Chapter 14 - Public Execution

Took way longer than I wanted, but I hope you will like this chapter!

A quick warning: The chapter is on the slower side and is a bit repetitive—it only features cooking.

Under the watchful eyes of the room, I exited and descended the stairs toward the preparation room.

And again, I felt the same pairs of eyes on my back as I did earlier when I made my way to the VIP booths.

Inside the prep room, I quickly collected the knife case and the neatly folded black apron beside it.

Just as I did, a bright, high-pitched voice rang out again.

"And now, from the east corner!" Kushida 2.0's tone rang out with giddy excitement. She let the moment linger, savoring the tension that gripped the arena.

"The transfer student who has declared battle against seven students—"

The silence ended.

"—Ayanokoji Kiyotaka!"

The tunnel ahead of me lit up, bulbs flaring one after another, guiding me forward. The blaze of light drew the full weight of the crowd's eyes.

I stepped forward.

Into the light.

Out of the tunnel.

And onto the stage.

From here, the arena stretched vast before me. The stands, stacked high, were filled to the brim with students and even faculty members. Hundreds of faces, yet to me they seemed small, distant, and insignificant.

For a moment, silence lingered, but then—

"BOOOO!"

"YOU FUCKER! GET OUT!"

"WE REMEMBER YOUR WORDS AT THE ENTRANCE EXAMINATION!"

"YOU'RE DONE FOR! EXPELLED!"

The jeers rained down, louder than even those Sōma had faced earlier. A wall of hostility pressed down from every direction.

...How pleasant. My welcome here is even warmer than Sōma's.

Across the stage, my first opponent straightened. The smugness on his face sharpened, bolstered by the crowd's venom.

"Yo!" His smirk widened as he raised his voice. "Take in the view, transfer student. This stage, this audience... enjoy it while it lasts. Because after today, you won't even belong to Tōtsuki anymore. You're nothing but a fraud who—"

"Kiyotaka!"

The shout cut him off.

I turned my head.

On the sidelines stood Sōma, Megumi, and Konishi. Sōma was grinning, waving broadly as he laughed.

I held his gaze for a brief moment, then began walking toward their side of the stage.

"O-oii! Don't ignore me!" the boy barked, his voice cracking in frustration.

As I closed the distance, I spoke evenly.

"It seems the crowd loves us."

Megumi blinked rapidly, too stunned to form words, while Konishi let out a strangled laugh. "Damn... you and Yukihira aren't nervous at all? That's insane.

Sōma only grinned wider, raising a hand toward the stands in a casual wave.

"You're right!" he said, almost cheerfully.

The crowd, hearing every word through the stage's amplification system and watching his carefree gesture, erupted again. Their fury boiled over, jeers doubling in volume.

It was almost amusing how easily he stirred them.

"Anyway," I continued, "you're all allowed to watch from here? Even you, Sōma?"

"Yep," he replied without missing a beat. "They gave us front-row seats—better than the VIP booth you were hanging around in. Speaking of..." His grin turned sly. "How'd you manage to stay in there without getting thrown out?"

"Who knows?" I answered.

Before Sōma could fire back, Megumi's timid voice broke through. Her fists pressed nervously to her chest. "K-Kiyotaka-kun... w-will you be okay? The themes were only introduced yesterday, and you... you didn't even prepare!"

I shifted my gaze toward her. "Don't worry, Megumi. This will be over very quickly."

Her lips parted as if to protest, but before she could press further, the speakers crackled to life.

"Ahem—cough, cough! Sorry to interrupt your little reunion!" Kushida 2.0's high-pitched voice rang out across the arena. "But the match is about to begin! Competitors, please gather at the center!"

"Well then," I said quietly, "it seems I need to go."

"G-Good luck, Kiyotaka-kun!" Megumi's voice rang out, trembling but louder than before. She clenched her fists tightly, forcing herself to shout despite the hostile stares from the crowd.

Konishi exhaled sharply, his nerves showing, but managed a firm nod. "Yeah... good luck, man."

Sōma, unfazed as ever, grinned wide and lifted his hand toward me. "Don't humiliate them too much."

He returned my own words to me. The same words that I'd given him before his own match.

I met his raised palm. The sharp sound echoed, clear even over the restless crowd.

I gave a single nod in answer, then turned on my heel and walked toward the center stage.

My opponent now glared with fresh anger. 

"Alright!" Kushida 2.0's voice chimed, brimming with excitement. "Contestants, to your kitchens, please!"

The arena hushed at once.

She raised her microphone high. "The first match's theme will be—Philippine Cuisine!"

The screen above us blazed to life with the words, the letters sharp and bold.

"Let the Shokugeki... BEGIN!"

The gong rang out, reverberating through the vast hall.

Above my head, the countdown ignited in red digits. The enormous display showed both our names and faces, split across the screen.

And in the center, the clock ticked down.

This was it.

The noise of the arena faded into the background.

Now, it was time to cook.

𓌉◯𓇋

In a tucked-away corner of the stands sat the members of the Polar Star Dormitory, drawing sharp and unfriendly stares from the surrounding audience. The reason was their cheering for Sōma and now openly supporting Kiyotaka.

The hostility around them was dense, but most of them were ignoring it, chatting among themselves or continuing to cheer, as if the rest of the crowd didn't exist.

Yuki, however, was too loud even for her own dorm mates.

"Yuki, calm down." Sakaki nudged her shoulder gently, and the girl pouted but dialed back her volume.

Still, she couldn't help but mutter, just loud enough for the group to hear. "But, Philippine cuisine...? We weren't taught that yet..."

Sakaki nodded. "Right. It's outside our curriculum so far. Not that it would matter for Ayanokoji-kun, as he transferred in. He hasn't had the same education we've received."

That thought made Yuki whip her head toward the bespectacled boy seated nearby. "Marui! Explain!"

Marui flinched at the sudden spotlight. "Eh? Why me?" He sighed, defeated, adjusting his glasses before giving in. The others leaned in, even Satō and Aoki looking curious.

"Philippine cuisine, or rather Filipino cuisine, what most people call it, is a fusion born from geography, history, and trade. Before colonization, Filipinos cooked with rice, root crops, coconut, vinegar, and local spices. Methods like boiling, grilling, and roasting were key. Then, through the influence of Chinese, Spanish, and American cuisines, we have today's cuisine. It's much more complex, but this should suffice for now." He paused, catching himself rambling.

He cleared his throat and got to the point. "Compared to our Japanese cuisine, washoku, or Chinese cuisine's soy-driven savoriness, Filipino cuisine has much contrast with combining sweet, sour, and salty in a single dish. Their cuisine is also more comfort-driven and less about presentation."

"It's not a particularly difficult cuisine, but if you haven't ventured into it before, you could easily mess up the taste by not balancing it right, which is the key point in this cuisine. Of course, the dish could still taste good, but it wouldn't be really a Filipino dish, which is the main topic here."

Yuki, unusually quiet, nodded. "So... Kiyotaka is in trouble?"

"He put himself at a disadvantage the moment he agreed to seven matches and let the opponents pick themes," Marui admitted.

"I still don't get what was going on in his head, making a bet like that," Yuki sighed, pressing a palm to her forehead.

"Ayanokoji's just built different!" Aoki declared, flexing for absolutely no reason.

"Alright, everyone, calm down," Sakaki said, calm as ever. "We haven't seen him cook yet. At all. We don't know his specialty, his skills, or his abilities. For all we know, he's actually experienced in Filipino cuisine, or he's got a plan at least."

Sakaki's reminder calmed the group a little, and it also sharpened their curiosity. They all knew each other's specialties and fields, and they'd just seen Sōma's Shokugeki against Mito. But Ayanokoji was still an unknown. The food they'd tasted at the welcome party didn't really count for judging his skills.

"What are they even going to cook..." Satō muttered, more to himself than anyone else.

The dorm members' eyes drifted to Marui, who had already expected this.

He sighed and began. "I don't know much beyond what I said earlier, but there's a high chance one of them makes adobo. After that, maybe sinigang, kare-kare, or pancit. They could also go with something like siopao or lumpia as an appetizer or snack. We'll see soon enough."

Just as he finished, both Ayanokoji and his opponent reappeared. Ayanokoji returned with a plain cardboard box tucked under one arm, while his opponent was pushing a cart with a metal tray that didn't really need a cart to begin with.

Under the cameras' glare, they unloaded their ingredients onto their counters. Immediately after that, a ripple of surprise and confusion ran through the arena.

Apart from branding, their ingredients were basically the same.

Soy sauce. Distilled white vinegar. Garlic. Bay leaves. Light brown sugar. Whole peppercorns. Jasmine rice. Scallions.

There was only one clear difference.

Their choice of meat.

Okumura had brought chicken legs.

Ayanokoji set down a slab of pork belly.

Murmurs swept through the audience. Even without the announcer saying a word, everyone understood what this meant.

"They're both making adobo..." someone whispered, and the realization spread like wildfire.

Adobo wasn't just popular in the Philippines; its popularity was also known globally.

Urara's voice came alive through the speakers, the excitement returning to her tone. "Ooooh~! It looks like both contestants have chosen to prepare adobo! One of the most iconic and beloved dishes of the Philippines!"

The crowd's tension shifted. The jeers dulled into anticipation. Everyone at Tōtsuki knew what it meant when two chefs chose to battle with the same dish. It would come down to the contestants' precision and mastery.

From the Polar Star Dormitory's corner, Marui's eyes widened slightly. "So I was right..." he muttered. "They both went for adobo. This is going to come down entirely to execution and interpretation."

Sakaki leaned forward, her elbows resting on her knees. "He's not playing it safe, that's for sure. Chicken would have been a safer option—pork belly takes longer to cook, and it's harder to balance the fat content properly. If the proportions of vinegar and soy sauce are off, his dish will lose out.

