The heat inside the exam kitchen had intensified beyond temperature alone. Though the pristine environment was climate-controlled and monitored for precision, the emotional furnace burning inside each competitor pushed the atmosphere to a pressure-cooker level. Tension, ambition, and defiance filled the air with every heartbeat.
Riku Kaizen didn't flinch as Tsukasa Eishi's cool, observant gaze settled on him from the judging platform. The First Seat stood like a wraith from a colder world—immaculate in his chef's coat, his face devoid of emotion. It wasn't contempt that lingered in his eyes. It was disinterest, as if Riku were already a dismissed challenger in a match that hadn't yet begun.
That look didn't intimidate Riku.
It lit a fire beneath his ribs.
He carefully filleted the sea bream laid out before him, his knife gliding with almost musical rhythm along the spine of the fish. With precise movements honed through years of early morning prep and quiet kitchen solitude, he extracted each sliver of delicate flesh with reverence. Each cut was intentional, each step chosen not just for efficiency, but for emotion.
Let him watch, Riku thought. Let him see that I'm not just here to pass—I'm here to stand equal.
Megumi, positioned two stations away, had settled into her flow. She was working on a subtle sakura dashi infusion, her soft hands steady even as her brow glistened. Sōma, ever the wild card, was flamboyantly grilling sea bream over a custom-built hibachi made from tin foil and bricks he'd somehow "found" before the test. Only he could make it look natural in a room where perfection was demanded.
But while both of them focused on their unique approaches, Riku had a very different target in mind.
His plan wasn't simply to impress.
It was to disarm.
At the observation balcony above, Erina Nakiri stood with her arms folded, her golden hair perfectly styled, yet her fingers dug ever so slightly into the sleeves of her uniform. Her expression was composed, but her eyes were locked on Riku. Every movement he made, every pivot, every flick of the wrist—she saw it all.
Behind her, Isshiki Satoshi leaned casually against the railing, watching the competitors below with that maddening smile of his.
"He's something else, isn't he?" he remarked softly.
Erina didn't look at him "He's reckless."
Isshiki chuckled "Or maybe he's the only one playing the game differently."
Erina frowned, her gaze flicking toward Tsukasa "You know as well as I do that Eishi doesn't bend. He won't be swayed by showmanship."
"No," Isshiki agreed "But maybe Riku isn't trying to sway him. Maybe he's trying to wake him up."
Erina didn't answer. Her eyes dropped once more to Riku's station. There, he was setting down a series of ingredients with the calm precision of a surgeon. Miso, shiro dashi, fennel pollen, white wine, and a faintly floral herb blend—one that tugged at the edge of her memory.
Then it hit her.
Those are ingredients from… my mother's seasonal bream recipe.
Time continued to bleed away like slow-dripping sauce. With forty minutes left on the clock, most students had shifted into assembly and finishing phases. Sōma was flambéing something questionable with a wicked grin, while Megumi was carefully poaching her fillets in a sakura broth using delicate steam technique.
But Riku?
He was quiet. Focused. His mind was elsewhere entirely, though his hands never wavered.
This dish… isn't just for the exam.
It's for Erina.
He remembered her mentioning that her mother used to make sea bream in springtime, pairing it with a white miso glaze, scented rice, and a yuzu foam. It was a memory Erina had casually referenced one late night in the library when they'd found themselves arguing about classic vs. experimental plating.
Most wouldn't have remembered it.
But Riku had.
Because every moment with her felt etched into his brain.
So now, he was crafting a tribute—not just to tradition, but to her.
In a shallow ceramic bowl, he gently placed slices of seared sea bream that had been marinated in a yuzu-koji paste. Around it, he spooned a snow-colored velouté infused with fennel and white miso. On top, he added a quenelle of rice—gently folded with pickled ginger and micro shiso—wrapped in a shiso leaf and lightly grilled for texture.
The final touch was a translucent yuzu gel, piped in concentric rings, forming a delicate flower on the side of the bowl. It was modern, but grounded in heritage. A culinary bridge between what was and what could be.
He looked up as the timer showed ten minutes remaining.
Riku exhaled and stepped back.
His dish was done.
Now, he just had to see if it would be enough.
When the final buzzer sounded, a silence swept the exam kitchen. Students stepped back from their stations, sweat trickling down their necks as they presented their dishes.
Tsukasa and Rindō descended from their platform, both judges unhurried and meticulous in their approach.
They sampled Sōma's creation first—a brazen miso-glazed bream with burnt citrus reduction and roasted seaweed risotto. Rindō seemed delighted, while Tsukasa's expression remained impassive.
Megumi's dish, a poached bream in cherry blossom broth with shaved daikon and matcha oil, was met with polite nods and a quiet hum of approval.
Then they reached Riku.
Tsukasa stared at the bowl in front of him.
It was elegant.
Subtle.
Unassuming, even.
But the scent… the scent told another story.
Tsukasa took a bite. Chewed. Closed his eyes.
And for a moment, nothing moved.
Rindō leaned forward, taking a spoonful herself. Her eyes widened.
"Well, well," she murmured "Didn't expect that."
Tsukasa opened his eyes slowly and set down the spoon. He met Riku's gaze directly for the first time.
"There's restraint here," he said, voice low "And intention. You didn't push boundaries. You walked between them."
Riku held his stare "Sometimes pushing isn't as effective as listening."
A strange silence stretched between them.
Then, Tsukasa nodded once.
"You pass."
Later that evening, the campus buzzed with rumors and whispers. Some students had passed. Many had not. The air was thick with fear and uncertainty.
But inside the garden behind the dorms, away from the noise, Riku sat beneath a plum tree, quietly watching the koi pond reflect the moonlight.
He heard soft footsteps behind him and didn't need to turn to know who it was.
"I heard what you made," Erina said softly "I recognized the ingredients."
He looked over his shoulder at her "It was meant for you."
She stepped closer, folding her arms behind her back "You realize you could've failed. You didn't play safe."
Riku chuckled "That's not really my style."
She sat beside him on the wooden bench, close enough that their shoulders brushed.
"I remember my mother making that dish," she said "I didn't think anyone else would."
"You mentioned it once," he replied "Most people just talk. I listen."
The silence between them wasn't uncomfortable this time. It felt like the pause between heartbeats. A breath before something changed.
Erina turned her head, eyes glinting in the moonlight "Why do you keep doing this? Risking everything?"
Riku's voice was low but clear.
"Because I believe in you."
Her breath caught.
He continued "Not the God Tongue. Not the heiress. Just… you. And I'll keep cooking until you believe in you too."
Erina looked at him, her barriers cracking for just a moment. Then, quietly, she reached out and laced her fingers with his.
"You're an idiot," she whispered.
Riku grinned "Takes one to hold one."