The day of the finals had finally arrived.
The arena pulsed with life—like the heartbeat of the entire city had gathered in one place. Fans filled the stands, their cardboard signs and banners waving like a restless ocean.
"GO LIONA!"
"PARK CHEF TO THE TOP!"
"MARCO THE KING OF FIRE!"
Outside, it was no different. Restaurants paused service, supermarkets dragged televisions into the aisles, and tiny street stalls huddled around secondhand radios. Wherever a screen existed, a crowd had gathered, eyes glued, voices rising. Bets passed from hand to hand with the electric energy of a festival—except this was a festival of fire, knives, and pride.
On social media, hashtags trended with merciless speed:
"Vincent's gonna wipe the floor with them. Did you SEE that second round? Easy win."
"Nah, Liona's got this. Technique > luck. Vincent's just flashy."
"Marco's consistency can't be beaten. Man is a machine."
"Dark horse no more—this guy's finals material, period."
"Calling it now: Vincent makes something insane. Or he crashes hard. No in-between."
"I'm here for the chaos. I want explosions. Literal or culinary, don't care."
The noise dimmed for a heartbeat as Vincent Locke stepped onto the arena floor. His palms were damp, his chest tight. Excitement wrestled with nerves in his stomach, threatening to tip him over either edge. He forced himself to breathe.
His station waited, gleaming under the arena lights. A cutting board, sharpened knives—all standard, all ready. Except for one thing: this was the finals. There would be nothing "standard" about today.
Across the stage, Marco adjusted his white chef's coat with mechanical precision. Liona's gaze was calm, her hair tied back in a perfect bun, a stillness about her that screamed control. Vincent? He rolled his shoulders and grinned to himself. Chaos had its place too.
The judges settled into their seats, murmuring to one another as the host raised the mic. His voice boomed across the arena.
"Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the final round of the National Culinary Masters—Culinary Ascension Challenge!"
The crowd erupted. Flags waved, fans screamed names, the air shook with anticipation.
"This round," the host continued, "is themed Signature Dish. Each chef will prepare the dish that defines them—their pride, their skill, their essence on a plate. The judges will score based on taste, texture, flavor, and presentation. But remember—only one chef will take first place and claim the title of National Culinary Master. The others will settle for second and third, chosen by the judges' discretion."
The three finalists exchanged glances, subtle sparks between them.
"Now… chefs, are you ready?"
"Yes!" they chorused.
"You have ninety minutes on the clock."
The massive screen flashed the countdown.
"Then let the battle begin!"
The buzzer sounded.
And the kitchen exploded into motion.
Marco reached immediately for flour, water, and eggs—pasta. Of course. His hands kneaded with the calm strength of a man who had done this a thousand times, the dough stretching and snapping like elastic gold. Cameras zoomed in on his deliberate motions.
Liona moved in silence, her knives glinting like mirrors. She scored, filleted, rolled her meat with surgical precision. A roulade—no surprise. It was delicate, meticulous, worthy of her reputation.
And then there was Vincent.
Instead of rushing to the "grand" or the "complex," he reached for rice.
The judges exchanged puzzled looks. The host raised his brows, leaning toward Vincent's station.
"Chef Locke," his voice boomed, half in humor, half in disbelief. "Are you… making fried rice?"
The crowd chuckled. On social media, comments flew instantly:
This man brought fried rice to the finals?
Dark horse turned comedy horse.
He's insane. I love it.
Wait… if anyone can make fried rice finals-worthy, it's him.
Vincent smirked without answering, heat already roaring under his wok. Oil hissed as he swirled it around, dropping in onions, garlic, and ginger in one go. The fragrance lifted instantly, sharp and heady.
"Listen to that sizzle," Emilia murmured, eyes narrowing. "He's not joking."
"Fried rice in the finals?" Judge Lionel scoffed. "It's suicide. And to think I had high hopes."
