The plaza erupted into chaos. Citizens who had been cheering moments ago now scrambled backward, forming a wide circle around the crater. The Ten Shell Five—five of the most renowned chefs in Blue Grill's history—picked themselves up from the rubble, dusting off their ornate chef coats with varying degrees of dignity.
One of them, an elderly mermaid with ten shimmering shells pinned to her chest, fixed Don Slime with a glare that could curdle milk. "Your Majesty. A little warning next time?"
Don Slime's form rippled with what might have been embarrassment. "Apologies, Pearl. I was... eager."
"Eager," another of the Five—a massive, muscular man with gills and a shark-tooth necklace—repeated flatly. "You were so eager that you teleported us through solid rock."
"Through solid rock," a third chef, this one a slender, androgynous figure with translucent skin, added. "During my afternoon meditation."
Don Slime's crown wobbled. "I said I was sorry."
King, watching from the edge of the chaos, hid a smile behind his hand. Beside him, Heracles snorted—the equine equivalent of laughter.
Komatsu, meanwhile, was pale as a sheet. "I'm supposed to... to cook against them? Against the Ten Shell Five? Right now?!"
Toriko put a steadying hand on his shoulder. "You've cooked for Eight Kings. You've danced with gods. You've heard the voice of ingredients that haven't spoken in millennia." He squeezed. "You've got this."
"But they're the TEN SHELL FIVE! They've been cooking for centuries! Millennia! They probably have recipes older than my entire civilization!"
Rin stepped up on his other side. "And you have something they don't."
Komatsu looked at her, bewildered. "What?"
"A palate that hasn't been jaded by a thousand years of perfection." She smiled. "You still get excited about new flavors. You still experiment. You still make mistakes and learn from them." She poked his chest. "That's not a weakness. That's your greatest strength."
Don Slime floated out of the crater, its form expanding to address the crowd. "Citizens of Blue Grill! Today, you witness something unprecedented. A challenge from the surface world to our own Ten Shell Five!" It paused, letting the murmurs ripple through the crowd. "If the surface chef wins, he and his companions gain passage through the Spirit Food Gate. If our champions win..." It shrugged its gelatinous shoulders. "Then we feast on his failure."
"Comforting," Garou muttered.
Saitama, who had somehow acquired another skewer of takoyaki, asked through a full mouth: "So if Komatsu loses, we don't get to go to the Soul World?"
"That's what the slime said."
"Can't we just... go anyway?"
"Apparently not."
"Huh." Saitama chewed thoughtfully. "Well, he won't lose."
Garou raised an eyebrow. "That confident?"
Saitama pointed at Komatsu with his skewer. "Look at him. He's terrified. He's shaking. He's probably about to throw up." He shrugged. "That's when he does his best work."
Garou stared at him for a long moment. Then, reluctantly, he nodded. "...Fair point."
The Ten Shell Five had arranged themselves around a massive cooking station that had materialized from somewhere—or perhaps had always been there, hidden by the crowd. Each chef had their own section, equipped with ingredients and tools that gleamed with ancient craftsmanship.
Komatsu stood opposite them, alone, at a simple wooden table. No fancy equipment. No exotic ingredients. Just a cutting board, a knife, and whatever the citizens of Blue Grill had been selling on the street.
"This is insane," he whispered.
King's voice came from behind him, quiet but clear. "Remember what I told you about the ingredients? About listening?"
Komatsu nodded, not turning around.
"Listen now. Not to the crowd. Not to the judges. Not to the fear in your chest." A pause. "Listen to the food. It will tell you what to cook."
Komatsu closed his eyes.
The crowd's murmuring faded. The distant crash of waves faded. Even the sound of his own heartbeat faded.
And then, softly at first, then louder, he heard it.
The voice of the ocean. The memory of the deep. The taste of salt and life and time itself, speaking to him through the ingredients spread before him—the fish, the seaweed, the strange glowing fruits that grew only in Blue Grill's eternal twilight.
He opened his eyes.
They were clear.
"I know what to make," he said.
Don Slime's form quivered with anticipation. "Then let the duel... BEGIN!"
The Ten Shell Five moved like a well-oiled machine—knives flashing, flames roaring, ingredients transforming under their practiced hands. Each chef was a master of their craft, each dish a symphony of flavor and technique.
But Komatsu...
Komatsu moved differently.
He was slower, more deliberate. Each cut was precise but unhurried. Each ingredient was handled with reverence, as if he were greeting an old friend rather than preparing a meal. He spoke to the fish as he filleted it. He hummed to the broth as it simmered.
And slowly, inexplicably, the crowd began to drift toward his station.
