While the competition brewed in the center of the square, the safety of the public rested in the hands of the Watchers.
In the thick of the crowd, Watcher uniforms were scattered like islands in a sea of revelers. Domin Jullien stood at the main access point, his massive half-Goliath frame acting as a natural barrier. He scanned the faces of the incoming crowd, his arms crossed over his chest.
Beside him stood a veteran officer—a towering Bear Beastman with grey fur on his muzzle and a scar running down his snout.
"First time doing door duty, kid?" the Beastman grunted, his voice a deep rumble.
Domin nodded, adjusting his cap. "Yeah. My T.O is doing patrol on the perimeter. Put me here to be a scarecrow, I guess."
The Beastman chuckled, a sound like grinding stones. "Get used to it. A slow day is a good day for us. If we're running, it means someone's bleeding."
Domin sighed, watching a group of children run past with candied apples. "Haha, yeah. I also realized that. Back in the Academy, I thought I would be in action every shift. Chasing bad guys, saving damsels."
"That's the fantasies isn't it," the Beastman said, leaning back on his heels. "Real watcher work is 90% standing around and 10% pure chaos. So, who do you think will win?"
He jerked his chin toward the stage where fire and steam were rising.
Domin smiled. "Hmm, personally? I want Chef Sōma to win. His food is great, it's cheap, and it warms you up from the inside."
"Hmm," the Beastman mused, scratching his chin. "But he is going against a Jacquard. His father is rumored to be almost breaking the 6th Realm of Hearth."
Domin raised an eyebrow. "You're jesting. The 'Aroma Lord' rank is just a rumor from the Theocracy. It's a fairy tale for cooks."
The Beastman shrugged. "Who knows? Maybe he got some secret technique passed down. The Jacquards didn't rule the culinary world for a century by making simple toast."
…
On the outskirts of the square, near the command post van, Erwin Smith jogged up to Sergeant Wolfe.
"Sarge," Erwin said, handing over a steaming paper cup.
Wolfe took the cup with a grunt of gratitude. He wrapped his gloved hands around it, letting the warmth seep into his stiff fingers. "Thanks."
He took a sip and looked up at the shimmering barrier dome above the city. "Didn't the Duke say the barrier will emit heat? I'm freezing my butt off out here."
Erwin looked up, his eyes analyzing the faint ripples in the magical field. "It is already emitting heat, sir. The ambient temperature is five degrees higher than the forecast. It's just that the winter this year is historically harsh. The cold front is fighting the magic."
Wolfe huffed, watching a cloud of breath escape his lips. "Alright, Officer Erwin. Let's test that big brain of yours."
He gestured to the packed square, the cheering crowd, and the chaotic energy of the festival.
"The day is cold. People flock to the streets. We are thin on officers because everyone is pulled to the event at the park. Tell me... where is the highest potential of crime right now?"
Erwin didn't look at the crowd. He turned his back to the festival and looked toward the silent, empty streets of the residential district.
"Not here, sir," Erwin said calmly. "Here, there are too many witnesses, too many lights, and too many Watchers. The pickpockets might work the fringe, but that's petty crime."
He pointed toward the darkened rows of houses in the distance.
"The highest potential is in the empty districts. Burglary. Entire neighborhoods have emptied out to see the duel. If I were a criminal crew, I wouldn't be at the festival. I'd be kicking down doors in the quiet sectors while the homeowners are busy cheering for duel."
Wolfe stared at the rookie, then a slow, approving grin spread across his face. He tapped his radio.
"Command, this is Wolfe. Re-route Patrol Units 4 and 5 to the residential sectors. Eyes on the alleys. We've got a lot of empty houses today."
He looked back at Erwin. "Good call, officer. Now drink your coffee before it freezes."
…
Meanwhile, in the Royal Capital, the morning light filtered through the high windows of the Armani Studio on Sapphire Row.
Legolas stood before two male models, adjusting the cuffs of his latest creations. The suits were cut from midnight-blue and charcoal-grey wool, but they shimmered faintly with the integrated Phase-Silk.
"Hmm," Legolas hummed, circling the first model. "Can you walk for a bit? Just a natural stride."
The model nodded and walked across the studio floor. The fabric didn't bunch or pull; it moved like a second skin, fluid and silent.
"Any discomfort in the movement?" Legolas asked, checking the drape of the trousers.
The model stopped, looking genuinely surprised. "No. In fact... it's the most comfortable I've ever been wearing a suit. Usually, the shoulders restrict my reach, but this... it feels lighter than a tunic."
Legolas smiled, satisfied. "Glad you like it. That is the Armani difference."
Knock. Knock.
The heavy studio door creaked open. Ysolt Delacroix leaned against the frame, holding a stack of files. "My muse," she purred playfully. "How is our brand coming along?"
Legolas raised an eyebrow, turning to face her. "Our, huh?"
Ysolt stepped into the room, her heels clicking on the hardwood. "I do have a 15% stake in your brand, Legolas. You can't act like you forgot. I have the papers at home to prove it, signed under Elven promise."
