The week leading up to the Grand Symposium was a study in contrasts. The entire Aethertaste campus buzzed with anticipation, the student body polarized between the two opposing culinary philosophies. It was the only topic of conversation, the main event that overshadowed all classes and training.
At Voltagrave Manor, Reign's preparations were a spectacle of immense wealth and intimidating precision.
He didn't just practice; he drilled with the ferocity of a soldier preparing for war. He had his family's conglomerate fly in a hundred of the chosen ingredient—the 'Hoshi-no-Tamago', or Star-Egg—a legendary, near-mythical egg laid by a specific breed of hen raised in zero-gravity and fed a diet of ground pearls and starlight moss. The eggs were said to have yolks of unparalleled richness and whites that could be whipped into a cloud-like meringue with the texture of captured moonlight. Each egg was worth more than the entire Hearthline guild hall.
Every day, Reign would stand in his sterile, white-quartz kitchen, a team of lab-coated assistants taking notes behind him. He would crack one perfect egg after another, his movements an elegant, practiced ballet.
He measured the viscosity of the yolk to the micron. He calculated the precise temperature needed to achieve the perfect onsen-tamago-style coagulation. He used an electro-pulse whisk to create a meringue foam, analyzing the bubble structure under a digital microscope to ensure perfect uniformity.
His dish was to be the ultimate expression of Purity. It was called "Celestial Dawn." It was a deconstructed egg presentation: a barely-set yolk sphere suspended in an ethereal meringue cloud, served on a chilled disc of ionized silver, and seasoned with a single, perfect crystal of desalinated sea salt harvested from the peak of Mount Fuji.
It was not just food. It was a statement. An arrogant declaration that he, and only he, could comprehend and perfect such a divine ingredient. His allies and the elites who came to watch his practice sessions would gasp in awe. He was not just a chef; he was an artist-scientist, pushing the boundaries of culinary perfection.
About a half-mile away, in the rustic, noisy, and perpetually food-scented hall of the Hearthline Guild, Izen's preparations were… different.
He didn't order any Star-Eggs. He hadn't even asked to see one.
Instead, for three days, he focused solely on the jar of cheap, iodized table salt.
His friends watched in utter bewilderment. He wasn't cooking with it. He was studying it. He would spread it out on a dark plate, examining the inconsistent crystal structures through a magnifying glass. He would taste a single grain, letting it dissolve on his tongue, his eyes closed in deep concentration.
He even put a cup of the salt into his ultrasonic machine and ran it through a dozen different frequency cycles, not with water, but dry. The low hum of the machine was the only sound in the kitchen for hours at a time. Grit thought he'd finally lost his mind.
"Kid, the duel is in four days," the Titan Tools captain finally grumbled, unable to take the suspense anymore. "Don't you think you should at least, you know, look at a picture of this stupid magic egg you're supposed to cook?"
"The egg is not the problem," Izen said, not looking up from his salt. "The problem is the idea. The idea of 'flawless.'"
He sifted the ultrasonically-vibrated salt through a fine mesh sieve. Something had changed. The crystals seemed finer, more uniform. And the taste… he put a single grain in his mouth. The harsh, chemical bitterness of the iodine was almost gone, replaced by a clean, pure salinity. The vibrations had shaken the ionic bonds, subtly altering its very structure.
On the fourth day, he finally moved on from the salt. Kael, relieved, asked if he was ready to practice on a normal egg.
"No," Izen said. "Bring me a bucket of Phoenix-Grade potatoes."
For the next two days, Izen did nothing but cook potatoes. Potatoes that had been salvaged from student dorms—half-eaten baked potatoes, bruised ones thrown out by the cafeteria, even the peels. He didn't use any fancy techniques. He just cooked them. He baked them. He boiled them. He fried them.
He fed the results to his guild members. "What's the flaw?" he would ask after they tasted a simple baked potato.
"Uh… the skin is a little tough?" Elara would venture.
"Good." Izen would nod and make a note.
"This fried one… it's a bit greasy," Grit would say.
"Okay." Izen would write it down.
They weren't practice dishes; they were diagnostics. He wasn't trying to make perfect potatoes. He was mapping the very concept of imperfection. Toughness, greasiness, bitterness, dryness, mushiness. He was building a library of flaws in his mind.
His friends thought he was cracking under the pressure. Reign Voltagrave was busy perfecting the heavens. Izen Loxidon was cataloging the mundane flaws of a dirty potato.
On the final day before the duel, Kael found Izen sitting alone at the long wooden table. In front of him was a bowl of the simple, flawed fried potatoes he'd made, and a small dish of the refined, purified salt. He took a piece of the greasy potato, dipped it in the clean salt, and ate it.
His expression was one of quiet discovery.
"Kael," he said, his voice full of a calm, newfound clarity. "Do you know the difference between a king and a peasant?"
"Their ingredients?" Kael guessed.
"No," Izen said, holding up a piece of the humble potato. "A king is served a 'perfect' meal. He tastes it, judges it, and finds it satisfactory. It meets his expectations."
He then dipped the potato in the salt and held it out to Kael. "A peasant is starving. He's given a simple, flawed potato. He tastes it, and it's the most delicious thing in the world. It doesn't just meet his expectations; it saves him. The flaw—the grease, the imperfect texture—doesn't matter. The nourishment is all that matters."
Kael tasted the potato. The pure salt cut through the richness of the grease, elevating the simple, earthy flavor. It was… perfect, in its own way.
"Reign thinks Purity is the absence of flaws," Izen said, his eyes shining. "He's wrong. True Purity isn't about the ingredient being perfect."
He looked at Kael, his smile knowing and serene.
"It's about the palate being hungry."