Not because his cooking was flashy. Not because he was faster or stronger or more skilled.
Because the smell...
The smell was haunting.
It was the smell of home. Of first meals. Of childhood kitchens and grandmother's recipes and the comfort of a full belly on a cold night. It was the smell of memory itself, distilled into vapor and carried on the air.
One of the Ten Shell Five—the elderly mermaid, Pearl—paused mid-stir. Her ancient eyes widened.
"What... what is that aroma?"
Her hands trembled. She had not smelled anything like this in over a thousand years. Not since she was a child, learning to cook from her own grandmother, in a kitchen that no longer existed.
She looked at Komatsu—at the young surface chef with the kind eyes and the steady hands—and for the first time in centuries, she felt something she had thought long dead.
Fear.
Not of losing.
Fear that she had forgotten what cooking was supposed to be.
The duel was far from over. But something had shifted.
Something had changed.
And Don Slime, watching from above, felt its ancient heart beat faster.
The entire arena fell silent. One hundred thousand pairs of eyes turned toward Saitama, who stood with his arms crossed, looking for all the world like a disgruntled customer who'd received the wrong order.
"Unfair?" The host's voice echoed uncertainly. "Sir, what seems to be the problem?"
Saitama pointed at the judges' stand. "Ten judges from your world, judging a chef from our world? That's not fair. Komatsu should get some judges from the surface too."
A murmur rippled through the crowd. Don Slime's form rippled with what might have been annoyance. "The ST10 are the most impartial judges in existence. They—"
"They're still from here," Saitama interrupted. "They've eaten your food their whole lives. They're used to your tastes. Komatsu's food is different. It should be judged by people who understand different."
Golden Chef Gigi stroked his chin thoughtfully. "The young man raises a valid point. Culinary perspective matters."
Don Slime's crown wobbled as it considered. "Then what do you propose?"
Saitama grinned—a rare, genuine expression that transformed his usually deadpan face. "Simple. We add five judges from our side." He looked around at his companions. "I'll judge. Garou will judge. King will judge. Toriko will judge." He paused, then pointed at Rin. "And she'll judge too."
Rin's eyes went wide. "Me?!"
"You're Toriko's girlfriend. You've eaten his cooking. You know what surface food should taste like." Saitama shrugged. "Makes sense to me."
Don Slime was silent for a long moment. Then, slowly, its form began to shake—not with anger, but with laughter. "You're an interesting one, bald man. Very well. Five judges from the surface, five from Blue Grill. The ST10 will provide ten votes, and your five will provide five votes. Majority wins."
"That's still fifteen judges total," Garou pointed out. "Fifteen is an odd number. No ties."
"Precisely." Don Slime's tiny eyes gleamed. "The surface chefs have their representation. Now—" It turned to Komatsu. "—young chef. Are you ready?"
Komatsu took a deep breath. His hands were still trembling, but his eyes were clear. "I'm ready."
The Ten Shell Five had already taken their positions at their cooking stations. Theirs were elaborate setups—multi-burner stoves, specialized ovens, refrigerators stocked with ingredients that had been aged for decades or centuries.
Komatsu's station was simpler. A single burner. A single oven. A single cutting board. And a basket of ingredients that the citizens of Blue Grill had been selling on the street—fresh, ordinary, unremarkable.
"This is going to be a slaughter," someone in the crowd whispered.
"Yeah, the surface kid doesn't stand a chance."
Komatsu heard them. His hands tightened on the edge of his cutting board.
Then he closed his eyes.
And listened.
The voices of the ingredients were softer here than on the surface—muffled by centuries of Blue Grill's isolation, by the weight of the deep sea, by the presence of the ST10 and their ancient palates.
But they were still there.
"Please," Komatsu whispered. "Help me. Help me show them what surface cooking can be."
The ingredients answered.
He opened his eyes.
And began to cook.
On the judges' stand, Saitama leaned forward, his nose twitching. "He's doing something different."
Garou raised an eyebrow. "Different how?"
"He's not trying to impress them. He's trying to... share something." Saitama's voice was uncharacteristically thoughtful. "He's cooking like he's making a meal for friends, not for a competition."
King, seated beside him, nodded slowly. "That's his gift. He doesn't cook to win. He cooks to connect."
On the other side of the judges' stand, the ST10 watched with ancient, inscrutable eyes. They had judged millions of dishes over the millennia. They had tasted the best that Blue Grill had to offer. They had forgotten what surprise felt like.
But as the aroma from Komatsu's station began to drift toward them—gentle at first, then stronger—something flickered in their masked gazes.
Something that might have been curiosity.
Something that might have been hunger.
The duel had begun in earnest.
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