"Let the 182nd Grey Tide Festival... BEGIN!" the male MC boomed, his voice magically amplified to fill the massive plaza. The crowd roared in approval.
"And to preside over this glorious culinary battle," the female MC chimed in, gesturing to the elevated table on the stage, "we have our esteemed panel of judges!"
Spotlights flared, illuminating the five figures seated behind a long table.
"First, the ever-elegant Countess Genevieve," the MC announced. A stern-looking noblewoman with sharp features gave a curt, almost imperceptible nod. "Her palate is so refined, it is said she can identify the vintage of wine just by the aroma left on the cork!"
"Next, the world-renowned adventurer and food critic, Baron Kael!" The man beside her was her complete opposite: rugged and weather-beaten, with a scarred face and a weary but sharp gaze. He had, as the MC explained, eaten in every duchy of the realm, from the lowliest taverns to the Archdukes' tables.
"Joining them is the guild master of the Stonestove Cooks, the venerable Master Chef Borin!" A dwarf with a magnificent, braided beard grunted, his arms crossed over his chest. He represented centuries of culinary tradition.
"From the Evercrest University of Magic, we have Magister Elara!" an elf with intelligent eyes and scholar's robes gave a serene smile. "She will be judging not just the taste, but the arcane harmony and magical properties of each ingredient!"
"And finally," the male MC bellowed, "a man who needs no introduction in this city, the heart and soul of the common folk's fare, 'Big' Sal!" A large, beaming human tavern owner waved enthusiastically at the cheering crowd.
"And now, for our contestants!"
One by one, chefs were called to the stage. "Chef Antoine of the Azure Palace Hotel!" "Chef Griselda from the Duke's own kitchens!" Each was a pillar of the culinary world, representing a famous and respected establishment. Then came Soma's neighbor.
"And from the world-famous Jacquard Restaurant, the heir to a culinary dynasty, Gaylord de Jacquard!" Gaylord strode onto the stage with an arrogant smirk, bowing to the judges as if he'd already won.
After he returned to his station, the male MC glanced at his notes with a confused frown. "And next... from... uh... Café LeBlanc... Sōma Yukihira!" He looked toward Soma's station, noting the lack of assistants. A cruel, professional smile spread across his face. "Mr. Yukihira, are your sous-chefs perhaps calling in sick today?"
The crowd, sensing an easy target, let out a wave of laughter.
Soma walked onto the stage, completely unfazed. He took the offered microphone, his eyes sweeping over the crowd with a confident grin. "Nope," he said clearly, his voice ringing out across the plaza. "I alone will cook."
A wave of shocked murmurs rippled through the audience. A lone chef? In the Grey Tide Festival? It was unheard of, an act of either supreme arrogance or sheer idiocy.
The female MC, sensing the mood shifting, quickly tried to steer the conversation. "A bold strategy, Chef! Please, introduce yourself to the crowd."
"Gladly!" Soma said cheerfully. "Hello everyone! My name is Sōma Yukihira, and I'm representing Café LeBlanc!"
His enthusiastic introduction was met with confused silence, followed by a fresh wave of whispers. 'Café LeBlanc? Never heard of it.' The previous contestants were all head chefs from renowned restaurants and grand hotels. But this young man, a boy really, was not only competing alone, but he was from a place that didn't even exist on the city's culinary map. He was a nobody.
"Thank you, Chef Yukihira," the female MC said quickly, ushering him off the stage. As Soma walked back to his station, he could feel thousands of eyes on him, a mixture of pity, scorn, and derision. This was exactly what the organizers wanted. He was the opening act's fool.
As Soma returned to his station, the whispers at the judges' table were a low, discordant hum.
"A café?" Countess Genevieve murmured to Baron Kael beside her, her lips barely moving. She fanned herself slowly, her expression one of profound boredom. "They're letting cafés compete now? How utterly provincial. The standards of this festival are slipping."
Baron Kael, the adventurer, watched Soma with a curious glint in his eye. "The boy's got guts, I'll give him that," he grunted, stroking his scarred chin. "Or he's a complete fool. Either way, it's a better show than another pampered hotel chef."
On the other side of the table, the dwarven guild master, Chef Borin, scowled into his beard. "One man cannot be a kitchen," he grumbled to no one in particular. "He has no brigade, no respect for the structure of the culinary arts. This is an insult to the craft."
"His confidence is unusual," Magister Elara noted quietly, her sharp elven eyes focused intently on Soma. "It does not match his station. There may be more to him than meets the eye."