Marui adjusted his glasses, watching Ayanokoji begin to unpack his knife case with calm, methodical movements. "Yes, that's right, but when done right, it leaves a deeper flavor. It's riskier, but it has the potential to overshadow the chicken version if he nails it."

There was another matter that the Polar Star dorm members picked up.

Yuki squinted at the counters. "I get that the ingredients should overlap, but why are they almost identical, even the amounts? That can't be a coincidence."

The others' eyes narrowed in unison as they put their focus on this matter.

Up in the VIP box that Ayanokoji was in just a few minutes before this match, the same suspicion surfaced.

Nakiri Erina broke the silence first. "Adobo may be the unofficial national dish of the Philippines, but there's no fixed recipe for it. Every household can have its own variation of this dish, with additional ingredients or different aromatic changes." Her gaze tightened on the two stations. "So why are their ingredients nearly identical?"

Hisako leaned in, eager to also comment—

—but Alice interrupted her moment, already laughing unrestrained, wiping a tear from the corner of her eye. "Ahhh~ that hit me," she said, breathing out. "I don't know what he's plotting, but look at the poor guy's face."

She pointed at Okumura. Confusion, then doubt, then sweat. The moment he saw the matching lineup, his composure and confidence slipped.

Before anyone could add another word, the scene on stage pulled their attention back.

Okumura swallowed hard, forcing a laugh that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Adobo, huh? I don't know whether to admire your guts or laugh at your stupidity for picking that dish against me. But hey, what a coincidence that we ended up with the same ingredients, right?" His voice cracked slightly on the last word.

Ayanokoji looked at him without a change in expression. "Coincidence?"

That single word sent a ripple through the audience. It was like the air dropped a few degrees in temperature.

"You choose the theme yourself," Ayanokoji continued, his tone calm. "That means you had confidence in it. Of course, you'd know adobo. It only took me one search through the school's forum to find your specialty, which you declared in one post, where you even proudly shared your recipe." 

The color drained from Okumura's face. His mouth opened, but no sound came out.

Ayanokoji didn't stop. "Originally, I had planned to go with a different version of adobo that contained both pork and chicken, along with a few additional ingredients, but after reading your post, I decided differently." Ayanokoji gestured faintly to his counter. "Now, the ingredients are nearly identical. The difference lies only in the meat."

He paused, his gaze locking on Okumura's trembling hands.

"That gives me an advantage," he said evenly, "but for someone skilled and well-versed in Filipino cuisine, that shouldn't be a problem... right?"

The question landed like a hammer.

From the stands, even the students who had been shouting moments ago went quiet.

At the Polar Star section, Satō broke the hush first, rubbing his arms. "Uhh... why does Ayanokoji look like a villain right now? That gave me goosebumps."

Aoki swallowed. "Yeah. The way he said 'coincidence'..."

Marui pushed up his glasses, though this movement was unnatural; one could see his hand shaking a bit. "He's applying pressure. By mirroring his recipe, he's buried his way into his opponent's head. Aside from that, this match has turned into a pure execution test."

Sakaki nodded. "And by doing it in front of the crowd, on this huge stage, during such an important match, every mistake Okumura-kun makes will look worse. Smart, if not ruthless."

Yuki stared down at the stage for a few long seconds, eyes flickering between the two contestants. She softly muttered 'Ultron' and 'Megatron' before her face suddenly lit up. She clapped one hand into the other with a loud smack.

"Ah! I got it!" she declared. "The perfect nickname for Kiyotaka!"

Nobody had time to stop her.

"Kiyotron!" she announced proudly, puffing out her chest.

The entire dorm fell silent as they stared at the girl.

Marui slowly turned his head toward her, blinking in visible confusion and disbelief. "...Kiyotron?" he repeated flatly.

Yuki nodded with full confidence. "Yeah! Like a machine!"

For a moment, nobody said anything—then Sakaki chuckled. "Well... it's oddly fitting."

That broke the tension. A few chuckles followed, then even Marui couldn't help letting out a quiet sigh that might've been a laugh. The mood at their corner eased, the earlier pressure melting back into something closer to normal.

Up in the VIP box, though, things weren't as relaxed.

Kurokiba, who until now wore a bored expression, suddenly straightened. His eyes sharpened and turned solemn, following Ayanokoji's every move with an intensity that hadn't been there before.

"That guy..." he muttered, voice low and heavy, unlike previously. "He's giving off those weird, uneasy vibes again."

Alice, too, unlike her previous reactions, stayed silent. Her playful energy was gone, replaced by complete attention. It was like a déjà vu for her. Ayanokoji didn't exactly change expression, or anything like that, but it was like someone flipped a switch inside him. 

It was strange.

Erina and Hisako were both silent, eyes fixed on the stage below.

Erina's mind churned. In her life, she'd met all sorts of people, and among them were different eccentric people. She'd thought she'd seen every type of 'unusual', but Ayanokoji didn't fit any mold. He wasn't loud or erratic; his confidence wasn't theatrical. Yet somehow, the slight shift in his tone carried a quiet menace that made the air itself feel heavier.

She thought she had a read on him—an aloof but intelligent boy, a bit eccentric, maybe, but not this. 

During the entrance exam, he'd played the 'fool', then switched to being calm and logical. His speech during the entrance ceremony had been arrogant, brazen, and unlike his earlier self. And now... now he stood there, composed and expressionless, exuding an invisible pressure that was not only pressing against Okomura but was leaking to the whole arena to feel.

"What... is going on with him?" Hisako whispered, her voice barely audible.

Erina didn't answer, as she herself didn't have one.

Down below, the tension was thick enough to choke on. Okumura wasn't even looking at his station anymore. His head hung low, his gaze fixed on the floor. He looked pale, frozen. He hadn't even started cooking, yet his focus, his confidence, his composure, all of it had shattered.

And then, in the middle of that unbearable silence, Ayanokoji spoke again.

"I have never cooked adobo before."

The words dropped like stones into a still pond.

Okumura's head jerked up instantly, eyes wide in disbelief.

Up in the stands, Marui nearly jumped out of his seat. "Wh–why is he saying that?!" he shouted, voice breaking. "He's giving away his own advantage! What is he doing?!"

The rest of the dorm members were too stunned to respond. Just a moment ago, Ayanokoji had established absolute psychological control—now he'd thrown a wrench into it himself by admitting that.

Gasps rippled through the crowd. The judges exchanged glances, equally confused. Even Urara, normally the exuberant commentator, was at a loss for words. Her mic picked up a faint, nervous laugh before she fumbled for something to say.

No one at Tōtsuki had seen anything like this. Not the students, not the faculty, not even the judges.

Ayanokoji stood there, completely unbothered by the attention on him and the baffled crowd.

"I haven't practiced for this match."

The words came out clear and unhurried, carried across the entire arena through the speakers.

A collective gasp followed.

"?!"

"What did he just say?!"

"Is he serious?!"

"Why the hell is he revealing that???"

Even Urara was caught completely off guard, yet again. "E-Ehhhh?! Whatttt?!" She even forgot that the microphone was still turned on and didn't even realize that her voice was being broadcast right now.

But Ayanokoji didn't stop.

"I only reviewed your recipe in preparation."

Silence fell again, followed by another wave of incredulous shouts.

Meanwhile, Okumura was repeatedly blinking, his confusion warring with something else—relief. His lips twitched upward, color returning to his face as his earlier fear and unease began to fade.

"Today will be the first time I prepare this dish."

The arena was silent. After a while, the shock was fading, and while many were still quiet, confused by the ongoing events, and suspicious of Ayanokoji's intentions, some were beginning to burst out in laughter, unable to believe what they were hearing.

Some others looked offended, as if Ayanokoji's statement itself were an insult to the art of cooking. For them, it seemed as if Ayanokoji was making a joke of the tradition and beauty of Shokugeki.

From the judges' table, one of them leaned forward, eyes narrowing in disbelief. "He's... serious."

Now that Okumura had finally shaken off his paralysis, the ticking clock above the stage suddenly felt deafening. Realization hit him that the match had already started, and time was running.

He snapped into motion, rolling up his sleeves and putting out his knife. The sound of metal against the board echoed as he began separating the chicken legs into drumsticks and thighs.

As his blade hit the board again, the crowd grew silent, all eyes shifting to the stage. Even the air seemed to tighten as the match truly began.

From the Polar Star section, Yuki leaned forward in her seat, gripping the railing. "Kiyotron, what are you doing?!" she hissed in a half-whisper, half-yell.

Sakaki stifled a laugh at the nickname again, shaking her head. "Focus, Yuki," she said softly, her own gaze glued to the stage.

The rest of the dorm members followed suit, their attention snapping back to Ayanokoji. None of them could read his intentions. His station was neatly organized, untouched, his expression still as unreadable as ever.

Even Sōma, watching from the side, was frowning slightly, his usual grin nowhere to be found. "What's he planning...?" he muttered under his breath.

Megumi, beside him, looked pale, her eyes wide and unfocused, as if her soul had already left her body. "I-I don't know," she muttered weakly. "I don't think... I don't think anyone here does..."

Up in the VIP booth, the silence persisted until the sound of Okumura's knife brought them back to reality.

Hisako was the first to speak, her voice barely above a whisper. "What just happened down there?"

Erina's gaze stayed fixed on Ayanokoji. Her expression went back to her usual expression, but her voice betrayed her turmoil. "He completely broke his opponent's spirit... and then he restored it. He revived him, erasing his advantage he had built up and even turning it into a disadvantage." Her tone darkened slightly. "I won't even ask how he did it, but why?"

"I would've preferred if he stopped after crushing him," Kurokiba flatly said. "That I could follow, but everything after that, I fail to understand. It's like he's toying with him."

And here I thought I was starting to grasp his moves and thoughts, Kurokiba thought darkly, not having believed that there would be someone like this in their year.

Alice's eyes were narrowing as she watched Ayanokoji. She could feel the same thing Kurokiba did. And yet, despite that unease building in her chest, she couldn't deny her curiosity flaring even stronger.

