The park was unrecognizable.
Vincent had expected a crowd—maybe triple his usual lines, maybe some new faces curious to taste what the "contestant from the show" was cooking. But what awaited him when he drove his truck through the park that morning made his breath hitch.
It wasn't a line. It was a sea.
Over a thousand people packed the open lawn. The park had been swallowed up by the sea of people. Some sat on picnic blankets holding handmade signs; others waved glow-boards with his name glowing across them in neon. Posters fluttered in the morning air, most of them scrawled with shaky marker:
"ALL HAIL THE STREET KING!"
"Vincent Locke = Royalty Burger."
"Feed us, Chef!"
Chants erupted the second someone spotted him driving his truck through the path.
"Vin-cent! Vin-cent! Vin-cent!"
The chant spread like fire through dry grass until the entire park was pounding with it. Strangers clapped in rhythm, stamping their feet. A group of college kids at the front even shook pots and pans like makeshift drums.
Vincent froze as he stepped out of the truck, hands braced on his hips, staring at the chaos he had somehow caused. His chest buzzed, every heartbeat a hammer. He'd never seen this many people gathered for him—for food.
"Damn…" he muttered under his breath.
Someone rushed forward—a teenage boy with wide eyes and a notebook. "Chef Vincent, can you sign this? Please? My whole family watched your round last night!"
Vincent blinked. "Sign?"
Before he could respond, more kids swarmed, holding out phones, papers, even spatulas. They wanted his name like he was a rockstar.
He gave a small, sheepish smile. "Alright, alright. One at a time, or I'll never cook a thing today."
That earned a cheer. A camera flash blinded him briefly, and he realized news drones hovered overhead, buzzing like mechanical bees, capturing every second.
"FoodNet live feed right here at Eastwood Park!" a voice boomed from one of the drone speakers. "And you're seeing it—Vincent Locke, the dark horse of Culinary Ascension, is being greeted like a champion on his home turf!"
The crowd screamed even louder.
Vincent clenched his jaw as he steered the truck through the chaos. He had food to make. No matter how surreal this circus became, that part never changed.
By the time he reached his usual spot, the mob was practically vibrating with energy. His little setup—the folding tables, the grill, the bins of buns and meat—looked laughably small compared to the army of hungry faces in front of him.
He muttered under his breath, "System, don't fail me today."
[ Reminder: Inventory stocked. Ingredients: x500 patties, x500 buns, x550 portions of truffle shavings, x700 servings of rice, 170 pounds beef, 145 pounds chicken. Fries capacity: 700 servings. Recommend menu adjustments: limited servings, prioritize signature burger and teriyaki chicken rice bowl.]
"Yeah, no kidding," Vincent whispered back, glancing at the impossible crowd. Five hundred burgers wouldn't even touch this demand.
Vincent could manage the ingredients and easily serve over half the crowd, but the problem was his customers never settled for just one dish—they always wanted to taste all their favorites. And knowing them, today's stock would never be enough.
Vincent stood in the cramped truck, the roar of the crowd outside pounding like a drumline against the metal walls. The line snaked farther than he could see, a living tide of faces, voices, and flashing phones.
For a second, he imagined it—boxes of raw beef stacked against the walls, sacks of rice spilling into the narrow aisle, crates of buns teetering near the fryer. A nightmare of clutter. He'd have no room to breathe, much less cook. One slip and he'd be drowning in his own supplies.
A shaky laugh escaped him. "If not for the System… I'd be finished."
He glanced at the glowing inventory window hovering before him. Clean. Organized. Every last pound of beef, every bun, every grain of rice tucked away neatly in digital space, ready to be withdrawn with a thought.
His chest tightened as he pictured the alternative. Without the System, this mob would have already torn the truck apart just to get a whiff of his stock. Forget cooking—he'd be defending sacks of potatoes with a ladle.
Vincent exhaled slowly, a grin pulling at his lips despite the chaos. "You really saved my skin, didn't you?" he muttered under his breath.
The System didn't answer, but the steady glow of the interface was enough. Outside, the crowd screamed his name. Inside, his space was clean, his tools sharp, his battlefield ready.
And that made all the difference.
He turned, raising his voice above the roar. "Alright, everyone! I can't feed the whole city in one morning, but—"
"YES YOU CAN!" someone screamed back.
