The chamber at the heart of the Ministry of Food was silent, save for the whisper of settling silk and the soft crackle of enchanted torches.
In the center stood a massive, circular table of polished obsidian wood, a perfect echo of the legendary tables from tales of old, ensuring no one sat at its head and all voices held equal weight—in theory.
Around it, seated upon high-backed chairs carved with intricate culinary motifs, were the six most powerful figures in Valeria's culinary world.
On Chair Six lounged the Sixth-Rank Minister Master Guy, the ICC's flamboyant commentator. Even in the solemn chamber, he wore robes of vibrant cerulean, his goatee perfectly trimmed.
His expressive hands were already moving slightly, as if narrating the silence, his eyes alight with a showman's energy.
On Chair Five sat Fifth-Rank Minister Mistress Albertine, a former Chief Royal Cook, before the current Chief Royal Cook, Master Albian took over two years ago after she retired due to old age.
Her hair was a stern, silver crown braided tightly atop her head, and her hands, resting on the table, were mapped with the faint scars and calluses of a lifetime commanding the imperial kitchens.
Her gaze was pragmatic and sharp, assessing the world through the lens of flavor and feasibility.
On Chair Four sat Master Marcus, the Fourth-Rank Minister. He was the picture of calm analysis, his fingers steepled before him.
Known for his unshakable composure and a palate that could detect a grain of salt in a gallon of stew, he observed everything with a quiet, penetrating focus.
On Chair Three was the boisterous, Third-Rank Minister Master Dorian, owner of The Crimson Chalice. His large frame seemed to fill the space, a jovial smile playing on his lips that did not quite reach his shrewd, calculating eyes.
He was a man who understood the power of food not just as art, but as commerce and spectacle.
On Chair Two was the formidable Second-Rank Minister Mistress Seraphina D'Montere, owner of Maison D'Montere. Dressed in impeccably tailored robes of charcoal grey, she was elegance incarnate.
Her sharp, aristocratic features were composed, but her eyes held a fierce, uncompromising intelligence that had built a culinary empire.
And on Chair One, at the position that naturally commanded the room, sat the man who was the final arbiter of all things in Valeria.
The man who held the title of First-Rank Minister, and whose presence here, in this room, was a testament to the importance of what was to be discussed.
He was Emperor Charles the Second. He did not need crowns or ostentation; his authority was woven into his very posture.
His handsome, stern face was framed by blond hair streaked with distinguished silver, and his gaze, a piercing blue, swept over the assembled masters, ready to hear their counsel on the current Imperial Culinary Certification.
A silence, thick as chilled cream, hung over the obsidian table. It was the Emperor who broke it, his voice measured, yet carrying the weight of the crown.
"It is not often the highest culinary minds of Valeria convene in such a manner. We are here today to discuss situation with this year's Imperial Culinary Certification."
Master Guy, unable to contain his theatrical energy a moment longer, leaned forward, his cerulean sleeves whispering against the wood. "Your Majesty speaks the absolute truth! The situation is that this year's competition is on fire! A veritable inferno of talent! We have not seen a roster like this in decades."
He gestured broadly, as if painting the faces of the contestants in the air. "And these final eight! By the stars! Especially those prodigies from the North. To think the Blue Empire could cultivate such refined talent in that cold, winter hell, all while holding the line against the Demon Lord's army... it defies belief."
A rare, conceding nod came from Mistress Seraphina. "I agree. I, too, was surprised by them. Their performance in the first round was not just skilled; it was... preternaturally flawless."
Master Dorian's jovial grin widened as he turned his shrewd gaze to the stoic Fourth-Rank Minister. "What about you, Marcus? Which of these bright young flames has caught your discerning eye? Don't tell me it's still that dark horse boy you wouldn't stop muttering about?"
A ripple of genuine surprise went around the table. Master Guy's eyebrows shot up. "Someone actually caught your eye, Marcus? The man who finds fault in ambrosia itself?"
Dorian chuckled, a rich, booming sound in the solemn chamber. "Apparently so, my friend! This old stone here," he said, clapping Marcus on the shoulder, "is apparently impressed with that noble boy he scouted. What was it...Ca-Cassian, wasn't it? Cassian Ahn."
The name echoed in the quiet room. And for the briefest of moments, a flicker of sharp, unreadable emotion—there and gone in a heartbeat—passed through the Emperor's piercing blue eyes.
"Oh, you mean that daredevil kid who always picks the rarest ingredients?" Master Guy exclaimed, his hands flying up.
"I was on the edge of my seat! He went for the Shell-Boar Yeast! That wasn't a risk; it was culinary suicide! I was surprised he didn't get himself eliminated, let alone score a full mark against a de Clein franchise Cook!"
Mistress Seraphina gave a curt, agreeing nod. "I know. When he chose the Sea Sugar for his team in the first round, I believed he had doomed them. It is an ingredient that demands reverence, not recklessness. And yet… they somehow pulled it off with a dish I have never before witnessed. A 'cro-quem-bouche', he called it."
"Now that you talk about it," Master Guy interjected, snapping his fingers, "he made a dish I'd never seen in my round, too! Some kind of rolled pastry with cream. The boy is a wellspring of the bizarre."
Master Dorian leaned back, his jovial expression laced with skepticism. "It sounds like everyone is agreeing with Marcus's assessment. But I don't know. He just seems reckless to me." he continued.