It was rare for Ryo to show genuine caution toward anyone, even top chefs. Seeing him this tense was almost surreal.

A faint smile tugged at her lips as she leaned closer to the glass.

Below, Ayanokoji finally moved, and immediately, the attention of every important figure watching the match went towards him. It was as if he were the sole remaining person in this Shokugeki.

Everywhere, across the arena, his dorm mates, different students, even members of the faculty, every eye was on him.

Even Isshiki, who was watching in a quiet corner, couldn't mask his intrigue as a smile formed on his face.

In another corner, the occupants of the last two VIP boxes watched on.

And even beyond that, there were those watching through the broadcast.

This collective watched on as, down on the stage, Ayanokoji slowly put on his black apron, and then finally reached for his knife.

He drew it from the case, raising it slightly so that the overhead light ran cleanly along the edge. For a brief moment, it caught the glow, gleaming like polished silver. 

He rolled up his sleeves and ignored the reactions that followed from some in the audience, before his hand moved to the pork belly, setting it neatly on the cutting board.

And then he finally started.

In one smooth motion, the knife came down. Then again. And again. And again.

Each cut was fast, efficient, and even perfectly measured, despite the incredible speed. The rhythm was so precise it almost didn't sound human. Within a few seconds, the slab of pork belly had been transformed into evenly cut portions, uniform in shape and thickness.

Gasps spread through the audience.

By the time most spectators realized what they were witnessing, it was already over.

The entire cutting process, something that should've taken at least a minute or two, even for an experienced cook, had finished before they could even blink. That speed even put the 'meat master' to shame. The slices on the board looked identical, as if machine-cut.

While the crowd couldn't digest what they had seen yet, Ayanokoji went on. Without hesitation, he reached for a palayok, a traditional Filipino clay pot, and placed it over the heat. His movements looked unhurried, and yet one could barely register the movement. It sounded contradictory, and it definitely was, but this was how it was closest explained.

Okumura, on the other hand, had just finished cutting his chicken, which needed fewer cuts and was far simpler work. He wiped his knife on a cloth, turning to glance at his opponent with the intent to gloat—

—and froze.

His jaw slackened.

On Ayanokoji's side of the station, the clay pot was already heating.

He'd fallen behind.

And now, for the first time since he regained his confidence, it was threatening to break down again...

Alice's eyes went comically wide, so wide that it looked like they might actually pop out of her head.

When she recovered, she let out a small cough, as if regaining composure from what she'd just seen.

"Well..." she exhaled, a lopsided grin forming on her lips. "It seems I still underestimated him."

Truth be told, she'd been hyping Ayanokoji up in her mind ever since that infamous entrance speech. Since then, after meeting him in person and after witnessing that insane bet, the hype had just grown inside her. And yet, somehow, even with all that buildup, he'd managed to surpass her expectations.

Her words, however, didn't register with anyone else.

Beside her, Hisako and Erina were still frozen, eyes locked on the screen with identical looks of disbelief.

"What happened to his knife skills since the entrance exam?!" Hisako blurted out, her voice cracking slightly. "That—That wasn't anywhere near what he showed back then!"

Alice arched a brow at that, curiosity flickering, but held her tongue, at least for now.

Erina, meanwhile, looked like she was on the verge of short-circuiting. Her composure cracked, her usual poise slipping as she shook her head in outright denial.

"No. I refuse to believe someone could improve that much in just over a month!" she snapped, her voice rising in disbelief. "He must've been acting during the entrance exam! He had to be! Grandfather must already know who he is! That would also explain how he and Yukihira-kun managed to get into this school, despite the way the exam had ended!"

She crossed her arms, glaring down below as if sheer indignation could rewrite reality.

Alice, meanwhile, watched her cousin's outburst with undisguised amusement.

Her grin widened. So even Erina can get shaken up like this...

Her curiosity, which she thought was at its peak already, rose even higher. Watching Ayanokoji completely dismantle her cousin's composure in real time was, she had to admit, very, very entertaining. 

And so, the match moved forward.

The crowd, though still buzzing with disbelief from the start, had begun to settle into a heavy, tense quiet. After such a bizarre opening, it felt like nothing could possibly surprise them again.

At least, that's what they thought.

The next surprise came soon.

As Ayanokoji began combining the ingredients—vinegar, soy sauce, brown sugar, garlic, and the rest—the crowd watched on. Filipino cuisine, and especially adobo, demanded a delicate balance between sour, sweet, and salty. A misstep could collapse the whole profile. Measuring each portion was important.

Yet Ayanokoji didn't measure anything.

Not once did he pick up a scale, a spoon, or a cup. He poured the vinegar straight from the bottle, added the soy sauce by feel, and added the brown sugar and peppercorns with casual indifference.

It wasn't just the eyeballing that left people stunned, but the fact that he was doing it while cooking adobo for the first time. To accurately gauge ingredients by sight alone, one needed deep familiarity with the cuisine or at least prior experience with the dish.

A few students in the audience couldn't hold back their laughter. 

"What's he doing?!"

"He's eyeballing it? Hahaha! He's done for!"

But not everyone was laughing.

On the other side of the counter, Okumura's hands began to tremble. He could hear the audience's mockery and see the dismissive smile, but Ayanokoji's expression stayed the same as ever. There was absolutely no hint of doubt.

And that certainty made Okumura nervous again.

Still, he pressed on, clinging to what he knew.

Chicken cooks faster than pork. His adobo would finish sooner. Timing, if nothing else, was on his side.

When his sauce began to thicken and his chicken took on that glossy brown sheen, he exhaled in relief. Steam rose from the pan, carrying that distinctive, savory-sour aroma of Filipino adobo.

At last, he plated.

He placed a neat bed of jasmine rice on each platter, then carefully arranged the chicken atop it. The skin gleamed perfectly, the sauce pooling in rich amber hues. As a finishing touch, he sprinkled finely sliced scallions across the top.

Okumura stepped back, taking a moment to breathe before he carefully carried the tablet with the plates toward the judges.

His dish looked flawless, and the aroma alone was enough to make some of the audience swallow audibly. He indeed understood his craft, and his confidence wasn't for nothing.

Under any other circumstance, the arena would have erupted in applause.

But not now.

The arena stayed mostly silent.

Okumura felt it too. The difference compared to matches he faced before, but he steadied his breathing and walked towards the judges.

Urara finally snapped out of her daze. "E-Ehem... L-Ladies and gentlemen, our first contestant is approaching the judges!" She stumbled on the first words, then slid back into her usual tone.

Okumura set the platters down with care, arranging utensils so the judges could choose as they liked.

"It looks good," one judge said, leaning in.

Another swallowed, unable to hide it. "After the earlier courses, this is exactly what I was craving."

The female judge eyed the chicken and nodded. "The glaze is clean, the skin still glistening. The meat looks really beautiful."

Initial appraisals done, they each took a spoon filled with rice and chicken together. The meat slipped from the bone with no resistance, drawing a tiny, approving murmur before they even tasted.

The three judges lifted their spoons almost in unison. The moment the food touched their tongues, their expressions shifted.

The first judge's shoulders dropped, followed by a slow, drawn-out groan of satisfaction. The second leaned back in his chair, eyes fluttering shut as if the flavor had caught him off guard. And finally, the last judge, the female judge, pressed a hand lightly to her cheek, a faint flush rising as she gave a soft, muffled hum of delight.

The sound of the judges' pleased reactions and the collective gulps of the audience filled the arena.

"This is wonderful," the first judge finally said. "It's balanced, warm, and not exaggerated."

The second nodded, still savoring another bite. "It hits you with the vinegar first, and then the soy and sugar come together and smooth everything out. It's a really well-done balance!"

The female judge smiled faintly, her tone calm but impressed. "The texture is impeccable. The meat falls apart the moment it hits the tongue, and yet the skin's still intact, almost glistening. And that sauce..." She trailed off, taking another spoonful before continuing with her judgment. "It coats your mouth, then fades away, not overwhelming in aftertaste at all."

They all exchanged a look and nodded.

"It's adobo well done, respecting the Filipino cuisine!" 

Okumura let out a long, steady breath of relief. The praise washed over him, and for the first time since the match began, his shoulders relaxed. He bowed slightly toward the judges, a faint but genuine smile forming on his face.

He had done it. His adobo has landed and pleased the judges.

Urara brightened up as she raised her mic. "A great performance by Okumura-kun! Now then, let's see how things are going with—"

Her words cut off mid-sentence.

A soft clack sounded across the stage.

Every head turned.

Three plates now rested neatly before the judges. Each portion was perfectly identical, down to the placement of the scallions and the precise drizzle of sauce. The steam rose in slow curls, catching the light like faint ribbons of silver.

Urara blinked, frozen for a moment before leaning forward, her voice cracking slightly as she spoke. "Wh–What...?"

No one had seen it happen.

Not the crowd. Not the judges. Not even the cameramen, who were supposed to capture every second of the cooking process. It was as if Ayanokoji had disappeared during this short time, even though he was still at his station during that time.

Gasps and murmurs swept through the stands.

"When did he—?"

"Wait, what? He was still simmering a minute ago!"

"I didn't even see him plate!"

It was as if he had simply appeared there, dish in hand, the instant Okumura's presentation ended.

Urara, still staring, finally found her voice again.

"L–Ladies and gentlemen... it seems Ayanokoji-kun has also... finished his dish."

Her tone wavered, the words more uncertain than anything she'd ever said before in a match broadcast.

All eyes turned to the plates before the judges.

Ayanokoji straightened after setting the plates down, his hands still resting lightly on the edge of the judges' table. Then, without any theatrics or pauses for effect, he turned toward Okumura.

"Okumura," he said evenly, his tone calm and unhurried. "You did well. You can be proud of your dish."

Okumura was taken aback. "Huh?"