Vincent chuckled. "—but I'll do my best. Burgers, fries, bowls. Same rules: first come, first served. Let's keep the line moving and keep it fair."
The line was anything but fair. People jostled, craned their necks, shouted over one another. His regulars—some office workers, a group of students, older locals, a pair of construction workers in orange vests, the joggers who always stopped by after laps—were barely visible, tucked deep in the waves of strangers. Even they looked stunned at what had happened to their quiet little food stop—which usually wasn't so quiet.
"Vincent!" Mrs. Park, one of his regulars, waved wildly from five rows back. "I told everyone at bridge club about you—they're all here!"
Her "bridge club" looked like thirty retirees clutching reusable shopping bags and looking ready to riot if they didn't get their taste.
"God help me," Vincent muttered, tying on his apron.
The grill sizzled to life.
And just like that, the chaos softened into focus. The noise faded, the cameras blurred, the chants melted away. There was only heat, smoke, and the rhythm of his hands.
Patty on. Flip. Toast the bun. Shave the truffle. Sauce swirl. Plate, serve, repeat.
But the reactions hit him like waves.
Most of the orders were for burgers, since that was the dish he'd unveiled in the first round of the competition yesterday.
The first customer, a college kid with messy hair, took one bite and screamed—actually screamed—into the sky. "OH MY GOODNESS. He did it! He actually did it! The Coronation Burger lives!"
That cry set off a chain reaction. Everyone who got a bite gasped, moaned, laughed, and shouted to strangers around them.
"It's just like on the show!"
"No—it's better! You can taste the smoke here, fresh off the grill!"
"This man is feeding us royalty for ten bucks a plate!"
Phones angled toward every plate. The burger was documented from every angle, from bun to shine of truffle. Hashtags flew across the feeds instantly:
#CoronationBurger
#StreetKingVincent
#RoyaltyForAll
One group of fans started bowing dramatically before eating, chanting, "All hail the Street King!"
Vincent rolled his eyes, flipping another patty. "You're all insane."
But he couldn't stop the grin from splitting across his face.
An hour in, he was drenched in sweat, his arms aching from constant motion. The park still hadn't thinned out. If anything, more people were arriving—drawn by the noise, the smell, the livestream.
Two reporters shoved microphones practically onto his cutting board.
"Chef Vincent, how does it feel to have half the city at your stall after just one round?"
"Do you think you can carry this momentum into the competition's next stage?"
"What do you say to the fans calling you the People's Champion?"
Vincent didn't look up, knife flashing as he diced herbs for a rice bowl. "Feels good. Next stage, I'll prove myself again. And to the fans—" He lifted his eyes, calm but blazing. "Keep cheering. I'll keep cooking."
The line roared approval.
Suddenly, a chant rose from the middle of the crowd.
"KRAUSS! KRAUSS! KRAUSS!"
Heads turned. A smaller group—maybe fifty people—had gathered with signs of the celebrity chef rival. Their leader, a sharp-faced man in a designer jacket, shouted, "Vincent's just lucky! Krauss is the real champion! Michelin skill beats street tricks any day!"
Boos erupted instantly.
But before it could spiral, Vincent raised a hand. His voice cut through, steady and unshaken: "Respect to Krauss. He's a monster in the kitchen. But this—" he held up a sizzling burger on a plate, juice glistening in the morning light, "—this is my ground. And here, everyone eats like royalty."
The roar that followed drowned the rival chants completely. Even the Krauss supporters fell silent, grudgingly impressed.
By noon, his inventory was nearly gone. The last burger disappeared into the hands of a little girl perched on her father's shoulders. She took a bite, cheeks puffing with delight, and shouted, "Best burger EVER!"
The crowd applauded as though it were the final verdict of a judge.
Vincent sagged against his table, chest heaving, apron stained. But his eyes glowed.
The park was still buzzing—people lingering, sharing bites, debating flavors, already speculating about what he'd cook in the next round. Drones circled overhead, capturing every angle for the evening news.
Vincent wiped his forehead and whispered to himself, "This… this is what it feels like to rise. Amazing, overwhelming and tiring."
The chant began again, softer this time but no less powerful.
"Vin-cent. Vin-cent. Vin-cent."
It rippled across the park like a heartbeat, lifting him higher than any crown could.
The appetizer was over. The real feast was yet to come.