The fluorescent lights of L'Eclat did not merely illuminate the kitchen; they acted as a scalpel, dissecting the very air.
This was the sanctum of Central, a space where the warmth of a traditional kitchen had been purged in favor of a laboratory's sterile indifference.
There was no sound of humming refrigerators or clinking pans—only the rhythmic, electronic pulse of high-end machinery.
Azami Nakiri stood at the center of this vacuum. He moved with a terrifying, mechanical grace, his silhouette sharp against the white tiling.
He wore black latex gloves, a barrier between his flesh and the "sacred" ingredients. To Azami, the human touch was a source of decay, a vector for imperfection.
Azami's process for "Le Règne" (The Reign) began with a block of Foie Gras so pale it looked like carved marble. He did not slice it; he subjected it to a cryogenic centrifuge.
The liver was placed into a titanium canister. As the centrifuge began to spin, reaching speeds that blurred the vision, the centrifugal force tore the ingredient apart at a cellular level.
Azami watched the digital readout with a predator's focus. He was separating the "pure" lipids from the "impurities"—the blood vessels, the connective tissue, the very iron that gave the organ its character.
Next, what emerged from the machine was a translucent, golden oil—the distilled spirit of Foie Gras.
He stabilized this essence using a proprietary hydrocolloid, turning it into a gel that possessed the exact melting point of human body temperature. It would vanish the moment it touched a tongue, leaving only a haunting, fatty memory.
Next, he turned to the Winter Truffles. Instead of shaving them, he used a vacuum-sealed ultrasonic homogenizer to vibrate the truffles until their cell walls collapsed, creating a black ink of pure aroma. He used this to create a "shroud" around the ivory Foie Gras gel.
The resulting dish was a perfect rectangle, exactly 12 centimeters long. It sat in the center of a bone-white plate, looking less like food and more like a monolith fallen from a distant, cold star. It didn't smell like a kitchen; it smelled like the ozone before a thunderstorm.
Across the kitchen, the atmosphere was the polar opposite. Eishi Tsukasa was a man possessed, his movements frantic and jagged.
His HUD flickered in his peripheral vision, bleeding crimson warnings.
[System Warning: Physical Threshold Exceeded]
[Status: Ego-Inclusion at 112%]
Eishi ignored the prompts. He reached for a loin of wild venison, the meat dark and primal. If it was the original "White Knight," he would have treated this meat with clinical detachment, searching for its "true voice." Now, the transmigrated "White Knight" wanted to drown it in his own.
He didn't use a low flame. He cranked the induction burner to its maximum setting. When the venison hit the pan, the sound was a physical assault—a violent, spitting roar that filled the silent kitchen with the scent of singed iron and scorched earth. He wasn't cooking; he was branding his presence into the protein.
While the meat rested, Eishi began his sauce. He threw fermented cacao nibs into a copper saucier, letting them toast until the smoke turned acrid and dark. He deglazed with a heavy, syrupy fortified wine, the liquid hissing as it fought the heat.
He took blood oranges, slicing them with a heavy cleaver instead of a paring knife. He squeezed them by hand, the dark red juice staining his white sleeves.
He mounted the sauce with cold, cultured butter, whisking with a ferocity that made his forearms ache. The sauce was a deep, bruised purple—the color of a storm cloud at sunset.
The aroma of Eishi's station was aggressive. It smelled of woodsmoke, bitter chocolate, and the sharp, metallic tang of blood. It was a sensory middle finger to the sterile vacuum Azami had created.
The three judges, hand-picked by Azami, sat behind a raised dais. They were men who had traded their palates for positions of power within Central.
When Azami presented "Le Règne," the room fell into a trance. The lead judge took a microscopic bite. The gel dissolved instantly.
There was no chewing required, no effort exerted. It was the ultimate expression of Azami's philosophy: the diner was not a participant, but a vessel for his perfection.
"It is... absolute," the lead judge whispered. Their eyes glazed over, a neurological "True Gourmet" response triggered by the artificial concentration of flavors. They ate in synchronized silence, moving like clockwork dolls.
Then comes Rishi. He stumbled as he approached the table, his white hair matted with sweat. He slammed the plates down—not with the elegance of the First Seat, but with the desperation of a survivor.
The fragrance was a tidal wave. It hit the judges, forcing them to blink, to breathe in the wild, musk-heavy air of the forest. It was a dish that demanded to be felt. Even the guards stationed at the heavy oak doors shifted uncomfortably, their mouths watering against their will.
Eishi stood trembling, waiting for the critique of his life. But the lead judge didn't even pick up his fork. He looked at the plate—the vibrant, messy, "alive" venison—and his lip curled in a sneer of pure ideological hatred.
"Unworthy," the judge said. The word fell like a guillotine blade.
"You haven't even tasted it," Eishi's voice was a jagged rasp. "The rule of a Shokugeki is—"
"The rule of this room," Azami interrupted, his voice a cool breeze over a graveyard, "is that perfection is recognized by the spirit, not the tongue." The other two judges nodded in robotic unison.
Then he picked Eishi's plate, "And this? This is noise. This is the tantrum of a child throwing ink on a masterpiece."
Azami, with the casual indifference of someone discarding a candy wrapper, pushed Eishi's plate toward the edge of the table.
The porcelain screeched against the wood. It hovered for a heartbeat at the precipice, then plummeted.
CRACK!
The plate shattered. The venison, the dark cacao sauce, and the blood-orange gastrique splattered across the white floor. It looked like a crime scene.
"Winner: Azami Nakiri," the judge announced. "By unanimous decision."
Eishi's vision blurred as the System delivered its final blow.
[Ding!]
[Critical Failure: Shokugeki Integrity at 0%]
[Result: Loss by Default]
[Status: Expelled.]
The silence that followed was heavy. Eishi stared at the mess on the floor—four hours of his soul, leaking into the grout.
He had expected to lose a fair fight; he hadn't prepared for the discovery that the fight never existed.
"You're a coward, Azami," Eishi said. The exhaustion was gone, replaced by a cold, frightening clarity.
He looked up, his eyes locking onto Azami's. "You didn't let them taste it because you knew. You knew that your 'purity' is just a lie to hide how hollow you are. You're terrified of a dish that actually has a heartbeat."
Azami leaned over the table, whispering so only Eishi could hear. "Power defines what is 'true,' Tsukasa-kun. You were the White Knight of a kingdom that no longer exists. Now, go. See how well your 'heartbeat' serves you in the gutters."
The doors burst open. Rindō Kobayashi stood there, her golden eyes scanning the carnage. She saw the broken plate, the spilled sauce, and the look in Eishi's eyes—a look she had never seen in all their years together.
"Eishi! What the hell is this?" she shouted, stepping toward him. "Why are the plates on the floor?"
Eishi didn't answer her directly. He reached back and untied his apron. He let the white cloth fall, landing squarely in the middle of the spilled venison sauce, turning the pristine fabric into a stained rag.
"Don't bother, Rindō," Eishi said, his voice devoid of his usual anxiety. "The game was rigged. But Azami just made the biggest mistake of his life."
He turned toward the exit, his silhouette framed by the dark hallway.
"He thinks he's taking away my future," Eishi said, looking back over his shoulder. "He's actually just letting me off my leash.