The students shared the same confusion. This match had started with provocation and psychological warfare. And yet... Ayanokoji was complimenting his opponent with the same detachment as if he were grading a classmate's work.

Even the judges exchanged uncertain glances.

Was this condescension? Or genuine praise?

Before anyone could decide on that matter, Ayanokoji spoke up again.

"But," he continued, "it's over. It was a good match."

Silence fell again.

It wasn't arrogance, not quite. There was no smirk, and no trace of smugness. It was a statement of someone who already knew the outcome. 

All eyes shifted to the plates before the judges.

At first glance, Ayanokoji's dish mirrored Okumura's. The only visible difference was the meat. Thick, uniform slices of pork belly glistening under the lights, layered atop a bed of rice.

Then the aroma from the dish reached them.

The change in the judges was instant. All three leaned forward.

The scent of soy and vinegar filled the air again, but this time, the scent was heavier. The underlying note of rendered pork fat mixed with caramelized brown sugar created a warmth that lingered at the edge of sweetness, without ever tipping into it.

It wasn't overpowering, but it pulled one into it. 

Even from the stands, some could smell the faint, rich fragrance spreading through the arena.

The female judge closed her eyes for a brief second and inhaled. "This aroma..." she murmured, her voice almost reverent. "It's completely different."

Her fellow judge nodded slowly, his expression tightening with concentration. "The base is the same, but the balance has been altered."

One of the judges couldn't contain his curiosity. "This aroma is extraordinary... but earlier, you didn't measure a single thing. How did you achieve such precision without any tools?"

Ayanokoji turned away from Okumura, whose expression had already begun to pale again, and faced the judges.

"I measured," he said simply, his tone calm and matter-of-fact. "I just didn't use cups or spoons."

The judges looked in confusion.

He continued. "I used Okumura's own recipe as a base. I only adjusted the ratios to fit pork's characteristics. Pork absorbs flavor differently from chicken and has a higher fat content, which affects both the acidity and sweetness balance. So, I compensated for that and made a few small proportional changes."

The second judge was stunned, his voice rising slightly in disbelief. "Wait, you're saying that what looked like eyeballing was actually measuring?"

"Yes."

The judge was still in disbelief. "You're—" He stopped himself before finishing the sentence, letting out a long, weary sigh instead. "No, never mind. After everything I've seen today, I don't think I should be surprised anymore..."

His colleague gave a small, disbelieving chuckle. 

The female judge looked from Ayanokoji to Okumura, then back again. "To reproduce another chef's recipe on the spot, adjust it for a different protein, and still keep the soul of the dish intact... that's..."

A ripple of awe spread through the audience. Even those who had mocked Ayanokoji earlier fell silent.

Finally, the judges lifted their spoons to taste. For a few seconds, nothing happened. The arena waited in silence, every breath held, as all eyes were fixed on the three judges.

Then—

The first judge's eyes flew open. He jumped to his feet. His hand shot forward, gripping the edge of the table as if he might otherwise be swept away. "GREAT HEAVENS!" he shouted, his voice booming through the arena. "This is a flavor bomb!" His whole frame trembled as he leaned closer to the plate. "The pork melts instantly, and then the sauce—! It's like a wave of flavor crashes over every corner of my soul!"

The crowd collectively flinched at his sudden outburst.

The second judge sat completely still, spoon frozen. His expression was blank. He chewed once. Twice. Then he stopped. His eyes slowly unfocused, and he let the spoon clatter onto the table. 

Meanwhile, the female judge took her own bite with practiced grace, only for that composure to evaporate the moment the sauce and meat hit her tongue. Her back arched, her cheeks flushed bright red, and she let out a gasp that echoed through the mic. "Th-this sauce... Ahhhhhhhh~! I—I'm melting! My entire being is melting into this sauce! Ahnnnnnn~!"

The second judge finally came back to life, slamming both hands on the table as he stood. "IT'S LIKE A VOLCANO OF FLAVOR ERUPTING IN MY MOUTH!" he roared. "The sourness bursts first, but instead of overpowering, it's tamed, smoothed out by the caramelized sweetness! How—how can this be the same base recipe? It's evolved into something completely different!"

"Yes! Exactly!" the female judge exclaimed, nearly gasping between bites as she dove back in. "I've never, never had pork adobo like this! The richness—the balance—it's perfection! How can pork outshine chicken so much?!"

The first judge, still half-lost in the experience, groaned like he was fighting for air. "The sauce clings to the rice, the fat renders perfectly, and each bite keeps building sweetness, salt, tang, depth, and it doesn't end! It's infinite!"

Through it all, Ayanokoji stood completely motionless, expression neutral, watching the scene unfold like he wasn't part of this at all. 

Okumura, on the other hand, looked hollow. His eyes were wide, his lips slightly parted, but his mind had clearly left his body. The crowd was equally stunned. No one could understand how two nearly identical dishes could evoke reactions so wildly different.

Onstage, the judges were now attacking the plates in earnest, spoons clinking rapidly as they competed for bites. Urara's voice was cracking as she finally found the courage to interrupt. "D-Dear judges, please! There are still—still twelve more dishes to taste today!"

Her words barely registered at first. Then, like a spell being broken, the judges froze mid-bite, realization dawning on their faces.

The female judge coughed softly, dabbing the corner of her lips with a napkin, cheeks still flushed. "R-Right... of course. The remaining dishes."

The first judge leaned back, visibly winded. "A tragedy... to move on after that."

The second just groaned, slumping into his chair. "Twelve more... but none will taste like this."

The crowd remained silent, processing what they had just witnessed.

Up in the stands, Yuki whispered under her breath, "...Kiyotron just broke the judges."

"...And the audience," Sakaki murmured, her voice unusually soft. Normally composed, even she sounded shaken. There was no need to say more. Every face in the Polar Star section reflected the same disbelief. 

"Damn..." Aoki exhaled, still staring at the stage. "Ayanokoji's a monster."

For once, Satō didn't argue against Aoki. He just nodded, eyes wide and unfocused.

Ibusaki, who had been silent through the entire day, finally spoke up. "So all that—" he paused, "—all that throwing ingredients around like it didn't matter... it was measured. And it ended up like this."

Marui's voice trembled slightly as he spoke up. "We're forgetting something."

The rest turned toward him.

He swallowed before continuing. "If what he said earlier was true—" he paused, glancing back at the stage, "—then this was his first time cooking adobo."

Every eye in the group widened.

Then, cutting through the silence, a single laugh sounded through the arena.

Every head turned toward the source.

Sōma was grinning, hands already coming together in applause. The sound was almost jarring in the stillness, and soon it grew louder. Ayanokoji's gaze drifted toward him, their eyes meeting.

Sōma gave him a simple thumbs-up, his grin widening. 

The crowd began to stir again—first a few hesitant claps, then more, until the applause spread like ripples through the arena. The Polar Star Dorm members were the first to rise, cheering openly, their earlier tension forgotten.

Not everyone joined in. A handful of students still sat stiffly in their seats, refusing to acknowledge what had just happened.

Urara, snapping back into her announcer's role, raised her microphone. "A-Alright, judges! Your verdict, please!"

The audience already knew the answer. This was just a ceremony.

The three didn't even exchange a look. Almost in unison, they pressed their buttons.

On the massive screen above the stage, the result appeared in bold, gleaming letters:

WINNER: AYANOKOJI KIYOTAKA

Applause thundered through the air, drowning out Urara's voice as the crowd gave in completely. 

Besides Sōma, Megumi joined in, her shyness replaced by a bright smile.

Ayanokoji didn't bask in the applause. He slightly lowered his head in acknowledgment, then walked back to his station. In a few clean motions, he wiped down the board, rinsed his knife, and stacked his tools in order. The used cookingware was tossed in a separate container, where later they would get cleaned. By the time the noise began to lower, his counter looked like it did at the start of the match.

Up in the VIP box, Erina clicked her tongue at Sōma's laugh, irritation flashing for a second before the match pulled her attention back. She watched Ayanokoji reassemble his station with the same calm he'd shown all match.

Hisako exhaled slowly. "He's already prepping for the next one."

Alice suddenly laughed out loud. "While I have so many questions," she said, her smile widening, "it looks like this year's going to be a lot of fun!"

Down below on the stage, the staff whisked away the plates. Urara cleared her throat, voice steadying. "We'll proceed to the next bout shortly!"

𓌉◯𓇋

A few minutes later, everything was ready to continue with the next match. Unlike the loud chatter you'd expect after a match like that, the arena stayed mostly muted.

Urara's voice cut through this silence. "Next up, the second of Ayanokoji-kun's seven matches! The theme is ramen! Once a dish that was looked down upon, but today it is considered a national dish with many regional varieties and a wide range of topics. Please welcome his challenger, Sasaki Ren!"

Lights flared at the far tunnel. A smaller first-year stepped out, shoulders tight, nerves plain on his face. Whatever swagger the crowd had earlier, it didn't meet him at center stage. The applause was thin. He bowed, stiff, and took his mark opposite Ayanokoji, who waited with the same calm as before.

Urara raised her hand. "The second Shokugeki starts... NOW!"

The preparations unfolded in the same rhythm as before. Both contestants briefly left the stage and returned, each with their own ingredients. 

Before either of them could begin, Urara suddenly stepped between them. Her bright, practiced smile returned as she lifted her microphone.

"Contestants," she called out, "please present your noodles to the audience!"

The unexpected instruction made Ayanokoji's opponent flinch. Sasaki froze for a heartbeat, eyes darting toward her before realizing she was right beside him, not just her voice through the speakers, but the actual Urara standing a step away. The sudden proximity seemed to rattle him more than the match itself.

Urara caught the reaction with a cheerful grin and leaned the mic toward him. "Let's start with you, Sasaki-kun!"

Sasaki twitched again but forced himself to straighten. "E-Ehm... I've brought my own noodles," he said, voice quivering at first but gaining steadiness as he went on. "I prepared them myself on the day the match was announced and let them rest in the fridge to develop texture and chew."

