Chapter 116: There's Nothing the Hot Pot Witch Can't Cure
There is a saying that circulates among food lovers, a philosophy as old as the invention of the clay pot itself: There is nothing in this world more free than hot pot.
Just as Shanks and Dracule Mihawk had silently agreed when they visited this strange establishment, the bubbling cauldron is a universal language. No matter the ingredients, no matter the season, and no matter the company, the hot pot remains the ultimate equalizer.
It is the culinary embodiment of freedom.
You throw everything you desire into the boiling broth—meat, vegetables, noodles, memories, and worries. You watch your favorite ingredients slowly tumble in the violent, flavorful currents. You feel the steam rising to warm your face, loosening the stiff muscles of your cheeks. Before you even take a bite, your body begins to thaw.
A few friends gathered together, or a fractured family seeking reunion, watching the contents of the pot boil in unison. In that small, enclosed circle of warmth, disagreements can be temporarily set aside. The awkward silences are filled by the bubbling sound of the soup.
This warmth is more effective than any apology.
Ren stood by the table, wiping his hands on a towel, looking down at the masterpiece he had just unveiled.
"How's this magic trick?" Ren asked, his voice carrying a playful lilt. "I call it the Cheese Tteokbokki Hot Pot."
Fuji Yumiko looked at the vibrant orange-red broth, her eyes reflecting the dancing flames of the portable stove. She smiled, a genuine, relaxed expression replacing her earlier worry.
"Perfect," she whispered. "So, Mr. Magician, our..."
"I know what you're going to say," Ren interrupted gently, anticipating her needs. "Drinks are, of course, mandatory for a meal like this. I'll bring them right out. And don't worry about the heat—inside is a blend of Korean gochujang and a secret fruit paste. It won't be overly spicy to the point of pain, but the flavor is rich enough to wake up your souls."
After saying that, Ren turned and walked back to the kitchen to prepare the beverages.
Left behind at the table, the Fuji siblings stared at the pot. But they weren't the only ones mesmerized.
Across the aisle, Nakiri Erina glanced at the hot pot and swallowed audibly.
She had eaten hot pot before, of course. High-end Shabu-shabu with A5 Wagyu beef, or delicate Kaiseki hot pots with clear dashi broth. But she had never had this kind.
This was... violent. It was chaotic. It was beautiful.
The pot was full to the brim. The broth was a deep, menacing red, bubbling fiercely.
Hot pot. Gochujang. Cheese. Tteokbokki. Mozzarella. Spam. Sausages.
Listen. Just listen to the names of these ingredients. They represent calories. They are the sworn arch-enemies of dieters and the nightmares of nutritionists. They are heavy, fatty, carbohydrate-loaded bombs.
But one must admit, these are beautiful names. They are words that evoke vivid images and trigger Pavlovian responses just by being spoken aloud.
Hot pot has never needed fancy modifiers or Michelin-star plating. Hot pot is less a "dish" and more an "atmosphere." It is a feeling of liveliness captured in cookware.
It never demands that you must put certain ingredients in a certain order, or use a specific dipping sauce regulated by tradition. If you want to add cheese, you add cheese. If you want ramen and rice, you do it. This is the freedom of hot pot, and also its most lethal charm.
This was a simple Cheese Tteokbokki Hot Pot, without expensive truffle oils or gold flakes.
In the bubbling broth, thick slices of luncheon meat (Spam) floated like savory rafts. Diagonally cut fish cakes absorbed the red soup like sponges. Flower-cut shiitake mushrooms, imitation crab sticks, miniature smoked sausages, and clusters of enoki mushrooms soaked in the broth, lying in a circle along the edge of the pot like guests in a spicy hot spring.
And in the center, the stars of the show—the cheese-filled tteokbokki (rice cakes)—quietly occupied their throne. They were white, pillowy, and promising. Surrounding them were various meatballs, bobbing up and down in the boiling fountain like ping-pong balls, looking delicious and energetic.
As mentioned, every hot pot has a different soul. The Cheese Tteokbokki Hot Pot possesses a unique allure that borders on enchantment.
Just as the soup reached a rolling boil, the final touch began to take effect.
The generous layer of mozzarella cheese that Ren had sprinkled on top began to surrender to the heat.
The white shreds softened, lost their shape, and melted into a cohesive, gooey blanket. It fused with the red broth, turning the sharp spicy scent into something creamy and mellow. It gave the hot pot a fragrance rarely found in traditional Japanese Nabemono—the rich, heavy aroma of dairy fats combining with fermented chili.
It was a strong, fragrant, aggressive scent. While a traditionalist might turn their nose up at it, anyone with a hunger in their belly would find it impossible to resist.
"It's... changing color," Fuji Yuta murmured, watching the cheese swirl into the red sauce, creating streaks of orange and pink.
