To be honest, I’m kind of a big deal.
The youngest Meat Master in Korea in 2157.
Three years in a row, I won the World Meat Design Grand Prix.
And today…
“Master Junho Kim, this way, please.”
International Meat Design Competition, judge’s seats.
There are five golden stars on my name tag.
Basically, you could call this the Michelin star of the meat industry.
“Do you think there’ll be anyone worth watching this year?”
The French guy sitting next to me started a conversation.
I don’t really remember, but his name was something like Jean Pierre.
Last year, he went ‘ooh la la’ and raved about the Hanwoo 7.0 Custom Edition I created.
“I guess they should be better than last year.”
I pretended to be modest, but honestly, I didn’t expect much at all.
These days, the rookies have terrible basics.
They play around with fancy molecular arrays, but once you bite into it, it tastes like chewed-up gum, and the marbling may look pretty, but the juiciness is Sahara Desert level.
“The 47th World Meat Design Championship, Seoul Division, will begin now!”
Three thousand people crowded the venue.
Spectators, industry people, even content creators.
“Chief Judge Junho Kim, please give us a few words.”
The MC thrust the mic toward me.
I slowly stood up.
Black suit, golden Meat Designer badge.
There are only five people in the world who wear this badge.
“Meat design is both a science and an art. But, above all else…”
I paused.
If you want to look cool, you have to let the silence linger for a bit—that’s the rule.
People held their breath and stared.
“In the end, it’s about love. Thinking about the person who’ll eat it. Without that, it’s just a lump of meat.”
Total nonsense, but the applause erupted like thunder.
See? This sentimental stuff always works.
I exchanged glances with the other judges as I sat down.
Jean Pierre from France, Jessica from America, Nakamura from Japan.
All of them have paid their dues in this field.
“Let’s begin!”
Fifty contestants from all over the world raised their hands.
A holographic grid appeared on each of their workstations.
I started to observe the contestants, one by one.
‘That Indian guy—his muscle fiber arrangement is way too dense… That British guy totally messed up the fat melting point.’
“Judge Kim, what do you think about contestant number 7?”
Nakamura slid over and asked quietly.
He must have noticed that the network cameras were focusing on me.
In the meat industry, acting chummy with me is like hitting the lottery.
Number 7 was the German contestant.
He was deftly drawing marbling into his meat.
“Not bad. But…”
I casually zoomed in on the hologram.
Honestly, I didn’t even need the hologram—I could already taste the meat in my mind.
“Look here. The fat crystal angle is 120 degrees. It should be 135. This kid’s still rough around the edges.”
“Ah… as expected, Judge Kim, your attention to detail is insane!”
Nakamura was amazed.
But to me, this was basic stuff.
I’d been weird since I was a kid.
Whenever I looked at meat, I saw everything.
Cell cultivation speed, protein binding state, which culture medium they used, how many Hz of electrical stimulation.
With cultured meat, these little things decide the taste.
When my friends couldn’t tell the difference between a hamburger patty and a steak, I could distinguish a 0.1% difference in concentration.
People in my neighborhood called me a meat pervert.
But hey, this ability got me where I am, so who cares if I’m a pervert or whatever.
A few hours later.
“Time’s up!”
Fifty holograms floated in the air.
Each one a contestant’s work.
Finally, judging time.
I stood in front of the first entry.
“This is the first work. Liu from China, Sichuan-style pork neck number 2157.”
The 3D model spun around, showing the cross-section of the meat.
But I saw something else.
“Mitochondrial activity in the meat is at 72%… No, 73.2%.”
I scribbled my score on the hologram.
[Marbling: 6.5/10]
[Texture: 5.0/10]
[Innovation: 3.0/10]
[Overall: Too old-fashioned. Still stuck in the style of the 2140s. Eating this would remind you of your grandpa.]
*****
A while later.
“The 47th World Meat Design Championship, the Grand Prize goes to… Marie Renoir from France!”
The audience leaped to their feet, applauding.
Holographic fireworks exploded, and the winning beef sirloin appeared giant in the air.
“Well done, Judge Kim.”
I shook hands with my fellow judges.
After four hours of staring at meat, my neck was stiff.
“You’re all coming to the after-party, right?”
“I’m a bit tired, I’ll head out first.”
Honestly, the fatigue was an excuse—I don’t sit with people who aren’t on my level. That’s my rule.
I headed straight for the judges-only elevator.
It’s a special express elevator that goes from the 42nd-floor VIP lounge straight to the parking lot.
‘Dropped a lot again today.’
I remembered the disappointed faces of those who got eliminated.
Well, it can’t be helped.
It takes someone like me being harsh for this field to improve.
Ding!
The elevator doors opened.
“Huh?”
Someone was inside.
A man in a security guard’s uniform.
“Uh… this elevator’s for judges only…”
He raised his head.
“Do you remember me?”
“Who…”
“Three years ago, Tokyo. You said I was on a kindergarten level.”
“Oh! You’re that guy… from the Survival Meat Master program…”
“Damn it, three years. I’ve been waiting for this day for three years. You humiliated me on international TV…”
He pulled something from his cleaning cart.
A so-called electric gun.
“You’re not really…”
“Yeah. So what?”
“Wait, if you do this here, it’s dangero—”
Bzzzzt!
Electricity shot through my body.
The elevator jolted.
“Argh!”
Emergency stop.
I collapsed to the floor.
Suddenly, I saw everything unraveling.
