Feeling Shun's concern, Miyoko Hojo's heart warmed before she spoke. "It's nothing huge. It's just… the captain of the Chinese Cuisine Research Society, Kuga-senpai, keeps coming to find me lately."
"Kuga Terunori?"
Shun's eyes flickered—ask and the road appears. "He's an Elite Ten member too, right? What does he want with you?"
"What else?" Miyoko's tone held a thread of impatience. "He's taken a shine to my grounding in Chinese cuisine and has tried over and over to pull me into his 'Chinese Cuisine Research Society.' Says that under his leadership it's the true standard-bearer of Tōtsuki's Chinese cooking, that only there can it truly flourish… that sort of thing."
In the School Festival arc, it was, in fact, noted that Kuga had repeatedly invited Miyoko to join, only to be refused.
No denying it—Kuga possessed outstanding skill, especially in the realm of Chinese cuisine.
The problem was his tunnel vision. What ought to be a hundred flowers blooming—"Chinese cuisine"—had been bent by his personal taste until the society became, in practice, a Sichuan-only workshop.
"Chinese Cuisine Research Society"? More like a "Sichuan Research Society."
Under his hardline management, members championed "málà" above all; nearly every dish chased sheer impact.
On a fast-paced stage like a Shokugeki, that punchy palette does carve deep impressions—but it's a narrow philosophy that runs counter to the inclusive, richly varied spirit of Chinese cuisine.
Other lineages—Cantonese clarity, Huaiyang knife-work, the rigor of Lu cuisine—were smothered, and specialists in those schools were scarce.
Worse, society members were trained into cooking machines.
They followed fixed recipes Kuga supplied, mechanically stamping out the same Sichuan templates.
Such dishes lacked thought and creativity—the soul and warmth a chef should bring.
That was Miyoko's real reason to refuse. She wouldn't be someone's tool.
Thinking of this, she rubbed her temples. "I've turned him down a bunch of times, but he won't quit. It's just clingy more than anything—annoying."
Shun's gaze sharpened.
Elite Ten, Eighth Seat… Kuga Terunori.
Arrogant, obsessed with Chinese cuisine—and now pestering someone close to him.
A perfect target and point of entry, delivered to his door.
"I see."
The corner of Shun's mouth lifted, his tone edged with chill. "Sounds like this Eighth Seat is very sure of his Chinese cuisine—so sure he thinks no one can surpass him. 'Hungry for talent,' is he? Good. Very good."
Miyoko read his look at once. "Shun, don't do anything reckless… you're not ready to take on an Elite Ten seat head-on."
Shun didn't directly answer. A keen light flashed in his eyes.
In his mind, he ran through system items and Tōtsuki's rules at speed; the outline of a plan came clear.
After parting with Miyoko, Shun headed straight back to Polar Star Dorm.
It was already noon, and his stomach was complaining, so he went to the first-floor communal kitchen.
The door swung open onto chaos.
Sōma sat on the floor, two deep eye bags hanging like war paint, slumped against a cabinet and staring at the ceiling while muttering to himself.
On the counter before him rested a steaming bowl of gyūdon, flanked by the debris of failed trials and scraps of ingredients.
Shun paused—then recalled what Satoshi had mentioned: the day after tomorrow was Sōma's Shokugeki with the "Meat Master," Ikumi Mito.
Theme: Donburi.
If things played out like the "original," Ikumi would bring in A5 beef—the very top tier.
A5 was a rarefied ingredient in this world, out of reach for most people in their lifetime.
It looked like Sōma was deep in the trenches, wrestling with how to counter her A5.
Shun didn't interrupt. He grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge, though his gaze slid over Sōma's bowl.
The rice was properly steamed; the beef's doneness showed Sōma's reliable fundamentals. But, as Sōma himself was likely fretting, the soul of the bowl was the beef.
When the ingredient gulf is that wide, technique alone rarely bridges it.
Unless—like Shun—you wielded the Way of Food.
Lost in his own world, Sōma still hadn't noticed Shun.
Shun took a sip, let his eyes drift across the kitchen, and settled on a cluster of spice jars and an opened bottle of sake in the corner.
Something clicked. He spoke lightly—half to himself, yet in a voice clear enough for the stuck cook on the floor.
"Top-end ingredients bring top-end flavor. But sometimes their very intensity becomes a shackle—limits what pairings can do."
Sōma blinked, finally noticing there was someone else here. "Shun, when did you—"
Shun didn't answer him, just continued, "The humbler the ingredient, the less it insists on itself—so the more it can carry the chef's idea and make it shine."
He paused, lifted the sake and swirled it. "For example—use alcohol and spices to force your way in: permeate, reshape, even redraw the meat's flavor outline. Make the eater forget to ask 'what grade is this?' and start asking 'why is this so interesting?' Of course, balance and execution are everything. Mishandle it, and it backfires."
He set the bottle down as if he'd merely finished a passing thought, then turned and left the kitchen.
Every floor at Polar Star has a kitchen. Shun left this one to Sōma and headed up to the third to cook himself something.
…
(End of Chapter)
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