Chapter 440: Teacher El-Melloi
Shirou didn't pay much attention to Lord El-Melloi II's investigation; he knew this was a necessary survival tactic for the weakest Lord in the political shark tank of the Clock Tower.
If El-Melloi II hadn't relied on his continuously expanding knowledge and his sharp intellect to hone this power of observation, he likely would have died long ago in some conspiracy or political struggle between the Clock Tower's three factions.
"Teacher, it's better if you don't unmask me," Shirou said, unhurriedly lifting a boiling coffee pot to pour a post-meal drink for his teacher. If not for the mask, Shirou's elegance would have made him look just like a butler in a British noble house.
"Ho-oh, is that how one asks a favor?" El-Melloi II asked.
"Well, after all, I'm just an ordinary chef; there's really nothing worth exposing," Shirou continued. "Though, for you, Teacher—even though you're called the star lecturer of the Clock Tower and the 'Star of Big Ben,' we've yet to see you dating any girl. It's no wonder people suspect your sexual orientation, and so several male students at the academy have started making eyes at you."
"In the rankings of the tutor students most want to sleep with, you're firmly at NO. 1, with a double-digit lead over the runner-up. It's just that the pincer attack from both genders has made your dodging and escaping even more pathetic."
"On holidays, you just wear a 'Big-Time Dominator' T-shirt and, aside from work, you're a hopeless NEET who only plays games. These behaviors all stem from your imitation of the King you respect in your heart."
"Teacher, you are working hard to become the King's proudest retainer. To ensure that King's reputation is not buried, you desperately research and write papers to gain the recognition of everyone at the Clock Tower. To make the world that King loved even more magnificent, you dedicate yourself to cultivating every student who seeks your guidance."
"Even though there is a distance of over two thousand three hundred years between you and that King—a distance so vast it cannot be measured—this loyalty and these feelings have not diminished by a single bit. And today, Teacher, you have finally met that King! It is truly a moving story; I really wish that King could understand the efforts you've made in the past."
Shirou looked up at the light shining through the ceiling with a sense of melancholy. A camera was positioned right there, capturing both him and El-Melloi II, transmitting the image to the whole world, and—more importantly—to the Conqueror King, Iskandar.
"Stop, stop! Wait!" El-Melloi II slammed the table, face turning crimson, and stood up.
Shirou continued: "What's worse is that your ability to take care of yourself is a complete mess. If you were left alone, you probably couldn't guarantee three meals a day and would
just live by gnawing on bread. If this continues, even if it's a pseudo-summoning, the body is ultimately your own body, and sooner or later, it won't be able to take it."
"Alright, that's enough! I don't have time to listen to the preaching of a suspicious masked man like you! I'm not the least bit interested in the face under your mask, so hurry up and leave. Get going!" El-Melloi II sipped his coffee and waved his hand impatiently.
"Eh? That's all?" Shirou asked, somewhat surprised.
"You're really wordy!" El-Melloi II said bluntly. "Go on up. Don't make me say more nonsense. If you've passed, just go up; don't waste time."
"Yes, yes. Thank you for your hard work, Teacher." Shirou answered casually and nodded toward Old Man Nakiri, who was waiting there.
"Kid, let's go," Nakiri Senzaemon said.
"Understood, Old Man." Shirou nodded.
"Ah, I've also sought out many good friends for special training. Next time, I'll brew a pot of tiger-whip soup and have Erina bring it to you. I really want to hold a great-grandchild, after all."
"Ahahaha." Shirou gave a dry laugh. He wanted to refuse, but it was hard to voice it, and in the end, he couldn't bring himself to decline.
The two set off together toward the stairs. Their cooking tools were taken care of; the preparation for this tournament had taken three months, and everything was available. Naturally, there were people to help transport their necessary tools to the next venue.
Of the four chefs this time, Pablo was the slowest. His approach this time was one of "refining the already excellent." He was methodical, never reducing by even a second the time he could spend on a task. Right at the final moment, he placed his dish on the trolley and sent it to El-Melloi II's seat.
He poured dry ice into a silver kettle and splashed it over the table of food. Instantly, the desktop transformed into a fairyland, shrouded in pure white mist. Various colorful fruit slices and pastry platters loomed in the clouds. The shells containing the French roasted oysters looked like bivalves emerging from the sea, containing thousand-year pearls.
The black truffles and caviar, sandwiched between slices of bread with roasted salmon and topped with a spoonful of black caviar, looked like neat rows of a fleet. Only the black chocolate volcano stood firmly at the end.
"Please enjoy my gorgeous cuisine: 'Fairyland: French Dessert Volcano,' Mr. El-Melloi," Pablo bowed, performed a gentleman's salute, and said with a smile.
El-Melloi II didn't pick up his spoon. His eyes weren't looking at the food on the silver platter; instead, they were fixed on the French chef, his gaze seeming to pierce through to the other man's thoughts. He spoke slowly:
"You appear to want to act confident and strong, but inside, you are the most anxious of the four. Your pupils have constricted, as if you're thinking about something. You're holding your arms with your fingers involuntarily clenching; your legs are standing straight, and your muscles are unconsciously tense. You have a lot on your mind. Could it be that you have some other intentions?"
"What?! I don't know what you're talking about! Please taste it; there is absolutely nothing wrong with my dish." The French chef broke into a cold sweat in secret, but he quickly composed himself, spread his hands, and smiled.
"Oh, you seem quite confident in your culinary skills," El-Melloi II said, watching him.
Pablo laughed heartily. "Ahaha, as the chef representing Europe in this tournament, I must have enough confidence in my own craft, of course."
"I see. Then it's even stranger. It is clearly the time for me to judge, yet you are incredibly nervous. You clearly have something else more important on your mind. Where could it be?" El-Melloi II asked unhurriedly.
