Morning sunlight trickled lazily through the curtains of Arin's small room above the restaurant. For the first time in weeks, he had slept in—really slept, without jerking awake to rehearse recipes in his head or running through competition strategies in his dreams. When his eyes opened, they felt heavy but rested. His body, though sore, was warm with the quiet satisfaction of having survived something monumental.
The festival was over. He had won.
But victory had a strange aftertaste.
Arin lay there for a long while, staring at the wooden beams above. The cheers of the crowd still echoed faintly in his ears, but already those voices felt distant, like the memory of spices that faded after a meal.
Was it real? Had he, a nobody apprentice, really stood on that stage, beating chefs trained in palaces? The idea both thrilled and frightened him. He wasn't sure which outweighed the other.
A knock came at his door. Mika's voice followed, soft but awake, as though she'd already been bustling around for an hour.
"Arin? You planning to sleep through the lunch rush? Or are you going to help me carry flour before I break my back?"
Arin groaned, pushing himself upright. "I'll be down in a minute."
By the time he descended the stairs, the restaurant was alive. Sunlight painted the wooden tables gold, and Mika was stacking vegetables onto a counter, her hair tied up with a bright ribbon he didn't recognize. She glanced at him, smirk tugging at her lips.
"About time. Champions don't get to be lazy, you know."
"Champions need sleep, too," Arin muttered, though the corner of his mouth betrayed him with a smile.
The familiar scent of Tanaka's Kitchen—warm broth simmering, fresh bread baking—wrapped around him. Somehow, it felt richer today, as if the walls themselves hummed with pride. Yet Arin knew pride alone wouldn't keep customers fed.
---
The Lunch Rush
It began quietly, with two merchants pushing the door open. Their clothes bore dust from the roads, and their laughter was loud, their coin purses clinking as they dropped into seats.
"We came all the way from the southern gate," one of them announced as if Mika had asked. "Heard the festival winner works here. That true?"
Mika arched a brow at Arin, who froze mid-step with a tray in hand. He wasn't used to being recognized.
"Depends," Mika said smoothly. "Are you planning to eat or just stare at him like he's another festival attraction?"
The merchants chuckled, waving her off. "We'll eat, girl, we'll eat. Give us what the champion recommends."
Arin hesitated, then chose a dish simple yet comforting: slow-braised pork with garlic rice and pickled radish. As he cooked, the merchants chatted about caravans, border taxes, and gossip from towns Arin had never seen.
When he served them, one took a slow bite and fell silent. The other, curious, tried his portion and gave a low whistle.
"By the gods… it tastes like my mother's table."
Arin's chest tightened. He hadn't expected those words, but they filled him with warmth. He didn't need them to call him "champion." Hearing that was enough.
---
The door opened again. This time, a family entered—a father, mother, and a boy who looked no older than eight. Their voices were sharp with frustration before they even sat down.
"I told you we should have gone to the inn near the square," the father muttered.
"And I told you this one is quieter," the mother snapped. The boy just stared at the floor, arms crossed.
Arin glanced at Mika. She gave him a little nod, the kind that said, Handle this one gently.
He served them bowls of chicken-and-herb soup, bread on the side. The boy poked at his meal first, reluctant, then took a bite. His eyes lit up, and for the first time since entering, his voice was bright.
"Papa! It's good!"
The father blinked, tasting his own portion. His frown softened. By the time the soup was gone, the three were speaking to each other again—quietly, but without bitterness.
Mika whispered as she passed Arin, "You're less a chef, more a healer."
Arin smiled faintly. Maybe she was right.
---
The next customer was louder than life—a scarred adventurer with a giant axe strapped to his back. He dropped onto a stool, slamming down a coin.
"Feed me whatever this 'champion' nonsense is about. I want to see if you're worth the talk."
Arin wiped his hands nervously but accepted the challenge. For this one, he made spiced stew with tough cuts of beef, cooked down until they melted in the mouth. He paired it with crispy fried potatoes dusted with herbs.
The adventurer dug in without grace. Halfway through the bowl, his chewing slowed. His shoulders eased. He didn't say much when he finished, only grunted:
"…Good. Better than good. Reminds me why I keep fighting—so I can eat meals like this when I come back alive."
Arin bowed slightly, hiding the swell in his chest. Every customer carried their own stories, and food seemed to unlock them without asking.
---
The last to arrive was a young noble, dressed in silks too fine for Tanaka's humble tables. His entrance drew stares, and he shifted awkwardly as though unused to spaces without chandeliers.
"I heard…" His voice was soft, uncertain. "I heard the winner of the festival cooks here."
Arin wiped his apron. "That would be me."
The noble studied him, lips pursed, then sat with the stiff posture of someone who had never eaten in a common hall. Arin served him roasted duck with citrus glaze, a dish balancing elegance with simplicity.
The noble cut delicately, chewed thoughtfully, and finally spoke.
"My tutors taught me that food is for sustenance, not indulgence. But this… this feels like a memory I didn't know I had."
For once, Arin had no reply. He only bowed, cheeks warm.
---
Afternoon Reflections
By the time the lunch rush ended, the kitchen was a battlefield of empty bowls and stained aprons. Mika slumped against the counter, wiping sweat from her brow.
"Never seen it this busy. Guess your victory brought the whole city here."
Arin sank into a chair, exhausted but strangely restless. The praise, the stories—it should have filled him with joy. But instead, unease lingered. Was he living up to what people expected? Was he just a vessel for their nostalgia, their memories?
Mika noticed his silence. She crouched beside him, eyes sharp.
"You're thinking too hard again."
He gave a weak laugh. "I'm just… wondering if I really deserve it. The title. The praise. What if it was luck? What if next time I fail?"
Mika tilted her head. "So what if you do? Cooking isn't about titles. It's about people leaving with full bellies and lighter hearts. That's what you did today. That's what matters."
Her words eased him more than any applause had.
---
Evening Glow
As the sun dipped, the dinner crowd trickled in—fewer than lunch, but calmer. A couple on their anniversary, a group of friends celebrating safe travels, an old woman who lived nearby and always asked for tea.
Arin moved slower, savoring the rhythm of chopping, stirring, plating. The kitchen no longer felt like a stage; it was his home. He even dared to experiment: adding a dash of the magical spice into a stew, adjusting the balance until the warmth deepened without overwhelming. The customers smiled, none the wiser that they were tasting a secret still growing within him.
---
Midnight Experiment
Long after the last guest left and Mika retired upstairs, Arin stayed. The restaurant was quiet now, shadows stretching across the tables. The kitchen flickered with the soft glow of lanternlight.
He laid out ingredients: rice, fish, miso, the magical spice. His hands moved slowly, reverently. Each slice of the knife was like a heartbeat.
Memories surfaced—his mother's laughter, the warmth of her kitchen, the way she hummed while stirring pots. He could almost hear her voice guiding him: Balance, Arin. Cooking isn't about showing off. It's about listening—to the ingredients, to the people who eat it, to yourself.
He tried, failed, adjusted. The first dish was too sharp, the second too flat. He closed his eyes, breathed, and started again. By the third attempt, the flavors sang in harmony, soft yet strong, like a quiet truth finally spoken aloud.
Arin sat at the counter, tasting it alone. Tears pricked his eyes—not from spice, but from memory.
"This… this is me," he whispered.
A creak of wood startled him. He turned.
At the doorway, half-hidden in shadows, a figure stood. Their face unreadable, but their gaze fixed on the steaming bowl.
"Interesting," the stranger murmured. Then they stepped closer.