Port Saffron did not welcome newcomers with open arms; it welcomed them with open flames. The "Sizzling Docks" were the city's industrial heart, a series of iron-grated piers suspended over volcanic thermal vents that rose from the seabed. The natural heat was harnessed by the city's engineers to power massive, communal grill-stations where the first tier of the International Culinary Combat League (ICCL) held its qualifying matches.
The air was a shimmering haze of blue smoke and atomized sea-salt. Konja stood at the edge of Pier 14, his boots vibrating with the rhythmic thrum of the vents below. Beside him, Zale sat on his haunches, his nose twitching at the scent of charred protein and exotic oils.
"Listen up, kid!" Sully, the scout from the salt-flats, stood at the center of the pier, acting as the match-referee. "In Port Saffron, we don't care about your lineage or your fancy academy titles. Here, your rank is your life. You're currently Rank 1,002. If you want to move up, you have to take down Mako 'The Slinger' Vane."
Konja stiffened at the name. Emerging from the smoke at the opposite end of the pier was a man who looked like he was carved from a shipwreck. Mako was massive, his bare chest covered in scars from encounters with deep-sea monsters, and his left arm had been replaced with a mechanical, steam-powered pincer.
"Vane?" Konja asked, his hand tightening on the hilt of his cleaver.
"A distant branch," Mako growled, his voice sounding like grinding gravel. "The high-society Vanes in Pangaea think we're 'coarse.' But down here, we handle the real heat. I've held Rank 850 for five years, boy. I've buried a hundred 'prodigies' in the silt of this harbor."
The Arena of Steam
The "Dueling-Hearth" of Pier 14 was a massive slab of black basalt, heated from below by a concentrated volcanic vent. There were no stoves—only the stone.
"The Theme!" Sully shouted, his voice carrying over the roar of the surf. "The Kraken's Tentacle."
Two massive, indigo-colored tentacles, each the size of a tree trunk and still twitching with residual Prana, were slammed onto the basalt slabs. The meat was notorious for its toughness; if not cooked with perfect precision, it became as hard as industrial rubber.
"The rules: First one to serve a plate that the Docks-Judges can actually chew wins. No weapons, except for your culinary tools. Begin!"
Mako didn't hesitate. He slammed his mechanical pincer into the basalt, drawing raw thermal energy directly from the vent. "Steam-Style: Pressure-Burst!"
White hot steam erupted from his arm, enveloping the tentacle. Mako began to beat the meat with a massive, spiked tenderizing hammer, the rhythmic thud-thud-thud sounding like a war drum. He was using brute force and high-pressure steam to break down the Kraken's dense fibers.
The Rhythm of the Tide
Konja looked at his own slab. He didn't reach for his hammer. He closed his eyes, sinking into the Fifth Pillar: Umami Balance. He felt the heat of the basalt, the moisture in the air, and the lingering spirit of the Kraken within the meat.
"Zale, Low-Frequency Hum."
The indigo fox began to vibrate, a soft blue light emanating from his fur. Konja placed his hands on the purple skin of the tentacle. He didn't strike it; he massaged it. He used the Gentle-Heat of the Fourth Gate, sending pulses of Prana deep into the meat, matching the rhythmic pulse of the volcanic vent below.
"What's he doing?" Tali whispered from the sidelines, her brow furrowed. "He's just... petting it?"
"No," Mina said, her eyes wide. "He's synchronizing. He's making the meat 'think' it's still in the ocean. He's relaxing the muscle from the inside out."
The Slinger's Sabotage
Mako noticed the calm at Konja's station and narrowed his eyes. "Too quiet, boy! Let's add some salt to the wound!"
Mako swung his mechanical arm, venting a cloud of caustic, superheated brine toward Konja's station. The brine was meant to over-season and dehydrate the meat instantly, ruining the texture.
Konja didn't move. He didn't even open his eyes.
"Munka-Style: The Swirling Sluice."
With a fluid motion, Konja spun the Heavens-Seared Cleaver-Blade in a circular arc. He didn't cut the air; he manipulated the atmospheric pressure. The caustic brine was caught in a miniature whirlwind and redirected back toward the ocean.
In the same motion, Konja made three lightning-fast incisions in the tentacle. The Star-Iron blade hummed as it sliced through the rubbery skin like it was soft butter.
"Now, the finish," Konja whispered.
The Flash-Sear of the Sixth Pillar
Konja grabbed the Salt of the Ancients—now just a few grains he kept in a specialized pouch. He sprinkled the dust over the incisions.
"Sixth Pillar: Synthesis of the Sunless Sea!"
Konja unleashed a burst of indigo lightning through the basalt slab. But unlike Mako's chaotic steam, Konja's heat was a "Flash-Sear." The electricity reacted with the Ancient Salt, creating a localized implosion of flavor. The Kraken meat didn't just cook; it transformed, the tough purple skin turning a translucent, glowing amber.
"Time!" Sully roared.
The Verdict of the Docks
Mako presented his dish first: Steam-Hammered Kraken with Chili-Oil. It was a massive, hearty portion. The judges—three weather-beaten dockworkers—took a bite. They chewed vigorously, nodding at the familiar, spicy kick.
"Good strength," one judge said, rubbing his jaw. "Classic Saffron soul."
Then came Konja. He presented a single, perfectly sliced medallion of Kraken, served on a bed of charred sea-grass.
The judges looked at the amber meat. It was so tender it seemed to quiver. When they took a bite, there was no struggle. The meat melted on their tongues, releasing a complex wave of sweetness, salt, and a deep, savory richness that tasted of the ancient ocean.
One judge dropped his fork, his eyes glazed with a distant memory. "I... I feel like I'm a boy again, watching the first tide come in. This isn't just food. It's a journey."
Sully looked at the judges, then at the scoreboard. He sighed, a grin breaking through his grizzled beard.
"The winner... and the new Rank 850... Konja Munka!"
The Shadow of the Black-Salt
The crowd erupted. The "Basement Boy" from Pangaea had just taken down a veteran Slinger on his own turf.
Mako Vane stood at his station, his mechanical arm hissing steam. He looked at Konja, but instead of anger, there was a strange, grim respect in his eyes.
"You've got the hands of a master, boy," Mako said, wiping the soot from his brow. "But be careful. The League isn't just about cooking. The higher you climb, the more the Black-Salt Pirates will take notice. They don't like 'clean' talent in their waters."
As Konja stepped off the pier, his friends rushing to congratulate him, he felt a cold chill despite the heat of the vents. On the horizon, he saw a ship with tattered, charcoal-colored sails. It wasn't moving with the wind; it was moving against it.
"We're moving up, Zale," Konja said, petting the fox's head.
"Next stop: The Mid-Water Markets," Sully said, appearing beside them. "But first, you're going to need a boat. And I know just the one—it's a bit of a fixer-upper, but it's got a kitchen that'll make your 'Eternal Hearth' look like a candle."
Konja looked at the Challenger's Token in his hand. The rank had changed: 850. He was no longer a visitor. He was a player in the Sea of Spices. And the recipe for the world was just getting started