He reached for a covered container at his station, carefully opening it. Inside lay strands of hand-cut noodles, uniform and dusted with flour to prevent sticking. 

A murmur of approval rippled through the crowd.

"Ohhh~!" Urara exclaimed brightly. "Fresh, handmade noodles from scratch! That gives a good start!"

"Very nice, Sasaki-kun! A brilliant choice for such an important match." She added, before, with the practiced energy of a host, she pivoted on her heel and turned toward the other station. "And now... Ayanokoji-kun, let's see what you've brought."

The crowd's focus shifted immediately. The arena seemed to quieten again, expectation hanging thick in the air as Ayanokoji looked up from his counter.

Urara approached Ayanokoji's station, her bubbly expression turned up even more. She flashed her most dazzling smile, leaning forward slightly as she held the mic toward him. "So then, Ayanokoji-kun," she chimed brightly, "what kind of noodles have you brought to defeat Sasaki-kun?"

Every eye in the arena fixed on him.

The Polar Star dorm members were practically on the edge of their seats. Up in the VIP booth, Erina's purple eyes sharpened. Even the faculty members were looking intrigued.

All were waiting to see what Ayanokoji's weapon would be.

Ayanokoji glanced at the mic, then at Urara. For a moment, he looked as if he might actually answer seriously. Then, with a soft sigh, he opened his plain cardboard box and reached inside.

A faint rustle followed.

He straightened, and in his hand was a small, unmistakable bag. A plastic packet crinkled softly under the lights. On the front, bold red letters gleamed for all to see.

Instant noodles.

Urara froze. Microphone still extended, her smile locked in place like a malfunctioning doll's. She didn't move and stayed in place.

The crowd fell silent for a split second before the confusion detonated.

"EHHHHHHHHH?!"

"You've got to be kidding me!"

"He's not serious, right?!"

"Is he trolling in a Shokugeki?!"

Up in the stands, Yuki let out a strangled noise somewhere between a shriek and a laugh. "KIYOTRON, WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!"

Erina, in the VIP box, went completely rigid, like a deer caught in headlights. Her mouth opened slightly, no sound coming out. Hisako looked at Erina with concern.

Alice, standing just behind her, blinked rapidly multiple times and then burst out laughing, nearly doubling over as tears formed in her eyes. "Pfff—AHAHAHAHA! No way—instant noodles?! I—Oh, Erina, your face—!"

Her laughter carried on, only to be joined seconds later by another sound, a clear, sharp bark of laughter from somewhere on the stage.

Heads turned, and of course, it was Sōma.

Grinning from ear to ear, he clapped once, loud enough for everyone to hear.

Meanwhile, on stage, Ayanokoji stood perfectly calm, holding the bag like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Then, in his usual even tone, he said, "Life is tough. I ran out of money."

You could've heard a pin drop.

Then the arena exploded.

"He's joking, right... right?!"

"Did he really just say he ran out of money?!"

The crowd erupted in a chaotic mixture of laughter, disbelief, and outrage. Some students clutched their heads. Others actually cheered just from the sheer audacity of it. Others were enraged, just like they were earlier with Sōma when he introduced his supermarket meat.

Speaking of Sōma, he completely lost it. He doubled over in laughter, clutching his stomach in delight. "HAHAHAHA! I feel that! Having no money for a Shokugeki really sucks, hahaha!" he wheezed between fits of laughter, slapping his knee like this was the best thing he'd seen all year.

Meanwhile, beside him, Megumi, who had finally started to relax after the chaos of the first match, was right back to looking like her soul was leaving her body.

She stared blankly at the massive display screen above the stage, where the camera had zoomed in on the crinkled bag of instant noodles, the brand name in bright, mocking red letters.

Her lips moved slowly, her voice barely a whisper. "...No..."

Her hands trembled as if holding an invisible bowl. "Not that kind of ramen... He can't be serious..."

Beside her, Sōma was still cackling, completely unfazed, while around them, the rest of the audience swung violently between shock, outrage, and hysterical laughter.

Urara was still standing there, microphone raised, her cheerful stage smile now twitching like it was about to collapse. "I—uh... um..." she stammered, looking at the instant noodle packet as though it might explode.

Meanwhile, at the Polar Star Dorm section, Yuki completely lost it. She slammed both hands against the railing and leaned so far forward that Sakaki had to grab the back of her jacket to stop her from tumbling headfirst into the crowd below.

"ARE YOU KIDDING US, KIYOTRON?!" she shrieked, voice echoing over the din. "YOU COULD HAVE ASKED!! WE WOULD'VE LENT YOU MONEY!!"

Her voice had carried across the entire arena. A ripple of laughter broke out around their section, spreading quickly as the cameras swung toward them for a close-up of her furious, red-faced expression.

Up in the VIP booth, Alice was howling with laughter, practically using Hisako's shoulder to stay upright. "Pfft—AHAHA!"

Erina's jaw tightened, a vein forming near her temple. "This... this has to be a joke," she muttered, glaring down at the stage like she could vaporize Ayanokoji by sheer indignation.

But on the stage itself, Ayanokoji remained perfectly composed. He tore open the packet, completely ignoring the uproar as the dried noodles dropped neatly into a bowl. 

Sasaki, standing at his own station, was flabbergasted—the confusion on his face was slowly melting into relief and then into a shaky smile.

For the first time since stepping onto the stage, his shoulders visibly relaxed. 

It was a scary parallel to the first match...

So that's it, he thought, his confidence trickling back. If he's really using instant noodles, this is my chance.

Even so, after what had happened to Okumura, he didn't dare mock Ayanokoji. Instead, he drew in a slow breath and began preparing his ramen with focused determination.

Meanwhile, Ayanokoji silently unpacked the rest of his cardboard box.

The first thing he took out... was another package of instant noodles.

And then another one.

Three in total, enough for one portion each.

Next, he began placing the rest of his ingredients on the counter. Fresh basil, a small bottle of olive oil, a can of tomato sauce, a block of parmesan cheese, eggs, butter, garlic, and a few stalks of scallions.

"Huh? Basil?"

"Olive oil? Wait, that's... Italian."

"Tomato sauce??"

"What kind of ramen uses parmesan cheese?!"

Even the judges exchanged puzzled looks, leaning toward one another and whispering in confusion.

Up in the VIP booth, Hisako looked confused. "Is he... mixing Italian and Japanese cuisine?"

Down in the Polar Star section, Yuki's eyes locked on something else entirely.

Yuki's eyes locked on the eggs sitting neatly beside Ayanokoji's counter. Her pupils shrank, and a low gasp escaped her lips. "Wait a moment..." she muttered, leaning forward again.

And then Yuki froze for half a second before suddenly shouting loud enough for almost everyone to hear—"TORIKO?!"

Aoiki strangely looked at her. "Toriko... as in your chicken Toriko?"

"Yes!" Yuki cried, pointing down at the screen like she'd caught him in a crime. "Those are her eggs! I recognize the color and the sheen on the shell! Kiyotron's using my chickens' eggs!"

Down below, Ayanokoji paused mid-motion, glancing up toward the commotion. His gaze found Yuki in the crowd almost immediately. Without hesitation, he gave a small, apologetic wave.

Yuki froze, blinking in disbelief as her anger visibly deflated.

"Kiyotron..." she said flatly, but her tone had lost its edge.

Then, to everyone's surprise, Ayanokoji's voice carried clearly through the arena's speakers. "I will cook something for you in exchange."

Yuki immediately brightened up, her cheeks puffing proudly. "Oh! Well... alright then!"

Sakaki chuckled under her breath at the sheer absurdity of the exchange. Around them, students were whispering to each other in confusion, unsure whether to laugh or question what was happening.

Down on stage, Ayanokoji simply turned back to his station and got to work.

He poured olive oil into a pot, tossing in a few fresh basil leaves and the seasoning packet from the instant noodles. The sizzling sound filled the arena, followed by a burst of rich aroma that quickly spread through the air. The unexpected combination of herbs and umami caught even the judges off guard.

"What... what's he doing?" one of them muttered, leaning forward.

Without missing a beat, Ayanokoji added tomato sauce directly into the pot, stirring it as the color deepened into a vibrant red. The scent intensified, warm, sweet, and savory all at once.

Next came water. He poured enough to create a rich broth, then cracked open the eggs, separating the whites from the yolks.

To the yolks, he added freshly grated parmesan, mixing them together until the texture turned creamy.

Once the soup base reached a gentle simmer, he dropped in the instant noodles. While they cooked, he scooped up a small amount of the broth and poured it into the yolk-parmesan mixture, whisking quickly to temper it, ensuring it wouldn't curdle when combined later.

Within minutes, the noodles were perfectly cooked. He stirred the egg whites into the base first, then slowly added the tempered yolk mixture, watching as the broth thickened slightly, turning glossy and rich.

Finally, he added a bit of freshly grated garlic, another sprinkle of parmesan, a drizzle of olive oil, and three small cubes of butter that melted instantly into the silky surface.

In just under five minutes, he was done.

The aroma that spread through the air was intoxicating.

Ayanokoji divided the ramen into three perfect bowls, topping each with a basil leaf, a few finely chopped scallions, and a pinch of cracked pepper.

Without wasting a moment, he lifted the three bowls from his counter and walked toward the judges' table. As he passed Urara, who was still frozen and left confused, she turned her head slowly, eyes following him like she was witnessing a ghost.

He stopped before the panel, setting the bowls down. One by one, he aligned them neatly, placing a pair of chopsticks and a soup spoon beside each portion. 

The moment the aroma reached them, their skeptical expressions shifted.

"H-How..." one of them stammered, blinking in disbelief. "How can instant noodles have such a fragrance?"

The second judge took a tentative breath, and his eyes widened further. "There's depth in this aroma. It smells harmonious."