Vincent's knives were in his hands before anyone blinked. He snatched up onions and garlic, slicing in a blur, stripping thyme and tearing curry leaves all in the same breath. His knife hit the board—thk-thk-thk-thk—a rapid staccato that sent diced onions flying like confetti.
"Look at that speed!" the host shouted, almost breathless.
Next, Vincent grabbed shrimp—searing them in garlic butter, deglazing with rice vinegar until steam burst upward. He tossed in smoked sausage next, letting fat crackle into the pan. Then, out of nowhere—beef. Strips marinated in soy, gochujang, brown sugar, and smoked paprika hit the skillet, sending a wave of sweet, fiery, smoky aroma into the stands. Finally, the chicken livers—seared to a rich, earthy brown—joined the cast.
The host nearly coughed. "Is he—he's cooking four proteins? Shrimp, sausage, beef, and chicken livers?"
The crowd erupted, half laughing, half cheering.
He's not just cooking," Henry said, leaning forward, "he's juggling fire."
Next, he set another pan on the flame, oil shimmering in seconds. The onion sizzled as it hit the heat, the arena filling with a sharp sweetness. His knives clattered again as he chopped vegetables: cabbage, carrots, bell peppers, scallions, peas, corn. Each pile a burst of color, each one tossed into the heat at precise intervals. Garlic followed, then diced peppers and soy sauce, each release of aroma layering over the last.
"Ah—he's laying a vegetable foundation," Marissa murmured, leaning forward. "Classic fried rice base, but fast, furious."
Back on social media:
He's throwing everything in there like it's a brawl!
That's not fried rice, that's a war zone.
I can SMELL this through the screen.
Please… please let me taste it just once.
The judges shifted uncomfortably. The smell was intoxicating, but the chaos looked dangerous.
"Chef Vincent," the host called again, sidestepping the heat wave that radiated from Vincent's station, "what exactly are you making?"
Vincent wiped sweat from his brow, a crooked grin tugging at his lips. He wasn't aiming for elegance—he wanted something that looked disarmingly simple, only to explode into a wild, chaotic burst of flavor.
"Something simple," he said. "But not safe."
The crowd exploded.
At the other station, Marco rolled out sheets of pasta with practiced ease, cutting them into long, golden ribbons. He dusted them lightly with flour, then dropped them into boiling, salted water until they reached the perfect bite. With swift movements, he drained the pasta and slid it into his pan, ready to soak up the brandy cream waiting to ignite.
"Marco plays it steady," Henry said approvingly. "Technique, elegance, consistency."
Meanwhile, Liona plated vegetables around her roulade like jewels, reducing her sauce with a calm hand. She was elegance itself, her station clean and quiet, movements measured.
"And Liona brings refinement, grace," Emilia added.
The camera cut back to Vincent's chaos. His station looked like a storm had broken loose—multiple pans blazing, smoke curling, knives flashing.
"Then there's Vincent," Marissa said, almost laughing. "Chaos refined."
Vincent drizzled oil into the hot wok, letting it sizzle and coat the surface. He dumped in raw rice, tossing it aggressively, letting the grains fry and toast until they crackled under the heat. Every toss of the wok was violent, deliberate, unstoppable. Grains flew but landed perfectly back in the pan, each one coated in the storm of flavor.
He shook in white pepper and garlic powder, scattering them like sparks, the aroma punching through the rising smoke. He ladled in chicken stock, seasoning with salt, a sprinkle of thyme and curry leaves, and a pinch of turmeric that painted the grains golden.
Finally, he added a small measure of water and slammed a lid onto the wok, trapping the heat and letting the rice steam and swell under pressure. The hissing intensified, steam escaping in jagged bursts as the aromas mingled, layered, and collided. Every scent—sweet, smoky, tangy—pushed at the edges of the arena, demanding attention.
The judges leaned in as the scent changed—shifting from heavy and smoky to bright and balanced, like the chaos was starting to sing.
"What the hell…" Judge Lionel muttered.
Henry chuckled under his breath. "He's not cooking fried rice. He's telling a story."