Shun and Miyoko arrived at the Chinese Cuisine Research Society.
Just as Shun remembered from the "plot," the moment they pushed the doors open, a scene of sheer shock filled their view.
Nearly twenty crew-cut members—every one of them with shaved heads—were practicing wok-tossing like robotic arms on an assembly line, movements perfectly uniform.
The arcs of the woks, the snap of the wrists—almost indistinguishable down to the millimeter.
To most people it looked tidy and disciplined; to Shun it looked like a factory of cooks without selfhood.
Even the air smelled of a stifling, rigid regimentation. It felt less like a cooking club and more like a boot camp.
"Oh? Isn't that Hojo?" a brash voice rang out from the center.
Hands in his pockets, Kuga Terunori strutted over wearing his usual mix of surprise and arrogance.
He clearly didn't recognize Shun. His gaze locked on Miyoko. "So, you finally came around? I've been waiting for you to join the Chinese Cuisine Research Society~~"
Kuga treated Shun as if he were invisible—or simply beneath a Ten Master's notice.
Miyoko frowned. "Kuga-senpai, you misunderstood. I already said it clearly before—I don't want to join any club."
"Eh?"
Kuga put on an exaggeratedly wounded look. "That's a shame. I was looking forward to a talented first-year like you strengthening our society. After all, this is where we pursue the pinnacle of Chinese cuisine…"
After muttering to himself a bit, Kuga finally noticed Shun beside her. "Then what brings you here today, Hojo?"
"I…"
Miyoko glanced at Shun, unsure what to say. She couldn't exactly admit she'd come to "challenge" them.
Shun stepped forward. "I've long heard that Kuga-senpai's mastery of Chinese cuisine—especially Sichuan—is exceptional. I came today to… observe and learn."
"Oh? To learn?"
Kuga arched a brow, clearly satisfied by that answer, though the arrogance in his eyes didn't fade.
He looked Shun up and down and found nothing noteworthy. "What do you want to learn? Our efficient training regimen, or—"
"Mapo Tofu."
Shun calmly offered four syllables.
"Heh, you want to taste our society's signature dish? No problem!"
Kuga agreed readily. At his command, ten shaved-headed members in the society's uniform stepped out in unison.
Ignite. Heat oil. Add aromatics. Season…
Each step played out like copy-and-paste—precision to a frightening degree.
In moments, the room was awash with fragrance—intense and stimulating, yet somehow monotonous.
Ten minutes later, ten plates of Mapo Tofu—nearly stamped from the same mold—were set before Shun and Miyoko.
Crimson oil and sauce; Sichuan pepper blanketing the top—visually, a heavy hitter.
"Please." Kuga gestured with full confidence.
Shun lifted his spoon and tasted each one in turn.
On contact, explosive mala heat, the crisp savor of minced meat, and tofu's silky tenderness pounded the palate. The technical level was high.
More surprising: the ten plates tasted almost identical. Without his Super Taste, even Shun might have missed the minuscule shifts in saltiness.
For a moment, Shun had to respect Kuga's capability.
To synchronize a group of students to this degree? Many professionals couldn't manage it.
But the respect lasted only an instant. The next, a flicker of disdain cooled his eyes.
"Amazing," he said.
He put the spoon down and gave a light clap—yet his voice was flat, devoid of awe. "An astonishing feat of consistency. Kuga-senpai, you've succeeded in turning a cuisine brimming with creativity into a soul-less production line."
"Each cook's sense of heat, seasoning, and understanding of a dish has been erased. They're not chefs—they're just tools to execute your orders."
Of course Kuga knew this—but hearing it thrown in his face stung his pride as a Ten Master.
His smile froze; his expression darkened. "What did you say? You first-years don't get it. On the battlefield of Shokugeki, stability and power are king!"
"King?" Shun let out a short, cold laugh. "Only in your eyes. Chinese cuisine carries millennia of culture—vast and profound! Eight great schools, a hundred flavors vying in chorus—and you've drilled your members into assembly-line screws who only repeat one flavor of 'Mapo.'"
The words slammed like a hammer into the hearts of the shaved-head members, and Kuga's face went from dark to storm-black.
Though they didn't dare speak, a few pairs of eyes flickered despite themselves.
Because ever since joining, Kuga had indeed kept them doing the same production-line work.
Quick to anger by nature, Kuga's temper ignited. "What do you know! Driving a single style to its apex is proof of strength! In the face of absolute power, those flashy 'variations' crumble!"
"Apex?" Shun smiled again. "Your 'apex' just turns everyone here into your tools."
He lifted a hand and pointed at the unfinished Mapo Tofu on the counter, then at the bowed, silent members. "Ask them—besides the components you allow, do they dare try other dishes? Can they cook something conceived by themselves? You're not cultivating chefs—you're strangling them."
"Shut up! You're a first-year—what right do you have to judge my methods here!"
Kuga snapped, his dignity as a chef and Ten Master repeatedly provoked—his patience gone.
…
(End of Chapter)
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