Steam wafted gently from the stovetop as Erina sliced the zucchini with the precision of a seasoned professional. Each thin piece gleamed faintly under the kitchen lights, before she placed them into the heated pan. The sizzle was immediate, the aroma inviting. After two minutes of gentle heat, she stirred in the cod roe, watching the colors blend—rosy pinks into bright greens, like a quiet culinary painting in motion.
Though the method was simple, Erina found herself smiling.
She didn't need flambéed foie gras or caviar to feel fulfilled here.
Cooking side by side with Zane and Sonoka in this quiet tavern made her feel more grounded than she'd ever imagined. For once, she wasn't chasing gourmet perfection; she was chasing joy.
The tavern only had three staff members—Zane, Sonoka, and Erina—but they worked in seamless harmony. No shouting, no chaos, just a quiet current of mutual understanding. Dishes passed from hand to hand like whispered secrets, each one crafted with care.
In Zane's eyes, food wasn't just about flavor.
It was about connection.
A great tavern wasn't judged solely by its recipes, he believed. It needed warmth, it needed presence. It needed to make people feel like they belonged. That was the true soul of hospitality.
Miyoko tasted the last bite of Dongpo Pork and slowly set her chopsticks down. Her eyes roamed the room, observing the diners.
What struck her wasn't the flavor—that was a given.
It was the atmosphere.
Even among strangers, there was an ease in the air. High-ranking chefs, wandering travelers, young students—all of them sat with their guards down, speaking freely, laughing, eating. In front of Zane, people were just… themselves.
"I wish I could be like him," she murmured internally.
Ever since she was young, she had dreamed of running a Chinese restaurant. But not just to showcase technique or power—she wanted her food to speak to people. To touch lives.
And this man, only slightly older than her, was already doing it.
Her gaze drifted back to Zane, and admiration stirred in her heart.
"Owner," she said, breaking her silence. "This Dongpo Pork… how is it so fatty, yet not greasy?"
Zane glanced over, then leaned on the counter casually.
"It starts with the pork belly," he said. "You need skin that's thin, almost transparent, and fat no thicker than two centimeters. Anything more, and it overwhelms the palate. Also, each piece must be cut evenly—no more than six centimeters thick. That way, the layers don't collapse during braising."
Miyoko blinked, surprised at the detail. "As expected… you're nothing like Kuga."
Zane chuckled. "He's got talent, but our styles differ."
And indeed they did. Kuga's dishes were explosive, overwhelming, and powerful—designed to dominate. Zane's food? It whispered instead of shouted.
Miyoko Kurokiba. A powerhouse of Chinese cuisine, often underestimated.
She had carried woks larger than her arms before most students learned to boil rice. Before even enrolling at Totsuki, she had already held the position of head chef at Beitiao Tower, Yokohama's most prestigious Chinese restaurant. Head chef—not assistant. She didn't get coffee. She got respect.
That's why her narrow defeat in the Fall Selection—losing to Megumi by a single point—was painful. It wasn't just a loss. It was a question mark on everything she had fought to prove.
And she had always carried a strong bias.
Men, especially male chefs, didn't impress her easily.
But now?
Now she was looking at someone whose dish had shaken her.
Zane's Dongpo Pork wasn't just good—it was soulful.
"Owner," she said, voice softer now, "I'm Miyoko. A first-year at Totsuki."
She hesitated for a moment, then added, "I heard about you during the training camp. Megumi… she impressed Shinomiya-senpai with a French vegetable terrine. A girl overpowering a male chef. It made me curious."
"So, when I saw her enter this place tonight, I followed her."
Zane nodded with a smile. "I'm glad you liked the pork."
"You don't understand," she continued, her voice firm now. "That dish… it changed how I think about Chinese cuisine."
Her eyes glistened with resolve. "You're different. You didn't just recreate a traditional dish. You gave it spirit."
"Where did you learn to cook like that?"
Zane shrugged nonchalantly. "I'm from China."
Miyoko's eyes widened. "I knew it!"
"You're the kind of chef who can elevate Chinese cuisine—not just in Japan, but globally!"
Zane laughed gently. "Let's not get ahead of ourselves. I'm just a tavern owner, not a world-class ambassador."
"But I believe in you," she said, eyes fierce with conviction.
"You don't just make food. You make people feel."
"Owner," she asked again, "what do you think is the most delicious dish in Chinese cuisine?"
She leaned forward, expectant. If it were Kuga, the answer would be something bold—Mapo Tofu, Kung Pao Chicken, Spicy Boiled Fish.
But Zane?
Zane paused, looking thoughtful.
"There's no single answer," he said eventually.
"China has eight major regional cuisines. Beyond that, we have street food, palace cuisine, medicinal dishes, vegetarian monk fare…"
"Every dish, every region, every home… it's all a reflection of a time, a place, and a person."
"The best dish? That's whatever brings someone joy."
Miyoko blinked.
No one had ever said it like that.
Zane continued, "Food isn't about ranking. It's about meaning. What brings comfort to one may not resonate with another. But that doesn't make it less."
Miyoko sat in silence for a long time, contemplating his words.
Yes.
There was no need to compete for a single title of "best."
What mattered was the connection food created.
The tavern door opened with a jingle.
"Silver, this is stingy," Fuyumi Mizuhara said, frowning. "You promised a feast. This is just a tavern?"
Gin Dojima walked in behind her, followed by a curious-looking Hinako Inui and the ever-stern Kojiro Shinomiya.
"Not just any tavern," Gin said with a grin.
"This place impressed even the Director."
"The Director?" Hinako gasped.
Kojiro adjusted his glasses, scanning the room. "This place has a certain charm…"
"Sonoka?" Hinako blinked, noticing the girl behind the counter.
"What's she doing here?"
"She works here part-time," Gin explained. "Zane—the owner—helped with the training camp's emergency situation. Consider tonight my thank-you to him."
Zane emerged from the kitchen, wiping his hands. "Welcome."
"Just in time," he said. "I've got a new dish. Want to try Spirit-Calming Noodles?"
The name caught everyone's attention.
"Spirit-Calming?" Kojiro raised an eyebrow.
"What kind of ramen is that?" Erina whispered from behind the bar, curiosity piqued.
In ancient China, during the Western Han Dynasty, the Emperor asked about longevity.
"The longer the philtrum," the book said, "the longer the life."
Dongfang Shuo joked, "Then Peng Zu, who lived 800 years, must have had a philtrum eight inches long. His face would be a ruler!"
Laughter aside, the face—mian—became symbolic.
Noodles, also called "mian," evolved into a symbol of long life. Hence, "longevity noodles" emerged: long, continuous strands eaten during birthdays.
But what Zane was preparing was beyond that.
It was the mythical "One Noodle"—a single, unbroken noodle, painstakingly hand-pulled, stretched, and cooked through a dozen steps. Few dared attempt it.
But tonight, Zane would serve it.