The third swallowed, visibly tempted. "I don't know how he pulled this off... but I want to taste it."

That was all it took, as they plunged into the ramen.

They took their bites, and the slurp of noodles sounded through the microphone, followed by silence. All three froze mid-motion, eyes widening even more, as if time itself stopped for them.

A moment passed. Then, as though they'd been holding their breath, they exhaled all at once.

"Ahhhhh—!"

One judge leaned back, eyes fluttering shut. "Goodness gracious... how is this possible? The noodles are so light, but coated evenly with the rich and creamy broth."

The female judge nodded vigorously, already diving in for a second bite. "The umami is intense, but not overwhelming! It's creamy, savory, and balanced. The cheese and yolk fuse perfectly with the broth, but it's still unmistakably ramen!"

"The salt level should be overpowering," the third judge murmured, spooning up some of the broth and taking a sip. His eyes widened yet again. "But it isn't. It's mellow! The flavor lingers, but it doesn't exhaust you. This... this shouldn't even be possible with instant noodles, especially as he used the whole seasoning package!"

Urara blinked several times, trying to find her voice again as the judges continued to eat. "I-It seems... the judges are completely absorbed!" she stammered, microphone trembling slightly in her grip.

Applause broke out. The clapping spread through the stands, steady and growing, until the sound filled the arena. Some spectators wore hesitant expressions, others nodded quietly, and some were still crossing their arms in stubborn disbelief. The tone had shifted. The jeers that had once greeted Ayanokoji when he entered the stage for the first time were now drowned out by applause.

For the first time since the series of matches began, admiration was starting to outweigh mockery.

But not everyone was at peace.

At his station, Sasaki stared at the judges, watching their blissful reactions to Ayanokoji's dish. His fingers tightened around his ladle. His chest felt hollow, and a cold panic was creeping up his gut.

No way... he thought. No way they're reacting like that to instant noodles.

He glanced at his own dish, which was still at the very beginning, and he felt small, almost fragile, right now. His pulse quickened. He could already feel this match slipping away.

If I don't say something now, it's over.

He took a sharp breath, his voice cracking slightly as he raised it loud enough for the arena to hear.

"Th—This isn't ramen!" he shouted.

The applause cut off instantly. 

Sasaki continued, words tumbling out faster, his desperation bleeding through. "Ramen is a Japanese noodle soup—made with wheat noodles in a flavorful broth! It's supposed to honor tradition! What kind of ramen uses basil and parmesan cheese? You can't just throw in tomato sauce and call it Japanese cuisine!"

Silence. Followed by murmuring of agreement. 

He'd struck a chord—half the audience began to nod, whispering in agreement. The concept did sound absurd when said out loud. A ramen carbonara? Italian flavors? It went against everything ramen was supposed to represent.

For a moment, it looked like Sasaki had turned the tide.

But Ayanokoji simply looked at him, expression calm and unreadable as ever. When he finally spoke, his voice was level—unhurried, but cutting cleanly through the noise.

"Yes," he said. "You're correct."

The crowd blinked in confusion. Even Sasaki faltered slightly, not expecting agreement.

"But you said this isn't ramen." Ayanokoji raised his eyes to meet his opponent's. "Then tell me—what is ramen, really?"

Sasaki opened his mouth, but no words came at the sudden question.

Ayanokoji continued, his tone steady but carrying a quiet authority. "Ramen itself didn't come from Japan. It came from China, long before it became the icon it is today. Back then, it was just wheat noodles in broth. Japan took that idea, refined it, experimented with it, and transformed it into something new. That transformation is why we now have so many variations—shoyu, miso, shio, tonkotsu, wakayama, and countless others."

It was becoming a recurring pattern, but the arena had yet again gone completely silent.

Ayanokoji's gaze shifted briefly to the crowd, then back to Sasaki. "Across Japan, every ramen shop interprets it differently. Some add butter and corn, some use curry, some even use clams or truffle oil. Are those not ramen either?"

He paused, letting the question linger. "If we draw the line at what's 'traditional,' half of what we eat today wouldn't exist."

"Without creativity, innovation, and experimentation," Ayanokoji said, his tone as calm as it was certain, "cuisine stops evolving. Every beloved dish we know today was once someone's wild idea."

He looked at his bowl on the judges' table for a moment, then met Sasaki's gaze again. "The moment you reject innovation, you reject the very thing that made Japanese cuisine what it is."

The first reactions came from the faculty section, where one of the instructors had risen from his seat and applauded. Another joined in. Then another. Within seconds, several members of Tōtsuki's teaching staff were applauding.

The ripple spread quickly.

The judges, still seated, followed soon after.

"Beautifully put," one of them said, smiling faintly.

The female judge looked toward her colleague, eyes still wide. "Is this really... a first-year student?"

Her question spread through the air, mirroring the thought running through everyone's minds.

Then the audience followed.

Applause filled the arena once more. 

On stage, Sasaki stood frozen. His face had gone pale, his hand trembling slightly around his ladle. The noise of the crowd barely reached him. A part of him wanted to feel anger or frustration, but none of that came. Instead, there was only disbelief... and respect.

He didn't realize it yet, but today's events would become a turning point in his career as a chef.

He had just witnessed something that would linger in his memory for years to come.

Up in the VIP booth, Erina sat completely still, her usual poise unraveling just a little. Her eyes stayed fixed on Ayanokoji, her voice barely above a whisper. "...I don't understand him at all."

Alice turned to her cousin, her grin gone for once. She didn't laugh, nor did she tease her cousin. She just stared down at the boy on the stage, her expression thoughtful.

"...Neither do I," she admitted quietly. "It's like there are several different people living inside him, and somehow, they're all in perfect sync."

Erina's gaze hardened slightly, confusion and irritation blending together. "He acts detached, then arrogant, then frightening—and now, he gives a speech like that..."

Hisako said nothing, and so did Kurokiba. The silence in the room was starting to feel heavy.

Down below, Sōma watched quietly, arms crossed. A faint, knowing smile crept onto his face.

That philosophy resonated with him.

Experimentation. Breaking the mold. Making something new from the ordinary. That was how he'd grown up at Yukihira. Ayanokoji's words were a declaration of everything Sōma believed about cooking.

At this point, everyone already knew—this match was over.

Even though Sasaki hadn't finished cooking, the outcome was clear.

When he finally did present his ramen, it was praised politely. The craftsmanship was solid, the broth was flavorful, but compared to what had come before, it lacked spark.

And when the results appeared on the screen, no one was surprised.

WINNER: AYANOKOJI KIYOTAKA

The cheers were loud now. Even those who had doubted him before joined in.

Urara regained her composure quickly, her bright voice ringing through the speakers once again. "Wow! I think no one would've thought that this match would progress like that when it just began! Ayanokoji-kun takes his second win of the day! And now, let's move right along to the third match, where the theme will be—"

She stopped mid-sentence.

Because on stage, Ayanokoji had quietly raised his arm.

The sudden gesture froze her in place, her voice cutting off as confusion rippled through the audience. Students exchanged puzzled glances.

All eyes turned to the stage again, where Ayanokoji now lowered his arm.

He let the noise settle before speaking. 

"Roughly three hours have passed. We still have five matches left. The judges and the audience will get tired and eventually bored. I have a proposal."

He paused, and seeing that no one interrupted, he continued.

"Let's run the remaining matches at the same time."

For a moment, the students failed to understand the words, but then it hit them.

"...Huh?"

"What did he say?"

Urara's mic squeaked as she brought it back to her face. "A-Ah—pardon? Ayanokoji-kun, did you mean... all five opponents at once?"

"Yes," he answered. "Five themes and one match. The judges rotate and taste each dish in sequence. It shortens the time we'll be finished today by over four hours." He glanced toward the panel. "I'll have the same overall time as they do."

Shocked chatter rolled across the stands.

This wasn't the compromise anyone expected. People thought he'd ask to postpone or reduce the time limit for each round. But five opponents at once, all on different themes? Impossible, many thought.

Even Sōma was genuinely taken aback. And there was no need to mention how others were taking this. As chefs, they themselves knew very well how difficult a task this was, especially since the themes vastly differed from one another.

Stew. Pastries. Rice. Middle Eastern cuisine. Dessert.

Each of those remaining themes required entirely different ingredients and techniques. A single lapse in focus could break one's flow, and the entire effort would collapse. It was a mental nightmare.

Then came the physical toll.

Ayanokoji wouldn't have a single second of rest. For the full hour, he'd be in constant motion, whether it was prepping, stirring, kneading, or plating, all without a break to breathe. Many might not understand how exhausting cooking could be, but those who had worked in kitchens knew better. After already spending two hours battling in matches, another hour of relentless multitasking would push even seasoned professionals to the brink.

It would be a tremendous effort.

The judges exchanged brief words until one voice rose. "Such a change requires approval. We must first consult the Shokugeki committee.

Before the conversation could drift away, a deep voice rolled in from the rear rows. "That won't be necessary. Approval has been granted."

Looking back, standing behind the last aisle, as if he'd been there all along, was Nakiri Senzaemon. Beside him, a committee member held a neat folder of documents.

The rows in front of them gaped openly. The rest of the arena erupted in whispers at the sight of the director attending, publicly, like this.

"Grandfather?!" Erina and Alice blurted in unison from the VIP box.

Senzaemon descended a few steps, his voice carrying easily. "We approve of this suggestion, but for that, we need both parties to agree to preserve fairness."

His gaze settled on the stage. "Ayanokoji, you initiated this. For the record—do you agree?"

"I consent," Ayanokoji replied.

The spotlight swung to the tunnel. The remaining five challengers hurried out, drawn by the gravity of the moment. Senzaemon addressed them without raising his tone.

"You five. Do you accept these terms, and share this stage against Ayanokoji?"

Under the weight of a thousand eyes, they swallowed, then nodded as one. "We agree!" one of them shouted, and the others echoed him.