"It looks incredible," Shusuke Fuji admitted, his blue eyes open and focused on the pot.
Any piece picked up with chopsticks would now carry this rich, cheesy armor. It was unavoidable.
Humans are a species biologically programmed to crave high-calorie foods. Evolution drives us towards sugar, fats, meats, and dairy. There is always one dish that bypasses logic and hits the pleasure centers of the brain directly.
For the Fuji siblings right now, this was that dish.
"Let's eat," Yumiko said softly. "Before the cheese disappears."
She reached in with her chopsticks, picking up a piece of tteokbokki.
Stretch.
The cheese clung to the rice cake, stretching long and thin, refusing to let go. It was a bridge of dairy connecting the bowl to the pot.
She blew on it gently, the steam curling around her face, and took a bite.
Chew.
The first sensation was the texture. The rice cake was chewy—mochi-mochi. It offered resistance to the teeth, a satisfying bounce. Then, the center burst open, revealing more molten cheese inside.
Then came the flavor.
The sweet and spicy hit of the gochujang arrived first, aggressive and bold. Then came the unique, fermented sourness of the kimchi hidden at the bottom. And finally, the salty, creamy sweetness of the mozzarella wrapped around everything, mellowing the spice and coating the tongue in luxury.
One bite.
Just one bite, and the gloom that had hung over the Fuji table evaporated.
The bursting cheese glided between the teeth. The spiciness carried a hint of sweetness, much like the sweet little moments of reconciliation. It was exciting, a little painful on the tongue, but ultimately addictive.
A captivating flavor. An irresistible texture.
"It's delicious," Yuta whispered, his mouth full of sausage and ramen. He forgot about his arm, he forgot about his rivalry, he forgot about St. Rudolph. He just wanted another bite.
Just like that, after the first taste, all bad feelings vanished.
Keep eating.
That was the message conveyed by this steaming iron pot.
Just keep eating. Don't worry about table manners. Don't worry about the sauce staining your lips. Don't worry about what your brother said five minutes ago.
Just eat.
Whether it was the cheese-filled tteokbokki that pulled out strings like a spiderweb, or the smooth fish cakes that slid down the throat, or the savory luncheon meat that was basically salt and fat in solid form—your correct sense of taste would tell you that you were doing the right thing.
As they ate, the hidden layers revealed themselves. The kimchi, napa cabbage, spring onions, and onions, which had fully absorbed the essence of the soup at the bottom, were scooped up. By this point, no one cared what specific ingredient they grabbed. The cabbage tasted like meat; the meat tasted like cheese. It was a symphony of chaos.
The heat began to build. Not just the heat of the spice, but the physical heat of the meal.
Tiny beads of sweat appeared on Yuta's forehead. Shusuke loosened his collar slightly. Yumiko's cheeks were flushed a healthy pink.
No one minded the sweat. In the world of hot pot, sweat is a medal of honor. It proves you are participating in the ritual.
"Here," Ren's voice cut through the steam.
He returned with a tray. "Iced Oolong tea for the gentlemen to cut the grease. And for the lady..."
He placed a glass of amber liquid in front of Yumiko. "Chilled Plum Sake (Umeshu). Sweet, sour, and cold. The perfect counter to the hot pot witch."
"Thank you, Ren," Yumiko said, lifting the glass against her flushed cheek. "You really are a wizard."
A cold soda or a glass of plum sake during such a heated battle is nothing short of salvation.
Yumiko took a sip. The cold, tart alcohol washed away the heaviness of the cheese and the burn of the chili, leaving her palate refreshed and ready for the next round.
Although Yumiko still ate with the elegance of a mature woman, she never put down her chopsticks for a moment. In this sweet, spicy, and scorching heat, she felt a pleasant dizziness—not just from the alcohol, but from the sheer comfort of the moment.
Fuji Yuta and Shusuke Fuji didn't say much. The awkward silence from before had been replaced by a companionable silence—the silence of two brothers doing their best to satisfy their stomachs.
That's it. In this bubbling pot, the end of the day is declared.
Joy, regret, anxiety, irritation regarding tennis moves, worries about the future—all human emotions rise with the fragrant white smoke and dissipate into the air, leaving only satisfaction behind.
No matter the weather, a hot pot can heal. This "Hot Pot Witch," full of passion and fire, also has a heartwarming, maternal side.
[Across the Room]
Atobe Keigo sat at his table, his arms crossed, trying to maintain his regal posture.
Though he didn't want to admit it—his pride as the King of Hyotei wouldn't allow it—he was hungry.
He watched the steam rising from the Fuji table. He smelled the garlic and the chili. He saw the cheese stretch.
He wasn't as particular about food purity as Erina Nakiri, but he was accustomed to the finest cuisine. Yet, he had to confess that his stomach was growling for that bubbling, chaotic mess of a stew.