"Hey, give the kid a break," boomed "Big" Sal, leaning back in his chair. "We all started somewhere. I'm more interested in what he can cook than how many assistants he has."
On the stage, the MCs silenced the crowd. "And now, for the first challenge of the day!" the man announced.
"This challenge," the woman continued, "is brought to you by the esteemed Countess Genevieve!"
The spotlight swung to the Countess. She rose from her seat with a sigh, as if the effort of standing was a great burden. She looked down upon the contestants, her gaze sweeping over them with disdain before landing, for just a moment, on Soma's station.
"For today's first trial," she stated, her voice crisp and cutting, "you will be working with one of the realm's most exquisite and challenging ingredients."
With a wave of her hand, attendants brought out covered silver platters to each station. At her signal, they lifted the lids in unison. On a bed of shimmering, magically chilled ice lay a single, perfect scallop. It was larger than a man's palm, its shell iridescent, and the meat within seemed to pulse with a faint, golden light.
"The Sun-Kissed Aether Scallop," the Countess announced, her voice leaving no room for excitement. "Harvested only during the spring tide from the deepest, most magically-charged oceanic trenches. Its flavor is the very essence of the sea—subtle, pure, and impossibly delicate."
She paused, letting the weight of the challenge sink in. "Your task is simple. You will create an appetizer. Your dish must elevate the natural, subtle flavor of the scallop, not mask it. It is a test of precision, restraint, and elegance. Any clumsy, rustic, or overpowering flavors will be considered an immediate failure. You have one hour. Begin."
The massive Sun-Kissed Aether Scallop sat before him on its bed of ice, its faint golden light a silent challenge. As other teams erupted into a flurry of motion, with head chefs barking orders at their sous-chefs and assistants, Soma stood perfectly still. His eyes were closed, his headband taut across his forehead.
Inside his mind, a hurricane of knowledge was churning. A library of recipes, techniques, and flavor pairings collided and rearranged themselves at lightning speed. Aether Scallop. Delicate, sweet, briny. High magical content means it cooks incredibly fast. High heat, short time. Overcook it by a second, and it's ruined. The Countess wants elegance, not a flavor bomb. She wants to be impressed by technique, not buried in seasoning. He mentally discarded dozens of complex ideas—heavy sauces, elaborate garnishes, spicy marinades. They would be an insult to the ingredient. No. The answer had to be simple. Precise. A dish that wasn't a mask, but a pedestal.
His eyes snapped open. He had it.
While the MCs were busy commentating on Gaylord de Jacquard's complex deconstruction of a root vegetable, Soma began to move. And his movement was a spectacle. There was no wasted motion, no hesitation. His hands became a blur, a whirlwind of focused, efficient energy.
First, the base. He grabbed a handful of vibrant spring peas, blanched them for exactly ten seconds in boiling water, then plunged them into a bowl of ice water, locking in their brilliant green color. They went into a blender with a touch of cream, a sprig of fresh mint, and a pinch of salt. The resulting purée was impossibly smooth, the color of liquid emerald.
Next, the sauce's foundation. With his knife a silver flash, he micro-diced a shallot with a precision that seemed inhuman.
Then, the main event. He took the Aether Scallop, patting it perfectly dry with a clean cloth. He placed a heavy-bottomed pan on the enchanted flame, turning it up high. A splash of clarified butter hit the screaming-hot surface. With the reverence of a priest placing a relic on an altar, Soma gently laid the scallop in the center of the pan.
Tssssssssssss!
The sound cut through the noise of the festival, drawing the attention of the MCs.
"And what's this?" the male MC announced, his attention finally shifting. "It seems our lone chef from Café LeBlanc has finally decided to start! He's going for a simple sear?"
"A dangerous move, Ken," the female MC added. "With an ingredient this delicate, the line between a perfect Maillard crust and a rubbery disaster is thinner than a hair!"
Soma ignored them. He didn't move the scallop. He just watched, his senses tuned to the smell, the sound. After exactly forty-five seconds, he flipped it. The top was a perfect, golden-brown crust, a beautiful caramelization that sealed in the scallop's juices. He tossed a knob of butter, a sprig of thyme, and a crushed garlic clove into the pan, tilting it to continuously baste the scallop in the foaming, aromatic butter for another thirty seconds before whisking it from the pan to rest.
Into the still-hot pan went his diced shallots, followed by a splash of dry white wine that erupted in a cloud of fragrant steam. He scraped the bottom of the pan, lifting all the flavourful brown bits. A squeeze of lemon juice, a spoonful of salty capers, and then, off the heat, he began whisking in cold knobs of butter, his wrist moving in a fluid, hypnotic motion, creating a silky, emulsified sauce.