"I heard he pulled off that Sea Sugar dish with a new team he had never met before. To rely on a new ingredient and risk your team's well-being on a new recipe in a competition of this caliber?"
"It feels less like confidence and more like disrespect for the sanctity of the ICC." He turned to the stoic minister. "What do you think, Marcus? You've seen him up close."
All eyes turned to Master Marcus. He steepled his fingers, his calm gaze unwavering. "He is… talented. He possesses a potential I have never seen before. And you will see," he added, his voice dropping a degree, "that his confidence is born from skill, not arrogance. But only when you taste his food. That is all I have to say."
A subtle shockwave passed through the room. For the notoriously hard-to-please Fourth-Rank Minister to offer such praise was unprecedented.
Master Dorian scoffed, though a smile played on his lips. He then looked down the table at the woman who had been silently observing the debate, her face a mask of detached pragmatism. "What do you think, Mistress Albertine? As a cook, do you believe he is that great?"
The Fifth-Rank Minister, the former Chief Royal Cook, did not even blink. "Using higher-grade ingredients is nothing but a must for a master cook. It is a basic expectation."
Her voice was like the crack of a whip—sharp and final. "Only when he masters them and coaxes out their 'Essence' do I believe he is ready."
Master Dorian and Guy burst into laughter, while Seraphina pressed her lips together to control a smile.
"Mistress, isn't it time you've grown out of that idea?" Dorian said, waving a hand. "I respect you as one of the greatest cooks to ever grace the royal kitchen, but you must know that 'the Essence' is a fantasy, a myth perpetuated by cuckoo old cooks who've tasted one too many reduction sauces. No one can actually manifest it. It's impossible."
Mistress Albertine's stern eyes hardened. "Say what you want. But I will never forget that taste… the feeling I had."
A rare, almost haunted look flickered in her gaze. "And it was not just me. Tell them, Your Majesty!" she insisted, turning to the Emperor. "Haven't you tasted his food, too? To be able to make a person feel that…the way he made his food..."
The Essence.
A myth among the highest echelons of cooks in Terra.
It was more than just evocative description, more than the fanciful phrases critics used—the sensation of "dancing on sun-warmed clouds" or "swimming through a river of liquid gold."
Those were just metaphors. The Essence, for those who believed, was a tangible, metaphysical phenomenon.
It was the theorized ability of a cook, through ultimate mastery, to imbue their food with its very soul, triggering a perfect, realistic astral projection synesthesia.
The eater wouldn't just imagine a memory or a place; they would, for a fleeting moment, truly be there, their consciousness wholly transplanted by the flavor.
The Emperor cleared his throat, the sound cutting through the contentious air and restoring order. "Gentlemen. Ladies. We are here today to discuss the funds and the next contests of our ICC. The quarter-final is upon us tomorrow." His tone brooked no further argument on the matter of myths.
The ministers straightened in their chairs, the shift to business immediate.
"Is the current budget for the ICC sufficient? How are the incomes?" the Emperor asked, his sharp eyes landing on Dorian.
The Third-Rank Minister produced a small ledger from his robes. "The ticket sales from the first and second rounds have grossed just over three platinum coins. Against the 1.8 platinum we spent on the program infrastructure and the rare ingredients, I would say the profit margin is more than good, Your Majesty."
"Good. Then that means all preparations for the quarter-finals are ready?" the Emperor pressed.
"Yes, Your Majesty," Seraphina confirmed smoothly. "The venues are prepared, the ingredient caches are stocked according to the selected themes, and the security details with the knights are in place. The logistical framework is flawless."
The meeting continued for another twenty minutes, delving into the dry but crucial minutiae of vendor contracts, public spectacle allocations, and audience capacity analysis.
Finally, as the scrolls were being rerolled, Master Guy could no longer contain his excitement.
"I, for one, cannot wait for tomorrow! The match-ups will be spectacular. I am especially eager to see that Lucius Frost boy—a secret prodigy from the North, cold as ice and just as sharp. And, of course, to see if Marcus's daredevil, Cassian, can survive another round!"
Mistress Albertine, who had been gathering her things, let out a derisive scoff. "Hmph. Overhyped children, the both of them. All flash and no foundation. They are not that much."
Master Marcus, who had been silent during the financials, looked directly at her. "A dish should not be judged by its appearance alone, Mistress Albertine. To dismiss a cook, you have not tasted his dish of, is a failure of judgment itself."
The challenge hung in the air between them, a silent duel of ideologies.
Albertine's eyes narrowed. "Is that so? Very well. Since you have such faith in this… prodigy of yours, I will personally ensure I am assigned as a judge for one of his upcoming rounds. I will see for myself if this 'potential' of yours is anything more than hot air and lucky breaks."
She stood, her posture rigid. "You can join me in judging him and make sure you were not hallucinating. But you should not hold onto that hope, Marcus. A flower that grows too fast is the first to be crushed by the frost."
Marcus met her gaze steadily, a silent acceptance of her unspoken challenge. "I would expect nothing less than your most rigorous judgment, Mistress."
With a final, tense exchange of glances, the meeting of the Ministry of Food was adjourned, the fate of the competitors now intertwined with the personal rivalries of those who held their futures in their hands.