Room 303, Polar Star Dormitory
The room was silent.
Pitch-black shadows painted the walls, the only illumination coming from the silver moonlight spilling through the balcony window. Soma Yukihira sat on the edge of the bed, his chin resting on his hands, elbows propped on his knees. His half-lidded eyes stared into the distance, not at the moon itself, but at the memories stirred by its light.
A gentle breeze wafted in through the open window, ruffling his hair, sending a chill down his spine that he barely noticed.
"…I wonder how the regulars at Yukihira Diner are doing right now…"
His voice was barely above a whisper, carried off by the wind like a fleeting thought. The intense training camp had ended only yesterday, and the weight of everything that had happened since his arrival at Totsuki was just beginning to settle in.
He thought about going back, reopening the diner, resuming the comforting rhythm of the life he'd always known.
But that future had already changed.
The man who had once seemed like just an eccentric father—sloppy, mysterious, competitive to a fault—had turned out to be Joichiro Saiba, a legendary chef who had once stood shoulder to shoulder with giants like Gin Dojima.
Footsteps echoed behind him.
"Soma."
The low voice was familiar. Calm. Steady.
Joichiro leaned against the doorframe for a second, arms crossed, taking in the sight of his son sitting in the moonlight.
"What are you thinking about?"
"Just…" Soma turned slightly, his gaze distant. "Are you really not planning on reopening the diner, Dad?"
Joichiro stepped inside, walking over to stand beside him. "No," he said with a small sigh. "In a few days, I'll be leaving Totsuki. I've accepted a position as head chef at a five-star hotel in France."
Soma blinked. "Seriously? Like… a real five-star hotel? Is it bigger than Totsuki Palace? And you'll be the head chef?"
"Hah! Surprised, aren't you?" Joichiro laughed. "Told you your old man was cooler than he looks."
"You've been keeping this from me my whole life." Soma gave a helpless chuckle. "Some father."
The two fell into silence again, the kind that held unsaid thoughts between them.
The mention of Yukihira Diner, of what they once shared, carried a bittersweet tone now. Soma knew—things wouldn't go back to how they were. Not really. His father had already moved on from that world.
Joichiro looked at him sideways. "Satoshi told me you had a rough start here."
"…Let me guess," Soma muttered. "He told you about the beef bowl."
"Lost 5-0 to a girl named Mito, right?" Joichiro smirked.
Soma groaned. "That was a long time ago! Don't rub it in."
Joichiro broke into hearty laughter. "You've lost to me 499 times and still hate losing? I love it."
"498," Soma corrected, narrowing his eyes.
Joichiro's expression shifted.
"Are you afraid of failure?"
Soma met his gaze. "You know I'm not."
He exhaled slowly, eyes narrowing in recollection. "I came to Totsuki thinking I had an edge—years of working a real kitchen since I was six, while everyone else here studied out of textbooks. I thought they'd be soft."
"But that loss to Mito… it made me realize how little I knew."
He glanced down at his hands—the same hands that used to work the fryer and chop vegetables on autopilot back home.
"If I had stayed at Yukihira, I'd have been a frog in a well—arrogant, ignorant, thinking the world ended at the walls of our diner."
Joichiro's eyes widened slightly, then softened. He looked at his son—really looked—and for a long moment, he didn't say anything.
Then he smiled.
A slow, proud, deeply satisfied smile.
…
The stars outside shimmered. A peaceful wind passed through the trees.
"Soma," Joichiro said after a while, his voice quiet. "Do you know about the God Tongue curse?"
Soma blinked. "I know what the God Tongue is, but a curse?"
"It's not a curse in name, but in weight." Joichiro's tone was heavy now. "In the culinary world, the God Tongue is the ultimate gift—and the ultimate burden. People chase perfection so obsessively that, when their ideals are shattered… they break. I've seen chefs fall apart. I nearly did."
Soma frowned. "You mean that seriously?"
"I didn't want you to come here. Not at first," Joichiro admitted. "This place—it forges greatness, but it also burns people up. I thought I was protecting you by keeping you out of it."
"But now…" He turned to Soma. "Now, I'm glad you came. You've already started facing the truth I ran from. You're different from me."
He paused, then said softly, "Maybe you'll even surpass me someday."
…
Later that Night – The Tavern
A rich aroma filled the tavern, warm and comforting, lingering like an embrace.
Miyoko Hojo sat at the bar, her usually sharp purple eyes dimmed in thought. Zane's earlier words still echoed in her mind—about Megumi, about her own judgment.
She had miscalculated.
But instead of stewing in her pride, she looked up at the man behind the counter.
"You said you could make anything, right? As long as you have the ingredients?"
Zane nodded.
"Then… could I have Dongpo Pork?"
The name rolled off her tongue with a hint of hesitation, yet clear yearning.
Zane blinked.
Of all dishes, that one?
He smiled faintly. "One Dongpo Pork, two bowls of rice?"
"Yes."
"Coming right up."
The Kitchen
Zane moved quickly, each step confident.
Dongpo Pork—slow-braised pork belly steeped in history and flavor. From Xuzhou to Hangzhou, the dish had evolved into a classic of Chinese cuisine.
First, he seared the pork belly skin to char off residual hair and odors. Then soaked, cleaned, and blanched it again before cutting it into perfect cubes. Twine tied them neatly to hold their shape during the long simmer.
In the clay pot, scallions and ginger laid the foundation. Then went in the pork cubes, doused in Shaoxing wine, rock sugar, soy sauces, fermented rice, and a mix of fragrant spices: star anise, cinnamon, cardamom, bay leaves, gardenia.
He covered the pot, brought it to a boil, and lowered the flame.
Time would do the rest.
At the Bar
The aroma slowly began to fill the tavern.
Miyoko closed her eyes, letting the scent wrap around her.
Caramelized sweetness, spice, the fatty richness of pork—all mingled in the air like a symphony. Her stomach grumbled.
When the dish finally arrived, she stared at it.
Each cube glistened like red agate, the fat and lean perfectly layered. Steam rose from the bowl like a dream.
She touched it with her chopsticks. The skin trembled. The meat came apart with almost no effort.
A bite.
Her eyes widened.
Sweetness. Savory depth. A silk-smooth mouthfeel. The fat melted like butter, the lean absorbed the flavor of the broth, and the texture was heavenly—tender, never greasy.
It was nostalgic, comforting, and refined. It was real Chinese cuisine.
She took another bite. Then another. And another.
Zane watched quietly from the kitchen door.
"I didn't expect to find something like this here…" she whispered to herself.
A Tear Fell.
And then another.
She stopped eating.
"Why?"
"I'm clearly better than some of them… but just because I'm a girl, I wasn't allowed to inherit the restaurant. Is it my fault for being born?"
Her hands trembled.
"No… I won't accept that."
"I'll fight."
"I'll prove that a woman can lead. That I'm not defined by what I was denied."
Dongpo Pork had shown her more than flavor—it had shown her hope. That softness wasn't weakness. That richness wasn't indulgence. That persistence, flavor, and identity could all coexist.
The dish, like her fire, still simmered.