"Very well," Senzaemon said. "Prepare the stage."

Motion snapped through the arena. Tōtsuki staff poured out, wheeling equipment with practiced speed. In minutes, nine additional stations were rolled into place. The platform was vast, yet it began to feel crowded.

The opponents took five aligned stations on one side. Across from them, Ayanokoji paced off his area, then guided the crew. His stations formed a loose pentagon with a narrow gap at the front. From the center, he'd be able to quickly pivot between stations.

Urara took a deep breath before her voice rang out. "Contestants, get ready! The final match of the day will commence now, featuring six contestants, five on one side and only one on the other. A total of 10 dishes will be prepared in one hour. The final match begins... NOW!"

Five gongs sounded in rapid succession.

While the crowd was cheering in excitement, Ayanokoji didn't waste one second and started.

In an instant, Ayanokoji at the first station was unpacking a bunch of spices, and then he put those into the pan: five green cardamom pods, five cloves, a teaspoon of black peppercorns, two black cardamom, two star anise, one mace, a fourth of nutmeg, two dried ginger pieces, a tablespoon and a half of fennel seeds, one tablespoon of cumin seeds, four long peppers, two bay leaves, a tablespoon of coriander seeds, two cinnamon sticks, and finally half a teaspoon of carom. He started roasting them over medium-high, and as he stirred, the room filled with a fragrant.

Bewilderment rolled through the stands. The students recognized a few of these spices, but the wide range of the mix left them gaping. They'd covered these once in class, but few had actually cooked with them. Some of the students have even forgotten the use case of some of these spices.

Yuki stared, uncharacteristically quiet. "So that's where the money went..." she muttered.

The rest of the dorm members also fell silent, equally unsure what to make of his priorities.

Then, Ayanokoji went to the second station. Into a large bowl, he added flour, one egg, a pinch of salt, and water. He brought the dough together in seconds and kneaded it with quick folds. Immediately after, he was back at Station One and removed the pan with spices from the heat to cool.

He returned to Station Two and started a second dough: flour, water, and a touch of oil. In minutes, he had two distinct masses resting under cloths. Next, two bowls of fillings, one with ground beef, minced onions, salt, and pepper. The other with beef and onion again, but punched up with extra salt and a wider blend of spices and herbs. He let both rest so that the meat could absorb the flavors.

Four minutes have passed in total since the start.

"What... the hell," someone muttered from the stands.

Nothing he'd done was special on its own. You could find every step in a bunch of recipes across the internet or in a half-decent cookbook, but the speed at which he completed those steps... that was alien. In addition, the way he switched from one task to another with zero hesitation, with zero thought, as if his brain ran parallel processes, seemed almost inhuman, and this was just the beginning.

"Who is he?" another student exclaimed. The question sounded dumb. Everyone knew his name and who he was through that infamous entrance speech, but still, it slipped out.

One spectator even pulled out his phone and searched 'Ayanokoji Kiyotaka'. The results were basically empty. There was just Tōtsuki's school board, where they listed all students. And on his profile, there was just his name and grade year. There were no accolades or similar listed. Even being on that page was a dream for most, but there was nothing else.

That wouldn't be true tomorrow. After today, a search for his name wouldn't return without results. It would return with a bunch of articles, and his achievement page at Tōtsuki wouldn't be blank anymore.

Ayanokoji returned to the first station and emptied the roasted spices into a blender. Out came a fragrant powder. He stopped the blender and added a teaspoon of salt, a tablespoon of red chili powder, a teaspoon of turmeric, and another tablespoon of Kashmiri chili. Then he started the blender again.

In the stands, in one of the back rows, a boy stood out despite his quiet demeanor. He had dark skin, long white hair tied into a neat ponytail, and green eyes that glinted under the lights. Even standing still, he drew attention, especially from the girls around him, though his focus was entirely fixed on Ayanokoji and the spices he handled.

He inhaled slightly as the smell changed tone, the spice blend taking on an unmistakable complexity. His eyes widened a fraction, a look of recognition drawing. "He's making Nihari Masala," he muttered to himself. "Then he must be cooking—"

"Nihari," Erina finished from the VIP booth above, her arms crossed. "A traditional Pakistani beef stew."

Alice, behind her, nodded thoughtfully. "If that's the case, he'll have to use a pressure cooker. He won't get finished otherwise in that time."

Down below, Ayanokoji had already moved on. He placed a pan on the flame, added wheat flour and gram flour, and began toasting them. During that, he crossed to the next station, his pace unbroken.

Station Three.

He began unpacking ingredients at a quick pace: rice, saffron, flat green beans, red beans, runner beans, butter beans, tomatoes, garlic, chicken, and rabbit meat. Some in the audience didn't need long to guess.

"Paella?" someone exclaimed.

Ayanokoji started trimming down the chicken and rabbit meat, drawing an immediate comparison to his first match. He handled the meat with the same precision and speed as with the pork belly in his first match. The meat was prepared within one minute, ready to be stir-fried in the next step.

Backstage, Mito Ikumi sat on the sofa in the waiting area, arms around her knees, watching the feed on the small screen. The more she saw, the deeper her frown carved in. She had prided herself on her knife skills, on her handling of meat. And yet— "What's with these transfer students?!" she grunted, frustration leaking into every word. But even she couldn't look away.

On stage, Ayanokoji set the meat aside and darted back to Station One. The flour mixture had roasted enough. He took it off the heat to cool, and then he returned to the paella pan.

Extra virgin olive oil splashed into the wide, double-handled pan. He tilted it with a quick flick until it was evenly coated. The chicken and rabbit went in, searing immediately, the aroma leaking. A light pinch of salt followed.

As the meat started to sear, he pivoted again, this time to Station Four.

He brought out boneless, skinless chicken thighs, setting them beside a small mountain of spices: garlic and onion powder, paprika, allspice, cumin, turmeric, cardamom, cinnamon, and cayenne. The crowd watched as he began tossing them in, no measuring spoons in sight, just like he did with the adobo. Then he poured in white vinegar, citrus juice, and yogurt, and added the chicken to this mixture.

While his right hand mixed the mixture with the meat, his left outstretched hand kept the spatula moving in the paella pan, making sure the meat there caramelized evenly.

It was almost unnatural, like watching two people at once.

When the marinade was done, he coated the chicken, massaging the flavor in before setting it aside to rest.

Then, in the now usual fashion, he switched again.

Back at the paella pan, he stirred in minced garlic and grated tomato, building the base.

Then, once more, he returned to the first station. The roasted flour mixture had cooled enough. He poured it into the spice powder, blending it until it became one powder. Nihari Masala was complete. He added a cup and a half of water, whisking the mixture together, and set it aside.

Finally, he brought out the pressure cooker, as Alice predicted. Oil went in, followed by beef shanks and marrow bones. Instead of sealing it right away, he sautéed the meat first.

During this time, he was rapidly switching between the first and third station, and finally, for the first time, he went to the fifth station, and with that, all five stations were active now.

At Station Five, he reached for a small saucepan. Sugar and water went in, simmering into syrup. From his cardboard, he pulled out shredded kadayif, the first pre-made item he'd used since the instant noodles earlier.

He melted butter in another pan and poured it slowly over the kadayif, making sure every strand of it was coated with that butter. 

The audience was still trying to keep track of his movements, but it was becoming seemingly impossible. Every few seconds, he was somewhere else.

And just like that, for the rest of the match, Ayanokoji continued to switch between stations.

At the first station, he added the Nihara Masala to the pressure cooker, followed by water. He sealed the lid and turned on the pressure cooker. Later, when the alarm from the pressure cooker was just about to sound, Ayanokoji turned off the cooker. He then transferred the contents into a separate pot. 

Without missing a moment, he stirred in julienned ginger, chopped coriander, and finely sliced green chilies. He plated the Nihari and then arranged a small side of bowls filled with extra ginger, chilies, and even sliced lime. Finally, he pulled out freshly baked naan, brushed with butter and sprinkled with black seeds, serving it warm on the side.

At the second station, Ayanokoji rolled out the rested doughs, cut the first dough into small circles, spooned in bits of the beef filling, folded them in, and pinched the edges tightly before twisting the corners inward. He repeated this step a dozen times, and the pelmeni were finished, ready to cook.

Next, with the same dough, he crafted the larger manti, thin sheets folding over meat filling into flower-shaped bundles, each one sealed with a twist at the top.

Then, finally, came the chibureki. They were made with the second dough and second filling. He rolled it out, filled it with the filling, folded it over into half-moons, and sealed the edges with the lines of a fork. 

Thirty-five pelmeni, fifteen manti, and nine chibureki were laid on the counter. 

The pelmeni went into boiling water, and the manti into a steamer. Lastly, the chibureki slid into bubbling oil. 

While they cooked, Ayanokoji prepared multiple sauces: smetana and spicy adjika for the pelmeni and a sauce consisting of yogurt, garlic, and mint for the manti, alongside a second sauce made with melted butter and spicy paprika powder. The chibureki would have no dip.

At the third station, the paella pan sizzled as Ayanokoji stirred in flat green beans, red beans, runner beans, and butter beans. After stir-frying for a few minutes, he sprinkled in a few strands of saffron and sweet red pepper powder. Water followed, and after the meat and vegetables had boiled for ten minutes, he added the rice. He continued to boil at high temperature for eight minutes and an additional eight minutes, but with the temperature lowered. 

The rice had absorbed the broth, leaving behind the finished dish, which Ayanokoji let rest for five minutes before plating it into three portions.

At the fourth station, the marinated chicken was sizzling on the grill, the fat dripping onto the flame. Once perfectly golden, Ayanokoji sliced the meat into bite-sized strips.

He heated flatbread on the same grill, then spread a thick layer of creamy garlic sauce on top of the bread, and added the chicken with pickles, fries, and a drizzle of his own pomegranate molasses. 

He rolled the flatbread tightly and torched it across an open flame until the surface was crisp and charred. Repeating that another two times, there were three shawarma rolls on the counter.

