The rain had stopped by morning, but the streets of Aoyama still glistened as if the sky had wept all night. Cobblestones reflected lantern light, the smell of wet earth and faint spice lingering in the cool dawn. For Arin, the world seemed strangely quiet after the storm of the Festival. The cheers, the applause, the fire in his veins—it all felt like a dream.
Now, back in Tanaka's Kitchen, reality wrapped around him like a familiar apron. The small bell above the door chimed again and again as regulars and newcomers filed in, eager to taste the food of the "festival chef." Mika darted between tables, carrying trays with an ease that belied her energy. Hana laughed as she helped arrange new flowers for the counter. The little diner was alive in a way it had never been before.
But Arin wasn't at ease. The jar sat on the highest shelf, faintly glowing, and even while his hands chopped vegetables or stirred broth, he felt its pull.
"They loved you because of me."
The whisper was soft, slithering like steam around his ears.
"Without me, you are ordinary. You will fade. Let me guide you, and we will never lose again."
Arin's knife slipped, nearly grazing his finger. He set it down with a sharp exhale.
"Arin?" Mika's voice carried from the counter, concern etching her features. "You okay?"
"Yeah," he forced a smile. "Just… distracted."
But inside, he wasn't smiling.
---
Renji's Restlessness
Elsewhere, in a polished restaurant on the other side of town, Renji Saito sat at a dimly lit counter, staring at a glass of untouched sake. The cheers for Arin replayed in his mind like a cruel refrain.
He had lost.
No—the judges hadn't declared it, not officially. But he had seen it in their eyes. The way they lingered on the taste of Arin's tuna, the quiet emotion that softened their expressions. His wagyu had been perfect, flawless, but it hadn't touched their hearts.
That humiliation burned hotter than any flame in his kitchen.
"Still brooding?" A voice cut through the silence.
Renji turned his head. A tall man in a dark coat slid onto the stool beside him. He had sharp eyes, the kind that seemed to weigh and measure everything in sight. His lips curled into a knowing smile.
"You looked impressive out there," the man said. "But you lost to sentimentality."
Renji stiffened. "Who are you?"
"Just someone who hates wasted talent." The man leaned closer, lowering his voice. "That boy—you felt it, didn't you? His food wasn't just cooking. There was something unnatural about it."
Renji's eyes narrowed. "Unnatural?"
The man tapped his glass. "Spice. Ancient. Forbidden. He has it, and it bends people's hearts. Without it, he's nothing."
For a moment, Renji's pride wanted to dismiss the claim. But then he remembered the golden shimmer in Arin's glaze, the way the aroma had seemed to tug at even his own chest.
"Where did you hear this?" Renji asked.
The man's smile widened. "I can show you. I can give you the power to crush him—not just in the kitchen, but in the world."
Renji's fingers tightened around his glass. The humiliation, the whispers of doubt, the sting of losing to "feelings"—all of it hardened into a single thought: I will not lose again.
"Tell me more," Renji said.
---
Temptation in the Kitchen
That night, after the last customers left, Arin sat alone in Tanaka's Kitchen. The lights were dim, the clatter of dishes replaced by silence. The jar sat on the counter, glowing faintly like a candle in the dark.
His fingers hovered over it.
"You could have crushed him. If you had given me more freedom, your dish would have sung louder than memory. You could be great, Arin. Greater than your mother, greater than anyone. Why settle for comfort, when you could be legend?"
Arin closed his eyes. His mother's voice came back to him, gentle and warm. "Food isn't about power, Arin. It's about love."
He whispered aloud, as if answering her ghost. "But what if love isn't enough?"
The jar pulsed, golden light washing over his hands.
At that moment, the door creaked open. Mika stepped inside, a small lantern in her hands. She froze when she saw him, bathed in the jar's glow.
"Arin…" Her voice trembled. "You're still awake? That spice… it's dangerous. Every time you touch it, you change."
Arin looked at her, torn between shame and defiance. "It helps me cook. It makes people feel. Isn't that worth it?"
"Not if it eats you alive." Mika set the lantern down, her eyes fierce. "Promise me you won't let it control you. Promise me, Arin."
He swallowed hard. The jar pulsed again, as if mocking the plea.
"I'll try," he whispered. But he didn't know if it was a lie.
---
The Next Challenge
Days later, a letter arrived at Tanaka's Kitchen, sealed with crimson wax. Arin unfolded it with trembling hands.
It was an invitation. Another competition—smaller than the Festival, but prestigious. The Grand Guild of Chefs was hosting a trial for rising stars. The theme: Innovation.
Arin's heart twisted. Innovation meant risk, boldness. It meant using the spice.
Mika read the letter over his shoulder, her lips pressing into a thin line. "This is what they want. They'll test you until you break. You don't have to go, Arin."
But he knew he would. His path had already been set the moment he opened that jar.
Across town, Renji received the same letter. He crushed it in his fist, fire in his eyes. But unlike Arin, he wasn't conflicted. He had already chosen his path—guided by the mysterious man who promised him a weapon of his own.
The stage was being set once more. Not for warmth, not for memory—but for war.
---
Cliffhanger
That night, as Arin cleaned the kitchen, he noticed something odd. The jar wasn't where he left it. He checked the shelves, the counters, every corner of the room. Panic rose in his chest.
Then he saw it—on the table, lid slightly ajar, faint wisps of golden light curling into the air like smoke.
He reached for it with shaking hands, but the whisper in his mind was louder than ever, almost a shout.
"Soon, you will see. Without me, you are nothing. With me… the world will kneel before your flavor."
Arin staggered back, breath ragged. He didn't notice the shadow outside the window, watching him with cold, hungry eyes.
Renji.