Pablo retorted aggressively: "Your London accent is very pure—you really are British, aren't you? As a judge, shouldn't you discard your position and remain impartial? You are holding a prejudice against me because I'm French, aren't you? It's not good to suspect others arbitrarily! I can accept a food safety inspection, but if no problems are found, you must give me an explanation and compensate me for the damage to my reputation!"
He wasn't afraid at all. Why? Because at this moment, he carried nothing incriminating on him. In public, he was touted as an inspirational figure who rose from the bottom by working hard to study culinary arts—which, in fact, he was.
Although he had chosen to take a shortcut midway after discovering a more effective method, his innate culinary talent was genuinely high—at the very least, the highest in Europe. Those young competitors either chose to submit to him or were suppressed and pushed out of the European culinary scene.
If he hadn't seen these unexpected monsters in this tournament, he would have thought he was destined to be the world's number one sooner or later.
'That legendary Chinese figure—I thought he was too old to move, but I didn't expect him to be so energetic. What the hell is up with that glowing food? Did he add edible fluorescent powder? It's daytime here!'
'That masked bastard—he looks very young, but his technique is shockingly skilled, and he possesses the traits of a top-tier chef. How is that possible!? That's a realm I haven't even reached.'
'That Nakiri—he's clearly old, but he has mastered so many solid basics, and he's actually developed his unique cuisine to the extreme.'
If he were in Europe, Pablo would only want to do one thing to such people: destroy them. Threats, poison, shooting, explosions, kidnapping their families—he'd use any means necessary to force them out of the culinary world. Only then could he firmly sit on his throne as the underground emperor.
El-Melloi II crossed his fingers and rested his elbows on the table, continuing to study the French chef with deep eyes. He spoke: "Alright then. As a retainer, I shouldn't spoil the fun of those above me. I won't eat this dish, but I will grant you the qualification to pass."
"Hmph, wouldn't it have been better to just do that earlier instead of being stubborn? I am a master chef of the century! Everything I cook is according to international standards; it is absolutely impossible for there to be any problems!" Pablo snorted, speaking without any courtesy.
"Well, suit yourself," El-Melloi II said, cutting his cigar, lighting it with a match, taking a puff, and exhaling a thick cloud of smoke, looking indifferent.
"Hmph!" Pablo turned and followed the footsteps of the three who had already climbed the stairs.
He cursed internally: 'Damn it! What is going on with this tournament?! Where on earth is this teacher from? A detective school? I haven't even done anything yet! Did that woman Koyanskaya come or not?! Her fees are so expensive! And she's so inefficient! Later, I'm definitely going to make her kneel at my feet.'
When he reached the third level, he found that there was no gatekeeper. Instead, Cleopatra appeared as the host to relay the message for the third level's judge.
"This judge is a gentle and considerate woman. Because she anticipated that the chefs would be exhausted after two high-intensity culinary displays, she has halted the competition and modified the rules. From now on, contestants will be allowed to rest for one hour after passing each level."
As Cleopatra explained, she approved of this plan. From a commercial standpoint, it was somewhat negligent, but she hoped for a pause in the competition—otherwise, there was no time to broadcast, and even the act of chopping vegetables looked like amazing juggling, with no time left for commercial breaks.
However, just who were the judges above? They were the Conqueror King who led his army toward the end of the world without a map; Caesar, who was a military fanatic; an ageless fairy; and the adopted daughter of the King of Hell. To them, was rest really anything?
"Not pausing temporarily—do you mean to say you want us to compete five times in a row in one day? Just how Spartan are the judges?" Shirou complained with his dead-fish eyes.
"Hi-chu!!! Could it be that I'm not acclimated to the environment, chu? Did I catch a cold?" The red-haired girl in the kimono at the top level touched her petite nose and asked, confused.
"Hahaha, Masked Kid, are you already unable to hold up?" Master Liu raised his arm, his biceps and triceps bulging high, and asked with a laugh.
"That won't do! You need to train more!" Old Man Nakiri also performed, his signature "garment ripping" as he flexed his sturdy muscles.
"Well, it actually doesn't matter to me one way or the other," Shirou glanced at the two muscle-bound old men, feeling he was the scrawniest one, and waved his hand helplessly.
Don't rush, don't push, don't wish—that was his current creed. In the language of ancient Chinese philosophy, it meant: "A superior man is cautious when alone, maintains his true heart, and follows the flow of nature." Only in this way could one avoid being led by the nose in this chaotic world and live the life one truly wanted according to one's heart.
For example, when you do things in life—when you are alone, without supervision, without punishment or criticism, and without anyone knowing—if you still choose to do them, that is your most natural and comfortable way of living.
"Don't rush, don't force it, and don't fantasize," Shirou said calmly. If a person can achieve these three things and move at their own pace to do what is within their power, they can live with a peaceful state of mind.
Sometimes, a person doesn't even know what they truly want. What they think in their hearts and what they say out loud are often two completely different things. Impulsive actions, saving face, or emotional reactions often lead to later annoyance or even regret.
Do not be swayed by external factors; go at your own pace. Do not force yourself to do things you resist internally. Do not indulge in unnecessary fantasies; if there is no expectation, there will naturally be no disappointment.
Of course, to achieve this, one must frequently meditate and converse with one's inner self, reminding oneself of one's true needs and making necessary compromises—this is a very important prerequisite.
This is the essence of the so-called Taoist and Buddhist schools of thought.
"As for me, even if we keep competing, I won't be anxious about gains or losses. But for those who hold excessive desires, their mood right now must be completely different, right? Am I correct?" Shirou glanced at the French chef on the side and asked.
"Ugh..." Pablo's body shook. He revealed a gloomy expression, and his tightly clenched fists bulged with veins.
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