And finally, at the fifth station, the syrup for the künefe had simmered enough. He added a touch of lemon juice, letting the syrup simmer for another few moments before taking it off the heat to cool.

In a round pan, he spread the kadayif into an even base, pressing it firmly. Then came the layer of sprinkled cheese, evenly distributed, before topping it with the rest of the kadayif. He pressed it flat again.

The pan went over low heat, and the scent joined the collection of other aromas that were filling the arena. After ten minutes, he flipped the pan, and after another ten minutes on the other side, it was ready.

He poured the cooled syrup over the hot pastry. The syrup seeped in, and the dessert took on a glossy sheen. He finished it with a generous dusting of crushed pistachios. 

All these described steps across all five stations were simultaneously executed, and Ayanokoji never stopped moving. Every few seconds, he switched stations. And the longer the process went on, the more unbelievable it was getting. Ayanokoji's speed didn't lessen, and even more impressively, he didn't look the least tired.

And somehow, seemingly impossible, every dish was finished at nearly the same time. 

At the very same time he finished and plated one dish, he directly went to the next one and repeated the same process yet again, till eventually, we find ourselves in the present moment, where five different dishes, across fifteen plates, were ready to be consumed.

When he finally stepped back, the clock was still ticking down its final minute.

He breathed out lightly

Ayanokoji Kiyotaka had done it.

In under an hour, he had completed five entirely separate cuisines, and each was deserving of a Shokugeki on its own.

In total, he had made:

Nihari, a Pakistani beef stew.

Pelmeni, manti, and chebureki, a trio of Eastern European and Central Asian pastries.

Paella Valencia, one of the best-known dishes in Spanish cuisine.

Chicken shawarma, a popular street food not only in the Middle East but also globally.

Künefe, a traditional Arab dessert made with kadayif, layered with cheese, and soaked with syrup.

Meanwhile, his five opponents, whose names the audience had already forgotten, have made respectable choices: goulash for stew, gyoza for pastries, biryani for rice, kofta for Middle Eastern, and tiramisu for dessert.

But compared to Ayanokoji, they looked like they had cooked in slow motion.

In a different VIP room from the one where Erina and Alice stayed, a girl with waist-length scarlet-red hair lounged with one leg tucked under her, and a meat skewer idly balanced between her teeth. She bit off the last piece, swallowed, and let a feline grin creep across her face. It was none other than third-year student Kobayashi Rindō.

In fact, she was only five days older than Ayanokoji himself, considering his actual birthday, not the one he was currently using.

"Tsukasa, you really picked the wrong day to skip," she cackled to no one in particular. "Our final year just got way more interesting, and our seats are also not safe anymore."

The grin shifted, less playful but more predatory. "But hey, danger's the fun part, right?"

Her gaze drifted to Sōma, unusually quiet, then slid back to Ayanokoji, who was now outside his pentagon. The grin stayed.

In the last VIP box, a boy with glasses and a calculating smile watched the same scene through steepled fingers. He nudged his glasses up the bridge of his nose, his eyes narrowing slightly.

"Ayanokoji Kiyotaka, huh? He's dangerous," he murmured, almost pleased. "All the better. If he plays along, he'll become my most valuable asset. If not... I'll break him. In the end, money decides everything."

In the Nakiri booth, silence hung in the air.

Kurokiba broke it first, eyes fixed on the stage. "What an animal... the man's stamina is unreal."

Alice leaned forward, eyes fixed on the stage. "He doesn't even look winded. It's like he could do the whole thing over again right now."

Hisako and Erina stayed quiet, both looking even more puzzled than before.

"Hisako," Erina said suddenly, her tone sharp but uncertain.

The girl straightened. "Yes, Erina-sama?"

"The entrance exam was only a month and a week ago," Erina began, her brows furrowing as she spoke. "Tell me... is it possible for someone to improve that much in such a short time?"

Hisako hesitated, her expression thoughtful, then shook her head slowly. "No... not to that extent."

Erina nodded faintly, her purple eyes still locked on Ayanokoji below. "Exactly. I thought so too. The knife skills he displayed in the first match... that could be ignored in the context of this, but this match, if one could even call that a match, can't be ignored."

She paused, then quietly added. "I'll have to ask Grandfather."

Alice glanced over, about to finally press for details, details she wanted to ask earlier, but before she could, the crowd was beginning to finally react as the giant timer on the display ticked down."

Urara's voice burst through the speakers, high with excitement. "O-Only ten seconds remaining in the match! And it looks like all contestants have finished their dishes! What an incredible performance we've just witnessed!"

The numbers on the clock reached zero.

A loud gong sounded through the arena, marking the end of the match.

𓌉◯𓇋

Looking around, I noticed the shift in how the audience viewed me. The same students who had stared at me with contempt and mockery when I first stepped onto this stage were now watching with awe, respect, and curiosity.

Not my original goal, but a predictable side effect of it.

It would have eventually happened, perhaps during the Autumn Festival I'd heard about, but accomplishing it within the first week of enrollment would only make certain things... more inconvenient. Especially when it came to earning money like I did today. On the other hand, this just opened new doors.

My eyes drifted toward the Polar Star group. Their expressions were a mix of disbelief and exhilaration. Yoshino was shouting something lost beneath the audience, but reading her lips, I caught the gist of it.

A party tonight, and apparently, I will be cooking.

Wonderful. How predictable of them. Well... I'd simply drag Sōma along.

Still, it was oddly pleasant that they hadn't changed their attitude toward me.

My gaze shifted toward the trio on the opposite side, consisting of Sōma, Megumi, and Konishi. Sōma gave me a grin, lifting his thumb in approval. Megumi looked as though a great weight had been lifted off her shoulders, one hand clutching her chest in relief. Konishi weirdly looked between me and Sōma, trying to reconcile whatever was forming in his head.

Then, my attention turned to the upper stands.

The director, Nakiri Senzaemon, was watching me with measured eyes, though a small, almost imperceptible smile was under his mustache. Then, I turned toward the judges. They exchanged looks and hesitated, not knowing what to say to each other. 

Kushida 2.0's voice filled the hall. "Dear judges, please begin the evaluation for the final round! And students, remember, if Ayanokoji-kun loses even in one dish, he will be expelled from Tōtsuki!"

"And should he win every match," she continued, her tone bright but shaky, "he will receive 150,000 yen from each opponent—that's a total of 1,050,000 yen every month!"

I saw several students pale at that number. The average salary in Japan hovered around 400,000 to 500,000 yen a month, and here I was, about to earn more than double that, without even needing to do anything after today.

Income like that was earned by senior engineers, product managers, or professionals deep in corporate hierarchies, and not something a 'first-year' should have.

"To ensure fairness between tastings," Kushida 2.0 added, "the judges will take a sip of green tea after each dish to cleanse their palates! Now then... let the final judging begin!"

The three judges rose from their seats. They started with the first theme, the stew, tasting the other side's dish before moving toward mine after cleansing their palates. Their faces were composed, but their gait betrayed them. After the ramen and the adobo from the previous matches, I could see the eagerness seeping through their restraint.

Anticipation, excitement, and lastly, desire.

They were trying to appear impartial, but I'd already won that battle before they even took a single bite. 

As they arrived at my station, they didn't hesitate. One tore off a piece of naan, dipped it into the stew, and took a bite. The others followed immediately after, all pretense of composure gone.

The chain of moans that followed was predictable. I'd already heard enough of those reactions for the day.

I stepped aside and walked off the central stage, heading toward Sōma and Megumi.

Sōma was grinning widely, his hand already raised before I reached him. Without a word, I met his high five. "What a show!" he laughed. "Seriously, how are you not tired?"

"Morning runs," I replied simply.

He chuckled. "Heh, drag me along next time."

"Don't complain when I pull you out of bed then," I said.

"No complaints!" he shot back, still grinning. 

Let's see if he will still grin tomorrow.

Megumi, on the other hand, didn't look amused. Relief, happiness, and something close to anger were all mixed on her face as she started lightly hitting my arm with rapid little slaps.

"W-Why did you make us so worried?! And why would you give yourself so many disadvantages when you were already at a disadvantage?! And why—"

Before she could continue her barrage of questions, I reached out and patted her head. She froze mid-sentence, her cheeks puffing slightly before she fell silent.

"I had my reasons," I said quietly. "They'll help me... and them too."

I glanced toward the stage, where the five contestants I'd just faced were still standing, along with the two from before. Sōma and Megumi followed my gaze.

"Help them?" Sōma muttered, curious. Konishi, awkwardly third-wheeling beside them, repeated it under his breath as well.

I didn't answer. Instead, I turned my attention back to the arena. The judges were still moving between dishes, practically bouncing with excitement. Their reactions were becoming almost routine.

Then my eyes swept over the stands.

I recognized several faces from the entrance ceremony, the ones who hadn't mocked me but had glared quietly instead. They were watching intently now. Among them, two boys stood side by side: one with blond hair and blue eyes, the other with a broader and heavier build.

Another figure caught my attention. A dark-skinned boy with silver hair, his eyes focused on me.

And beyond them, I saw others—students more skilled than the ones I'd beaten today—studying me carefully, their expressions serious.

Then Kushida 2.0's voice cut through the air again, her usual cheerful tone trembling with disbelief.

"U-UNBELIEVABLE! The results are in, and across all five categories, the winner is... Ayanokoji Kiyotaka, the transfer student!"

On the massive screen behind her, my name lit up five times in rapid succession:

STEW: AYANOKOJI KIYOTAKA

PASTRIES: AYANOKOJI KIYOTAKA

RICE: AYANOKOJI KIYOTAKA

MIDDLE EASTERN: AYANOKOJI KIYOTAKA

DESSERT: AYANOKOJI KIYOTAKA

The arena erupted for another time. 

And with that, I had finally, fully arrived at Tōtsuki.