift. Carefully now. One, two, three!!”

With the call, the mass of sugar was slowly lifted, conveying its weight to the bearers.

The heavy numbness in their hands was surely also due to the pressure of being just moments away from becoming world champions.

For bodies stiffened by tension, that weight felt all the more intense.

Slowly, slowly, they carried it.

Their pace was like that of a turtle.

At last, they lowered the work into the designated spot.

The long battle was finally over. That was what everyone thought—at that very moment.

‘Ah, I forgot to set the past-life memory erasure. Well, whatever. There’s no time before he dies anyway.’

At the voice that suddenly reached him, the artisan doubted his ears.

A hoarse, hard-to-catch voice. Yet it lingered strangely in the ear—an oddly clear, mysterious voice.

Like the sound of an analog radio with bad reception, played at full volume, right next to his ear.

Nothing is more startling than a loud voice when you are tense.

In an instant, the work slipped from his hands.

For those present, time seemed to flow unbearably slowly in that brief instant.

The enormous mass came toppling toward the artisan. Though it was sugar, it was a massive object carried by several adults. A shrill scream sounded in the distance.

The sugar bludgeon struck the artisan’s head. He felt something lukewarm flowing from his head. Indeed, his head was dyed bright red in an instant.

To recognize it as blood, the smell of iron alone was enough.

Having grown accustomed to sweet scents, it seemed an especially intense odor.

The artisan’s vision went pitch black. As his life flashed before his eyes, what rose in his heart was the dream he should have been just a little away from achieving.

—I wanted to make the world’s best cake.

And so one artisan died. Together with the name of the one called a child of God.

◆◆◆◆◆

A baby’s cry echoed through the surroundings.

“Congratulations. It’s a healthy baby boy.”

The midwife offered words of celebration.

In the arms that held him was a newborn baby.

The baby, carefully held and wrapped in cloth, was passed to the mother’s breast.

“I see, a boy. Agnes, you did well.”

The father, his face breaking into a smile, offered words of appreciation to his wife.

In the arms of the woman who responded with an exhausted expression, the baby wrapped in cloth was crying.

“Ah, how adorable. His features seem to resemble yours. He’ll surely become a beautiful boy.”

“Yes, I think so. But the color of his eyes is the same as yours. A wonderful color… Oh?”

“Hm, what is it?”

The husband called out to his wife, who wore a puzzled look.

“No, it’s just that this child seems to be listening intently to our conversation…”

“Surely not. He’s barely a moment old—there’s no way he could understand words.”

“…Yes, you’re right. Of course.”

Such idle back-and-forth.

The baby stared fixedly at the couple’s conversation, as if “listening to a foreign language.”

“Dear, what shall we name this child?”

“That has already been decided.”

The father gently cradled the baby in both hands, the child held by the mother.

Parent and child gazed intently at each other.

“Your name is Peystry. Peystry=Mill=Morteln.”

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