The plaza was alive in a strange way. Thousands of people filled the square, yet not a single voice carried above the lantern-lit air. It wasn't silence born of peace—it was silence born of pressure. The kind where your own heartbeat starts to sound like a drum in your ears.
Arin stood there, his apron faintly stained with broth and spice. His fingers tingled from the hours of chopping, stirring, plating. He could still feel the warmth of the stove clinging to his skin, the way the steam had kissed his face. And now… now there was nothing to do but wait.
The dish he had placed before the judges—a bowl of glazed tuna with a tomato-ginger broth—still sent tiny curls of steam into the air. To Arin, it smelled like home. He could almost imagine his mother's kitchen again: the cracked wooden counter, the faint creak of the window shutters, the gentle sound of her humming while she stirred a pot.
But he wasn't at home. He was on a stage, under lights that made every flaw visible, every twitch magnified. And three of the most respected chefs in the kingdom were sitting just feet away, their eyes heavy and sharp, their mouths unreadable.
Across the stage, Renji stood like he belonged there. His uniform was spotless, not a single drop of sauce out of place. His wagyu dish glistened under the lanterns as if the meat itself had been polished. Renji's confidence wasn't forced; it was natural, the kind that came from someone who had been told their whole life that they were exceptional.
When Renji glanced at him, the smirk said everything words could not: This is my stage, not yours. Remember your place.
Arin's stomach twisted. He hated how that look got under his skin. He hated how, for a moment, he almost believed it.
His eyes dropped to his own hands. They were calloused, small scars running across his knuckles from years of accidents in kitchens far humbler than this. He thought of the nights he had cooked with Mika, laughing as they tried to stretch one pot of soup into three meals. He thought of his mother's hands, gentle but firm, guiding his when he was too young to hold a knife properly.
He clenched his fists. I don't have Renji's polish. I don't have years of training in elite academies. But I have something.
The whisper came then, soft and slippery, like oil sliding across water.
You have me.
Arin's breath caught. The spice. Even here, even now, it spoke to him. It wasn't a voice anyone else could hear—only him.
With me, you don't need to fear them. With me, you can surpass them all.
He shook his head, jaw tight. Not now. Not here.
The head judge finally rose, his robes shifting as he placed his spoon on the table. He didn't look at the crowd. He didn't look at Renji. He looked at Arin.
"Renji Saito," the judge began, his voice steady, practiced. "Your dish was… flawless. Every cut precise, every flavor balanced. It was, as expected, a performance of mastery."
The crowd broke into applause, loud and confident, as though nothing surprising had been said. Renji dipped his head, his smirk stretching wider.
Then the judge turned. "Arin Tanaka."
Arin's chest tightened. His mouth was dry.
"Your dish…" The judge paused, and for a terrible heartbeat, Arin thought the pause meant failure. That they were searching for the right way to say forgettable.
But then the judge's eyes softened. "Your dish was not grand. It was not perfect. But it carried something very few manage to place on a plate."
Arin blinked.
"It carried heart," the judge continued. "It carried memory. It reminded us of the warmth of a kitchen, of the comfort of food not just as sustenance, but as a story."
A murmur spread through the crowd. People glanced at one another. Some nodded. Others whispered.
Arin felt something rise in his chest. Relief? Pride? He didn't know. All he knew was that, for the first time since stepping onto that stage, he wasn't afraid of being invisible.
The judge raised a hand. "We will now deliberate."
And just like that, the moment ended. The three judges leaned together, their words too soft to catch. Their faces gave nothing away.
Arin stood frozen, staring at his shoes. His thoughts spun, but none of them landed. Every heartbeat was a hammer against his ribs.
Renji stepped closer, his voice low enough that only Arin could hear.
"Don't get excited," he whispered. "They pity you. That's all. Real chefs don't win on pity."
Arin's jaw tightened, but he said nothing. He didn't trust his voice to come out steady.
Instead, he looked at the crowd. Some faces were turned toward Renji, eyes bright with admiration. But some… some were looking at him. And in those faces, Arin saw something he hadn't expected: hope.
Maybe they saw in him a reflection of themselves. A boy who didn't look like he belonged on a grand stage, but who dared to stand there anyway.
The thought steadied him. He straightened his shoulders, inhaled, and waited.
And as the judges whispered among themselves, the spice whispered again, more insistent this time.
Let me help you win. Let me make sure their decision goes in your favor. You don't need to suffer. Just take me in fully.
Arin closed his eyes. He didn't answer. Not yet.
The weight of silence pressed down heavier than ever.