"It smells... intense," Atobe murmured to Kabaji. "Commoner food has a certain... raw vitality, doesn't it?"
"Usu," Kabaji agreed, staring at the pot with unblinking intensity.
Atobe glanced at Erina.
The "God Tongue" was practically drooling.
Erina was staring at the Fuji table with a longing that bordered on scandalous. Ever since she started frequenting Ren's shop, her appetite had been consistently good, bordering on gluttonous.
Her God Tongue had become even more refined, yes, but it had also become more honest. The refinement of her palate represented the improvement of her strength, but it also lowered her resistance to Ren's dishes.
She could imagine the taste just by smelling the air. She could simulate the texture of the rice cake, the richness of the cheese, the kick of the spice. And the simulation was making her insane.
"I want hot pot..." Erina whispered to Alice. "Next time, we order hot pot."
"Noted," Alice giggled, snapping a photo of Erina's longing face.
Beside them, Lucifer smiled.
She watched Cerberus staring intently at the pot, tails wagging (metaphorically).
'It seems I should ask Ren to make a hot pot for the dog when there is time,' Lucifer thought. 'However, this looks quite simple. Boil broth, add things. Even I should be able to learn it.'
At this moment, the Queen of Hell's "dutiful wife" personality emerged again. She imagined herself in an apron, serving Ren a bubbling pot of stew.
However, she seemed to have overestimated the simplicity of balancing the gochujang ratios, and she definitely overestimated her own kitchen skills. (Hell's kitchen might literally catch fire).
[The Fuji Table - The Egg]
The pot was nearing the halfway mark. The noodles were gone, sucked up by Yuta in record time. The tteokbokki count was dwindling.
Shusuke Fuji stirred the ladle through the thick soup, searching for treasure.
His spoon bumped against something round and smooth.
"Oh?"
He scooped it up. It was a hard-boiled egg, stained red by the soup, the white glistening with spicy oil.
Shusuke looked at the pot. He stirred again. He didn't feel another one.
It seemed to be the only egg.
Without hesitation, Shusuke Fuji transferred the egg from the ladle directly into Fuji Yuta's bowl.
"Yuta," Shusuke said softly, his voice regaining that gentle, brotherly tone. "Eat this. You need the protein for your training."
Fuji Yuta froze. He looked at the egg in his bowl. Then he glanced at Shusuke.
The anger from earlier flared up for a second—Stop treating me like a charity case!—but then it died down just as quickly, replaced by a complex mix of annoyance and warmth.
He knew Shusuke loved eggs.
Yuta said nothing. He didn't say thank you. He just poked the egg with his chopstick, breaking the yolk, and shoved a piece into his mouth.
"I didn't ask for it," Yuta mumbled with his mouth full. "But... fine."
He just wanted to gain others' approval too much. He wanted to prove himself to his brother, to the world. That desire, coupled with the rebelliousness of his age, made him act prickly.
But this didn't mean he was stupid. Nor did it mean he felt nothing. He knew what the egg represented.
Fuji Yumiko looked at the two brothers. She saw the gesture. She saw Yuta eating the egg he claimed he didn't want.
A warm, beautiful smile spread across her face. She wiped the fragrant sweat from her forehead with a napkin.
"You two..." she laughed softly. "Let me guess... knowing Ren... it should be..."
She picked up the ladle herself.
"Let's see."
She dug deeper into the pot, moving aside a large leaf of napa cabbage that had sunk to the bottom.
There, hiding beneath the vegetables like hidden gems, were two more eggs.
"Ah, it really is like this," Yumiko chuckled.
Fuji Yuta and Shusuke Fuji were slightly stunned. They stared at the two additional eggs bobbing to the surface after Yumiko's excavation.
Shusuke blinked. Then his eyes curved into his trademark crescent smile, but this time, it was devoid of any sharpness.
"As expected of Brother Ren..." Shusuke murmured. "He knew we would do this."
"Yes..." Yuta muttered, his face turning red from something other than the spice. "As expected of Ren... he treats us like kids."
But he ate the rest of his egg with a lighter heart.
[The Kitchen]
At this moment, Ren was standing in front of the oven.
He was preparing the pizza for Kabaji, tossing the dough with a rhythmic grace. On the grill pan next to him, a thick, premium cut of Chateaubriand steak was sizzling, the smell of searing beef and rosemary beginning to drift out to challenge the hot pot's dominance.
He glanced at the mirror reflection that showed the dining hall. He saw the three eggs now visible in the Fuji pot.
He saw the half-eaten egg in Yuta's bowl.
Ren smiled to himself, flipping the steak with precision.
"Brothers should be like this," he whispered to the sizzling meat. "Fighting over the only egg, only to realize there was enough for everyone all along."
[Akarin's Note: The "Egg" in Korean stews is often a prized item. Ren hiding them ensures that the self-sacrificing older brother gets one too.]
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