On the judges' table, the reactions were a silent story. Countess Genevieve's fan stopped moving. Her eyes, narrowed in critical assessment, recognized the flawless Athenean technique of a beurre blanc. Master Chef Borin leaned forward, his dwarven eyes wide with shock at the sheer speed and precision of the solo chef. This wasn't amateur hour. This was mastery. Baron Kael, the adventurer, had a wide, predatory grin on his face. This was the raw, untamed talent he lived to see.
With seconds to spare, Soma began to plate. A graceful, decisive swoosh of the vibrant green pea purée across the white plate. The perfectly seared scallop placed gently in the center. A delicate drizzle of the lemon-butter caper sauce over the top. It was minimalist, confident, and breathtakingly beautiful.
In the cheering crowd, Zero watched the entire performance from the side, the excited children jumping up and down beside him. A slow, immensely proud smile spread across his face, hidden behind his veil. He watched as his clone, his other self, plated the dish that could change their lives.
"Show-off," Zero muttered, his voice thick with pride and affection.
The judges moved down the line of stations with an air of practiced authority. They would taste, make a few clipped notes, and move on, their expressions giving away little. Finally, they arrived at the station of Gaylord de Jacquard.
He stood with a smug, self-assured smirk, his dish presented like a piece of abstract art—a chaotic jumble of foams, gels, and micro-herbs. The Countess's eyes narrowed as she read his name placard. "Jacquard? Are you Harland de Jacquard's son?"
Gaylord preened, bowing deeply. "The one and only, Your Grace."
The Countess picked up her fork and took the smallest, most delicate bite. Her expression, already disdainful, twisted into one of utter revulsion. She turned her head and spat the mouthful gracefully into a silk napkin.
"In an attempt to showcase your own cleverness," she said, her voice dripping with ice, "you have utterly obliterated the scallop. It is buried, drowned in a cacophony of tasteless, pretentious flourishes. There is no scallop here. There is only the noise of your own ego."
Gaylord's face went white. The other judges, more diplomatic, tasted the dish.
"The technique on the foam is... interesting," Baron Kael offered, "but the Countess is right. The hero is lost."
"A good dish, perhaps," Master Chef Borin grunted, "but not the one you were asked to make."
Leaving a humiliated Gaylord in their wake, the judges proceeded down the line until they stood before Soma's station. His single, elegant plate stood in stark contrast to the previous dish. As the Countess reached for her fork, Soma held up a hand.
"I'm sorry, esteemed judges," he said, his voice firm but respectful. "But I must implore you to taste my dish in your private rooms."
Magister Elara blinked. "And why is that, 'Chef' Yukihira?"
Soma met their confused gazes. "Please," he said, "it is for the sake of your own dignity. I would also highly recommend you bring a change of clothes."
The judges stared, stunned into silence. Countess Genevieve looked as if he had slapped her. "How dare—" she began, but was cut off by a sudden, booming laugh.
"Hahaha!" "Big" Sal slapped his knee. "Alright! I like this kid's style! I guess we should follow the chef's instructions on how to properly eat his dish!"
"Are you serious, Sal?" Master Chef Borin growled, scandalized by the blatant disrespect.
Soma bowed deeply from the waist. "Please," he urged. He couldn't possibly tell them that he had gotten so caught up in the thrill of creation that he'd forgotten to hold back. He could practically feel the waves of pure, fabric-rending flavor radiating from the plate. This dish would absolutely make them naked.
After a moment of tense deliberation, swayed by Big Sal's enthusiasm and their own curiosity, the judges agreed. Attendants carefully carried the five covered plates backstage to the private rooms the organizers had provided for makeup and breaks. As the judges disappeared one by one, the MCs tried desperately to guess what was happening, their commentary a confused babble. The other contestants whispered amongst themselves, baffled by the strange development.
Only Zero, standing in the crowd, smiled and chuckled to himself.
A hush fell over the plaza as everyone waited. Then, from the backstage area, it began. A sound. A low moan of pleasure from one room. Then a louder, more guttural groan from another. It grew into a chorus—gasps, sighs, and sounds of such pure, unadulterated ecstasy that the MCs on stage were stunned into silence. The crowd, utterly confused and deeply intrigued, murmured amongst themselves.
Soma stood at his station, listening to the symphony of culinary bliss he had unleashed, his face a perfect picture of profound regret. 'I really should have held back.'
**A/N**
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**A/N**