Legolas chuckled, shaking his head. "I wouldn't dare forget, Ysolt. How is your prep for the gala?"
"Fantastic," Ysolt said, a predatory gleam in her eyes. "The nobles will surely love to shop more from the Winter Line once they see what I've done. The pre-orders are already stacking up."
"That's great," Legolas said, ushering her back toward the door. "Now, shoo. Get out of here. I have to get ready for my debut, too. I can't have my business partner spying on the secret collection."
Ysolt laughed, waving a hand as she left. "Break a leg, Muse!"
…
Back in Evercrest, the atmosphere in the Central Square was electric.
The buzz among the thousands of spectators was palpable. In a world without movies, television, or digital distractions, a high-stakes public duel between a titan and an upstart chef was the pinnacle of entertainment. The air crackled with the collective breath of a city waiting for a climax.
On the stage, the two MCs raised their microphones.
"TIME IS UP!"
Pissque de Jacquard and Sōma Yukihira raised their hands in unison, stepping back from their stations.
Floating invisibly around Sōma, the ghost of Gusteau wiped his brow. "Mon Dieu... that was a close one, Little Chef."
Sōma smirked, wiping sweat from his forehead with his forearm. "I gave my all," he whispered. "Finally... my own hearth is listening to me."
"It is all from the hard work you did," Gusteau beamed. "You have seasoned the fire itself."
Sōma smiled, his chest heaving with exertion but filled with pride.
At the judges' table, the panel was seated. The two faces were familiar to anyone who had attended the Grey Tide Festival six months ago: Master Chef Borin, the stern Guild Master of the Stonestove Cooks, and Big Sal, the tavern owner who was the beloved heart and soul of Evercrest's common folk.
Big Sal leaned over to the dwarf beside him. "Master Chef Borin," he rumbled with a grin. "It brings back memories, doesn't it?"
Borin grunted, crossing his thick arms. "Humph. It was only a half-year ago, Sal. Don't get sentimental on me. I'm just here to make sure the standards of the Guild are upheld."
"Gentlemen!" the male MC shouted. "Please bring your dishes to the judges!"
The two chefs picked up their trays. They walked up the steps to the judging platform simultaneously, meeting in the center.
Pissque looked down at Sōma, his nose wrinkled as if he smelled something foul.
Sōma met his gaze head-on. "Your food is a reflection of the cook," Sōma said calmly. "You seem to be blinded by your own ego, old man."
Pissque's eye twitched. "A cook?" He scoffed, adjusting his pristine white collar. "For you, maybe that is a fitting title. I am a Chef. There is a hierarchy, boy. And you are nowhere near me."
"LADIES AND GENTLEMEN!" the MCs hyped the audience up, drowning out the tension on stage. "THE TASTING BEGINS NOW!"
Pissque's Veal Blanquette was first. The silver tureen was uncovered, releasing a cloud of steam that smelled of wealth, history, and perfection. The aroma of truffles, aged wine, and cream was so potent it felt like a heavy velvet blanket draping over the judges. It was luxury incarnate.
Master Chef Borin and Big Sal dipped their spoons into the creamy white sauce.
Borin closed his eyes, savoring the texture. "Mmm... Technically flawless. The veal falls apart without leaving any gamey aftertaste. The sauce is rich without being cloying. The roux was cooked to the exact second of blonde perfection." He nodded slowly. "It is a textbook masterpiece of master technique. Worthy of the Patriarch of the Jacquard Family."
Big Sal swallowed, licking his lips. "It tastes like money one could never spend in their entire life. It's... distant. But undeniable."
Pissque puffed out his chest. "Thank you."
Big Sal raised an eyebrow. "You take that as a compliment? Huh... okay."
They moved to the second dish. Sōma's Golden Egg Fried Rice.
It sat on a simple white plate. But it didn't just sit there. It glowed. Each grain of rice was perfectly coated in egg yolk, shimmering with a distinct, golden light that seemed to pulse with residual heat.
Borin and Sal cleansed their palates with water. They took a spoonful.
As they brought the spoons to their mouths, the steam hit their faces.
Sal's eyes widened. It wasn't just steam; it was a memory. The smell of a bustling kitchen, of family dinners, of warmth against the cold winter, memories of his first year opening his tavern when he had nothing but hope.
They ate.
CRACK.
The sound wasn't real, but psychological. The shell of Big Sal's composure shattered.
"Oh..." Sal gasped, his hand trembling. His face flushed a deep, healthy red. "OHH!"
Borin, the stoic dwarf, dropped his spoon. "Oh my."
"What..." Sal stammered, looking at the plate. "It's... it's springing! The rice! It's dancing in my mouth! The texture is alive!"
Borin leaned in, examining a grain. "The egg... it's not just coating the rice. It's fused with it! He used the high heat of the wok to flash-cook the egg onto the grain before it hit the pan! It's... it's Solidified Sunlight in the Winter Night."
Both judges had to physically stop themselves from devouring the entire plate. They walked back to the center of the stage, whispering furiously to each other.
The crowd held its breath.
On stage, Pissque refused to look at Sōma. "How?" he whispered to the air.
