The restaurant was quieter than usual. Afternoon sunlight poured through the wooden shutters of Tanaka's Kitchen, striping the tables with warm gold. The usual bustle of merchants and travelers had thinned, leaving only the lazy hum of the ceiling fan and the faint sizzle from the back stove. Arin wiped his hands on his apron and exhaled.
It should have felt peaceful. For weeks, the restaurant had been packed after his win at the town showcase. Locals had spread word of "the boy with magic in his hands," and people came eager to taste his dishes. Now, with a lull in the day, Arin thought he'd finally have time to breathe.
But he didn't.
There was a tightness in his chest, as if he was waiting for something to happen. His victory still felt unreal, like a firework that had burst brilliantly and left behind smoke. He replayed the taste of the winning dish in his mind, wondering if he'd simply been lucky. Could he truly hold his ground when more challenges came?
He shook the thought away and focused on his station. He had a pot of pork broth simmering low, the fragrance of ginger and scallions drifting through the air. A fresh loaf of bread cooled nearby, crust crackling softly. Simple food, comforting food. That was what Tanaka's Kitchen had always been about.
"Arin," Master Tanaka called from the counter, polishing glasses. "Don't look so stiff. Food should be made with a smile. You'll scare the soup if you frown at it too long."
Arin let out a short laugh. "Sorry, Master. Just… thinking too much."
"You're young. Thinking too much is a waste of youth. Put that energy into your hands. Let them talk for you."
Arin nodded, but his thoughts didn't fade.
The door chimed.
A group entered — three men in fine robes, silk embroidered with silver threads that caught the light. Their boots barely made a sound on the floor, yet their presence seemed to press on the air. At their head walked a man with a sharp nose and a smile that wasn't a smile at all. His rings glimmered, and his eyes swept the room like he was appraising a painting.
They sat without waiting for a welcome. One of the attendants snapped his fingers, and Arin felt irritation crawl up his spine.
Master Tanaka approached with his usual warmth. "Welcome to Tanaka's Kitchen. What may we serve you today?"
The noble waved a lazy hand. "Bring your best. We've heard whispers about some boy chef. Let us see if he is more than a parlor trick." His gaze landed on Arin. "That must be you."
Arin stiffened. "Yes, sir."
The noble leaned back. "Good. Impress me."
It wasn't the words that stung — it was the way he said them, like Arin was a servant ordered to juggle for amusement. Still, Arin bowed slightly. "I'll prepare something special."
He retreated to the kitchen, jaw tight.
"Careful," Tanaka murmured, following him. "That one has the look of someone who likes to step on ants."
"I know," Arin said quietly. "But if I let pride get the better of me, I'll lose before I begin."
He washed his hands again, slower this time, steadying himself.
What should he make?
He thought of his usual showpiece dishes — the flame-seared fish, the caramelized dumplings, the broth laced with magic herbs. But something in him resisted. The noble wanted spectacle. He wanted to sneer. Arin didn't want to give him what he expected.
Instead, he chose simplicity.
Rice. A humble bowl of rice, but perfected.
He rinsed the grains until the water ran clear, then soaked them briefly. He cooked them over low flame, letting the steam swell each grain until they gleamed. While it simmered, he prepared side dishes: pickled radish with a hint of honey, braised pork belly slow-cooked until tender, and a clear soup of miso and mushrooms.
No fireworks, no magic glow. Just balance. Comfort. Soul.
As he plated, the door swung open again.
"Arin!" shouted Mei, their supplier's daughter, breathless. "There's a problem."
Arin froze. "What happened?"
She wrung her hands. "The shipment of mountain herbs you ordered — it's gone. A rival buyer bought the whole stock before it reached us. And the market's dry until next week."
Arin's stomach dropped. Those herbs were the heart of several of their dishes, especially the ones customers had been asking for since the showcase. Without them, the menu felt incomplete.
Tanaka swore under his breath. "Figures. Success always brings someone looking to cut your legs."
Arin's mind raced. He couldn't show panic, not with that noble waiting outside, not with customers who trusted their kitchen. He forced himself to breathe.
"We'll work with what we have," Arin said firmly. "If we can't use mountain herbs, we'll adapt. We'll create something new."
Tanaka studied him, then gave a small nod.
Arin returned to the plates, hands moving faster now. He sprinkled sesame over the pork belly, drizzled a touch of soy reduction, and added thin slices of local herbs — not the prized mountain kind, but fragrant enough when coaxed properly. Improvisation. Risky, but it had to do.
When he brought the tray out, the noble arched a brow.
"This?" he said, voice dripping with disdain. "Rice and pickles? I asked for your best, not a farmer's breakfast."
Arin set the dishes down with steady hands. "Sometimes the simplest food carries the deepest flavor. Please, try it."
The noble chuckled, a sound sharp as glass. Still, he picked up the chopsticks. He tasted the rice first. His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly, then he moved to the pork belly. Silence stretched.
Arin held his breath.
Finally, the noble set the chopsticks down. His expression was unreadable. "Not terrible. But hardly worthy of reputation. Perhaps the whispers exaggerated."
The words stung, but Arin bowed slightly. "Thank you for tasting."
The noble stood, brushing off his robes. "Do not mistake survival for victory, boy. The world won't always indulge you."
With that, he and his attendants left, the door swinging shut behind them.
The restaurant felt colder.
Arin exhaled shakily, staring at the half-finished dishes. Customers at other tables murmured, some giving him sympathetic looks, others whispering uncertainty.
Tanaka clapped a hand on his shoulder. "You did well. You stayed true. That matters more than flattery."
Arin nodded, but his chest burned. Did he do well? Or had he just been dismissed?
He returned to the kitchen, staring at the empty shelves where mountain herbs should have been. His hands curled into fists. He'd chosen this path — food as his way of magic. But every step forward seemed to bring another wall.
He told himself it was just another test. Another table to serve. Another plate to perfect.
Yet as the evening light faded, the words of the noble echoed in his head: The world won't always indulge you.
For the first time since arriving at Tanaka's Kitchen, Arin wondered if he was ready for the world beyond its doors.