The flow of electrons, the convulsion of my muscles, the explosion of nerve signals…
Too much information poured in all at once.
Bee-bee-beep—
Warning sounds.
The elevator system spat out errors.
The control circuit was broken by the electric shock.
The safety sensors stopped.
“Huh? Hey, wait—”
The doors were closing.
But my neck was stuck between them!
“Hey… wait…”
Screeeeech—
“Guh!”
The elevator doors clamped onto my neck.
And then—
Ding!
They opened again.
“Gah!”
And closed again.
“Ngggggh!”
Then opened.
The doors went crazy, opening and closing repeatedly.
“Hey! Hel— Help—!”
That guy bolted.
“…Guh! …Gah! Gah!”
My neck tightened and loosened in rhythm with the elevator doors.
‘Is this how I die? The maestro of meat design, killed by getting my neck stuck in an elevator?’
As I was dying, I saw the panicked killer’s back.
And then, something else… something hazy appeared.
.
.
.
.
.
My consciousness faded. But strangely…
I could feel the elevator’s rhythm.
Tap! Tap! Tap!
Someone was hitting my neck.
“Hey! Jung Junho! Wake up!”
Tap! Tap! Tap!
“Jung Junho! Hey!”
Huh? It’s not an elevator…
“Uwaaah!”
I opened my eyes.
A middle-aged man was chopping at my neck with both hands.
“Finally awake!”
“Uh… why is this guy… I’m Junho Kim.”
“Guy? Sigh, this punk’s still hungover.”
The man who had been chopping at my neck let out a deep sigh.
“My neck… my neck hurts…”
“Of course! You were snoring and had sleep apnea, so I had to wake you up!”
Snoring?
Wait, more importantly…
“Where… where is this…”
“This is my house! You passed out drunk at the gate again last night!”
I scrambled to find a mirror.
My face was swollen. Hair a mess.
And red marks on my neck from being chopped.
The memory of my neck trapped in the elevator door was still vivid, but when I opened my eyes, it was a whole different world.
‘What is this…’
Mold all over the ceiling.
The wallpaper was yellowed and peeling, dust bunnies in the corner.
‘People actually live in places like this?’
I turned my head. The stuff piled on the desk caught my eye.
Antiques you’d only see in a museum.
“That square thing… Is that an LED monitor?”
It was the same thing I’d seen in history class.
Flat screen, and a Stone Age display with no holograms.
‘Does this mean… I’m really in the past…?’
“Hey! Jung Junho! You really gonna keep living like this?”
The middle-aged man strode over.
The same guy who’d been chopping my neck.
“You say you’re studying? This is studying? All you do is get wasted and pass out!”
“Sir…”
“Sir?! Hey!”
Whack!
He smacked me on the head.
“Still not awake? Huh?”
“Ow… that hurts!”
“If you can’t study, quit! At least help out at the butcher shop!”
Butcher shop?
‘Wait, did he say butcher shop?’
Something clicked in my head.
College days, an elective called ‘History of Meat.’
The professor droned on and on…
[Until the early 21st century, ‘meat processing’ meant cutting and trimming meat. Back then, there were places called butcher shops…]
The meat I knew was all about design.
“Sir—no, excuse me… what year is it?”
“What?”
“What year is it?!”
His face turned red with anger.
“Are you out of your mind?”
Whack!
He hit me again.
“It’s 2025, you brat! Saturday, March 15th!”
2025.
One hundred and thirty-two years ago.
It was real.
The man flung open the window.
“Ugh! So damn cold!”
“If you’re cold, get moving! Shower and come out in 10 minutes! From today, you’re learning to work at the butcher shop!”
“Butcher shop?”
“Yeah! You’ve been loafing around for three years, so at least work now!”
Three years?
So this body’s owner has been unemployed for three years?
“You not moving?”
He raised his fist.
“I’m moving! I’m moving!”
‘Huh? Why is this body… so heavy?’
I checked the mirror again.
“Whoa!”
I had a little beer belly.
My face was bloated, beard scruffy.
My body in 2157 had been perfectly managed.
“What are you doing! Hurry up and wash!”
“Yes, yes!”
I rushed to the bathroom.
‘So this is the shower people used in the past…’
Cold water poured down.
“Uwaaah! It’s freezing!”
“If you want hot water, turn on the boiler! I turned it off to save gas!”
Gas? Boiler?
Learned about those in history class too…
“Five minutes left!”
“Okay!”
I washed in a panic.
Primitive stuff called soap.
A towel that was just a piece of cloth, not air-dried.
Everything was fascinating.
‘Still… a butcher shop, huh.’
The irony.
The greatest meat designer of 2157 ends up working in a 2025 butcher shop.
“Time’s up!”
“Coming!”
I ran out with my hair still wet.
“Get dressed and follow me. If you walk fast, it’s 10 minutes.”
“We’re walking?”
“What, you want to take a taxi? We don’t have money for that!”
Right. Personal hovercars didn’t exist in 2025.
As I put on the shabby, worn-out clothes, I thought,
‘First… let’s just adapt.’
Meat is meat, even 132 years in the past.
I don’t know how much of my knowledge will help, but…
“Junho, what are you doing! Not coming?”
“Yes, I’m coming!”
The moment I stepped outside, the morning air of Seoul in 2025 filled my lungs.
The smell of exhaust.
Exactly like I’d read in the history books.
And so began my life, 132 years in the past.
‘Wow… it really is the past.’