Sōma, wiping his hands on a towel, looked over. "What?"
Pissque turned, his face pale. "How? My technique... my ingredients... they are superior. My passed down skills alone can crush any Master Chef. How did you do this?"
Sōma shrugged. "I've never seen or eaten from another Master Chef before. But looking at your confidence... it seems they only rely on their hearth."
"Aren't they all?" Pissque snapped.
Sōma smiled. He looked out into the audience. He saw Marc, Cindy, and the other kids cheering. He saw Zero standing with his arms crossed, a proud smirk on his face. He saw Monet looking at him with support. He saw Gran-Gran waving her hand.
"I cook not from the hearth," Sōma said softly. "But for the hearth. The warmth of a family is the most comfortable thing one could feel. You forgot who you were feeding, Chef."
The judges turned to the MCs.
"WE HAVE A DECISION!"
Pissque de Jacquard stared at the plate of fried rice as if it were a mirror reflecting his soul. The smell wasn't just good; it was a ghost.
A sudden, vivid memory hit him. He was a boy again, sitting on a crate in the back of a cramped, greasy tavern kitchen. His father, a man with flour-dusted hands and a tired smile, was handing him a bowl of stew made from leftover vegetable scraps and cheap cuts of meat.
"Eat up, son," his father had said, his eyes warm. "It's not fancy, but it'll keep you warm."
Pissque remembered the taste. It was simple. It was humble. But it was enough. It was everything.
Since when did the Jacquard family only serve the noble? When did "fine dining" become a cage? He looked back at his career—decades of chasing stars, awards, and the approval of people who didn't even taste the food, only the price tag. He had claimed the title of Patriarch as if it were a crown, erasing the memory of the humble tavern owner who had scraped every copper to send his son to culinary school. His father had used what little money he had to make Pissque's life easier, until Pissque had made enough money to never worry again... and in doing so, had forgotten how to cook for the hungry.
Click.
Big Sal's judgment rang in his ears. It tastes like money one could never spend.
It wasn't a compliment.
The reason all this happened—the feud, the insults, the loss—was his own hubris. He had stopped learning. He had decided he was a "Chef" and Sōma was just a "Cook." He had stopped listening to the ingredients.
'Is it really futile to become a Master Chef?' Pissque wondered, tears prickling at the corners of his eyes. 'No. Maybe... if I didn't stop learning. If I started cooking with a sincere hearth again... I could reach it too.'
"THE WINNER OF THE DUEL..." the male MC's voice boomed, shattering his reverie. "CHEF SOMA!!!"
The audience erupted. It was a wall of sound—cheers, whistles, and applause that shook the barrier above.
Pissque looked up. He saw the noble audience members in the VIP section standing up and leaving their seats, their faces masks of disappointment or indifference. They didn't care about him. They only cared about the winner.
He looked at Sōma. The young chef was panting, sweating, but grinning at the crowd.
'This is it,' Pissque thought, bowing his head. 'I deserve this. I'm sorry, Father.'
He waited for the insult. He waited for the gloating.
"Great work, Chef."
Pissque opened his eyes. Sōma was standing in front of him, his hand extended. There was no mockery in his golden eyes. Only respect.
"What?" Pissque whispered, staring at the hand.
"Your technique is great," Sōma said earnestly. "It's hard to cook what you cooked in that time frame. The roux alone takes twenty minutes of constant stirring. I would love to see you cook up close sometime. Maybe teach me that sauce?"
He smiled genuinely.
Pissque felt something break inside him—not his pride, but the wall he had built around it. He took Sōma's hand. It was rough, calloused, and warm.
"I..." Pissque swallowed hard. "I will give the deed of my bistro to you. As agreed."
Sōma's eyes widened in genuine shock. "What? No! That was just a silly bet to get the Watchers off our backs! I never intended for you to close your shop!"
"Take it," Pissque insisted, gripping Sōma's hand tighter. "I have learned something more precious today."
He looked at his son, Gaylord, who was watching from the wings with a pale, shocked face.
"I need to start over," Pissque said softly. "From the bottom. With my son. We will find our hearth again."
He released Sōma's hand and bowed deeply to the audience, then to Sōma.
As Pissque walked off the stage, his head high but his shoulders lighter than they had been in years, Sōma watched him go.
"He's a tough old guy," Sōma muttered.
Zero walked up beside him, clapping a hand on his shoulder. "You did good, Sōma."
Sōma grinned, rubbing his nose. "Hehe. Just doing what I do best!"
"Now," Zero said, looking up at the sky where the sun was beginning to set, painting the clouds in anticipation of the night. "Let's get back to the café. We have a cheesecake promise to keep for the kids."
"Right!" Sōma shouted. "FREE CHEESECAKE FOR THE BRATS!"
The crowd cheered again as the heroes of the hearth left the stage, leaving behind a legend that would be told in Evercrest for generations.
The sun dipped below the horizon. The magical warmth of the day began to fade, replaced by the natural, biting cold of winter. And high above, the first ribbon of green light unfurled across the stars.
The Aurora Night had begun.
**A/N**
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**A/N**