The preparations for the "First Annual Ichiraku Ramen Death-Match" (as Naruto had already christened it) transformed the peaceful ramen shop into a battlefield.
Teuchi had pulled out the heavy artillery. Massive, industrial-sized vats of broth were bubbling, filling the shop with a fog so thick it was condensing on my glasses. The smell was intense—a rich, fatty wave of pork and soy sauce that clung to your clothes like a second skin.
Tsubuan, meanwhile, was preparing the "Desert Round." She stood on her crate, her wrinkled hands glowing with chakra as she kneaded a massive lump of white mochi dough.
Thwack. Thwack. Thwack.
"It needs more resistance!" Tsubuan cackled, pounding the dough with a mallet that looked too heavy for her frail arms. "A true ninja doesn't just eat dessert! They conquer it!"
"Grandma, you left the skins in again!" a voice shouted from the street.
Anko Mitarashi—looking surprisingly young without her mesh armor, just wearing a casual kimono—leaned against the shop entrance. She was eating a stick of dango, looking exasperated. "People like it smooth! Texture is everything!"
"Smooth is for people with no character!" Tsubuan snapped back, not missing a beat. "You need grit to survive this village! If they can't handle a little bean skin, they can't handle the Shinobi World!"
She slapped the mochi down on the counter. It jiggled ominously.
I watched her hands. Earth Release chakra was seeping into the dough, turning it denser, heavier.
"It tastes like... starchy dirt," I whispered to Shikamaru, analyzing the chakra signature. "It's high-density carbohydrate release. If that expands in a stomach, it's not digestion. It's a landslide."
Shikamaru paled slightly. "Troublesome. We might need a medic on standby."
The contestants lined up.
On the left: Naruto Uzumaki. He was bouncing on the balls of his feet, doing lunges, looking like he was about to run a marathon instead of eat lunch.
In the middle: Chōji Akimichi. He was silent. He had entered a zen state. His eyes were closed, visualizing the path of the noodles. He was no longer a boy; he was a biological incinerator.
And on the right...
The curtain parted. A hush fell over the shop.
A small, skinny boy walked in. He wore a beige scarf that looked like uncooked noodles and a bowl cut so sharp you could calibrate a kunai on it.
Tsubuan's face dropped. Her three teeth clacked together.
"Him," she gasped, gripping her mallet.
"Who is he?" Ayame whispered, sensing the sudden tension.
"That's the boy," Tsubuan hissed, pointing a trembling finger. "The Noodle Demon. He came to Ankorodō last week. He ate the display models. He ate the raw flour. He almost ran me out of business!"
She turned to Teuchi, her eyes blazing with protective fury. "I won't let him do the same to you, Teuchi-san! Prepare the noodles! I'm bringing out the heavy stuff!"
The boy—Toki-soba—climbed onto the third stool. He didn't say a word. He just placed a pair of chopsticks on the counter. Click.
"BEGIN!" Anko shouted, waving a dango stick like a starter pistol.
The sound was deafening.
SLURP. CHOMP. GULP.
Naruto attacked his bowl with violence. Soup flew everywhere. "YEAH! TASTE THE GUTS!"
Chōji was a machine. He utilized a rotation technique—bowl to mouth, tilt, swallow, stack. It was elegant. It was terrifying.
But Toki-soba...
He didn't move fast. He moved... efficiently.
He lifted a bowl. He opened his mouth.
FWUMP.
It wasn't eating. It was deletion. The noodles didn't go down his throat; they just ceased to exist in our dimension. One second, the bowl was full. The next, it was empty, dry as a bone.
"Bowl two!" Toki-soba squeaked.
"Bowl two!" Naruto yelled, broth dripping from his nose.
"Bowl five," Chōji stated calmly.
Tsubuan watched Toki-soba with narrowing eyes. She saw the stack of bowls growing. She saw Teuchi sweating, trying to keep up with the demand.
"Oh no you don't," Tsubuan growled.
She grabbed the massive lump of chakra-infused mochi. She slapped it onto a plate. She wove a quick hand seal.
"Earth Style: Infinite Rice Cake Expansion!"
The mochi pulsed. It grew an inch.
"Dessert round!" Tsubuan shouted, slamming the plate in front of Toki-soba. "Try swallowing this, you black hole!"
Toki-soba paused. He looked at the white, pulsating blob. It was growing visibly, expanding like a living creature.
Anko, watching from the sidelines, lowered her dango. Her eyes went wide.
"Uhhhh..." Anko muttered, backing away slowly. "Ojiichan..."
Toki-soba didn't blink. He picked up the mochi with his chopsticks. The dough stretched, fighting back, trying to anchor itself to the plate.
He opened his mouth.
The air in the shop distorted. A low hum, like a dying generator, began to vibrate the spoons on the counter.
ZZZZZZZT.
I felt the hairs on my arm stand up. The smell of ozone overpowered the pork.
"He's going to eat it," I whispered, clutching my sketchbook. "He's going to eat the infinite mass."
And then, the world tilted.